Usual Legal Disclaimer: Please refer to "DISCLAIMERS SECTION" on my profile.
The character Lenstor Dath'serra belongs to a friend of mine.
The sun reflected dazzlingly upon the gilded spires of Silvermoon City, the capital of the elves' kingdom. Trees and flowers lined the red and gold streets, the white stone of the city's elaborately carved walls and arches gleamed and towered above citizen and visitor alike. Birds sang, magical fountains bubbled, entertainers performed in the streets, and merchants called out their fine wares, while passersby chattered, argued, and laughed amongst themselves. It was a place of light, beauty, and splendor.
But no thing of mortal creation is ever without its inherent duality.
Even in this bright city, there lay dark corners, the darkest of them comprising an entire street of their own: Murder Row. Few respectable people made a habit of walking this shady city corridor. Most avoided it for less dangerous - if also less expedient - ways to get around the city, or they passed through as quickly as they could. But there were others who had no fear of this place, and why should they? They dealt in dark trades, or encountered dark forces as a matter of course in their day to day doings, and there was little that could lurk in a dark city corner that they hadn't seen already.
One such person stood lounging against the shaded, white stone walls of this ill-reputed street. He wore a dark-colored face mask, matching his dark leather garb and spiky dark hair, and he seemed quite comfortable in his surroundings. He tossed his dagger up and down in his hand with practiced ease, boredom written in almost every line of his posture, and as he was catching his dagger for the who-knows-how-many-eth time, he glanced to his right at the empty and lifeless-looking street. "You're late," he said flatly, and resumed the idle tossing of his dagger.
A dulcet voice from an unseen source replied, with an inflection that gave the impression that the speaker must have been smirking, "I'll be sure to pass on your complaints to the guilty party responsible for detaining me." A dark-haired elf woman appeared from seemingly out of thin air a little further up the street, to the right of the other elf. Her fel green eyes twinkled as she approached him. Her voice lowered conspiratorially as she asked, "I take it that you have what I'm here for?"
The rogue pulled out a slip of parchment from one of his pockets and held it up between his fingers. "It's in a secured location," he replied, and with a lazy turn of his wrist he extended it to her. "This is the address."
The mage took the offered slip of parchment. Giving him a sly, sidelong smirk, she asked, "And how do I know this isn't a trap?" While carefully stashing the folded slip away in a pouch on her belt. The question was only half a jest on her part. Neither of them were exactly in the habit of working for only the most reputable of employers or accepting the most altruistic of benefactors. Both had their share of shady associates at every level.
The rogue grinned beneath his mask. "You don't," he answered. "But even if it was, I don't doubt you would just slip right out of it."
The mage glanced at him with a smile as she was fiddling with the clasp of another pouch on her belt. "You flatter me," she said.
"No, I mean that honestly," he replied.
The woman looked up and searched the other elf's masked face briefly, feeling almost bashful once she realized that he really was giving her an honest compliment, but then gave him another sly smile. "It still won't get you more than what was agreed on," she teased, and he responded by exaggeratedly clutching both hands over his heart and making a comical "wounded" noise that made her laugh.
"Can't blame me for trying," he said jovially, with a merry sparkle in his fel-touched eyes.
The sorceress pulled a small bag from the pouch on her belt and tossed it to him. He caught it deftly in one hand, then pulled it open with one finger, and a sparkling glow emitted from the contents inside, illuminating his face. "It's all there, you can count it for yourself if you like," said the mage.
The rogue looked at her and lifted a hand to his brow, saluting her in a fashion that looked similar to him tipping his hat to her. "A pleasure doing business with you, Arcanist Ver'Sarn," he told her.
"Likewise, Master Dath'serra," she replied graciously, and turned to go.
Had she been any other woman, the rogue might have questioned her sanity, for there were few people in their right mind who would ever dare turn their backs to someone such as he, lest he put a knife in them.
"Hey," he called after her. "Before you go..." The arcanist halted her departure and turned around. From another one of his pockets, Dath'serra carefully procured a slender smoke and twirled it over his fingers with all the dexterity that made him so adept at his profession. "Spare a light?"
The woman smiled and walked back towards him. He pulled down his mask, showing himself to be quite a handsome elf, and when she was close enough to be well within arms-reach of him, she held up her hand between their faces. With a snap of her fingers, a small flame sprang to life at the end of her thumb - which he made ready use of. The scent of smoke wreathed around them both in short order, making the arcanist blink twice as it prickled at her eyes from being so close to him. She doused the little flame in her fist, once she saw that he was done with it, and let her hand fall back to her side.
"Thanks," the rogue told her gratefully, with a charming smile.
"Don't mention it," she replied, smiling back, and turned to go once more, vanishing before his eyes after she had taken no more than five strides.
