The goblin screams before he's split in two. The other goblins howl in a mixture of fear and rage and charge the barbarian. One swings his knife at Beorn's shins, but the Ulfen reacts quickly and dodges the blow.
Cillian moves past Beorn in a rush, weaving by as if the big man weren't there, slamming his cane into the closest goblin.
The goblin falls with a ear-splitting crack. The remaining goblin screams and runs in the opposite direction from you.
Picking up the fallen goblin's dagger, Cillian hurls it after the fleeing one.
Never thinking that it might be what the little green guys wants Beorn, counting on his longer legs gives chase.
The dagger lodges itself in the goblin's back. The monster stumbles before Beorn strikes a killing blow with his blade.
"Nice work." Cillian says with a nod. Picking up a body, he says "Grab the others. We'll dump them somewhere that isn't so obvious."
Alright, we can cut through the sewers.
The goblins got dumped in an overflow drain well. Assuming it didn't flood any time soon it would be a long time before anyone found them.
The group came up in one of the shore-side canals in the buffer region between the Dead Sector and the Blood Sector. The canal door opened about a foot and a half above the waterline right onto one of the old, rotting walkway piers that the old city Engineers used to use for repairs. Now, they didn't come to this area of the city. It was rare for them to ever come off the island anymore. When they did they never came this far into the northcity.
The Dead Sector was a mess of abandoned buildings. Squatters law ruled here. There were a few gangs, but mostly it was just people. There wasn't anything worth fighting over. Territory was meaningless when all their was were buildings. So many had fled that there were more buildings than people.
Along the Wall between the sectors the Deaders pushed back against the slavers on the other side. The people who lived there had taken on a siege mentality. Ostensibly the wall was there to keep the Deaders on their side, but it wasn't the truth. The Deaders were the ones that expanded on the wall, erecting makeshift barricades across the streets, keeping buildings clear and open all along the Wall, organizing volunteer patrols to protect the small community groups who had banded together because the Westcrown Guard had all but abandoned them.
The slavers who controlled the Blood Sector were ruthless. When they came up short of the numbers they needed it was a simple matter to send a group of Takers into the Dead Sector and snatch up anyone too slow to outrun them. If anyone caught couldn't prove they were a citizen (or sometimes even if they could) they'd find themselves starring in the next day's auction.
So the Deaders turned the Wall into a no-man's land. Patrolls kept a look out for Takers and shadowed them wherever they went. people simply banded together, signaled by horns or calls. Takers might be able to kidnap a group of three or four, but taking on two dozen or more was a lot harder. Cillain had helped arrange it. It only took losing one friend to the Takers for him to decide things needed to change. That was when his whole plan had started to form. Hard to believe it had been four years already.
It was here, on the raggedy edge, where people lived lives harsh and brief, that Cillian had grown up. He'd been the son of one of the most important men in the city. A man who had no time to raise his son and who didn't trust a single soul to do it for him.
So the city raised him.
Now, the prodigal son had returned.
From the canal it was two blocks to a stumpy, surprisingly sturdy building. Three keys and a hidden catch opened the heavy oak door. Once inside he moved everyone downstairs into another basement.
"Now you all have a taste of the city. This is your last chance at getting out. If you go upstairs and walk north you'll end up in a Deader Camp. There are lots of ways out along the outer wall. No one will bother you. No one will care. You'll probably get away free and clear."
"I can't promise you anything to get you to stay except the a chance to help people, and maybe to strike back along the way."
"What will it be?"
Interrupting Cillian are three shrill howls. Your ears pick up the faint clopping of hooves nearby. A cacophony of noise suddenly picks up. Yells, shattering glass, a whip.
Cillian rushed ustairs to a mostly boarded up window and looked out into the street.
Better not be another slaver raid. I don't have time for this right now.
The barbarian comes up behind Cillian, gazing onto the scene. We cannot stand by and allow this. he says quietly, but with emotion.
Cillian takes a long deep breath. "Yeah. Let's go. Wear this."
Opening a footlocker full of some kind of black garb and other equipment, Cillian hands Beorn a white mask with a black smirk on it. He pulls another one out and puts it on himself.
"I was going to see if you wanted to design our own before we made our big debut, but there's no time. For today at least, you'll just have to make due wearing one of my spares."
Outside, the carriage is already about fifty feet down the street. The Hellknights are behind it, dragging the man with chains. However, a well-dressed man, with black-and-red robes has stayed behind. Clutching a scroll in his hands, he announces to a crowd of ragged people, "By the order of the Captain Gorim, these men and women were brought to justice. They were traitors to the great nation of Cheliax, and damaging to our Captain himself. Captain Gorim would like to extend his sympathies to the homeowners of Lindain Street.
Cillian slipped out the door with Beorn right behind him and quietly shut the door and stepped out into the alleyway. "Showtime" he muttered to himself slipping his own mask on and starting to move.
The transformation was uncanny. As he began to run, first his customary limp disappeared and then the usual stiffness and careful control. Lost was the noble bearing and the hint of arrogance...
In it's place, charging out of the darkness, was a wild thing, loose and free, moving with a kind of jester's spring and the effortless threat of a prowling cat.
Dressed all in black save for his grinning, white, featureless face, the shadowy hero that would become known as Killjoy made his debut in Westcrown.
Not today, fancy pants!" his manic voice echoed from behind his mask.
He didn't so much attack the robed man as he did crash into him like a catapult stone, cross-checking him with his simple club.
The man turned, wide-eyed, as the masked monster barrels through the crowd. Shouts of fear and excitement let out as the attacker's club slams into the robed man's face, sending a spatter of blood in the air. As he falls, people begin to run, screaming.