Matters of the Heart

A Greyhawk Short

by Ket Onwall

Twin specks shown faintly from the edge of the forest. Alone, the figure watched the building in the clearing for any signs of movement. Celene was full on this warm Wealsun night, and though Luna was but a sliver against the velvet black of the sky, the spot here was open enough that one moon illuminated it as if it were near daylight.

Not that this figure needed the moons' glow. Stepping from the cover of the wood, the tell-tale sharpness of the ears became visible, along with the high cheeks, oval eyes and lithe shape. In addition, the soft curves on the form alluded to the fact that it was female as well as elf. Tight fitting breeches, bottoms tucked into the soft, leather boots she wore, were held in place by the thin strip of wire around her waist. Black silken shirt, with flared cuffs (as was the current fashion) fell loosely about her, giving maximum possible freedom. Over this, she wore a plain grey cloak with a hooded cowl. Hanging low, the cloak's pale colour contrasted sharply with her dark skin. Thrown back over her left shoulder, it was pinned with a silver clasp that was shaped in the form of a spider.

Crouching, the elven girl looked about the clearing, seeking the closest point of approach. The entire forest was alive in her eyes. She pitied those who did not see as she and others like her did. Every tree, bush and leaf glowed faintly, giving off the 'faerie fire' which guided elves through the woods while others stumbled and bumbled their way in the darkness. Picking her spot, she re-entered the forest edge and began to make her way toward the back of the building. There, the woods approached to within two-dozen yards, and the remaining way held small bushes and tall grass which could be used as cover should she need it.

Silently she crept, ears straining for the slightest out of place sound. The night was quiet, however, except for the normal sounds of the nocturnal world. Reaching the rear door, she quickly slipped her purse from her shoulder and removed her tools. Choosing a thin blade she set to work on the lock. Moments later, a faint click, and she was in the house. Her sight was not as good inside, but the moonlight through the window gave her a rough outline. She was in the dining area. There was a small, round table with four chairs, a hutch in the corner, a fireplace along the right wall and a wash-basin under the window. Several small pots and pans hung on hooks set into a large cork board above the fireplace, and one still hung above the now smouldering embers.

In the hutch, through the glass panes of the upper half, she saw a set of serving dishes and a finely crafted set of carving knives. Opening the cupboard door, she traced her fingers lovingly over the knives' handles. She shuddered imperceptibly. She always got intensely emotional just before. To her, even the release of coupling could not compare. She drew one of the knives from its slot. Closing her eyes, she felt the cool sharpness of its blade against her palm. Stroking the edge with fondness, a faint line appeared on the side of her finger, followed by a thin trail of blood. Shivering again, she sighed. She smiled faintly as she thought back to the first time she had held a knife as a weapon.

The man had found her, near dead, in a gutter of the old city. Beaten, raped, bloodied and bruised, the man, a member of Greyhawk's powerful Assassin's Guild, had stumbled upon her as he returned from his most recent appointment. Struck by her beauty, bloodied as she was, he brought her with him back to the fold.

Three days later, she awoke with a start. Across the room sat a figure in shadow. Jumping up, she raced for the exit, but her watcher was too quick. Tussling with him, her hand brushed the hilt of a blade at his side. Snatching the blade, she kicked and pushed her way free. Facing her captor, she clumsily held the dirk, waving it before her like a magical wand.

Her captor did not attack, try to pummel or subdue her, as she had expected. Contrary, his voice was soothing, calming, and he slowly advanced as she backed herself into the wall. Leaning near, he gently took her hand. She jerked, shaking like a rabbit cornered by a fox, and her mind became muddled as he didn't try to hurt her, but rather carefully repositioned her fingers so that the dirk was now an extension of her hand instead of an awkward object.

Quickly, with tremendous speed and strength, he switched tactics. Disarming her, he brought the hilt up and struck her in the temple, knocking her back. She slumped to the floor.

"Never... Trust...Anyone." was all he said. Dropping the dirk at her feet he left her to herself. It was her first lesson. That had been nearly ten years ago. Since then, she had been on over a hundred such appointments. Each time, she thought back fondly to the night she had met Turin Deathstalker; to the night she had ceased being the 'stalked', and instead had become a 'stalker'.

Back to the present, she squinted, seeking the sleeping chamber of the house. She silently crept into the common room. Here there was a desk and chair, two large, padded chairs by a fireplace (which was the back side of the cooking area's fireplace), a long couch, and several bookshelves lined with books. Across the room, near the front door, was a window beneath which there was a small table and an oil lamp. Looking around, she saw a doorway leading to the bedroom. Her sharp, elven ears detected the deep, rhythmic breathing of one deep inside the dreamland.

Entering the bedroom, she gazed upon the man there. His bed was high, with four posts, one at each corner of the bed. Across the top was a canopy, and a fine netting hung down the sides. The rest of the room was sparsely furnished, and it was obvious that this man was of no wealth or import. Why she had been assigned this appointment was unknown to her, but like always, she effected her contracts without prejudice. Someone desired this man removed. She was appointed. She would fulfil the Guild's contract. Such was the nature of business.

Slipping silently to his bedside, she gazed upon his peaceful form. Slow and steady came his breathing, his chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm. He was handsome, she thought. And young, too. He looked to as yet be in his thirties. She had lived ten lifetimes for him already, and she was still considered young by her people. Pity. He would no longer know the joy of the night sky.

Removing a small vial from her waistband, she dabbed a bit on her fingers. Carefully, she anointed her lips, and bent down close to him.

"Sleep, my love." she whispered softly, and kissed him full on the mouth, allowing her saliva to mix with his.

The man awoke with a start, but she had been ready. The pommel of her dagger struck two quick blows to his temple, and he fell back to unconsciousness. Carefully wiping her lips, she took a second vial, this one from her purse, and drank its contents. One could never be too careful. It had become a fascinating game to her, but she never used a poison she had no antidote for.

The man's breathing became laboured. The poison was the finest available, and assured quick and timely death. He convulsed once, twice. The third time, his body thrashed a bit, as his mouth opened wide, desperately seeking life. Clutching the bed, he convulsed once more, and went still. A yellow mucous ran from his mouth and nose, down his cheek and to the bed. Carefully, she cleaned him up, tucking him back in as a mother would a child. Kissing his forehead, she whispered "I shall miss you, my love."

Retrieving all of her gear, she headed out through the dining area. Slipping into the forest, she glanced around to make sure she was alone. Seeing no one, she pulled her hood over her head, and undid the spider clasp. Had anyone been watching, they would have been surprised to see her literally vanish into air, as the magic of the cloak took effect. Invisibly, she departed.

II

Three days later, a lone figure approached the Highway Gate of Greyhawk. Clouds covered most of the night sky, and the guards failed to notice the figure until it was directly beneath them. Conversation was quick and hurried, and the guard who met the traveller returned with several more coins in his pocket than he had begun his shift with. The strange, dark-skinned woman was soon forgotten in the revelry of a dice game.

A short while later, the girl lounged within her own home in the Old City. Weary, she relaxed in a hot bath , as she lazily sipped and a half-glass of Celene brandy. Placed carefully about the room were several candles, each emitting a different perfumed scent, such that the whole effect was a thick, musky aroma.

Nodding, she slipped into her dream world. She was back in the clearing, but this time she was inside the house of her recent appointee. Lying atop a soft bed, she was surprised to find that although she was completely aware, she was unable to move.

Shortly, she heard, then saw, herself appear in the room. Her pulse quickened. No! She knew what was happening, but found herself powerless to stop it. The figure opened the netting of the bed, and looked down upon her. It was she. Her heart was pounding furiously; her mind screamed for her to wake, but try as she might, she was unable. The figure bent down to kiss her.

Screaming out, she sat straight up in the bath. Water splashed over the floor and her nearby robe, and her glass of brandy had slipped from her hand and was lying on the floor. The candles were mere stubs, with most being naught but tiny bits of melted wax.

Glancing quickly about, she found herself alone. Heart beating wildly, she shakily got up and towelled herself off. Going to her bedroom, she removed another robe from her armoire. It was almost dawn now, and the faint, purplish-orange light was just becoming visible over the mountains to the east. There was still a light mist in the air, and she opened her window to let the cool morning breeze in.

Still shaking from her vivid dream, the elf poured herself another snifter of brandy. This time, she threw her head back and drank it with one gulp. The hot burning feeling quickly warmed her insides, and, settling into her thickly padded sofa, she watched the sun rise over the city walls.

Her entire day was spent in her room, huddled on her sofa, watching the life of the city pass by. She abhorred the day, preferring instead the quiet blanket of night. It was there she was most at home. Still, the hustle and bustle of people fascinated her, even if she did fail to understand the rush.

This was the curse of her people, she surmised. Living countless years, elves were never in a hurry to do much of anything. Probably, it was this very thing that kept elves from becoming involved with other, less long-lived people. Watching acquaintances become friends, grow old and die could be more than many could bear. Thus, elves stuck mostly to themselves. Even she had succumbed once, before she had met Turin. The man was human. She, a recently escaped elf from the underworld. Having saved her from certain death at the hands of the dreadful Sea of Dust, the two had grown inseparable. Travelling throughout the Sea Prince lands, the Yeomanry and Sterich together, the two made quite the odd pair. He with his pale white Suel heritage and she with her dark elven. She had been happy then.

But life has its down moments, and she was unprepared for this one. As time progressed, so did her love, but she remained ageless. Watching him whither and die was perhaps the hardest lesson of her life. Leaving him to the earth, she had found solace in Greyhawk, and in Turin Deathstalker. He had given her life back, and for that, at least he was grateful.

The day slowly passed again into night. The elf-girl did not sleep. Her strange dream was still vivid in her mind. She found it curious, as she had never even thought twice about an appointment. Stretching lazily, she swayed to her feet. Dizzy, she fell backward, dropping her glass and slumped to the sofa. Bile rose in her throat, as she fought back a wave of nausea.

Darkness flashed before her eyes. And she found herself, again, back in the clearing. Again she lived the moment, only this time it was he, not her who bent to kiss her lips. He smiled as he did so, and black teeth with foetid breath met her, causing her to vomit. Thick, yellow mucous erupted from her mouth, as she sat upright in her sofa. Clutching her stomach, she fell to the floor, scraping her knees on the wood as she did so. Several minutes passed before the room stopped spinning, and she was able to collect her thoughts.

Poison, she thought. She must have gotten poisoned somehow. But who? She began to think of possible enemies. Vesper? Doubtful. Though Vesparian Lafanel envied Turin’s interest in her, he stood to inherit the guild with the passing of Turin. She posed him no threat. Maybe that imbalanced Caprica, but again, the elf-girl posed no threat to that one either. In fact, Caprica probably posed more of a threat to herself.

Head hurting from the possibilities, she collected herself and cleaned the room up. Finding a fine dress, she made plans to visit the Phoenix tonight. She needed to get out.

III

The warm Wealsun night was accented by a nearly cloudless sky. Overhead, Celene shown in all of her majesty, while Luna remained hidden. Close inspection of the night sky revealed the pitch blackness of that small moon barely discernible against the starry background. Inside, the Golden Phoenix was ablaze with light, as the nightlife of Greyhawk flocked through her doors.

The Phoenix was one of the prides of the Garden Quarter, serving the finest meals from its Velunese Grill and Celene Feast Halls. Though officially closed at this time of night (being more of the breakfast and brunch establishment) the Grill still contained a few of the more influential Greyhawk clientele (of which Nerof Gasgal was one). The Grandmaster, Suleril Aleris, saw to it that his patrons were well taken care of by the staff.

Inside the Celene Feast Hall, the chandeliers and candelabras were awash with light, causing the shadows of the place to dance in rhythm to the stringed group playing on the nearby stage. At a lone table near the fire, the elf-girl sipped at snifter of brandy while she awaited her meal. Her server approached, asking if all was well so far.

"Yes. Thank you," came the reply. "I am well, as always."

"Yes ma'am." The servant said, and departed on her rounds.

The girl looked about the room. The usual host of Greyhawk hob-nobbery were out in force tonight. Org Nenshen, seated with Ren of the Trader’s Union and his usual entourage of would-be investors, laughed almost hysterically at some most-probably lame joke. Half of the city knew that Ren was, in fact, in for quite a lump of coin to the master thief.

Also present tonight were Sental Nurev, General of the Watch, Count Petrides, Ambassador from the Duchy of Urnst, and his wife, who were accompanied by Glodreddi Bakkanin- Dwur-Taxer, as he was called. Sarana, Matriarch of Pelor, was seated with Jerome Kazinskaia, Patriarch of Rao. No doubt some great theological discussion was in progress. The elf felt ill to her stomach. The entire place read like a Who-is-Who pamphlet to the hierarchy of the city. A well placed terrorist strike to the place, and the city would have to run itself without a government. The thought made her smile.

"Here you are ma'am." The server made her start, nearly spilling her drink.

"Oh. Thank you." Her look to the young girl said otherwise. Blushing, the server hurriedly served the elf and departed.

The remainder of the meal was spent in relative peace, as she enjoyed Rabbit Velunaise, fresh bread, a potato with cheese, and fungi sautéed in garlic and herbs. To wash it all down, she finished nearly a half-bottle of wine, straight from the casks of Celene. Part dark-elf she might be, but she had always held a respect for her cousin’s abilities to make fine wine.

The playing of the stringed band began to weigh on the girls mind, as again she drifted back to earlier times.

"Surina! Surina!" the older man called for his beloved wife. Stepping through the curtains of the doorway, the dark-skinned elf was at the man’s side.

"Shhh. Here my love." A tear had formed at the corners of her eye. She was unsure of how much more she could take. The disease her love had contracted was from the jungles to the south, from whence they had returned not long ago. A younger man might have lived for a long time with this delirium. As it was, her aged husband had not the constitution to battle the ailment. That night he had died, in her arms, begging her not to leave him alone with the harbinger of Death. She had promised, as any would, though the thought of lying to him was bitter in her mouth. Burying his wasted body, she had then travelled across all of Keoland, Ulek and the northern edge of Celene. Always she had found discrimination at her skin, though not as dark as some of her brethren, she still stood out. Hence her entering into her current lifestyle. A life she was quite good at.

Her first appointment had been with a partner, Scritch Allison, one of the few willing to take assignment north into Iuz and the Horned Society. He had been with her to assure her success, to aid if necessary, and to teach her new skills if required. The two had gotten along well enough, but his attentions toward her were never reciprocated. She had never, since her first love, been able to embrace the feeling again. As it was, she felt no remorse at leaving him to his Horned Society captors. Such was the nature of their trade. Business was business. It was the cardinal rule. Since that time, she had risen steadily in the guild. Now, she was afforded the luxury of choosing her next appointment, instead of being ordered to do so. Her life was good.

Returning to reality, she raised her head back in a long swallow of wine. Her eyes opened to the mirrored ceiling above. Freezing, mouth full of the sweet wine, she felt a cold chill run through her, and she nearly choked on her drink. Seated next to her was a rotting corpse. The clothing was outdated, from a time long ago, but she knew it in an instant. Looking quickly down, pushing her way away from the table, she stood and stumbled backward. The table was empty. Looking up, she again saw the figure. Throwing her glass, she screamed at the apparition. Glass met glass in a shatter, and she was showered in shards. Tossing several gold coins on the table, she ran for the exit, as heads turned, wondering at the odd display, murmurs of disapproval already rising.

Outside, the warm, humid air wrapped her like a blanket. Her head was foggy from the excess of alcohol, and she cursed herself for letting it become so. Hurrying down to the processional, she headed south to the Garden Gate. The guards met her, stopped her as was usual to ask for identification, reasons for being out, etc. Before she could answer, she heard a cough and a laugh behind her. Spinning, she again made out the apparition. Screaming, she ran through the gates. The surprised guards yelled for her to stop. Failing to do so, they gave chase.

Through the Foreign District and the River Quarter she led the watch on a merry chase. Even half drunk, she knew herself more than a match for the inept buffoons. The vast majority of the Nightwatchmen were mercenary types who sought more often to fill their own purse than to keep the peace. Should they manage to catch her, her purse would most likely not be all they would desire.

Through the maze of alleyways, Sarina ducked and dodged. Several times, just for sport, she would double back behind the watch so that they could again give chase. It was obvious by their laboured breathing that they were growing tired of the chase.

Sarina, too, had grown tired of the chase. Passing through the Black Gate was, in all likelihood, out of the question, so she made for the rooftops. In many places, the buildings neared the walls of the Old City. So close, in fact, that a good running start would give one a chance to leap across to the wall. Losing the watch for a final time, she slowed to an easy pace. Her head was starting to clear a bit, though now her head pounded.

Reaching the edge of a roof, she looked for a good spot to jump. Walking back, she took two deep breaths and broke into a run. halfway there, she felt the sting in her back. Sprawling forward, she crashed into a chimney pipe, the shock jolting her shoulder with a sickening snap. Rolling over, in a daze, she felt for the object in her back. A dart. Four inches long, and covered with an obvious liquid of some type. She gazed in fear at it, and even now felt the poison begin its way through her.

"On’t fear, love. It paralyses only."

Looking up, get choked on her reply. A partly mutilated form shuffled from the shadows of the rooftops. Coming into Celene’s full light, Sarina’s eyes went wide with recognition. Scritch!!

"Ah. I see that you recognise your old partner. It has been a long time, my love. More than three lifetimes for me; at least that is what I feel like. Those of the Society were not happy with our assignment my dear. They saw to it that revenge was extracted ten-fold."

Out from the dark came a second figure. Small. Snow-white hair to his shoulders, beard to his belly. A large bulbous nose instantly identifying him as gnomish.

"Were it not for Idyllic and his illusory magic here, I would still be paying my debt to the Society. As it is, though, he and I have reached an equitable arrangement. Dark elven blood will fetch a handsome price in many places. I do hope you are not angry with me. But, business is business, eh?"

Sarina watched in horror as the small man approached. With him were several large flasks, and apothecary equipment. She had seen it used in the blooding of corpses. Her mind screamed to move, but the poison was potent and powerful. She was paralysed completely. Feeling the sting of his needle, she watched helplessly as her life was drained away into the vials. Sleep began to push at her. She tried to fight it off, but her paralysis was complete. Her vision blurred, and her breathing became laboured. Eternal sleep was claiming another victim. Looking up in defiance, she suddenly smiled. Scritch’s eyes narrowed, and he looked about into the night.

"Hurry up, gnome. We haven’t much time." he whispered nervously.

Behind him, unseen by either set of living eyes, a warrior in the full dress armour of the ancient Oeridians. Her love, lost these ages ago, had come to greet his bride.

The next day, the watch found the crumpled heap of a body, lying at the base of the wall to the Old City. Apparently, she had caused quite a ruckus in the Golden Phoenix. After leading the Nightwatch on a chase through the city, she had eventually eluded them, only to fall while trying to leap across to the walls of the Old City. Her body was delivered to the Morticians Guild. Not for another day was it discovered that her body held no blood. Quite a ruckus was raised, with rumours of vampires and such being started. But then, that is another tale...