Dusk was on the horizon, just beginning to entice the people of Kesara with the promise of its cool respite from the heat of the day. The man sat on the balcony of a coffee shop downtown, alone but comfortable. He took a moment to stretch out in his chair, soaking in the last few rays of heat before things cooled down, yet paradoxically heated up in other ways. His face was and build were of a man in his early twenties, although his eyes told of far more life experience than most men of that age could boast, or would want to. Black hair of medium length fell about his forehead, and looked rather disheveled. His cloak was draped over the chair behind him, and he wore only a light silk shirt around his torso, and silken pants. The color of each was a dark grey, although the cloak behind him was black. He wore the sandals so common amongst the locals here. Gazing around the coffee shop, the man took in the scene before him. It was a cozy little place, with a regular clientele. Coffee, expensive in many other parts of the Empire, was relatively cheap here, and a definite part of local tradition. He currently sat on the balcony, which seemed to be tucked against the building in spite of the fact that it hung out over the street below. Just inside a pair of dull brown doors was the coffee shop's second story, where most of the regulars sat at oaken tables, and the place's colorful patron Abu took their orders at the counter. Below was a similar level, although most of the people who sat down there were not regulars, and the servers tended to be hires.
Arrayed across the table before the man was a letter that had come to him with his coffee. The man wasn't quite ready to read it yet though. As he gazed into the sunset, his attention turned to his right arm. A thin yet deep scar cut diagonally across his upper arm, and in the approaching twilight he was caught up in a rush of sudden memory.
The sound of boots hitting the grass was muffled. He moved alongside his unit as they followed in the wake of a group of enlisted men. His unit, if you could see them, would be easily differentiated from the conscripts they were shadowing. The movements of the Special Forces soldiers were crisp, professional, and economical. They were six in number, and their uniforms were rather different. They wore camouflage intended for night combat, including painted war masks that hid their identities. Black and drab colors broke their patterns up in a way that standard Imperial uniforms just didn't manage.
They had been told they were heading into an area where there was heavy house-to-house fighting, but it seemed that the lines of battle had moved elsewhere. The dead silence of what had been the front lines minutes ago cut through the nerves of every man there.
His attention turned back to what he was doing, although memory continued to run in the background. He reached out and touched the unmarked envelope. He wouldn't even bother to waste the resources testing it through either mundane or magical means: whoever had sent it was a pro, and no pro who was still breathing in Kesara would get themselves caught making a dead drop.
Opening the letter, the man had no fear of being poisoned, as Abu wouldn't have allowed someone who was likely to attempt such a thing to use his services in that fashion. Nope, it was someone whom Abu likely had shared a working relationship with for years. Sadly, that didn't really narrow things down: the shop owner knew near everyone from somewhere or another. His secrets were best not pried into.
As the conscripts filed into the house, he got the feeling that this was the one. He raised a fist, and signaled that the Special Forces should flank the building. Moving far more silently than the regular troops had before them, the group fanned out and moved toward the various entrances into the building. Whatever may ambush the soldiers within, they could take comfort that it would be ambushed in turn by their shadows. Small comforts in war indeed.
As he moved to follow the first group of soldiers in through the back doors, something caught his eye. One of his fellow shadows was looking back at him, seemingly surprised at his desire to enter alone. He waved the figure on, indicating she should follow one of the groups going in the side window. He preferred entering the most risky areas by himself. He had lost too many fellow soldiers and subordinates by allowing them to take the more dangerous jobs while in a hot zone, and the taste that had left in his mouth had dissuaded him from allowing the pattern to repeat itself.
He followed in the wake of the regulars.
His fingers fumbled only slightly as he opened the note. It was printed neatly on a piece of white parchment. No obvious spot for a message in invisible ink, none of the common ciphers he knew fit with the message, and no other gimmick was apparent. The message itself, however, was both cryptic and annoying, to the point that it was clear whoever the author was had quite the sense of humor.
In your wake follows the Violet Eyed Devil. For ill or well, best watch yourself.
He had no idea what in the world what was meant by Violet Eyed Devil. A few shadowy types had very colorful sobriquets, and there were certain nicknames applied to different kinds of people. A Rain Man was someone who did a whole lot of wet-work, usually in bulk, and a Yellow Dove was the local term for someone who was willing to do leg work for a fee, but Violet Eyed Devil was nothing he had ever heard bandied about in any company. Regardless, it was clear that someone wanted him to know, or at least think, that someone or something was tailing him and they knew about it, or at least something in that ballpark. Things were never as they seemed in this game.
The first indication he had that things were about to go horribly other than the knot in his gut was the sound of gramarye being pronounced up ahead. The voice was lilting in a way that no one in his squad sounded when using magic and he didn't recognize the words being used. He did recognize the sounds of wanton destruction, however. Ahead of him some sort of Emerald force was tearing through the room, and he heard a particularly shrill scream cut off suddenly. The sounds of flesh being torn followed on its heels, and before he considered that the rest of his unit had yet to be close enough to help he was in the room.
Standing amidst the devastation was a single elf, long spear in hand. It had turned its back to the door as it moved to finish off one of the last remaining soldiers, but as he had entered the slim figure had turned around faster than the eye could see. From the way it had exposed itself, it clearly wasn't a professional, although that wouldn't stop it from killing men with vastly more experience and training with little to no effort.
All of this was simply noted detail as reflex kicked in and he rushed towards the Bloody Speared killer. As the muscles of his body moved, he flexed a different kind of muscle altogether. He bunched up his mental strength, and assaulted the elf's mind, his thoughts like a hammer blow. However, after the immense pressure of the initial contact he immediately let off, his momentum allowing him to continue his charge as he moved.
The elf was distracted for a moment, but quickly shifted its stance to place the spear between the two, with such speed that the human eye couldn't even follow its movements. That didn't matter either. As he approached, just out of spear length, he rasped a word he knew the elf would be able to make out. Brisingr.
He shifted his stance as though he would stop, and a gout of fire rose between the two, moving as though to burn through the spear and shoot up into the elf's face. Really, that wasn't the plan at all either. He had put just enough magic to get the fire going briefly, with most of that force going to make it bright and big rather than not.
Predictably, the elf moved its spear to the side and defended with a summoned wind. Just as planned. He allowed his momentum to continue, and slid, tumbling under the elf's guard and allowing him a moment where he could strike with his much shorter dirk before the elf could respond. His blade found purchase along the killer's thigh, and he felt it draw blood. The elf's form exploded into a frenzy of movement, and he was hurled backwards with great force, the tip of the elf's spear gashing his arm badly as he fell away. As he whispered a single word, Blodh, he landed with a crash….
The paper disappeared into his cloak as the man rose, pulling it on. A surprising number of people walking the streets below wore similar black cloaks, and seemed to be becoming more active as dusk arrived. Anywhere else such dress would be conspicuous, but not here in Kesara. Cloak and dagger chique was the norm here really.
He had already payed for his coffee, and had places to be. Nodding to Abu, the man headed downstairs, brushing by the poseurs who were trying to look edgy by staying out late, and he avoided the rush on the main street by heading out a side door. His reasons for doing this were more than just a desire to avoid the crowd: his curiosity had been piqued by this whole "Violet Eyed Devil" business, and if this creature was tailing him, there was no better place to play cat and mouse than the back alleys behind the downtown merchant district.
He awoke, being lifted from the pool of blood gathered around him. He realized that if he had lost that much, he wouldn't have survived. His eyes found the elf's body lying across the room. He had been thrown clear through a wall, but as he had gone he had managed to finish off the creature.
A light slap to his face. Sound returned.
"…up now, we need to go. If you can't walk, we can carry you, but we need to pull back now! The Elves are coming back!"
Sliding into the gathering darkness, the man watched his back using his peripheral vision, cutting through several alleys. Someone wanted to play, and he was happy to make the first move.