Memoria Atque Somnium

Prîmus

The first drop, cold and stinging, finally struck, carried on a bitter north-east wind. Crouched behind a pile of mildewing crates nestled behind the rundown establishment, intent on the rear door, the man hardly noticed. The hours had dragged by in that tiny alley, the overcast skies blocking out the moon for what seemed like an eternity, but the man hadn’t moved a muscle. A passing observer, should they have ventured into the filth strewn path, might well have mistaken him for nothing more than a small heap of trash, covered with a faded and torn cloak. The first raindrop was soon followed by another, and then another, as if threatening a downpour at any moment.

Finally, the rear door to the inn drew open, spilling a flickering torchlight and the sound of distant, drunken voices into the rank alley. Instinctively, the cloaked man closed his eyes, unwilling to allow them to adept to the brighter conditions birthed by the light. For a moment, the door became obscured by a large shadow, followed shortly thereafter by a smaller one. The mark and his escort had finally come.

As the door closed behind them, a crack of thunder sliced through the sky, as if accentuating the now steady sound of falling rain off the rough cobbles. The mark, seeming no more than a boy, stumbled forward, with only the quick reflexes of his massive bodyguard saving him from a spill onto the muddy ground. Lightening flared above, allowing for a brief glimpse of the lad, a noble by the look of him, and his hulking escort, seemingly with more than a little orcish blood in him. As the alley lapsed into darkness once more, the pair started forward, the larger of the two drawing a mighty axe from his back. Many notched, it appeared to have seen many conflicts, swinging to and fro with an easy air.

A pity, the cloaked man thought, that he’ll never get to use it. Not that such a bulky blade could be effectively wielded in such tight quarters in any event. The bodyguard probably knew this, and hoped to intimidate any beggars or thieves away with a show of force. Earlier, he had protested that the front door was much safer, but the lad had insisted on the rear exit. It wouldn’t do to see the youngest son of the Baron leaving a common brothel drunk, after all. Surely the lad could afford better, the cloaked man briefly mused, although apparently, the wealthy found thrill in visiting such squalor. A large snap sounded near the pair, jerking the cloaking man from his thoughts. They’d found his trap.

Lumbering forward, the brute glanced down in wonder at the small tripwire he’d walked into, before looking to the tiny dark protruding from his hip. It would be the last image to cross his mind forever, as he slowly slumped to the floor, leaving his suddenly terrified client alone and exposed. To his credit, the Baron’s son, drunk as he was, had the presence of mind to draw an elegant rapier from his side and hold it defensively as he scrambled towards the door, without thought of his dying companion. Unfortunately for him, he hadn’t the time to take more than two steps or even call for help before a dagger whistled into his back, the cold steel buried up to the hilt. The noble stopped dead, reaching around behind him as if swatting an errant fly, before dropping to the ground with a dull thud. The rain stinging his cheeks, half-blinding the poor figure as he looked up, he caught only the barest glimpse of a cloaked figure standing over him, roughly removing his necklace, a wet gurgle passing his lips as the darkness claimed him…

Secundus

Hey… HEY!

A shrill voice pierced the air, snapping Corbyn from his sleep. Vague, shadowy images danced at the edges of his consciousness, perhaps the remnants of some unpleasant dream. Opening his eyes a crack, he found himself face to face with a pair of bright green, almost childlike eyes staring at him curiously. With a yelp, Corbyn pitched to the side, throwing himself out of his small bed and onto the rough floor, to the sound of high-pitched laughter. With a grunt, he pulled himself to his feet, taking stock of his situation. Wearing a moody scowl, Corbyn brushed his short brown hair back from his eyes and fixed his friend Ceela with a baleful stare. Two years younger than he, she had a knack for getting herself in trouble with just about everyone in the village. It seemed only her innocent expression and mannerisms saved her from punishment on multiple occasions, and as Corbyn looked up at her from the floor, he had a feeling she just might get off again.

Ceela glanced back down, her expression clearly amused as she shifted over to dangle her feet off the edge of the bed. Short, small, and with long brown hair, she seemed the complete opposite of Corbyn. Crunching into an apple that seemed to appear in her hand as if by magic, she offered her hand to help him up, which Corbyn promptly swatted away with a touch of annoyance.

“Just what in the Seer’s name are you doing in my house, Cee?” Corbyn demanded, his expression cross as he climbed to his feet, glancing about his singled roomed home to see if his few possessions were still present. “If I didn’t answer the door, wouldn’t you just assume that I was either asleep or out?”

“Oh, I didn’t bother knocking,” she replied mildly, making short work of the apple. “I assumed that you’d be up by this hour, and the little lock you keep on your front door was an amusing, if brief, challenge.” Ignoring his rather shocked expression, she continued, “Well, it’s a good thing I came by too. You sounded like you were having an awful nightmare. What, was that ‘o so scary’ hound after you again?” Her voice held a slightly mocking tone that brought a flush to Corbyn’s pale cheeks, as he mentally made note to avoid sharing his childhood fears with her in the future.

“No, of course not!” he snapped, the warm breeze flowing in from his window washing the last traces of the dream from his mind. With the wind too, came the realization that he was only wearing his sleeping garments, certainly not something to be caught sporting in the company of a young lady. His cheeks burning with embarrassment and annoyance, he muttered, “I haven’t had that dream in years, although if you don’t get off my bed while you’re eating, I’ll give ~you~ something to have nightmares about.”

“That’s… probably the silliest thing I’ve heard you say in at least a few days,” She chided, hoping off the bed and making an exaggerated motion of cleaning any crumbs off of it, “but I suppose I’ll humor you. You look even more pale than normal.” Her voice seemed to hold a faint note of concern under her biting sarcasm, which kept Corbyn from tossing a pillow at her for sneaking in, although just barely. He’d lost track of the number of times she’d popped up unexpectedly, and it was rarely a welcome surprise with Ceela involved.

“Well, If you’d be so kind as to wait outside, I’ll get dressed,” Corbyn said, searching through the small pile of his clothing he’d neglected to properly put away. “I presume the reason for your rather impolite visit was to remind me that today’s the day, right?”
“Yup, sure is” she replied, excitement colouring her voice. “Hurry up will you? We don’t want to be late!”

“Yeah, sure thing,” Corbyn replied, finally finding a suitable outfit. “Meet me outside in five minutes, and we’ll be off.” Watching the teen bounce out of his room, Corbyn quickly moved to the door, ensuring it was relocked. Given Ceela’s mischievous reputation, he certainly wouldn’t put spying on him past her. Satisfied with the door, Corbyn turned back to his clothing, selecting a loose-fitting white cotton shirt and sandy brown shorts, snapping a broad leather belt around his waist. To this, he attached a copper water flask, a small wood carving knife, and his coin purse.

Moving back to his bed, Corbyn glanced back to the door again; making sure no one was watching him, before dropping to his knees, dipping his hand under the bed. Letting his fingers slide into the crack next to a loose floorboard, he gently pried up the plank, revealing a small, dusty hole underneath. Moving with a confidence that suggested he was well familiar with the hiding place, he stretched out his arm, fingers closing around something cool and rock solid. A faint smile playing over his lips, he pulled out a small gem, tucking it securely into his coin purse. At a glance, the stone looked near worthless: irregularly cut, and crystal clear, it could easily be mistaken for a lump of misshapen glass. As it fell into the coin purse though, it gave off a soft pulse of rosy light, as if it contained a miniature sun. Satisfied, Corbyn climbed to his feet, slipped on a pair of sandals, and headed for the door, the gem spreading gentle warmth through his body.