least three patrols of civic guard we dodged getting here. Keeping things under the table is getting a lot more dicey these days.'
Borial stared down at the street, nodding his agreement. Still, though, that look in Kelmar's eyes seemed darker, more circumspect than a nobleman merely tightening his purse strings.
A strange sound brought them both to full attention, their conversation forgotten as they listened, trying to pinpoint the noise. Again, a muffled voice just to the east of them. Swift as cats they descended the building's side, moving in the direction of the disturbance to the night's silence.
Creeping to the edge of a shadowed alleyway, Faerdral motioned for a stop, both could hear labored breathing from within the alley. Peering around the corner, his hand ready to draw the daggers at his waist, Faerdral looked into the shadows.
Only a sleeping beggar greeted his piercing eyes, wrapped in a tattered old cloak and bundled against the wall. Disappointed, Faerdral slumped against the stone building and relaxed his guard. Borial rolled his eyes in irritation, but continued to scan the street hoping to spot anything that could be reported later to the count. Faerdral straightened himself and began to walk across the alley's mouth to the next building, Borial fell in step beside him.
Just then, as Borial looked north down the intersecting street, something warm and wet landed on the right side of his face and down his neck. Pure instinct caused his left hand to draw his throwing dagger from its sheath as he turned. Only Faerdral stood there, his eyes wide and his mouth gasping quietly. Two curious looking bone blades had sprouted from his chest and seemed to raise him off the ground, his toes barely twitching above the cobblestones as his life bled from him.
As Faerdral's dagger fell from his hand, it was only then that Borial noticed it made no sound when it landed, as it should have clattered like a hundred swords in the still night air. Unaccustomed shock flooded Borial's veins, an inexplicable fear paralyzing his body, allowing only his eyes to move.
He saw a thick-scaled limb of some sort trailing away from Faerdral's back, covered in spines and sharp, boney barbs. It ended at the figure of the now quite awake beggar in the alley, twisting out from beneath his tattered robes like the sinuous tail of a serpent. The beggar was lying on his belly, raising himself on gray-skinned arms. Only two glowing eyes the color of late sunset and a smiling mouth of needle-sharp teeth were visible beneath the hood of his dirty robe.
Every muscle in Borial's body screamed to move, but pulsing waves of power were pouring from the beggar's violently trembling body. Uncontrollable fear weighed Borial down, he fell to his knees, his own dagger silently clattering to the street as his hands went limp.
Watching the form of the beggar grow larger, his neck lengthening, the robes filling with small veins and stretching out on still growing bones, Borial realized he'd never once prayed to any god save Tymora, the Lady of Luck, in all his life.
He saw the body of Faerdral shake like a rag doll and fall as the incredibly long tail whipped its twin blades from his back.
Borial stared into the much larger glowing eyes, rimmed in small barbs and sharp horns, fangs like ivory swords shined in the moonlight as the beast's wings folded to its sides.
He never once prayed again. His last sight being the harsh red-orange glow of late sunset over a field of teeth.
Kelmar dressed himself the next day, angry, the past night's complete failure still fresh on his mind. Not only did the assassins fail to even spot the beast called Grim, two of them got themselves killed, increasing the level of alarm in the city. This game was drawing too much attention for his taste.
His head still ached from using the amulet. He knew somehow that it was either linked to Grim or its magic assisted in locating the beast's kind. He wasn't sure if the pain and nightmare of activating it were worth the insanity of hunting the creature.
He strapped on his sword belt and the elegant silver-handled saber that had earned him quite a reputation in days gone by.
For many a year he'd merely been the good for nothing youngest son of the Dargren family. A nobody in the shadow of his late brother Count Lukan. His family's piousness and loyalty to the throne sickened him and he'd taken to drinking and dueling. His skill with the blade had drawn the attention of the School of Stealth, who saw in him a chance to gain another contact among the nobles. Kelmar had seen in them a useful and profitable ally.
He walked down the stairs to the common room of the Whispering Maiden. One of the newer inns built in the Garden District as part of the reconstruction period after the war. He enjoyed the luxury of the place and its discreetness. He had his own manor a few miles outside the city, his family's estate, but he preferred it here in the city. It proved easier in keeping an eye on things.
The common room was mostly empty now, but the smiling barkeep graciously had a small breakfast prepared for the count, despite it being already late in the afternoon. Kelmar sneered at the quail's eggs and bacon on his plate, the pain in his head having affected his stomach as well. He drank lustily of the spiced ale the inn had become famous for, then ordered another. He'd tempered his drinking since his younger days, but never lost the taste for it.
The nervous barmaid brought his second ale, wary of catching his eye, well accustomed to his moods and tempers. Kelmar paid her no mind, his thoughts far away from the inn, staring into the frothy surface of the ale. He tempted the veil of memory between him and his recent past once again, trying to peer into those secrets being kept even from himself.
The pain returned with a roar of fury through his head, he screamed, his fists clenching, knocking over the ale he'd ordered. The barmaid flinched, the barkeep shooing her away to the kitchens with a worried glance at the count. Kelmar breathed deeply, his eyes tightly shut, focusing on the present, no more of the past.
As the pain receded, the images came again. The amulet was warm and glowing beneath his black silk shirt, he gripped it through the cloth as he experienced another grotesquely of bloody images, terror filled eyes, and the taste of blood in his mouth. He almost grew ill at the last, but held his composure as the images too began to fade away.
It is time to explore other options, he thought.
He knew he'd been foolish to use the School of Stealth in all of this. Without telling them the nature of their target they were too ill-prepared for the beast, but Kelmar was determined to keep Grim's identity to himself, until he knew more about the circumstances that had brought the creature to Zazesspur. He had other suspicions as well, feelings that stirred in his heart and chilled his blood, but those he could not even admit to himself just yet. He had to know more.
He left the inn and made his way to the Carpet District on foot, enjoying the stares of the common folk as he walked amongst them. He never denied the rumors that he'd killed his brother Lukan, but neither did he address them.
Let them think what they will, he thought, rumor and fear can be powerful allies.
He kept close to the northeastern curve of the streets, avoiding the glare of early sunset and the aching twinge it brought to his sensitive eyes. The Carpet District had once been an area of ill-reputation before the war, currently under reconstruction and new laws it endeavored like all of Zazesspur to restore a more favorable opinion to itself. Kelmar shook his head at fond memories long past as he surveyed the newly restored shops and productive citizens slowly beginning to return to their homes in the fading light. He nodded to a small patrol of civic guardsmen, noting their lighter numbers during the day and dreading their annoyingly greater presence in the evening.
At last he came to a small stone building, at one time having had two stories, but a fire had seen to the upper half long ago. The lower half remained in liveable condition, though he loathed entering it at all.
Opening its slightly charred wooden door without knocking, he peered into the darkness seeking a familiar form usually huddled there. The scents of jasmine and sandalwood greeted him mixed with other smells best left unknown. A voice called out from behind him as he shut the door and bolted the latch.
'I could have killed you, little nephew.' The voice was a dry whisper that carried throughout the room like the echo of a waterfall.
Kelmar smiled as he turned to the speaker and said, 'You knew I was coming, dear aunt, else you would not have left the door unlocked.'
'Hmph,' was all the reply he received besides some shifting noises and quiet mutterings about the arrogance
