Trials of the Sicar

[Peridan]

I've found that the greatest difficulty any fledgling assassin faces, is that they are unable to cope with the possibility of their own demise. Of course, they go to kill others. But are they truly ready for death? Most believe themselves invincible, young demi-gods who rule over those they stalk with their neophyte grasp of stealth. They cannot fathom the thought that there is always someone stronger. Someone faster. Someone smarter.

I will disabuse them of this notion.

-Kythorn 15
The Year of the Black Blazon 1382


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Eight sets of eyes settled on the plain looking man before them. Plain, of course, being an understatement. A short, cropped cap of drab brown hair adorning an unremarkable face. Slight of build, he was average height and width. He was dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, with a pair of nondescript, scuffed boots. His gloved hands were clasped behind his back, and his legs were slightly bent at the knees. The more observant of the eight would note that his balance rested on the balls of his feet, his weight being centered on the smooth wooden flooring.

The eight recruits said nothing. They knew better than to speak first, especially after being ordered here by their respective crew leaders. Most were men, but there was a surprising number of more feminine forms interspersed throughout their ranks. They ranged in height, and physique. Some of were likely recruited from the remnants of the Cartel, who had been integrated into the Eboncoin. They still enjoyed recruiting a certain type of bruiser, but the few here had wolf-like cunning etched into their faces. Others were of a slimmer build and patchwork clothing, probably brought in from the Eboncoin ranks from the City. Men and women who lived their lives on the streets, stealing and pick pocketing before being either invited or roped into the gangs that the Eboncoin controlled. The smarter ones made their way into the Coin itself. And the last few were recruited from the Avanthyr docks, where the Coin had a strong hold through the Meriadoc rulership. Bronzed, lean, and had the wicked sense of humor that seemed to be a prerequisite to work with the dock workers and ship crews.

The plain looking man took a single step, graceful and poised. He spoke then, as his steel grey eyes drifted across the young thieves.

"Long ago, a man gave me some good advice." He started to pace, one perfectly balanced step after another. "He told me that to find true freedom, all I had to do was to look in a mirror, and see. I thought he was insane." He paused for a moment, coming to a gentle stop. A flicker of amusement crossed his features. "Turns out, I was just young. As you all are." He resumed his pacing. "Years later, I figured out what he had meant. When you look into a mirror, see. Look at yourself, and know. Understanding yourself, and truly looking at your actions without bias will give you a kind of freedom that few enjoy. Bound by their dogmatic faith, most cannot seem to comprehend true good and evil if it walked up to them and stabbed them in the heart."

He stares out at the group, his back straightening. "I will show you what it means to be free. And it will be the most painful thing you've ever experienced."

Turning, he gestures to the building around them. "You will all live here, away from the main lair. I will be instructing you every day in fields such as anatomy, magical theory, alchemy, and history. You will break for meals twice, in the morning and the evening. I will hold combat sessions before the evening break. And I will try to kill one of you every day." The flicker of amusement flashed in his eyes as this registers on the faces of his recruits.

"I will not have any rhyme, or reason to the attempts on your life. You could be eating. You could be fighting. You could be reading in class. You could be sleeping. It could be with poison, with blade, with devious traps. Regardless of how you're dressed, where you are, or what you are doing, I will attempt to kill you." He pauses in his tracks once more. "I will do this, because you are all soft. Complacent. This will be beaten out of you, if need be. And through the fires and trials I set before you, you will become assassins."

"Welcome, recruits. As of today, you are on your way to becoming Sicarii."

[Peridan]

It's curious, watching ship builders. Despite their gruff and usually crass attitude, they have minds like steel traps. They carefully construct a design for the ship before sanding a single piece of timber. They measure buoyancy, shape, and a totality of all the factors that will turn a variety of lumber and rope into a creature that darts across the endless sea. Then comes a framework, something that the architect can build upon, the bones of the galley. Soon enough come the inside decks, the organs. Then the muscles, and the sleek skin that guards all of it. Familiar, no? It is endlessly fascinating to me in how we emulate our own complex figures in everything we do. And incredibly vain, when one thinks hard enough about it. But, the gods may have a good point in doing what they did, and how they did it. Every body needs these frameworks, whether it is a living being, a ship, or an organization that must move as a single flawless form.

-Flamerule 6th
The Year of the Black Blazon 1382


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Classes were difficult, as the recruits learned. Basics of alchemy, magic, history, and stealth alone would be a full plate for any day. But then the ordinary man piled combat training on top of it, making the load almost too much to bear. Where his energy came from, no one was certain. But he was present every day in the classroom where they read, and stayed after training every evening to answer questions or to demonstrate a particular movement. The recruits learned about the basics of poisons, and the chemical properties of certain plants that contributed to their creation. They learned the history of the valley, and the inner workings of the various organizations that inhabit it. While arcane theory was not his forte, as he admitted, he did demonstrate particular innate spells and dark workings of their order. Combat training consisted of a variety of weapons, depending on the strength and speed of each recruit. The man favored knives in particular, and demonstrated complex movements and techniques with both dagger and cloak. And, of course, he tried to kill one recruit per day.

The man was creative, that much was certain.

The recruits suffered an almost endless amount of abuse at his hands. Poison in the food that could only be counteracted by quick thinking and steady hands under pressure. Knives in the dark that only the fastest of reflexes could deflect. Spikes hidden in the floorboards that clever eyes could barely spot.

And after a few months, they became even more imaginative. A self sealing shower, where poisonous vipers are dropped in. A recruit's shadow that gently brings a razor close to their throat as they walk through the halls. Another recruit, controlled by the ordinary man, attacking to kill during training. After each attempt, the barely quick enough recruits learned something new. The man would pull them aside, and explain how he did what he did. They acquired these tricks, these skills, one after another through surviving each. Then, one day, someone failed.

One of the City recruits had just finished his meal, and had smuggled in a pouch of traveler's dust. Dissolved by dropping into the eye, the recruit's hands trembled and his words began to slur. He leaned back in his chair, content to sit and enjoy the deliciously euphoric effects of the drug. Riding the crimson road, they call it.

The chair leaned far enough back to ever so gently pull the wire connecting the foot to a small explosive attached under the table.

After the smoke had cleared, and the remnants of the recruit cleaned from the ceiling, the ordinary man called them all together. He didn't look remorseful, disgusted, or anything else. His face remained passive as he spoke, and his voice never rose beyond a conversational level. Despite this, what he said echoed in the bones of those present.

"There is no replacement for one's mind. Magics, techniques, strength are all useless in contrast to one's capacity to use them. The more flexible it is, the more willing to process new information at high rates, the better you will be able to react to any situation presented. This, is what I wanted to demonstrate to you all. And most of you have learned it." He stepped softly over a dried red stain on the floor.

"Anything that reduces your mental capacity is something that makes you weak. Useless to me, and useless to the Coin. That isn't to say you can't drink, or take drugs that you might find pleasurable. But stray too far, and there will likely be consequences to such a lapse in attention."

His eyes harden as he stares at the group. "And anything useless must be discarded. For the good of the Coin, and for the survival of your new team. You will not survive if you do not learn the strengths and weaknesses of yourselves and each other. You will pair with a new recruit every two days, working with them in classes and sparring. You will eat together, sleep in the same room, and discuss criteria that I will disclose to you on a daily basis. Learn about your fellows, understand them. For only through knowledge will you find freedom."

The ordinary man turned, and stepped quietly away from the ruined room.

[Peridan]

It's easy to forget that you are not alone. Too long steeped in the twilight between right and wrong, a man can loose his way. He can hold onto intangibles such as glory or justice with outstretched and grasping hands, only failing to realize the ground had vanished from his feet in his pursuit of the impossible. Too late will he understand that life is a series of interrelationships, a complicated mess of love, laughter, despair, hatred, and joy. It's easy to see, if you look closely. A duel of blades, a soft conversation, a dance, a soaring duet. We grow and change by exerting our influence on each other, and being exerted upon in return. This, is how life tells us that we are never alone.

But then again, the man that doesn't look down may never realize the ground is gone, and grasp the sky of limitless possibilities.

-Elesias 4th
The Year of the Black Blazon, 1382

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The ordinary man changed their routine, in that training was more specialized as to the strengths of each recruit. Weeks were spent strengthening each recruit's aptitudes towards fighting, poison, stealth, or any other area that they particularly excelled in. The man spent a day with each student, while the rest were assigned work to complete either in groups or in pairs. Emphasis was placed on cooperation and rivalry in equal measure between the recruits. Groups would frequently switch, so that each recruit grew accustomed to their fellows as needed. Then, the man introduced the Games.

The Games were a series of competitions between the students. While there were only a few of them, the ordinary man made each one a grueling contest. Obstacle courses, foot races, dagger fights (blunted, of course), and archery competitions were only a small percentage.

Most importantly, the man tested their knowledge of one another, and how quickly they could apply it. Frequently, the teams would change mid-Game, forcing each recruit to adapt and instantly know the abilities of each of their fellows. Allies one moment, enemies the next, not a moment of relaxation was present during these competitions of skill and knowledge.

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Two of the recruits were sparring in a half lit room, shadows dancing around the edges of the few candles flickering. A heavier recruit, likely a Cartel, brandished his longsword and stepped with a paradoxically feather-like movement towards his opponent. A wicked grin crossed his fellow recruits face, her rapier weaving in the air in smooth circular motions.

The ordinary man stood in the corner of the room, a cowl hiding most of his face as the two recruits edged closer to one another, watching. Waiting.

"Fighting is simply about placement." He said with his usual, placid tone. "Force isn't needed, not really. The human body is incredibly frail, and the simpliest deviation in its functions causes it to collapse quickly. A quick jab to the windpipe, and even the heaviest fighter will fall like a sack of stones."

The female recruit grinned at her opponent, and darted forward in a thrust that should have speared him through. The more heavily muscled man only offered a wolf-like sneer, and batted it aside.

"Of course, there's something to be said for weight. All the speed in the world won't do you any good if you can't find a way around an enemy's armor."

The woman recruit slashed with her rapier, following up with a series of lightning fast thrusts, aimed at multiple points on her opponent. He was able --barely-- to counter each. He stepped forward, edging closer against the hail of steel, and forcing her to move backwards to the wall and her inevitable defeat.

"Don't worry so much about wounds. Wounds are going to happen, whether you like it or not. The pain is all in your mind, over-exerted nerves screaming for release. As long as it isn't debilitating, you only have to ask yourself, will they be worth it?"

Bleeding from several light gashes on his torso, the former Cartel thug raised his blade over an exhausted opponent, ready to strike a duel-ending blow.

"But more importantly, what you should always be asking yourself is this: who was it you were fighting against, anyway?" The ordinary man snapped his fingers. Instantly, three other recruits stepped from their hiding places with practice blades at the ready. The rapier wielding woman and the Cartel recruit glanced at each other. One exhausted, another wounded. Outnumbered, three to two.

That seemed about right. The ordinary man smiled under his hood, white teeth flashing.

"Again."