40th of Ymiden Arc 721
After the battle for Etzos’s continued freedom of the yoke of Immortal rule, Oberan had found himself in bad shape. Both the wounds sustained during the struggle and the backlash of the extensive use of his Thrill Domain confined him to a bed that wasn’t his own, the first day spent more or less paralyzed as his body demanded rest. He’d spent most of it drifting in and out of sleep, only vaguely aware of the doctors and nurses tottering about, stitching his flesh back together and pouring painkillers down his throat every couple hours.
Once the Thrill’s backlash wore off, Oberan still couldn’t move much at all. Not due to the excessive use of bandages to wrap his torso and limbs, though it certainly did contribute to the problem. Rather, a terrible soreness had settled within just about every single one of his muscles, and any attempt at movement meant inviting pain. It also tore at his stitched-up wounds, knifes carving gashes in his flesh all over again. Safe to say, he tried getting up out of bed once, and only once. Since there wasn’t much else to do and the need for it became quickly apparent, he still spent a lot of time asleep.
The next dozen days after marked a notable improvement in his condition. While he was incapable of walking around, and expressly forbidden from trying by the medical staff, Oberan could sit upright and –if he was careful—use his arms. Requiring fewer anesthetics now, his thoughts began to flow again, mind regaining some of its sharpness. Aware of his surroundings, he took notice of the clean white environment typical of the Prime Sanatorium. It should have put his mind at ease, knowing he was in the capable hands of the highly trained surgeons and doctors and nurses, but instead it got him antsy. Uncomfortable, anxious, restless.
While his room was spacious, the bed soft and the linens clean, the windows were barred and the door thick and heavy and locked. Moreover, in the corner of the chamber sat an elite Tower guard fully clad in white armor and armed to the teeth. Three more stood in position outside, stopping and checking everyone who wanted to enter the room, and only unlocking the door for Sanitarium personnel or members of the guard.
Oberan could only guess at what they believed he was capable of in his current state, but it certainly seemed like Pahrn didn’t want to take any risks.
The guards of course claimed the opposite. It wasn’t that he and Kas –who was sequestered away in a different chamber under much the same security as Oberan—were under arrest, but to keep them safe from any Sintra zealots who’d prefer to see them drawn and quartered for playing their part in the Web Queen’s downfall.
Be that as it may, it didn’t chance the fact they were imprisoned. Knowing he was still recovering, barely able to stand or do much of anything on his own made it bearable, but it chafed nonetheless. The longer he stayed, the more it itched, the more uncomfortable he grew, almost inverse to the recovery of his injuries. Being under constant watch made his skin crawl, but he grit his teeth and ignored it as best he could, at least for now.
However, as soon as the most grievous of his wounds had mostly healed and his body functioned more or less the way it should, Oberan slipped away through a combination of his Domains, guile, some luck, and a not inconsequential amount of skill.
That was roughly a cycle ago, and since then Oberan had done his utmost best to stay out of the public eye. Let the people forget, and more importantly, keep out of Kasoria’s way for a while. The assassin had figured out the source of his abilities, and considering the Raggedy Man’s track record, Oberan thought it wise to avoid his field of vision for a bit. It allowed the both of them some time to think on it. What that it meant for him now his arguably biggest and least hidden secret was spilled. What course of action to take? Was there one to take? Did he need to do anything about it?
Only recently had Oberan come to a decision.
* * *
Several days earlier
The Speckled Jim
Jacen blinked, forced down the urge to step back in utter surprise. Instead he stiffened a bit, the damp cloth he polished a dented tankard with momentarily coming to a stop. He blinked again, half-expecting to be seeing things, but no, when he opened his eyes, he was still there.
The man had appeared out of thin air, materializing in front of the bar. One moment there’d been an empty spot, a gap between customers that people refused to fill for some reason, the other –poof—the space suddenly was occupied. It wasn’t like he’d come in when Jacen had his back turned either, he’d been looking into the taproom the entire time.
Pretending to be focused on cleaning a stubborn stain from the metal, Jacen glanced left and right. None of the other patrons gave any indication they’d noticed the man appear, too engrossed in either their drinks or their conversations, and one in particular in the bosom of the lady he was with. Jacen’s mouth felt dry and full of cotton. Surely he wasn’t going mad, was he? Seeing things out of the corners of his eyes, silhouettes that looked like people, disappearing when you stared right at them. This was no silhouette though, no vague shadow that only resembled a person. This was a man --somehow seeming almost familiar-- with features too detailed and complex for his mind to have made up, who leaned on the bar as if he’d been there the whole time. He had to be real, for he interacted with the world, dipping a finger in spilled ale on the bar to doodle simple shapes and figures.
Jacen put the mug away on its shelf and grabbed another used one, dipped it in the bucket of soapy water, and set about drying it off, in the meantime casting furtive glances at the possibly-imagined man. He wore clothes barely one grade above threadbare, the fabric stitched and patched in various places. His eyes were dark, his hair disheveled, and his goatee messy. Yet for all the shabbiness of his appearance, he radiated an infuriating confidence, bordering on arrogant. Nay, it definitely crossed into that territory. It showed in the way he stared at things, eyes sparkling, brows slightly arched. It oozed off the bend of his lips, the subtle hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. As if he was in on some joke you weren’t. As if you were a monkey in a dress and he expected you to start dancing any moment. As if someone’d told him an amusing secret about you and he didn’t bother hiding the fact he knew. In fact, he absolutely wanted you to know he knew.
It was the kind of face Jacen itched to clock with a half-empty bottle of brandy. It also was the kind of face he definitely could not dream up, raving mad or not. But he still couldn't shake the sense of recognition the man's appearance evoked. A half-forgotten thought gathering dust and cobwebs in the back of his mind.
The man beckoned without moving much at all, simply catching Jacen’s gaze and gesturing with his fingers. Producing coin and a folded sheet of paper, the stranger leaned in close, voice a low whisper. There wasn’t a drop of Etzori in his accent. “Kas still frequent this place?”
Jacen forced an apologetic smile, refusing to freeze up at the question. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I know who you’re talking about.”
A grin spread across the stranger’s face, sharkish and knowing and more than a little infuriating. He tapped the side of his nose. “What a coincidence. Neither do I.” He slid the paper carefully towards Jacen, touching it only with his fingertips. A wax seal held the folds together, and dark smudges of ink speckled the area around it. “Regardless, when you see him, pass on the message.” He practically jammed it into Jacen’s hand. “I’m counting on you.”
He righted himself then, and the barkeep’s eyebrows rose when it finally clicked. Wasn’t this that fellow who got arrested here by Flaxxo and the Tower Guard a couple seasons ago? The same fellow who’d been on the stage in the Crescent Arena alongside the fucking Raggedy Man when Pahrn tricked the Spider Bitch in fessing up the truth of her involvement in the horrors Lisirra had unleashed upon the city?
A question prying at his lips, Jacen’s gaze flicked to the letter in his hands, then back to the shabby man at the bar. Nothing. Gone. Only an empty spot, the same empty spot that’d been there before he’d appeared. Not a trace of his presence remained, safe for the coin shimmering on the wood.
