There Will Be Blood: The Story of Castelyn Moon

[Battlecaster]

[ SUNDREN CITY: CASTRUM ]

[ 7 CHES 1382 ]

They were like large, malformed pieces of rotting fruit swaying from the branches of three stone trees.

Caw, caw, caw!

Castelyn's green eyes shifted towards the carrion bird, watching with a characteristically placid expression as a crow made a meal out of a man. At least someone was eating in Sundren tonight.

It was early in the evening, and Castelyn Moon stood alone in the forum of Sundren's Castrum district, a pair of neatly-folded robes and a tidily-bundled package tucked beneath his left arm. As rarified wind whistled through Castrum, it carried with it all of the usual sounds one might associate with the district: The barked orders of soldiers practicing formation, the whicker of nearby horses, the clank and clatter of a passing patrol, and the incessant whine of the taxed ropework from which the swaying corpses hung.

"I hear they were working for Margeaux."

Castelyn turned slightly, at the waist, to regard the halfling on his left flank. The short man wore one of those nervous smiles -- the sort you put on when you've done something wrong and were caught in the act. If Castelyn was surprised at how the man had managed to sneak up on him, the only show he made of it was in the slightest crinkle of his brow.

"I'm sorry?"

"They were trying to get out of this sky prison. Had a couple of kids with 'em, too."

Castelyn was uncertain as to whether the man was trying to generate sympathy for the plight of the dead or the fate of the children. Or perhaps he was merely making a point of showcasing his own knowledge. Whatever the case, the stern Castelyn's reaction was the same. "I see."

The halfling made a face, as though disappointed, and shook his head from side to side. Without further preamble, the stocky little man turned and moved off into the fading evening. Perhaps to find someone a little more interesting?

"I see." Castelyn repeated the word to himself, focusing his gaze once more upon the bodies on high. A distant part of him realized he should be feeling something. This sight should move him in some way. But the only thing he felt at that moment was let down by his inability to generate a true emotional response. Had he truly become so jaded to death, to suffering? Was there not something poetic or beautiful here? Was there not something, something he was missing, that should crush a man's heart and bring forth all his tears?

". . ."

Castelyn altered the course of his field of vision, returning green eyes to the robes and the bundle beneath his left arm. He thought back on the meeting he'd had, not an hour before, with the wizard in the steel mask.

A volunteer. Such an odd circumstance. Arrogance or ability?

The words came back to him, and Castelyn considered them once more -- now that he was out from under the masked man's penetrating gaze. Arrogance. Ability.

Desperation?

Ambition?

Inspiration?

Castelyn, on realizing that he did not have the answer himself, breathed loudly out through his nose. There would be plenty of time in the days to come during which he could reconsider the rightness of his actions. If he lived long enough to have the luxury of looking back with regret on the choices he'd made? Then he would be happy to have made it so far.

When Castelyn looked back up at the gallows, it was a moment or two before he realized what had changed. The bird had gone. Castelyn decided that there was wisdom in its leaving, and he followed the crow's advice. Turning from the hanged men and the three pillars which bore their weight, Castelyn walked quietly away from the slow-setting sun.

[Battlecaster]

There Will Be Blood: The Story of Castelyn Moon

[ PIONEER'S WAY: ABANDONED BARN ]

[ 10 CHES 1382 ]

Castelyn sunk back into the damp hay, the heady mixture of musty mildew and rotting vegetation filling his nostrils with a pungent perfume. By Kelemvor's grave, that woman was potentially more dangerous than some of the Bloodmaim he'd met over the years. Twisting against his decaying cushion of straw, Castelyn peered through the fading evening's red glow and down into the barn, its interior stretched out beneath his position in the hayloft.

The barn was abandoned. The adjacent homestead? Home now only to vermin--and a pack of mangy stray cats. Castelyn had decided that the leader of the felines--the man of the house as it were--was the one-eyed beast of a cat that had watched him enter the barn an hour before. This mild musing had done little to soothe the heart-hating realization that had hit him right after:

Here? Yet another family had been forced from their land by the strife taking Sundren. Surely they had been happy here. Were they happy now? Were they faceless refugees, ushered into Cheapside? Or had they already been killed by beast or man?

That thought, come again, drained life from Castelyn's face. The barn was silent below. The woman was gone. This was enough of a relief for him to turn forward once more and quietly hunch in on himself. He stared, helplessly, down into his hands. They were shaking. He focused, he concentrated, but he couldn't make them stop shaking.

You might know algorithms and how to sit and study spells all day, Castelyn. But people are not spells. They are unpredictable, selfish, foolish, and can change at a whim. Learn to work with them before you grow arrogant.

The woman's words came back to him as he stared down into his tremoring hands, and his thoughts wandered, dragging him back through the faded mists of a half-forgotten memory. . .

. . -|~|- . .

"Castellus, hold that sword steady, boy!"

Castelyn, no, Castellus, straightened his arms, locking his elbows. This earned the lad--was he ten? Maybe eleven?--a swift knock on the back of the head by a wooden training sword.

"Not like that! Keep your arms relaxed, stop tensing up! You have to be ready to move like a leaf through a brook!"

A leaf through a brook. It felt like a ham-fisted analogy to Castellus, but if there was anything to be said about Master Tacitus it was that he had some hammy fists. This was made abundantly clear when one of those meat hooks of his slapped Castellus soundly on the ear.

"Stop daydreaming, boy, and keep the sword between you and your enemy at all times! It's your shield, boy! It'll keep the other bastard off of you!"

Castellus's eyes shifted back to his opponent. Bastard? Well, it fit. He was, indeed, squared off against one of his father's bastard children. A half-brother named Herodius. Castellus decided to move sideways, to try and outflank Herodius. That's when Tacitus's arm swept out and threw him bodily into the dirt.

"Boy, what have I told you about crossing your ankles when you move sideways! See how easy it is to be felled like that?"

"That's enough Tacitus."

From the nearby arcade, Castellus's father called off the fight with a weighty three words. He was a handsome man, every bit a patrician by appearance alone, and his short, neat black beard was streaked with white ribbons of age-faded hair. His shoulders were broad and his back was straight as he motioned for Castellus. The man looked like power given a pair of arms and legs. He lacked only the wings, or he'd fly.

Castellus pulled himself off of the ground, and did his best to ignore the bruising on his rear. He quietly dusted himself off as he crossed the courtyard to his father.

"You are improving, Castellus." The middle-aged man spoke with distant fondness, placing his hand atop the youth's head. He seemed uncertain of how to finish that display of affection, though, and just let the weight of his arm do the talking. While his mouth continued speaking words more familiar. "But stay focused. You are the key to this family's future, and you cannot afford to neglect your improvement. Silver and gold can buy this whole world, but once you make our blood blue, we'll also control it."

Castellus nodded slightly, feeling his father's hand draw back at the movement. "I know, father. I will not let you down."

The man smiled down at his boy. "I know you won't, Castellus. Together, we'll reshape Sundren. Just keep a steady hand."

. . -|~|- . .

Just keep a steady hand.

The thought made Castelyn's throat close as he watched his hands shake. No. Not close. The thought made his throat . . . rise?

Shit!

Castelyn suddenly lurched to the side and began gagging. Hack, cough, spit. The man shook violently as bright red blood poured from his mouth, mingled freely with thick, ropey spittle. It was several minutes before he had it under control, the wet hay now slick with his blood.

What was he doing to himself? The thought was fastly locked down. It didn't matter. He had only one path, and that path led him forward. Nothing was bought without sacrifice. Nothing. Nothing. Castelyn forced himself to stand, swaying slightly, feeling dizzy. A deep breath.

He had made his choice, and he would follow through. As he staggered down from the hayloft, he noticed that his hands had stopped shaking. He laughed at this, relieved, but the sound tasted bitter when mixed with his blood.

". . . you just keep those hands steady, Castelyn."

[Battlecaster]

There Will Be Blood: The Story of Castelyn Moon

[ SUNDREN CITY: CHEAPSIDE ]
[ PART 1 OF 2 ]

[ 12 CHES 1382 ]

Castelyn entered the district dressed in drab, gray clothing. A dark skullcap adorned his head and a red cord was tightly wrapped around his left hand, its blood-colored strands danging from his fingers. He wore a weathered, leather satchel--heavy with blankets, food, and water--slung across his right shoulder. He carried no weapons.

As he passed into Cheapside, the stench almost gagged him. A handful of unwashed faces turned his way, and he returned their vacant, hopeless stares with a sad smile. And while the smile did not quite touch his steely green eyes, by appearance alone Castelyn had become a priest of Ilmater.

For his first half hour exploring the squallor and disease of the district, Castelyn concerned himself primarily with maintaining his disguise. "Please, I need to eat." A man begged of the wizard-turned-priest, practically sobbing in desperation. Maybe he would have been sobbing if he had had the hydration for tears?

"Ilmater takes care of those who have faith in Him . . ."

With these words, words Castelyn sincerely hoped were true (even if spoken by a man who had little time for mercy), he handed the man a crust of bread and some hard cheese. "Where are you from?"

"I'm from--" Chew, chew, "--from the farms outside Sestra. Gods know I should have stayed. Even with those Black Hand bastards, if ye'll pardon my language, father."

"I see. You have come a long way to Sundren, my son."

"Din't have much choice, did I? Bloodmaim e'rywhere, undead killin' folk." The wretched man looked around, spreading his hands. "An' this, this is my reward. My safe haven!" He cackled.

"Look, do yerself a favor. Turn right around, an' head on outta here. This ain't no place for priests."

Castelyn shook his head haplessly in response. "I appreciate your words of wisdom, sir. But I must carry on my mission. I may not be able to do much, but . . . well, I've fed one man for one night, right?"

Realizing that the man would be no further use to him, Castelyn continued past him, further and deeper into the Cheapside district. A lumbering man thudded into him--nearly sending the wizard whirling--and Castelyn had the sense that he had lost some weight in the exchange. Not yet, Castelyn. That was just an opportunist. And so the charitable tour continued.

Finally, a good hour into the mission (for someone who was definitely keeping track of the amount of time he'd spent in the foul-smelling armpit of Sundren), Castelyn got his break.

Entering into what passed for a plaza, the communal well of the particularly dingy part of the precinct he had found himself in, Castelyn was approached by a dirty-faced child. "Mister, mister! A stag! Just a stag!" The boy ran up to him. "Sir, please! Just a coin!"

Castelyn reached into the satchel at his side and retrieved a canteen of clean water. But as he held it out to the youth, he noticed that several other young men--and maybe one or two dirty-faced girls? He couldn't really tell them apart, all of them caked in filth--were in the process of surrounding him. Then they pounced. The mob of street urchins fell upon him, clamoring at his clothing and his satchel.

The satchel was all but pried from his fingers, and then his coin purse was also sliced free by one of the little guttersnipes. And that's all that was needed. The bait had finally hooked a lead. The pack of thieving children broke into different directions, scattering into the alleyways, and Castelyn finally took action. Taking note of the boy who'd swiped his purse, the wizard moved swiftly after him.

The lad was fleet of foot, and knew where he was going--moving around broken crates and swinging under plywood fences with all the swiftness of a child who's done this a dozen times before. But Castelyn had long legs, which ate a lot of ground, and magically-enhanced eyesight, which prevented the boy from disappearing from him in the gloaming.

Finally, Castelyn thudded heavily through a wooden gate, and cornered the thief in a tiny back lot. The child, sensing he was trapped, turned around to look wildly at the man coming after him. "Shit! Shitting shit shit! Look mister, I'm real sorry! You can take your purse back! Please don't kill me!"

Positioning himself between the youth and the exit, Castelyn spoke as calmly as he could through heavy breaths. The run had worn him out. He was not used to strenuous exercise. "Who are you working for boy?"

"Fuckin' . . . how's a priest run so damn fast!"

Castelyn yanked hard on the red cord wrapped round his left hand, and out from his sleeve leapt a sharp, straight dagger. Once loosed, Castelyn swung the dangling weapon into his right hand, the crimson cord stretching between both hands like a red garrote. It looked like the cord had been tied fast about the knife's pommel and hilt, thereby allowing Castelyn the quick-draw. "I've never been a very good priest."

The young thief's eyes widened in sudden fear. "Holy . . ."

Castelyn cut him off. "Now. Drop the purse on the ground. And answer my question. Who do you work for?"

The back door to the shadowy house in whose back lot this was all taking place suddenly thudded open, letting out a bearded man with a sword at his hip. "For me. The question is, who da fuck do you work for?"

Castelyn turned at the sound, knife held between him and the interloper. No. Interlopers. He quickly noticed the more-than-massive half-orc coming down the alley, positioning himself in the gate.

"What we got here, Jaxi?" The bearded human asked.

"Lookin' like a priest, boss."

The child, now forgotten, huddled away in a corner of the yard. Intent on staying out of what looked to be an impending confronation.

"I am afraid I've never been entirely convinced as to the power of prayer," Castelyn answered the pair, eyeing each of them warily. "Are you the ones running this cutpurse operation?"

"Big talk. Yeah, you ain't an Ilmateri. They wouldn't run after the kid, and they sure as hells don't carry knives. But to answer your question, naw. I don't run it. I manage it. I run a more violent business. Same concept though."

The half-orc chuckled, low and dangerous, at the gate.

Castelyn continued to appraise the pair. "You make much of a profit in it? On a day to day?"

"Fleecin' folk like you? Sure do. Waltzing in here, for what? To get robbed? That coin you had will feed me for a tenday, most like."

"You'll eat for a tenday at least on the coin that boy has, yes. It's quite a few stags actually."

"What'in a fortuitous event, then!" The bearded man grinned, drawing his rapier. "You can strip, leave all yer valuables, and then scram."

The half-orc cracked his meaty knuckles, lending a certain je ne sais quois to the threat.

"That's certainly one possibility. I also have a more profitable proposition for you, if you truly are a businessman."

The bearded man stared blankly back for a moment, then snorted in laughter. "You gotta be fuckin' kidding me. You're about to get the shit knocked out of you, and robbed. I guess I'd say anything too. Jaxi, hold him down."

"Yeah, boss."

As the half-orc started towards him, Castelyn frowned. Not today. He suddenly began tracing sigils in the air, uttering an incantation.

"Mage!" The bearded man yelled at Jaxi, causing the half-orc to hesitate. Ol' Beard-o didn't have the same reaction, though. Instead of backing off, he lunged forward with his sword, catching Castelyn in the shoulder and--with all of his bodily weight behind the thrust--throwing the wizard into the ground.

Castelyn hit the dirt with a breathless grunt, pain erupting through his body like an explosion of fire and ice. Realizing he was in more than dire straits, Castelyn quickly opened his eyes (which had reflexively squeezed shut), only to bear witness to three hundred pounds of half-orc flying towards him through the air. The wizard was no physicist, but if he knew anything at all about trajectory he knew that all of that orc weight was about to come down right on top of his face.

[Battlecaster]

There Will Be Blood: The Story of Castelyn Moon

[ SUNDREN CITY: CHEAPSIDE ]
[ PART 2 OF 2 ]

I'm going to die! Oh gods! I'm going to die!

Creeeee-aaaaaak. Castelyn quietly closed the door on that little part of his brain that was gibbering like a child. Instead of giving into his fear, Castelyn used that energy to carefully position his dagger, straight up at an eighty-two-degree angle, and . . .

"Ugggh!" The half orc cried out. "He--" And then poor Jaxi coughed blood up, thick and red and all over Castelyn's face. "--It cold. So cold."

Castelyn twisted and jerked at the dagger a few times before, adrenaline pumping, he heaved the dying half-orc off to one side.

Perfect! And now--

Castelyn was about to take advantage of the situation, when he realized he was staring right up the length of the bearded man's sword. The point pressed firmly against his throat. Castelyn started speaking. Quickly.

"I can save him. And we can talk."

Tears were visible in the bearded man's eyes, and he blinked them back angrily. "You sonuva bitch. For that, yer gonna die! You fucking mage!"

"You're wasting time. I can save him. I won't be the only one who dies if you do not let me up."

"That's quite enough." A voice said, unexpectedly, from the shadows. The figure of a man seemed to materialize out of thin air, as though he'd been there all along.

Castelyn saw his chance. He grabbed for the rapier at his throat and twisted it away before rolling hard into the bearded man's legs. The angry swordsman just staggered back dumbly, however, his face as white as a ghost. And before Castelyn could start to rise, the shadowbound assassin stomped hard on the wizard's chest, forcing the air from his lungs.

Offering the gasping Castelyn barely a glance, the assassin took a flask off his belt and threw it to the bearded man. "Go. Heal Jaxi and get the hells out of here. This is beyond your paygrade."

"Y-y-yes! Sir, sorry, sir!"

The bearded man knelt down and tipped the flask into Jaxi's mouth.

"Ugggh."

"Jaxi, you doin' all right, you idiot?"

"Yeah . . . boss . . ."

"Good. You fuckin' numbskull. Come on, we gotta get the hells outta here. Kid, you too!"

"Yes, sir!"

Together, the three of them took off down the alley. The half-orc at a limp, and the child with Castelyn's stolen coin purse well in hand.

Castelyn rubbed at his chest, but remained on the ground. He had a feeling that attacking the shadowbound man would not be wise.

"Smartest thing you've done all day." The assassin finally said, looking down at him. Bending over the wizard, he looked at something on his person and seemed unimpressed. "Amateur. Get up."

Castelyn frowned as the assassin seemed to identify him, but slowly rose as ordered. It was a painful adjustment going from horizontal to vertical.

"Any spellcasting and I'll remove four parts of your body. Three of them will have to do with your spellcasting."

Castelyn made a point of sticking his knife in his belt, expression still frowning.

"What are you doing in this part of town? Do you have a death wish or something?"

Castelyn finally found his voice. "No . . . I have a life wish. For Sundren and its people." By now his facade as a priest of Ilmater was entirely forgotten. Covered in blood, from foot to face, he didn't really look the part anymore anyway. "Who are you?"

"I'm asking the questions here, my friend." The assassin's tone was cold. "Now the next time I ask a question, you give me a straight answer. Else I might give Boris another go at you. He's better with that pigsticker than he looks."

Castelyn's jaw set, and he tried to stand as straight as his screaming shoulder and battered body would allow.

"Now, for the last time: What are you doing on Coin turf?"

"Very well," Castelyn replied. "I am attempting, not well, to find informants."

". . . You're kidding."

"I am not well-known for my sense of humor."

"Not for common sense, either. At least, so I'm guessing."

Castelyn frowned slightly. "In light of recent events, I suppose I can see why you would surmise that."

"You mean about how, within the span of a few hours, you were robbed, three times, injured, and almost died?"

"I cannot say that it has been a particularly . . . productive . . . evening," Castelyn conceded, still frowning.

"Do yourself a favor and stay out of Cheapside. Because you'll never really understand what it means to live here, nor help the people who do."

"This is probably true," Castelyn admitted, once more. "But if your intention is, at all, to help them, I would rather we work together."

"Work together to what end?" The assassin asked in return. "Don't you think you've done enough? You and your Emperor? You're treating people like cattle. Fencing them in, keeping them from the rest of the city, all so that your streets are clean."

Castelyn closed his eyes a moment, then opened them again. They were as hard as the assassin's voice cold. "You can see as well as I can the suffering here. The strife. The anger and resentment. It's only a matter of time before it turns to violence. And then? No one will win then. Not the people of this district, nor the Emperor."

"You're right. But have you given some though to fixing things out there, rather than in here?" The assassin leaned forward. "Out there. That's the sick part of this city."

"Right now this country is in tatters, and this city is as open a wound as any of them. It is my intention to work to correct that. From every angle that is available to me."

"Good. Start with the one you actually know something about."

Castelyn's frown deepened. "It is clear that you'll not assist me here. Do you care at all for this place, or for these people? You speak as though you do."

The assassin stopped, halfway turned to go. "Who do you think keeps this place from imploding sooner, rather than later? We do our best to feed people as we can. We keep the gangs in line. But there's only so much we can do."

"That's exactly it. There's only so much any of us can do." Castelyn replied, trying to hold him a moment more. "I've lost most of my money, and much of my pride, in coming here. And I nearly lost my life."

"Good." The assassin glanced back. "Now you know what a day is like, here. Every day."

"My point is that I have the luxury of choosing to be here, unlike these people. And I have chosen to be here to try and assist in stabilizing the environment. I need to know where people are feeling the squeeze, though. Who will stand in my way if I try to organize assistance here? I would not be here if I did not need the help I had hoped I would find here. The help I need to make this city whole."

"Let me make something clear." The man vanished. Castleyn's hand reflexively moved for his dagger. But before he could even reach it he felt the assassin's blade biting into his throat. "You don't organize shit here. You want to fix things? Do it somewhere fucking else. Because while I may threaten to kill you, the people here, if they knew what you were? They'd rip you to pieces."

"Very well." Castelyn replied, very carefully. "I will leave, as requested. But you know where to find me--should you see me doing good work, and decide that I'm more than just a fool."

Castelyn felt something pressed into his hand. He allows his fingers to fold around the object. Small, rough, cold. The assassin spoke his next words softly. "If you decide to come back, being the idiot you are, hang onto that. Put it in your purse. And don't go hand out goodies--go straight to Jimmy's. Show that there, and someone can speak to you."

Castelyn nodded slowly against the knife, and suddenly the man was gone. The wizard found himself alone in the back alley, and, after a moment, lurched back out into the narrow streets of Cheapside. It was more than an hour later, well outside the district, that Castelyn finally opened his hand and stared down at the object he'd been given:

It was a single stag, burned black as pitch on both sides and marked crudely with a cross.