Horus stumbled through the narrow alleyways of the village he was in, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The distant shouts of the ex-Templars echoed off the stone walls, growing louder with each passing moment. He could feel their hatred like a tangible force, a burning brand on his back. Sweat trickled down his forehead, stinging his eyes, but he didn't dare stop to wipe it away. He was outnumbered, and they were closing in.
The mage's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing for a solution. He had faced danger before, countless times as a pirate and as a mage. But this was different. These men had a fanatical gleam in their eyes, driven by a fervor that made them relentless. Horus knew he couldn’t fight them all; his magic was powerful, but not against such odds.
He turned a corner and nearly collided with a fruit vendor, the wooden cart toppling over and scattering apples and pears across the cobblestones. The vendor shouted curses, but Horus barely heard him, his focus on the narrow street ahead. His eyes darted around, seeking any place to hide, any ally who might offer refuge.
A dilapidated tavern caught his eye. Its sign, The Weeping Siren, swung creakily in the breeze. The place looked deserted, a perfect hideaway if only for a moment. Horus darted inside, the dim light and smoky air enveloping him. The tavern was almost empty, save for a few patrons hunched over their drinks, oblivious to his presence.
He slipped behind the bar, crouching low and trying to calm his breathing. His shapeshifting abilities might help, but the ex-Templars knew his tricks. They would be on the lookout for anything unusual. Horus needed to think, and quickly.
Esme sat at a table with a good view of the door, nursing a mug of terrible ale and hearing far too much of the tavenkeeper’s irate mutterings. It wasn’t as if she was taking up room needed by other customers in this place. You could count the customers on one hand and the tables on two. She wanted nothing more than to be back on the road and out of this grease trap.
Why couldn’t anything go to plan for once?
Outside, there was some sort of commotion in the street. She was halfway to her feet when a disheveled, dark haired man burst through the door. He … Kind of matched the courier’s description. At least, that hat did. How many people in this tiny village could possibly wear tricorns day to day? Thus, it had to be him.
He appeared to be trying to hide behind the bar.
“Ser? I’m the Salamander that’s been waiting for you for hours now – what the fuck held you up? We might need to reexamine our–” The commotion was here now apparently, a beefy mailed fist wrenching open the door. Esme took one look at the crowded door frame and ushered the courier through to the kitchen. The sour smell of old cooking oil assaulted her senses. She made for the back door, drawing and loading her crossbow with one of her special bolts.
“Now, what’d you do to piss off all those gentlemen?” Esme aimed at the taproom door that they’d just come through and fired. A patch of expanding sticky goo blocked the way, promising to slow down the courier’s assailants for a few seconds.
Horus let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. I didn’t do anything to them per se, he admitted, glancing at the blocked entrance, but these bozos never seem to have gotten the memo that the mage-Templar war ended over eight years ago. They want things to go back to how they were before the rebellion, when we were just their prisoners. He took his hat off, adjusted it, and put it back on, trying to regain his composure.
With a weary sigh, he added, I suppose they saw me as a threat... an opportunity to make their statement. Hence, the chase. His eyes met Esme's, a flicker of gratitude visible despite the situation. Thank you for the assist, by the way mate, your timing was impeccable. Then he thought for a moment. It wasn’t like I wanted to run from them, but five on one didn’t really feel like fair odds.
[q]And as much as I hate to admit it, we might need to find a better hiding spot. They won’t give up that easily. Horus peered through a crack in the kitchen door, his heart still pounding in his chest as he strained to listen for the sounds of their pursuers. Unless you think we can take them… He said with a slightly nervous laughter.
Mage hunters, huh. Esme had never had much reason to give them much thought, painting them with the same brush as every other heavily armed authority figure. City guards and armsmen and so on. But if you were older, and a mage to boot … Well, she could see why you might run if they gave chase. Caro certainly wasn't a fan of the Order. Surprisingly, the courier turned out to be a rather talkative chap.
“And they know you on sight?” Five versus two was not good odds, either. Certainly not without a frontliner to hold them up. But if they could make it out of here, Nienke might even the odds.
“Let’s head out the back.” She hissed, stalking toward the other end of the kitchen. Pushing the door open a crack, she listened for activity in the alley outside. Nothing, at least not that she could hear over the tavenkeep’s blustering and the dull impact of steel on rapidly curing alchemical cement.
The head start wouldn’t last long before someone thought to check the other exits. She waved at the courier and slipped out the door, crossbow ready but angled low. As she came around a corner, a shout went up from a man in plate armor. Either they’d caught sight of her before, or the tavernkeep had pointed her out.
At the question about being seen on sight, Horus, well, he looked a bit like a combination between the cat that ate the canary combined with the little kid that knew they’d gone done wrong. Well, about that, there may have also been an incident with one of their wives, though in my defence she did not say she was married, and then not realising I was in the presence of more than just an angry husband, I shifted into a bird and flew out the window. I thought I’d lost them, but then one saw me and recognised me. He genuinely wouldn’t have slept with the woman if he’d known she was married. Not that his morals were squeamish about such a thing, but his sense of self-preservation generally dictated he didn’t diddle in dangerous waters.
Horus didn't need to be told twice. He bolted after Esme, his boots pounding the cobblestones as they dashed down the alleyway. The sounds of pursuit grew louder, but the narrow passageways and their head start gave them a slim chance of escape.
As they ran, Horus couldn't help but glance back, his eyes meeting Esme's determined gaze. They had to find cover soon, or their luck would run out. Horus could fight, if he had to. He had some training with his dagger he kept on him and of course there was always turning into a blighted bear.
I have a friend on the other side of town, if we can make it that way we might have better odds, and the man owes me a favour. I’d suggest attempting diplomacy, but I fear their feelings towards mages is far too fanatical to talk them down. Just his luck, not only was the woman married, but married to an anti-mage asshole.
Oh, she did not envy them. Running in full armor under the hot sun was truly a terrible thing. At least her leathers were a fraction of the weight. The templars would be furious by the time they caught up.
The courier offered that he had a friend who could help, and Esme grunted assent. Better not lead anyone to her cart if she didn’t have to, but they were close. She fished a whistle out of her cloak and blew, a high-pitched screech that brought Nienke running. Esme swung onto her wyvern’s back, catching her breath. The giant reptile easily kept pace with the courier, emitting curious frequency-shifting grumbles.
“Perhaps you should have stayed a bird. I mean, if that was working for you.” Esme slowed Nienke and reached out to help Horus get on. There wasn’t much to hold onto – Nienke was not outfitted for extra passengers – but it probably beat running.
“Other side of town, you said?” Two-plus-a-wyvern versus five wasn’t so bad, but anyone smart would want the odds overwhelmingly in their favor. If this guy had a friend who could help, she wasn’t about to take on any more risk than she had to. Nienke ran, almost gliding as she picked up speed, and Esme steered according to Horus’ directions.
“So, the message is an important one, right?”You wouldn’t get me chased by templars for nothing, implied.
Horus kept pace with Esme, adrenaline pumping through his veins as they fled through the twisting alleyways. His heart raced not only from the exertion but also from the thrill of the chase. Esme's wyvern, Nienke, was an unexpected but welcome sight, her presence adding a formidable advantage to their escape.
At Esme's comment about staying a bird, Horus chuckled despite their dire situation. Aye, it was working until I needed to be human again. Besides, hard to deliver messages as a bird, yeah? He grinned, grabbing her extended hand and swinging up onto the wyvern’s back, settling in as best he could.
Yes, other side of town, out by the old blacksmith’s shop. He’s the sort that’s always prepared for trouble," Horus directed, pointing towards the general direction they needed to head.
Horus felt a rush of exhilaration, the wind whipping through his hair as they moved. One thing that sucked about working alone, was that one didn’t have back up when the shit blew up. Having Esme have his back in this moment, well, it was a nice change of pace, the sort of thing he could definitely get used to.
Esme’s question about the importance of the message brought Horus back to the gravity of their situation with a bit of a shrug. [q]I know it’s about a job, sounds like quite the gig, not that I read it, or that I’m the least bit jealous. He said with a slight cough.
“Okay, but birds literally deliver messages all the time.” Esme laughed, half shouting into the wind. “Though, I admit I wouldn’t have been looking for a pigeon.” She fell silent thereafter, attention shifting as they left the templars in the dust. A town this small wouldn’t take long to cross – she craned her neck, searching for the smithy. Once there, Nienke’s presence might become more hindrance than help, sticking out like only a thousand-pound lizard could.
Ah, well. Hopefully the offended mage-hunter reconsidered, valuing his life (and that of his fellows) more dearly than any perceived insult to his lady’s honor. They came to a sliding stop in front of the workshop and Esme directed the wyvern to slink around the back, so they’d at least be out of sight from the main road. She hopped down from the saddle and circled to Nienke’s front, rubbing the wyvern’s frilled cheeks. The creature warbled softly in delight, a few drops of venom infused saliva hissing as they hit the dusty earth.
“It’s not right to open other peoples’ mail.” She shook her head at the mage, faux-serious. “Are you sure you’re cut out to be a courier?” With a few whispered words, she persuaded the wyvern to lie down, tail and frills tidily tucked close to the body. As hidden as Nienke could get, under the current circumstances.
“Name’s Esme. I suppose you can tell me all about the job – after you introduce me to your friend. ” She gestured to the smithy’s backdoor, ready to follow Horus in. After Starkhaven, she was confident the other Salamanders would trust her judgement on the contract. Assuming the courier wasn’t lying to keep her sweet.
“Though I wouldn’t expect a tip to go along with the rescue.”
Horus slid off Nienke with practiced ease, stretching his legs after the wild ride. He adjusted his tricorn, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity after being hauled out of a sticky situation. Brushing off the dirt and sweat from his coat, he smirked at Esme’s jab about mail and tips.
Mail, mates, and mayhem—just another day in the life of Horus the errant courier, he quipped, patting the wyvern’s flank appreciatively. And as for tips, well, consider my company payment enough. Most folks’d pay handsomely for the privilege of my company on such an adventure. He shot her a lopsided grin, though it didn’t quite mask his weariness.
He strode toward the smithy’s backdoor, the comforting sound of a forge at work drifting faintly through the air. The place had the sturdy, lived-in look of a man who valued function over form. Horus hesitated at the door, his hand hovering just shy of the latch.
Right then, before we go in, fair warning. Rurik’s a bit… prickly. Good man, but he’s like one of those guard dogs that barks at his own shadow. He’ll help, but don’t be surprised if he takes a chunk out of my pride while he’s at it.
With that, he pushed the door open. The heat from the forge hit them immediately, carrying the scent of iron and soot. Rurik stood near an anvil, a hammer resting in his calloused hand. His eyes narrowed as he took in Horus and Esme, his expression equal parts suspicion and exasperation.
Bloody hell, Horus. What’ve you dragged in this time? he growled, his voice like gravel.
Horus raised his hands in mock surrender. Now, now, Rurik, let’s not jump to conclusions. This is Esme, savvy? And I’ll have you know, we’ve had quite the ordeal. Templars. Angry ones. Long story.
Rurik grunted, his gaze shifting to Esme. Salamander, eh? Well, if you’re traveling with this one, you must’ve done something equally daft. He set the hammer down and gestured for them to come inside. Get in before you lead trouble straight to my doorstep.
Once inside the smithy, Horus reached into his coat and produced a weathered envelope, extending it to Esme with a dramatic flourish.
Your letter, m’lady, safe and sound. Despite, you know, homicidal zealots and all that. He leaned against a workbench, his expression softening slightly. I’m curious, though. What’s in that thing that’s worth all this ruckus? Or is it one of those “if I told you, I’d have to kill you” situations?
Rurik muttered something about nosy couriers under his breath, but he didn’t seem inclined to throw them out just yet.
