A job was a job and Dashiel Tansen had never been a proud man. He had also never been under any sort of illusion about a mercenary life being particularly glamorous in any way, shape or form. Thus it was that he’d taken on an assortment of various ‘delivery boy’ jobs as he liked to think of them. Escorting shipped goods from point A to point B with the occasional stopover at point C.

Point A in this instance had been the city of Lómëdor. Dashiel had patiently listened to the bad tempered ramblings of a very stressed Port Authority officer who had grumbled something about things being harder to manage now that his ‘no good clerk had upped and gone the Gods only knew where’, and had accepted the job to escort some precious antiquities down the Eastern coast where piracy was rife. Point B happened to be Yomenïampa, which having been well and truly banned from ever returning to, was thus of great interest to the young man who accepted the challenge with great pleasure.

He’d made arrangements for the ‘Silent Wings’ to pick up the shipment and had joined the vessel before its departure. Its captain, a stoic, taciturn man who Dash knew as Ezekiel Dawnstrider, had been pleased to get his often-time drinking partner and occasional business partner back on board and the journey down the east coast was not only unhindered, but was also – for Dashiel at least – several days worth of entertainment.

Naturally, he’d rifled through the box of antiques. There had been little of interest to him, other than an exquisitely carved long bow which according to one of the crew who could read (Dashiel could not: he had never seen the need), had originated in the elven city and was being returned as per an agreement made hundreds of years before.

It was sorely tempting, but Ezekiel had talked him out of stealing it.

“Sure, lad, haven’t you upset the elves enough with strolling off with their goods to start with?” They’d sat in the Captain’s cabin, both slightly the worse for wear after polishing off the better part of an entire bottle of brandy between them.

“It’s not possible to upset the elves enough,” Dashiel had said, stubbornly. “They’re a bunch of self-righteous, lily-livered fools whose own superiority will be their downfall.”

“Ah, boy, I’ve gotten fond of you over these last couple of years,” Dawnstrider had said, patting Dashiel on the shoulder with exaggerated fondness. “I’d hate to have to come and pick up what were left of you when the elves had finished dicin’ you up like so much raw meat. You really oughtn’t to be takin’ this shipment into the city. They’ll have your head before you so much as greet them.”

“I don’t plan on taking the shipment into the city,” Dashiel replied. “Not straight off, at least. I figured I’d set up camp not far outside and then send a messenger in. If they known I’ve got my hands on some of their most precious historical artefacts, they’re going to hate it. I’ll suggest that they meet me on neutral territory, otherwise the goods won’t get handed over.”

A slow smile crossed Dawnstrider’s weather beaten face.

“You’ve a mind to cause trouble, lad?”

“I like causing trouble,” Dashiel shot back. “Particularly where the elves are concerned. They all but strung me up last time I was there and it’s time for me to pick up the compensation.”

After that, the evening had degenerated into more alcohol and an extraordinarily bad hangover the following morning.

Now, three days later, the ‘Silent Wings’ bobbed in a bay, just off the shallows of the coastline. Dashiel and five of the ‘Silent Wings’ crew rowed in companionable silence towards the coast, carrying the shipment to land. A cleverly designed collapsible handcart was stowed in the bottom of the landing craft, ready to be used to cart the goods inland. The party had set off immediately: Dashiel and three companions whilst the remaining two had headed back to the ‘Wings’ to collect a land party for food and water gathering.

The estimate was around three, maybe four days for how long it would take the small party to travel in to the eleven city. Two of those days had already passed and thus far, the party had run into no trouble at all, other than a lone bandit who had fancied his chances and who had met the business end of one of Dashiel’s poison-tipped arrows. Other than that, everything was quiet.

And Dashiel Tansen was getting dangerously bored.

She walked slowly on the deck of the starbort. Daydreaming she listened to sounds of ocean, traveling to Yomenïampa for the first time. It wasn't her first time on the ship, but she looked sick. Many years ago she was a WarGeneral back in her home kingdoms of Cyberia, commanding many ships was easy for her, but to stay safe on one was a problem. Rangers always wanted to assassinate her, why not? A high ranked officer will surely get them promoted or awarded in good way. But she didn't worry anymore now when she is in Arda, she left everything behind.

She leaped on second level of the ship, she continue to daydream, but was interrupted soon. Drunk man downstairs were yelling too loud. Angry face ... She went to her room on the ship, climbed on the bulk and closed her eyes pretending to sleep.

A damned good fist fight was just what had been needed to relieve the monotony. At least, that was how Dashiel saw it. The sailor who had unncessarily pushed his buttons was presently not seeing anything, largely due to the rather spectacular pair of black eyes that had swollen his vision almost completely shut. It had all ended amicably, however, and the sailor had been vocally grateful that Dashiel Tansen had stopped just short of ripping out his windpipe.

The small group sat around a campfire, ribald and thick-tongued after too much ale, singing old sea shanties and swapping tales of derring-do (and occasionally derring-don't). Dashiel, however, was not drunk. He was alert and he was uncharacteristically quiet.

He was presently staring at the forest's edge, the unofficial border in his mind that took him from pleasantly outside of the elven territories, to unpleasantly inside. He wasn't particularly worried, not as such. It was just tiresome that they'd taken his 'theft' of a particularly rare base metal so personally. It hadn't been theft, Dashiel had reasoned with himself, in the uncanny way that he had. It was a base metal. It wasn't like it had been created - it was mined here. They had plenty to go around. The price they'd been expecting him to pay for it was simply unreasonable. So he'd taken what he needed, instead.

He'd carried out many jobs in the past that had involved him going into Yomenïampa, and whilst there had never been any love lost between himself and the elven traders, their dealings had always been civil, at least. But over time, their suspicions and dislike of the decidedly xenophobic young man had grown exponentially.

On his last visit, Yomenïampa sure as hell hadn't been easy to work his way into. He had used every trick in the book to get in and he'd barely gotten out with his head still attached to his shoulders. He had planned on avoiding the place for some considerable time - and yet...here he was.

A slow grin spread over his face. THIS time, he had the upper hand.

He let his eyes close as he leaned back against a tree and pictured holding up the Ancient Urn that contained the ashes of some great elven hero, maybe Lord Twinkle Toes or something, and threatening to drop it unless the charges of theft that were levied against him were similarly dropped.

Oh, but this could be heartwarming.

"State your name and purpose here in Yomenïampa."

If the elven guard on duty at the city gates could have sounded any more fed up, Dashiel suspected he'd have given it a damn good try. Young, even by elf standards, the male guard was practically oozing boredom.

Well, Dashiel Tansen wasn't adverse to livening people's days up.

"I see that manners have improved not one jot in Yomenïampa," he said. He was perched nonchalantly on the hand cart that was the carrier for all the elven goods he was here to deliver and as he spoke, he jumped with sinuous grace to stand on the cart instead. "A simple 'please' perhaps would not go amiss, but ah, then. I recall." The young mercenary tapped his temple and rolled his eyes skyward as though having just recalled something. "Why bother with manners when you have superiority?"

The guard shifted uncomfortably. He had been told to check names and purposes, not engage in philosophical debate. Contrary to popular belief, not all elves were particularly sparkling in terms of social interaction and by inference, this particular youngster was as dull as ditchwater.

There was an uncomfortable silence and the elven guard removed his helmet, peered anxiously at the inside, then put it back on his head again. He straightened his back and shoulders, regained his composure and fixed Dashiel with what he hoped was a stern look. It created a rather interesting illusion that he was cross eyed and one or two of the sailors travelling with Dashiel sniggered slightly. He crooked a finger at them, almost imperceptibly and they silenced.

"State your name and purpose here in Yomenïampa," repeated the elven guard. "If you would be so kind. Please."

"MUCH better," said Dashiel, leaping down from the handcart and clapping the youngster on the shoulder. "Now had you but said that to start with, think of the embarrassment you could have saved yourself. I am Dashiel Tansen, Blas na Mara amongst your people, and I come seeking audience with your high council. I bring gifts of great value and I am most interested in negotiating their - shall we say - safe return to you?"

Blas na Mara. Taste of the Ocean. It was the name that he had given to his sword, the epithet he sent with every arrow, and which had become synonymous with him as a person, particularly here, after said weapons had speared at least two would-be captors. There had been no deaths - Dashiel's skills as a marksman were too good for that - but there had not been any love lost and that was for certain.

His name had appeared quite high on the city's 'wanted' lists for some time following his last visit and as a consequence, when he spoke his name out loud, the young guard paled visibly and took several steps back.

"Blas na Mara? I...you...we..." The poor young guard sputtered and floundered, unsure what to do. Dashiel sat back down on the edge of the handcart and swung his legs idly.

"You really are a most eloquent fellow, aren't you? I have a suggestion for you, friend elf. Why do you not flap off into the city on those be-sandalled feet of yours and find me someone who has the ability to string more than six words together into a sentence."

The elf goggled.

Dashiel grinned and there was no humour in it.

"Shoo," he suggested.

The elf fled.

Dashiel smirked. This really was turning out to be more fun than he could have anticipated. He couldn't wait to see the look on the High Council's face when they saw some of the goods he had to bargain with. Oh yes, his guaranteed return to trade through the elven lands was almost assured.

Almost. There was always a hint of uncertainty, otherwise, where was the challenge?

About ten minutes passed and the young elf returned, trailing two older, clearly less impressionable guards. Dashiel watched their stance as they walked: both were as stiff as boards and with expressions that could have soured milk. Unable to help himself, he waved gleefully.

The sour milk became cheese.

"You are not welcome here, Blas na Mara. You should leave before word of your arrival reaches City Hall." The taller of the two guards fixed Dashiel with a look of pure dislike. The young mercenary merely shrugged.

"I want City Hall to hear of my arrival," he said, hopping down off the cart again and moving behind it to pick up one of the boxes. "I have come into possession of a great number of things that I believe belong here." Opening the box, he drew out an exquisitely wrought cast metal goblet, in the shape of a dragon curled around the stem, winking rubies for its eyes. He held it up to the sky and admired it openly. "Still, if you think they are disinterested, I can fetch a handsome price elsewhere..."

He began to put the goblet back into the box and the guard spoke again, harshly.

"Stop. How did you come by these goods?"

"That, my friend, is for me to know and for you to find out." Dashiel's smile could not have been sweeter.

"Did you steal them?"

"No," replied Dashiel, feigning a hurt expression. "I was paid to deliver them to you. They are, at this time, in my possession. There is a contract amongst merchants, my pointy-eared friend, which states that until such time as the delivery is signed for, the consignment is in my possession. And is therefore, in case you aren't following this, mine until I see the High Council and get them to sign. But ah!" Dashiel put his hand on his heart and mock-swooned. "I forgot! I am barred from City Hall...alas. Never mind."

He snapped his fingers and two of the sailors picked up the handles of the cart. "How foolish of me to think that you would allow me back in so easily! How foolish of me to presume that your kind are as materialistic as we humans. My mistake! I am most sorry to have disturbed you. Come, men, let us return to the Silent Wings and sail up the coast to Lomedor, where I am sure..."

"Blas na Mara, cease. You may enter the city and..." The elf grit his teeth as though the next word caused him genuine pain. "...welcome." The guard swallowed anxiously. "Let me advise City Hall of your arrival. I guarantee your safety whilst in the city personally."

"I should think so," said Dashiel, preening slightly. "And, of course, should anybody even so much as try to pick up where they feel we may have left off, I have your word that they will be dealt with most severely?"

"You...have my word."

Gods, this is fun.

"Then let us enter the city, men," said Dashiel, turning to his small contingent. "Follow my lead and do as I do," he added, dropping his voice low enough so that the guards couldn't hear. "I wouldn't trust these elven bastards further than I could spit them."

The party entered the elven city.

It was that simple.

OOC: Posted with wrong account. This is actually Ninelives. XD

IC:

"You are weak, demon."

Archangels, in Vex's opinion, were a rather prissy lot. All those thees and thous and unchecked holy auras- all so textbook proper. All so bloody formal. Angels, at least, had the decency to fall quite regularly, question the status quo, take a shot at ruling the world- archangels on the other hand... Hel, even their rare failures tended to be typical in every way. Either they were brooding, angsty little sods or blood Raku wannabes. The lot of them were definitely compensating for something. And since they all were big, imposing, fair-haired nutters Vex didn't want to know what they were compensating for either. They, along with archrauko, ranked pretty high up on the list of candidates that Vex had wanted to pit forces and wits against.

That, of course, made this whole debacle doubly humiliating. She had sought this battle. She had volunteered for the privilege, usurping another rauko's place in line. And here she was, losing. Hopefully her damn summoner was doing better than she was. The cost of failing to fulfill a contract-

Oh well. That was life. Real life. Not the silly ebony tower she had walked out of just three years ago.

"You're..." the rauko panted, emphasizing the contraction as she lashed out with her sword again, "not doing so well yourself."

That was bluster, of course. Vex had always been battle hungry but she wasn't stupid. This particular denizen of the higher realms outclassed her in almost every aspect save strength- and that was only because she had been forced to drink a rather nasty smelling brew that had swelled the size of her muscles considerably. It would hurt like bloody heck in the morning though. If she made it that far. The archangel- neither of them had bothered to introduce themselves so she didn't know his name- was like water. Calm, predictable and crystal-clear- and for all that, Vex couldn't touch him. Not once had she landed a blow on his insufferable figure. The only thing keeping her alive was her armor. And maybe the close confines of this cultish temple. And probably her sword.

They were no doubt fighting for a stupid reason. Maybe her summoner had a grudge against his. Maybe she was defending some primitive religion. Maybe she was attacking a small shrine. Maybe this really was just a big misunderstanding and if they all stopped to talk about it things could be resolved quietly. Vex didn't care. Her blood lusted for blood, hers, theirs, everyone's- and she wanted to answer that call. Wanted to so badly it was all she could do to restrain herself from a certain death. She watched him smoothly dodge her blow and return one, snapping at her shoulder- all in one fluid and impeccably precise motion. He hadn't bothered to answer her taunt.

Her sword, a blade of crystal, was more a curiosity piece than a real weapon- but it had been enchanted to give off a concentration-shattering whine. In theory she shouldn't have been able to hear it but it hadn't technically been her sword for a while either either. Wielding it had taught her quite a bit about keeping one's focus. Most opponents would be twitching, their motions jerky and uncoordinated. This archangel- she really didn't want to know how well he fought without the sword's incessant buzz. Still, if she could get in one blow. Just one blow... She was pretty sure he was slowing down. Ever so slowly, ever so subtly he was getting weaker. She was on the defensive now, parrying and dodging as best she could- letting her armor compensate where her skills could not. This painful game of keep away lasted long enough for Vex's belief she still had a chance to almost fully materialize.

In retrospect, it had been a foolish hope.

Still, it was only when his sword hissed into her protected stomach so strongly that the point broke off lodged into one of the rings that she had realized she had fallen for a trap. And she didn't even know enough about swordplay to realize what sort of trap it had been.

"Farewell, rauko."

Staring at the jaws of death she reached out for something, anything- and found it.

"Well... that's convenient."



Another call, another summon- it was terribly weak but Vex hadn't had the choice.

Splutter was the first thing Vex heard (and, unfortunately, felt) when she appeared in the usual fire and brimstone puff of smoke. She wasn't what had been expected. That was fine by her- anything was better than death. Especially if that anything turned out to be a moronic apprentice, too silly to remember to place limiters on her summons. Normally, this was a moment to be savored and appreciated like fine blood: finding and devouring idiot mages was usually such a rare opportunity... but. Buuuut. There was always a but. One of them was aiming an arrow at her head in a decidedly unfriendly manner. She hadn't even seen him move. The line of stubble probably meant he was a half-elf. He was accompanied by half-a-dozen archers who seemed uncertain whether to train their bows towards her or continue pointing them at whatever obscure target they had been aiming at before she interrupted.

It was an unusual summoning circle, to say the least, but for all intents and purposes it was probably deadlier. To her, anyways. Vex licked her lips.

"I have come, Master."

When you alienated so many people or, as was the case here in the city, elves (Dashiel couldn't bring himself to think of them as 'people', it was too much of a stretch of his imagination), you developed a certain sixth sense. Thus it was as Dashiel and his small retinue entered the city of Yomenïampa, he felt every hair on the back of his neck tingle unpleasantly.

"Stay close together," he said, sotto voce to his companions. "And if they try to take us through Market Square, keep to the edges. These might be bastard elves, but they're uncannily good aims with their bows. If we're exposed and out in the open..." Dashiel motioned running a knife across his throat.

They followed the guard captain who had granted them admission and Dashiel watched him with practised ease, appearing not to be watching him closely at all. "Say, weren't you the captain on duty the night I left town?" he said, conversationally.

The elf grit his teeth and did not look round. "Yes," he replied in a taut, tight voice. Dashiel smirked.

"I bet you got into all sorts of trouble for letting me go on your watch. I'm sorry about that."

The last four words were spoken in the sort of tone that implied Dashiel Tansen was far from sorry and it grated on the elf captain's nerves. The young man, who had been locked up pending trial, had somehow broken out of his cell, overpowered no less than four fully armed warriors - although had not killed any of them, taken the metal which he had been arrested in possession of and had left Yomenïampa. There was a bounty on his head, but he had come back to the city with frightening bargaining power. The elf captain was no fool, but Blas na Mara was gloating, and it made his hands involuntarily clench into fists.

Dashiel noticed. He also noticed the tightening of the elf's neck veins, and the barely perceptible glance upwards to where he suspected the elven archers waited for the briefest, tiniest gesture to loose a hail of arrows on himself and his fellows.

For the first time since he'd hatched this little idea, Dashiel felt a sense of growing unease.

Snap out of it, Tansen, he told himself angrily. For once, you've actually got the ace in your palm instead of up your sleeve. You could come out of this a very rich man.

But what use was very rich if he was also very dead?

Not a lot. That's how much use.