Idol Hands

🜚 Deep in the Alleys of Praach

Perhaps one of the most prevalent commonalities among whispered legends is the power that is held in a name; be it magical legacies passed down through generations, referring to powerful fiends through title alone so as not to accidentally invoke them, or—most pertinently—the oft-spoken wisdom that one should never give their name to a mysterious trickster, lest you inadvertently hand them your soul on a glistening silver platter. Unfortunately, such wisdom often fell by the wayside, when it came to the common man- or, indeed, to the hapless nobles that swarmed around in Upper Ward. Always so quick to remind him of their inherited status, weren't they? Had they not heard of the dangers such loose tongues would bring? Of course, Alaric Byrne was no fae; oh, no.

He was far more dangerous than that.

Braid Leafspire, Harlan Ward, and Farrow Hale. As soon as he told his Court of Whispers, everything else fell neatly into place. They were gifted like that, you see- specially chosen for their connections and their ability to uncover. It was a mere matter of days before they had returned to him with an itemised list of everything he could possibly want to learn about these people, everything he could possibly want to learn to utterly ruin them. They had slighted him, you see, in a place without witness, and Alaric was nothing if not petty.

Braid was the first to go, of course. He was a trader, dealing restricted substances to those who wanted to sell them on for a higher price- a graceless middleman tangled up in a web between two very dangerous spiders. There was a deal, you see. A large shipment had just come in, and it was up to Braid to take its contents over to the crime boss who had requested it. Unfortunately for him, his would-be recipient had suddenly become quite wary of Braid's intentions. An anonymous tip had told him that his would-be deliveryman had ties to the local glints, and the evidence they provided was almost irrefutable. Braid didn't even get the chance to claim it was a misunderstanding, before finding a crossbow bolt sticking through his neck.

Harlan Ward, the poor bastard, was next in line. Alaric almost pitied the man. He had fallen in with the wrong crowd, and this seemed to be a fairly recent stumble. He used to be a professor, you see, working at a rather prestigious magic school nearby, until one day, without warning, he was replaced. There was nothing he could do to convince the faculty that he, who had worked with them for almost a decade at this point, shouldn't be fired in favour of this newcomer, which admittedly struck Alaric as a little strange. Still, the reason didn't matter. He was by far the easiest of the trio to deal with. All Alaric had to do was convince his landlord to evict him, and his bloated corpse was found in the river a few days later. Suicide, they ruled. Alaric believed it.

Now, Farrow... Farrow had yet to be dealt with. That's why Alaric was here, wearing a hooded cloak, waiting for the man under cover of darkness; the same alley were they had first crossed paths. They were alone. They were armed. He recognised Alaric almost immediately, as the flickering lanternlight set its eerie golden cast upon his scowling face.

"Farrow." He frowned.

"Missed me that bad, huh?" Farrow laughed, "Y'know, I'm surprised a little prince like you didn't call the fuckin' glimmers on me."

Alaric scoffed.

"W-well, I'll have you know, I'm not as much of a coward as you think."

The tiefling was doing all but stamp his foot at the man's provocations. The look of arrogant indignance on his face was so laughable, so pathetic, that it should've been suspicious... though, he couldn't say he didn't blame Farrow for taking the bait. His act was based on observation, after all. There really were people who acted like this.

"That so?" Came the smirking response, "Well, come on, then. I don't have anything better to do tonight, might as well spend a couple hours kicking your teeth back in, you prissy little bitch."

He cracked his knuckles. Alaric gave a practised flinch.

"You dare degrade me like that?" He hissed, "D-do you have any idea who you're talking to, hm? I could have you put to death for saying such things!"

"Aw, you'd like that, wouldn't ya? Gettin' someone else to do your dirty work, so his royal highness doesn't have to lift a finger."

Farrow drew his shortsword.

"Well, you ain't in Highroad anymore."

"What difference does it make?" Alaric said, slowly approaching the man, "I've fenced before, you know, and I'm not drunk anymore. I don't fear men like you, Farrow. I'm not like Eloise."

Farrow paused, the leering grin dropping from his face as soon as the name was said. Alaric was far closer to the lantern, now, close enough that he could see his face. That scowl of indignant undignity he carried before had wavered as soon as Farrow's tone shifted, replaced now by a raised eyebrow, a tilt of the head, and a subtle, creeping smile.

"You're a lucky man, Farrow. It really is a shame that you treat her the way you do. Most men would kill to get their hands on a woman like that, you know..."

He raised one of his own- an incomplete gesture.

"Thankfully, I am not most men."

The gesture resolved into a point.

"Arcane Eye." He said, voice quiet, "Are you at all familiar with the spell?"

"Get her name out of your filthy fuckin' mouth, you-"

"Are you familiar?"

The man stuttered.

"Wh-what, you watchin' her, or what?"

Alaric shook his head.

"I'm watching you." He smiled, "Or, rather, a close friend of mine is. He's with her as we speak, you know. Incendiary Cloud would be a horrible way to die..."

Farrow paused. Faltered. He was at a loss for words. He raised the shortsword up once more, but hesitated before the blade could be of any use.

"If you dare..."

"Don't worry, he won't touch her if you don't touch me first. There's a nice, easy way to get out of this mess."

"Wh-what, you expect me to just... walk away? To just leave you? I-I mean, you're not worth it, so-"

By now, Alaric's voice had dropped to a hiss.

"No, Mr Hale. I expect you to attack regardless."

*CLANG*

The blade was brought up to Alaric's side, hitting a piece of hastily-formed golden armour on its way. The tiefling staggered back dramatically, clutching his side with his spare hand as he stared up at Farrow, eyes burning beneath the shadow of the veil. Farrow, of course, seemed horrified.

"Y-you..." The mask of indignation had returned to Alaric's voice, "What in the Gods' names was that for? You heartless bastard... I didn't think you'd actually go through with it! Leave! Now! Get away from me, you monster!"

Farrow stepped back, dropping the sword to his side. Alaric closed the gap with one, swift stride.

"Might as well finish the job, hm?" He whispered "Dance with me, Farrow."

And, thus, they danced. Well, Alaric did, at least. Farrow didn't seem able to follow the rhythm. Every step his adept rival made seemed to leave him in the dust, his only saving grace being the relative strength with which he held his blade. Alaric's strikes were swift and brutal; surprisingly so. For a man who, just days prior, had been completely unable to defend himself in any meaningful way, watching him effortlessly weave his way around the approaching blade was almost uncanny. His unrelenting waltz was punctuated only by a few, scant chuckles, each one spurred on by the understandable missteps of his misfortunate partner. My, Farrow certainly seemed distracted, didn't he? What could've caused such a state?

Still, in spite of his playful arrogance, it was a long while before the dance ended with Farrow gracelessly skewered upon his elegant blade. Alaric pulled it from his stomach, the protruding intricacies of the blade causing more damage than a weapon of its type likely should have. He wasn't dead yet. In fact, he could probably fight a little longer... but Alaric was getting bored now. He stepped back, dismissing the blade, listening to the quiet hiss of the blood evaporating from its molten surface. He looked at Farrow, smiled, then spoke.

"Ah, your form?" He said, "It's not good."

The cutting words were enough to finally stop his heart.