"There are problems forming in Nibelung. Problems that I wish to have taken care of before they become larger than they should be allowed to become. The proverbial wyrm that would one day grow into a dragon."
Each word that passed Moebius' aged lips were spoken with deliberate slowness, filled heavily with double meaning. As the wizard paced around his scrying pool in the heart of what had once been the Sarafan Fortress, he glanced into the water. Images formed briefly, only to fade away with barely seen ripples and replaced again. Events that were taking place leagues away on the other side of Nosgoth could be see easily by Moebius as the event unfolding in front of him. Completing his circuit of the scrying pool, the Pillar Guardian turned his eyes upwards to look at his personal banner. A black hourglass against a red backdrop; the Time Streamer's sign and the banner carried before his army of vampire hunters.
How quickly his own sigil had replaced those of the Sarafan once the Brotherhood had fallen. It was as it should be, Moebius contemplated. Should he not be the new leader of a new generation of vampire killers, when the ones of old had fallen? What he not properly qualified to direct such an army to destroy such a threat? He was one of the three survivors of the attack long ago that had claimed the lives of six of the Guardian's brethren, and Moebius was older than even Mortanius. Besides, Moebius assumed arrogantly, he was the Time Guardian. He had more power in his hands than the rest of the Circle had combined. Of course, to voice such a view would be unwise.
Turning back to the present and away from his inner thoughts, the Time Streamer looked at the kneeling figure in front of him. A brown robe, unremarkable in and of itself, hid the figure's form and making it useless to wager the gender of the person until they spoke. The cowl hid the face in shadow; not even a wisp of hair was seen. On the floor to the right of the figure was a sheathed falchion, the scabbard inlaid with runes that most learned people would not be able to speak, let alone know about. A weaponsmith, on the chance of seeing the sword, would have remarked on the time and quality given to the scabbard, and if seeing the blade, would have been compelled to find out how the metal was made.
Moebius knew for a fact that the blade's creator, much like its weilder, were very unique to the world. The Serioli, small tribes of humans who long ago shunned the existence of life in crowded cities and preferred to perfect their art of weaponsmaking, were greatly heard of but rarely seen. When a group of Serioli - who looked as normal as any other human - came to a town fair, any warrior who knew the mettle of a blade came to buy from them. The Serioli could charge any price for their weapons, and it would be paid without question. Daggers that had been inlaid with runes of power, made from bronze, iron and silver in such a way so they never broke or needed sharpening were prized items, bought by nobles and given to the young sons of the families. When their wares had been sold, the Serioli left just as they had come until the next fair.
Besides being expert weaponmakers, the Serioli also were employed as executioners. A darker side to the group, one that was known only to a few outsiders. The Serioli, for a certain fee, could be purchased for a brief time to deal with the troubles of others. Efficient, indifferent to the troubles of the world around them, whoever paid the fee that had been set had their problems taken care of, the whole time knowing that such things would never be spoken of. They never chose sides; neutrality was a game that the Serioli had gambled long and well with.
Moebius had known that when he had summoned for a Serioli assassin. One had come to his call, now in the presence of the Streamer. Moebius knew that his breath would be wasted if he went into depth as to why he wished the problem to be solved; only the defining information needed to be given, only the essentials.
"I have heard from sources that you are one of the best. That you have taken care of these problems before, have dealt with such prestigious people."
"Your flattery will get you nowhere, Pillar Guardian. You are merely wasting your time, and more importantly, mine."
The voice was feminine, with an almost joking quality to it. Information could easily be gained from just hearing a person's voice, but Moebius was not inclined to trust that information. The Serioli assassins assumed whatever form was easier to deal with their target; actors that could bring shame to those that performed in Willendorf. The Time Streamer had no way of knowing if this was all an act or perhaps the true voice of the female Serioli in front of him. With the situation he was dealing with before him, it would be safer to not assume anything.
"Yes time, the one thing that keeps on slipping by. Before I speak of the business in hand that lies waiting for you in Nibelung, I would wish to look at the face of my assassin." A black gloved hand moved in the folds of the cloak; the hood was flung back. Staring straight at him with a cold gaze, the iris a light green, the Serioli's face was indifferent. She could have been nineteen, she could have been into her twenties. The Serioli's face held a certain youthfulness that was hard to place. Lank black hair pulled back into a tight tail displayed the predominant cheekbones, the lips that looked almost sullen, a nose that had a small red scar on the bridge between the eyes. A face that, while standing on its own was unique, once in a crowd it would just become another face in the mass.
"Your name?"
"Emily." She looked directly ahead the whole time; Moebius was slightly unnerved how the Serioli seemed to be looking through him and pass him as if he was not there. To her, he was indifferent, merely an employer for the moment.
"Emily, have you killed many people?"
She shifted her weight, kneeling on her left knee and placing her knuckles on the marble floor for balance. "I have killed enough to be properly qualified for the task before me." The leather armour she wore creaked slightly, the metal buckle of her belt in a strange design glinting in the sunlight that came through the windows.
Moebius nodded. It was what he wanted to hear. "Excellent. Now listen Serioli, and heed my words well. In Nibelung the Circle is having difficulties finding supporters to our cause. Namely, the figurehead of these disagreements is Queen Iseult. She has never been a firm believer of the Circle's decrees and edicts, and with the backing given by King Sigurd no less she is very close to abolishing the Nine's contact with the whole country. This can simply not happen; the preservation of Nosgoth hangs in the balance with this."
Emily rolled her eyes and gave a small reprimanding sound in the back of her throat. "Let me remind you, sorcerer, that my fee is quite substantial, and even for this meeting every minute wasted is an extra silver piece in my purse. Now I do not know where the money is coming from; I do not care to know. But I would think it unwise to dip into the coffers that might on the chance be shared with others."
An unpleasant scowl crossed Moebius' face. His aged fingers gripped the staff he carried with him tightly as he fought the urge to use magic on the Serioli. Emily had, quite fancifully for an assassin, told him to stop blathering and get to the point. Moebius hated being rushed in anything; he chose rather to let everything be known in due time.
"Kill Iseult." The order was curt, abrupt. Emily stood immediatly like a well-trained dog, grasping her falchion as she rose with a smooth and practiced ease. "Kill her in such a way that it looks either like an angered servant's act of retribution or that the queen's death is nothing more than an accident. I want this problem to be dealt with before the next rising of the full moon."
Giving a brief nod Emily pulled the hood of her cloak up, hiding her features in shadows. She turned soundlessly on the heel of her foot and walked out of the inner chambers of the Time Streamer, the Serioli's cloak making barely a ripple in the passing air. Moebius gave a satisfied smile, feeling it crawl up and over his lips, the emotion touching his eyes. Turning back to the pool, he chortled as he thought about what would soon take place in Nibelung.
Each word that passed Moebius' aged lips were spoken with deliberate slowness, filled heavily with double meaning. As the wizard paced around his scrying pool in the heart of what had once been the Sarafan Fortress, he glanced into the water. Images formed briefly, only to fade away with barely seen ripples and replaced again. Events that were taking place leagues away on the other side of Nosgoth could be see easily by Moebius as the event unfolding in front of him. Completing his circuit of the scrying pool, the Pillar Guardian turned his eyes upwards to look at his personal banner. A black hourglass against a red backdrop; the Time Streamer's sign and the banner carried before his army of vampire hunters.
How quickly his own sigil had replaced those of the Sarafan once the Brotherhood had fallen. It was as it should be, Moebius contemplated. Should he not be the new leader of a new generation of vampire killers, when the ones of old had fallen? What he not properly qualified to direct such an army to destroy such a threat? He was one of the three survivors of the attack long ago that had claimed the lives of six of the Guardian's brethren, and Moebius was older than even Mortanius. Besides, Moebius assumed arrogantly, he was the Time Guardian. He had more power in his hands than the rest of the Circle had combined. Of course, to voice such a view would be unwise.
Turning back to the present and away from his inner thoughts, the Time Streamer looked at the kneeling figure in front of him. A brown robe, unremarkable in and of itself, hid the figure's form and making it useless to wager the gender of the person until they spoke. The cowl hid the face in shadow; not even a wisp of hair was seen. On the floor to the right of the figure was a sheathed falchion, the scabbard inlaid with runes that most learned people would not be able to speak, let alone know about. A weaponsmith, on the chance of seeing the sword, would have remarked on the time and quality given to the scabbard, and if seeing the blade, would have been compelled to find out how the metal was made.
Moebius knew for a fact that the blade's creator, much like its weilder, were very unique to the world. The Serioli, small tribes of humans who long ago shunned the existence of life in crowded cities and preferred to perfect their art of weaponsmaking, were greatly heard of but rarely seen. When a group of Serioli - who looked as normal as any other human - came to a town fair, any warrior who knew the mettle of a blade came to buy from them. The Serioli could charge any price for their weapons, and it would be paid without question. Daggers that had been inlaid with runes of power, made from bronze, iron and silver in such a way so they never broke or needed sharpening were prized items, bought by nobles and given to the young sons of the families. When their wares had been sold, the Serioli left just as they had come until the next fair.
Besides being expert weaponmakers, the Serioli also were employed as executioners. A darker side to the group, one that was known only to a few outsiders. The Serioli, for a certain fee, could be purchased for a brief time to deal with the troubles of others. Efficient, indifferent to the troubles of the world around them, whoever paid the fee that had been set had their problems taken care of, the whole time knowing that such things would never be spoken of. They never chose sides; neutrality was a game that the Serioli had gambled long and well with.
Moebius had known that when he had summoned for a Serioli assassin. One had come to his call, now in the presence of the Streamer. Moebius knew that his breath would be wasted if he went into depth as to why he wished the problem to be solved; only the defining information needed to be given, only the essentials.
"I have heard from sources that you are one of the best. That you have taken care of these problems before, have dealt with such prestigious people."
"Your flattery will get you nowhere, Pillar Guardian. You are merely wasting your time, and more importantly, mine."
The voice was feminine, with an almost joking quality to it. Information could easily be gained from just hearing a person's voice, but Moebius was not inclined to trust that information. The Serioli assassins assumed whatever form was easier to deal with their target; actors that could bring shame to those that performed in Willendorf. The Time Streamer had no way of knowing if this was all an act or perhaps the true voice of the female Serioli in front of him. With the situation he was dealing with before him, it would be safer to not assume anything.
"Yes time, the one thing that keeps on slipping by. Before I speak of the business in hand that lies waiting for you in Nibelung, I would wish to look at the face of my assassin." A black gloved hand moved in the folds of the cloak; the hood was flung back. Staring straight at him with a cold gaze, the iris a light green, the Serioli's face was indifferent. She could have been nineteen, she could have been into her twenties. The Serioli's face held a certain youthfulness that was hard to place. Lank black hair pulled back into a tight tail displayed the predominant cheekbones, the lips that looked almost sullen, a nose that had a small red scar on the bridge between the eyes. A face that, while standing on its own was unique, once in a crowd it would just become another face in the mass.
"Your name?"
"Emily." She looked directly ahead the whole time; Moebius was slightly unnerved how the Serioli seemed to be looking through him and pass him as if he was not there. To her, he was indifferent, merely an employer for the moment.
"Emily, have you killed many people?"
She shifted her weight, kneeling on her left knee and placing her knuckles on the marble floor for balance. "I have killed enough to be properly qualified for the task before me." The leather armour she wore creaked slightly, the metal buckle of her belt in a strange design glinting in the sunlight that came through the windows.
Moebius nodded. It was what he wanted to hear. "Excellent. Now listen Serioli, and heed my words well. In Nibelung the Circle is having difficulties finding supporters to our cause. Namely, the figurehead of these disagreements is Queen Iseult. She has never been a firm believer of the Circle's decrees and edicts, and with the backing given by King Sigurd no less she is very close to abolishing the Nine's contact with the whole country. This can simply not happen; the preservation of Nosgoth hangs in the balance with this."
Emily rolled her eyes and gave a small reprimanding sound in the back of her throat. "Let me remind you, sorcerer, that my fee is quite substantial, and even for this meeting every minute wasted is an extra silver piece in my purse. Now I do not know where the money is coming from; I do not care to know. But I would think it unwise to dip into the coffers that might on the chance be shared with others."
An unpleasant scowl crossed Moebius' face. His aged fingers gripped the staff he carried with him tightly as he fought the urge to use magic on the Serioli. Emily had, quite fancifully for an assassin, told him to stop blathering and get to the point. Moebius hated being rushed in anything; he chose rather to let everything be known in due time.
"Kill Iseult." The order was curt, abrupt. Emily stood immediatly like a well-trained dog, grasping her falchion as she rose with a smooth and practiced ease. "Kill her in such a way that it looks either like an angered servant's act of retribution or that the queen's death is nothing more than an accident. I want this problem to be dealt with before the next rising of the full moon."
Giving a brief nod Emily pulled the hood of her cloak up, hiding her features in shadows. She turned soundlessly on the heel of her foot and walked out of the inner chambers of the Time Streamer, the Serioli's cloak making barely a ripple in the passing air. Moebius gave a satisfied smile, feeling it crawl up and over his lips, the emotion touching his eyes. Turning back to the pool, he chortled as he thought about what would soon take place in Nibelung.