15th of Cylus 720
The streets were frozen over, misting with the absolute cold of a merciless Cylus season. The ice on the walkways wasn't the least bit slick for all that, so cold that any accumulation turned right into ice. Footfalls were a rare thing to hear, but when one did they sounded like a metal drum in the dark. Woe made his way toward the seedier end ofNe'haer. It wasn't easy to locate, with the way the Blades kept the order around here. The populace was especially scarce in the wake of food riots and starvation that saw so many dead. Woe had to admit the authorities ran a tight ship, for a place with no slavery or authoritarianism.
Within a few breaks, he found his way to the opium den he was looking for. He stood outside it for a moment, remembering his brief addiction to the poppy. It had been a crutch, a way to take the edge off of the magical corruption that gripped his soul. He didn't entirely understand what it meant to be a mage then, but it did dawn on him before he left Etzos. Opium seemed a mild addiction in the face of arcane reliance.
Taking another deep breath, Woe entered the low lighting of that den. It didn't take long to pick up on the frequency of Fleaface. He'd attuned to his servant before he left for the sewers, a few days ago. Only a day after attuning to the servant, he'd emerged from those underground galleries. Four days later, after sorting his thoughts, he decided to seek him out. Why Fleaface wasn't concerned at all for the disappearance of his master, though, that was a question of interest.
He found Fleaface in the center of things, as Woe usually did. The old man did like to soak in the atmosphere, rather than sulk in corners, nursing a pipe and a cup of filthy ale. The chair pulled out from the table, Woe sat in it, and looked across at Fleaface, who seemed lost in oblivion. Woe knew the look well, but this was no aftereffect of his ignorance domain.
This was Fleaface at a low point in the season.
He always suspected at some sense of sadness in his servant. Something that drove him to anger, whether at others or those close to him. The old man wasn't one to wear his feelings openly on his sleeve. Emotions that a life of hardship had buried in all probability. Some drugs had a way of bringing that buried sadness out, like a spade against the wretched, weed-grown garden of his emotions. Or else Fleaface had gotten stoned.
Woe tried to get his attention by tapping the table. A few times, then nothing from Fleaface. Still staring into nothing. Woe rolled his eyes, and shut them half behind his lids. Within a few moments, he began rooting around in Fleaface's tangle, trying to bring him back around. He'd strum his sense of urgency and stress, enough that it'd bring him out of his stupor.
It worked, as Fleaface shook his head out of the reverie he was lost in and stared up at Woe, as if shocked. "I tell yer ter not use yer magics on mer. Won't work, Master."
Woe gave him a thin smile, and crossed his hands one over the other. "Fleaface, you've been watching Sywena's movements since Vhalar, have you not?"
Fleaface stared for a moment longer, then shook out of his stupor. "Aye, aye... Got a lad on 'er."
"And has he been keeping up with her? Reporting back to you? Do you know what she's been doing, where she's been staying?"
"Aye..." Fleaface's one eye bulged, as it tended to when he thought his master was acting odd. To be fair, that happened rather often. "She's laying up in the Golden Lamp... Or sommat like tha'. Whyer wanner know?"
Woe slid some nels over toward Fleaface, "That'll be all, Fargis. Thank you."
Without another word, he rose from the chair. He made his way out of the Opium den, and down the streets, trying to recall from mere landmarks how he'd found his way to that same Inn. What was she trying to pull, staying at the Inn? Was this part of the plan that Stoll had professed she had against Woe? Was she investigating that strange Dreamwalker that had infiltrated Woe's dreams, only to reemerge on the other side?
More questions and fewer answers. But then , Fleaface was only to make material observations. It wasn't his job to pry or dig deeper. Woe had forbade him from interjecting himself into Sywena's daily life.
Woe threw his cloak over his shoulders, wrapping it tightly and trying to remain warm as he walked the streets. He pondered more about Sywena's role in his recent life. She'd been a friend, not much more than that. Nothing had happened between them in actual fact other than some foolish frolicking in salt lakes of Lysoria. Still, he did enjoy her company for what it was worth. He didn't have the heart to take her scalp, to kill her, did he?
No he didn't think... But then, a creeping suspicion blossomed at the core of him. From the depths of his sparks a new voice arose. One that promised potency and coveted power and rulership over lesser beings. The new hone spark. The one that Stoll had given him was truly vile. Woe had tried to suppress its leanings in the days since emerging from the Underground. But every time he indulged it, it appeared more evident that the spark was a degenerate one. Bent on manipulation and autocracy. Worse, it brought out those leanings in Woe himself, feelings and ambitions he thought he'd long buried as a younger man.
Yet here he was, pursuing a quarry for the promise of power. Could he? His hand drifted to the handle of his long-seax. He would have to see for himself. Who would win out in the end, the mortalborn, or the emean parasitic stain?
Within a short while, he arrived at the golden lamp, outside the common room. A rush of hearth warmth blew in his face as he walked in. As he did so, he drew on that hone spark, tracing the rune he'd practiced in nights before. Slowly, methodically, a rune of touch he traced along the back of his neck.
It took a bit for him to channel enough ether to give it potency, but once he did, he sat himself down near the corner table, keeping his back toward Sywena's usual seat. The rune would keep him alert and his nerves alive, so that he didn't find himself caught off guard.
Once he found a seat, he waved off the server, who asked him what he wanted in blithe tones, "Just some ale, and pottage." He murmured low. Then the server left him.
Woe had previously attuned to the woman's frequency, and so it didn't take too much effort to locate it once again. She was somewhere near, not far, but not within the building. He shut his eyes against the lights of the tavern, trying to focus. Within a bit, he was able to douse her location as she came up against the edge of the Inn. So she wasn't there yet? That's good, then she wouldnt have noticed him coming in.
Woe, for his part kept his back to the door, and his hood up. It'd look odd, but not too much. Most people sulking in corners of strange inns seemed to maek it a habit to hide their face. Sywena probably wouldn't pay him much mind.
So as the door was heard to open, he kept his peace and waited. Biding his time, and watching her in his mind's omnivision. His food came, and he ate alone in silence. Once he was done, the waitress cleared the table. Woe still had his eye on Sywena's frequency. He was tracking her, waiting for the slightest change or movement.
When indeed the girl did get up from the bar, she made her way to the upstairs, where her suite was. Woe wouldn't follow yet, but summoned the waitress as Sywena entered her rooms. The waitress arrived before too long, as the customers were dwindling at this hour. He left her a tip of a silver nel, and looked up at her, "I'll take an upstairs room for the night. If you would?"
The waitress smiled and thanked him for the silver, biting the nel as she fumbled through her pockets for a key to one of the rooms. Once it was on the table, Woe nodded in thanks. He turned away from her, and waited a few more moments. There, he tried to spy notes of sleep from Sywena, wondering if she was going to retire or had business yet to attend in her rooms.
However, he didn't wait long before making his own way up. He found his room on the second door from the right of the stair's upper landing. A few doors down from Sywena's. He unlocked the door, opened and shut it behind him, and then walked over to the cot, to contemplate his next course of action. His hand felt for the long-seax at his side, worrying at it. Two moments later, he'd made his choice, as he felt the notes of sleep beginning to radiate from Sywena's frequency.
He slipped out of his room, and down toward Sywena's. As he laid a hand on the handle, he was surprised to find it unlatched. He moved the handle slowly so as not to make too much noise. Then he entered.
Continued here
