From a low, narrow bed, Sirakln stared deeply into the blackness beyond his room’s sole window, awaiting his dilatory slumber while silently contemplating his recent harsh berating of Leviathan. The air was still, a late Rain-time pall of humidity and heat that was hardly conducive to sleep. Am I really beyond compassion? he thought. Then he reminded himself, But Leviathan has been in Martish a long time, so he must know the city far better than I. Sirakln's thoughts of apology drifted to deep remorse, and it nibbled at the very substance of his soul. How could I be so judgmental of someone I just met? Gods! But he did kill that man, even if he was nothing more than Dealer-scum. He now jumped freely from thread to thread, as a man's thoughts are wont while awaiting sleep. No, it was self-preservation. Does that elf call himself a ranger? Yet, why is it I felt such compassion from him? Why did I see a good friend in his eyes? At that, a strong breeze swept across Sirakln's bed, wafting in the odor of rising bread and fresh dough from the bakery next door. Is that a sign, good Cassock? Yes, I do believe it is. I shall take this man as a friend and companion, despite his shortcomings. Even though your system has betrayed me in the past (or rather, the fallible men who administer it), I cannot deny the premonitions I have experienced. But now his thoughts began to drift away with the floating aroma, and as pale moonlight crept over him, so too, finally, did sleep.
Leviathan strode down the black alley-way, peering night vision searching carefully. He more or less ignored the dead weight draped over his broad left shoulder; instead, his thoughts were of the scar-faced ranger he had just...what, upset? No, alienated. Yes, he already hates me, Leviathan told himself. Or does he?
He could not continue this inner argument, however, for his heat vision detected a number of warm bodies at the right, near the secret rear entrance of his own apartment. With a certain hatred (not his own) fresh in him, a devious plot grew next to it. He walked on, seemingly oblivious to the group of would-be thugs. Due to their huddled closeness, he could not be sure of their exact number, but it could be no more than eight, and he was sure he could handle them. If they were not Fingers of the Hand, the thieves' guild of Martish. Again he subconsciously swore to never join them, never to let someone else control him. He was now near the shadows' position, but they did not leap at him as he had anticipated. He slowed his pace ever so slightly, but they did not attack. He plodded on, reconsidering his masterful plot.
He had planned to dispose of this body a few blocks down, but now he almost trotted to get around the corner of the next. He flopped the body down, behind some sort of trash bin, and turned back to peer around the edge of a ramshackle house. The heat signal remained huddled near his door, their intent as yet unknown. Leviathan waited also, surveying the rest of the alley. The overcast night meant that he had to rely solely on his night vision. But so must the others, he thought, so they cannot be human. Also, they were not members of the Hand of Martish, for their in-city club was uniquely human. Some renegade rogues? he asked himself. They still had not budged from their watch-point. He quickly checked around himself and the side alley where he had dropped the body. Empty. His neck craned up into blackness, but he could see nothing with any traceable amount of heat. The dogs! What have they got up their silent sleeves?
Leviathan grew nervous as he watched, though he could not trace it to one particular aspect of his quarry. More waiting. Then, with little supposition, a spark went up in one of the upper floor windows directly across from Leviathan's building. It jumped again, and momentarily a subdued candle was flickering on the windowsill. Leviathan stared hard into the room beyond it, but could make out nothing. His gaze came slowly back towards his original subject--and they were gone! Well, almost. He saw the last two forms slip into the door (if it could be called such) immediately beneath the candle. It wasn't necessarily their motion that spurred him into action, but rather their peculiar build. In the pale candle light, their heads seemed flattened, their jaws protuberant. And most notably, they were rather short.
His charge was intended to simply verify his nightmarish suspicion. He slid into the portal, glaring about sharply. A stairwell led up and around. How could they be so stupid? No doors? No guards? 'Ware, he warned himself, ascending; they always were crafty. He cautiously stepped around a blind corner, and lo! There they sat! Goblins, five of them, imbibing some obscenely dark liquid. Leviathan pulled his sword and slew the first before the beastie knew he was there. The others had time enough to draw their daggers. Nothing more. Each took his turn dulling the ranger's blade. Leviathan's tongue tasted the blood that had sprung to his face and chest. He hastily wiped the blade across the rump of a dead one and resheathed it. Out of financial necessity, he checked their pockets and pouches, but found only the random copper crow.
He was now possessed by anger and a long-dormant hatred. He despised these kob-kin, as they called themselves, and yet he was angry with himself for not taking one alive! Gods! He cursed himself, stomping around the rest of the small apartment. When he reached the second room, he kicked the candle out of the window and it fell extinguished. He clenched his fist and ground his teeth together, choking off a scream of vengeance. Silent revenge shall I have, he almost whispered to himself. And he stomped again through the goblin's former home, smashing and ranting for a long while. With no other outlet, his hatred burned him inside, giving him a headache at both temples. Finally weary, he tramped down the steps and into the alley. The moon had now burst through the furious clouds. He slunk across to his door, keyed the hidden lock, and shuttled inside. His flat was simple, yet comfortable, and he rummaged for a stray rag. Wiping his face and chest, he wondered again where the scar came from and what on Keanin it meant. The comfort of his simple adobe, though, invited him to the pallet on the far wall, and he slumped down onto it. He stripped his clothing away, and was sleeping before he could retrace his childhood halfway, ever searching for the source, the source...
Leviathan dreamed again that night, or rather nightmared. In this recurrent dream, he stood alone in a thick copse that strained the sunlight to random rays overhead. As he gazed around, however, a rustling came from across the way, and a woman burst into the clearing opposite him. She was beautiful, in a common way, but her features were indiscernible to Leviathan; his mother, as he remembered her now. She ran straight for him, stumbling over her long, tattered dress. Leviathan watched with indifference. From the same exit now burst a young boy, yelling for her to stop. His shouts were blanketed by those from behind Leviathan. As he turned, a half-dozen goblins jumped out of the undergrowth. Leviathan slid aside knowingly, for this dream was now familiar to him, and he recognized these creatures. The boy stopped on a bronze, frozen. The beasties advanced on the woman, swords drawn in anticipation. Her nondescript features flooded with anger and hatred, tinted with fear. The first goblin struck her a glancing blow and she neatly kicked him in the groin. As he slumped, however, the next blade penetrated her abdomen from the side, and so she slumped. They finished her.
Leviathan moved to the other side of the copse (for he knew he must) and melded with the boy. The boy screamed silently, for it was all his body would allow; it would not budge. The goblins approached him, spreading out to surround him. He saw each face again and again, and he hated them all the more for blotting out the face of his mother. They encroached on him, on his privacy, his peace; upon his dream. Leviathan sat bolt upright in his pallet, sweaty hand palming the scar on his heaving chest. It itched like mad, threatening to drive him thus. He scratched with his nails, swinging his legs over the edge of his primitive bed. Groping in the dark for a rag, he wiped himself dry. In his quest to relieve the burning itch, his dream was forgotten; indeed, that he had dreamed at all.
After what seemed hours of tossing and turning, he determined it was much too hot to sleep any further, so he donned his clothes, sword belt heavy on his tired waist, and made for the Pegasus Hoof. The moon was gone and Leviathan sensed dawn on the horizon.
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