Delial Grimsong counted the bells as they rolled by. The previous day she had spent a whole four bells walking back and forth along the market stalls much to the annoyed eyes of the merchants who tended them. Her steps were slow and deliberate and her frame, however slight for her race, was still larger than most who dwelled in Ul'dah. She loomed over stall and merchandise dismissively and on several occasions instilled upon potential customers the notion that they should be dismissive as well. Yet it was not for their sake that she walked and snubbed all manner of goods.
Their last conversation was more a battle than anything. Gharen Wolfsong was no fool: he suggested little and confessed even less, sparing only the most obvious details of his experience with the Resistance. His expression was solid and he wisely kept opposite from her in the small alleyway in which he had found her, giving little room and little opportunity to get too close. He watched her sharp-eyed even if his features were neutral, never missing his cue to grin or frown or, more often than not, remain guarded.
He may not have looked like much more than a battle-worn warrior, but he was certainly not a fool. Unlike his dear protege, sadly.
Bells in the markets revealed nothing to her. The suspicion was there, shared between his hazel gaze and hers oddly matched. Neither trusted the other so far as they could spit and if she could have told anything of Gharen Wolfsong from what he had shared during heir meeting or from what dear Roen Deneith had given to her, it was that he was a cautious, goodly man. The sort of man who would wonder after Aylard Greymane's fate. The sort of man who would not trust the matter to bumbling Sultansworn.
The morning found her optimistic and she spent far too long luxuriating in the Quicksand over a cup of spiced tea and some form of local breakfast pastry. She ignored the chatter around her, the gossip over who was sleeping with whom and which one of Ul'dah's desirable bachelors were eating from the hands of the Syndicate. Rarely would she ever hear words pertaining to the world outside the city, and briefly she caught herself wondering if that was why the starving masses were, for the most part, kept clinging outside the walls.
When she finished she left more gil than her meal was worth and, noting an absence, left. She wore supple soft-soled boots instead of her usual heeled ones and they made quiet sounds on the stones as she strutted through the streets, making for the dusty road driving into Western Thanalan. The gate yawned overhead as she passed back into the sunlight and there she made careful show of peering this way and that, left and right and most obviously behind her. And when she was contented that she was not being followed she made show of nodding to herself and, turning upon a heel, began to walk.
Her pace was hasty enough to suggest she was in a hurry but not too much of a hurry and within a bell's time the gates of the Silver Bazaar welcomed her. She made a beeline towards the small dock at the bottom of the hill, taking care to pause once more as she handed the ferryman his fee to peer pointedly behind her. There was, of course, nothing to be seen. It did not stop her from grinning as she carefully stepped aboard the small boat.Â
Crescent Cove was quiet as the ferry pulled in to dock. The few that were attending to racks of fish and nets in need of mending did not so much as spare the highlander woman a glance. Working so near to the shadow of the Castrum came with a multitude of benefits, discretion being chief among them. The door to the small house beneath the cliff side was unlocked as she had left it, its interior undisturbed. Those who attended to the Cove understood the nature of that house as well as the intent of the woman who returned to it.
The house was as dark as ever but she knew it like the back of her hand. What furniture there was stood dusty and disheveled, arranged haphazardly along the walls as if by blind men. Only one piece stood with purpose, occupying the center of the rear half of the house: an enormous armoire set against the center of the far wall, perfectly visible from the door at the other end. It was to this that Delial strode, her boots making hardly a sound as she glided over the floorboards. She could not help the smile that crept over her face.
"Hello again, sweetling," she said to the cold figure of Aylard Greyarm. "Just one last thing..."
---
It was at least two bells before the door creaked open with agonizing slowness. Delial had assumed it would take one at the very least to follow her trail, give or take another one or two account for his cautious nature. A column of sunlight stretched across the floor, piercing into deepest dark of the house. Wolfsong's shadow nearly obscured the sight he was meant to see and she was convinced he had missed it until she heard the low growling intake of a breath.
She heard rather than saw the hasty steps he made towards the back of the house. He could not see her either as he passed, could not see her as she silently slipped out from where she had been hiding. The light at his feet flickered as her form placed itself between him and his exit and as he started to spin around to face her, Delial delighted in imagining she could see the hairs on the back of his neck rising.
All it took was a touch. Her hand reached out to him, her palm outstretched to graze over the nape of his neck. The configuration of her fingers was just right to trigger the ring she wore, an ingenious little thing an old ally had managed to scramble up for her on remarkably short notice. A tiny needle withdrew from its surface and as it pierced the flesh of his neck, another twitch of her fingers released it as well as its payload.
Wolfsong raised a hand to swat hers away but it was already too late. She stepped back as he turned around to face her fully. "Honestly," she sighed as she lazily pulled the poison ring from her finger. It made small, hollow sounds as it bounced and rolled into silence somewhere beneath a dresser. "It took you long enough."
He touched upon the thin bead of blood welling around the needle's tip, his expression dark and his tone even darker. "So it was ye," he growled. His hand balled into a fist as realization settled in.
"Yes, yes, and aren't you a clever boy for having figured it out." Arms crossed as she began to count off seconds in her head. The poison would be kicking in soon enough. "And how very fortunate for me that the last son of Wolfsong would happen right into my hands! It must be fate."
Gharen swayed on his feet, the anger in his eyes steadily clouding over. His teeth clenched as he lurched forward to swing his fist at her but it was obvious he was quickly losing his battle against the toxin in his veins. The strength in his body left him like the breath in his lungs and he crashed into a heap on the floor while the other highlander stepped out of his way.
"Now, now," she chuckled. "Do not stress yourself, shhh." Delial dropped low to kneel beside him, studying him as a jackal might carrion. "You already know what is coming. But worry not - there are plans for you, much unlike him." Her mismatched gaze rose up to the sight that had so adequately lured Wolfsong in to the house in the first place. Greyarm had been left chained to the armoire just as when the last of his life bled out of him, seeping out into a broad and inky swell that stretched around his body like a shadow that had forgotten its shape. His skin was greying and sunken; his belly was hollow.
She lowered an icy smile at Wolfsong while he strained and gasped upon the floor. She reached down to cup his cheek, taking a moment to admire his features up close. It could not be said that he was not handsome for a man who should have been dead. The thought curled a corner of her lip even more tightly. "Embrace the dark, Gharen Wolfsong. Your friends will fall soon enough. The boy, his girl, and the rest. Aylard came to be very generous, but... ah. What of little Roen?" Her head tilted, pausing just long enough to hear another growl gurgle from his throat. "I wonder. We'll just have to see, won't we?"
Unfocused as his eyes were, she could still feel the flare of anger that rose in them even as his consciousness slipped away. She was already stepping over Wolfsong's body when his head thudded loud upon the floor, already rolling the sleeves of her favored robes up her arms. There was no telling how long the poison would keep him down and she still had a corpse to dispose of. Delial smiled to herself as she began to work free the chains that held Greyarm in place. "How very like you," she crooned. "All too easy."
Their last conversation was more a battle than anything. Gharen Wolfsong was no fool: he suggested little and confessed even less, sparing only the most obvious details of his experience with the Resistance. His expression was solid and he wisely kept opposite from her in the small alleyway in which he had found her, giving little room and little opportunity to get too close. He watched her sharp-eyed even if his features were neutral, never missing his cue to grin or frown or, more often than not, remain guarded.
He may not have looked like much more than a battle-worn warrior, but he was certainly not a fool. Unlike his dear protege, sadly.
Bells in the markets revealed nothing to her. The suspicion was there, shared between his hazel gaze and hers oddly matched. Neither trusted the other so far as they could spit and if she could have told anything of Gharen Wolfsong from what he had shared during heir meeting or from what dear Roen Deneith had given to her, it was that he was a cautious, goodly man. The sort of man who would wonder after Aylard Greymane's fate. The sort of man who would not trust the matter to bumbling Sultansworn.
The morning found her optimistic and she spent far too long luxuriating in the Quicksand over a cup of spiced tea and some form of local breakfast pastry. She ignored the chatter around her, the gossip over who was sleeping with whom and which one of Ul'dah's desirable bachelors were eating from the hands of the Syndicate. Rarely would she ever hear words pertaining to the world outside the city, and briefly she caught herself wondering if that was why the starving masses were, for the most part, kept clinging outside the walls.
When she finished she left more gil than her meal was worth and, noting an absence, left. She wore supple soft-soled boots instead of her usual heeled ones and they made quiet sounds on the stones as she strutted through the streets, making for the dusty road driving into Western Thanalan. The gate yawned overhead as she passed back into the sunlight and there she made careful show of peering this way and that, left and right and most obviously behind her. And when she was contented that she was not being followed she made show of nodding to herself and, turning upon a heel, began to walk.
Her pace was hasty enough to suggest she was in a hurry but not too much of a hurry and within a bell's time the gates of the Silver Bazaar welcomed her. She made a beeline towards the small dock at the bottom of the hill, taking care to pause once more as she handed the ferryman his fee to peer pointedly behind her. There was, of course, nothing to be seen. It did not stop her from grinning as she carefully stepped aboard the small boat.Â
Crescent Cove was quiet as the ferry pulled in to dock. The few that were attending to racks of fish and nets in need of mending did not so much as spare the highlander woman a glance. Working so near to the shadow of the Castrum came with a multitude of benefits, discretion being chief among them. The door to the small house beneath the cliff side was unlocked as she had left it, its interior undisturbed. Those who attended to the Cove understood the nature of that house as well as the intent of the woman who returned to it.
The house was as dark as ever but she knew it like the back of her hand. What furniture there was stood dusty and disheveled, arranged haphazardly along the walls as if by blind men. Only one piece stood with purpose, occupying the center of the rear half of the house: an enormous armoire set against the center of the far wall, perfectly visible from the door at the other end. It was to this that Delial strode, her boots making hardly a sound as she glided over the floorboards. She could not help the smile that crept over her face.
"Hello again, sweetling," she said to the cold figure of Aylard Greyarm. "Just one last thing..."
---
It was at least two bells before the door creaked open with agonizing slowness. Delial had assumed it would take one at the very least to follow her trail, give or take another one or two account for his cautious nature. A column of sunlight stretched across the floor, piercing into deepest dark of the house. Wolfsong's shadow nearly obscured the sight he was meant to see and she was convinced he had missed it until she heard the low growling intake of a breath.
She heard rather than saw the hasty steps he made towards the back of the house. He could not see her either as he passed, could not see her as she silently slipped out from where she had been hiding. The light at his feet flickered as her form placed itself between him and his exit and as he started to spin around to face her, Delial delighted in imagining she could see the hairs on the back of his neck rising.
All it took was a touch. Her hand reached out to him, her palm outstretched to graze over the nape of his neck. The configuration of her fingers was just right to trigger the ring she wore, an ingenious little thing an old ally had managed to scramble up for her on remarkably short notice. A tiny needle withdrew from its surface and as it pierced the flesh of his neck, another twitch of her fingers released it as well as its payload.
Wolfsong raised a hand to swat hers away but it was already too late. She stepped back as he turned around to face her fully. "Honestly," she sighed as she lazily pulled the poison ring from her finger. It made small, hollow sounds as it bounced and rolled into silence somewhere beneath a dresser. "It took you long enough."
He touched upon the thin bead of blood welling around the needle's tip, his expression dark and his tone even darker. "So it was ye," he growled. His hand balled into a fist as realization settled in.
"Yes, yes, and aren't you a clever boy for having figured it out." Arms crossed as she began to count off seconds in her head. The poison would be kicking in soon enough. "And how very fortunate for me that the last son of Wolfsong would happen right into my hands! It must be fate."
Gharen swayed on his feet, the anger in his eyes steadily clouding over. His teeth clenched as he lurched forward to swing his fist at her but it was obvious he was quickly losing his battle against the toxin in his veins. The strength in his body left him like the breath in his lungs and he crashed into a heap on the floor while the other highlander stepped out of his way.
"Now, now," she chuckled. "Do not stress yourself, shhh." Delial dropped low to kneel beside him, studying him as a jackal might carrion. "You already know what is coming. But worry not - there are plans for you, much unlike him." Her mismatched gaze rose up to the sight that had so adequately lured Wolfsong in to the house in the first place. Greyarm had been left chained to the armoire just as when the last of his life bled out of him, seeping out into a broad and inky swell that stretched around his body like a shadow that had forgotten its shape. His skin was greying and sunken; his belly was hollow.
She lowered an icy smile at Wolfsong while he strained and gasped upon the floor. She reached down to cup his cheek, taking a moment to admire his features up close. It could not be said that he was not handsome for a man who should have been dead. The thought curled a corner of her lip even more tightly. "Embrace the dark, Gharen Wolfsong. Your friends will fall soon enough. The boy, his girl, and the rest. Aylard came to be very generous, but... ah. What of little Roen?" Her head tilted, pausing just long enough to hear another growl gurgle from his throat. "I wonder. We'll just have to see, won't we?"
Unfocused as his eyes were, she could still feel the flare of anger that rose in them even as his consciousness slipped away. She was already stepping over Wolfsong's body when his head thudded loud upon the floor, already rolling the sleeves of her favored robes up her arms. There was no telling how long the poison would keep him down and she still had a corpse to dispose of. Delial smiled to herself as she began to work free the chains that held Greyarm in place. "How very like you," she crooned. "All too easy."
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