Ian Marros's page

"My story? I'm sure you know everything about me, the Tower's records are famous for that."

"There are gaps, start from the beginning."

"Come on, I gave half my life to the guard, if that doesn't qualify me what does?"

"We know about your past addictions, the blackmailing and extortion."

The ex-guard was silent a moment, then muttered under his breath "S%@&..."

The mage just watched him, the interview chamber quiet enough to hear their breathing.

"Alright, if you knew, all this time, why'd you let it go on, and why interview me to work for you?"

"All you need to know is that you're not in the dungeons, and that you still have a chance. So, start from the beginning."

Scratching stubble and trying not to look as scared as he was, the intimidating guard veteran sighed, "Yeah. Okay."

"I don't know when it went bad, but I remember when everything was perfect. Wife, kids, and coin to feed them. My wife, she died of sickness, that's how it started. It was long. I lost it. Not all at once, just...it took its toll on me, day by day. The job, getting the truth, catchin' the bad guys?" His tanned, scarred skin wrinkled as he smirked, showing his age, "It mattered less each day."

"I started coming home late, taking the back alleys where we used to catch the dealers, they didn't even run from me, just offered. Sometimes I'd wake up the next day, didn't even make it home, just passed out in the alley, and then I already wanted another hit," his gravelly voice had evened out. What started as a pained confession had eased into a numb retelling.

"Once pesh takes hold of ya', it don't let go. I started working overtime to get my fix, and when that wasn't enough I got into debt with the petty little slum lords. It's a slope you don't know til you're on it. I was hooked on blackmarket drugs, so what was a little extortion? I had been throwing these people in dungeons long enough to know how it all worked. I rationalized it, told myself I really was protecting those shops, from the gangsters and scum that were extorting them before. Got into a lot of s#%@ in the slums for that, a lotta scars. Lotta situations I didn't think I'd make it out of," He spread his bulky arms wide, "But here I am." He sounded bitter, not proud.

"The slope just kept gettin' steeper. Kept needin' more coin, needed my hit of pesh. I had learned so much dirt on so many people, started blackmailin'. Not just merchants, but blackmailing the thieves and dealers too. Didn't make many friends. The weeks just kept passing, I kept telling myself next week I'd quit, next week I'd spend time with my kids, take them out, buy them something nice. Then it was months...then one day I stumbled home, high, and my kids weren't there," Knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists and shook his head, "No reason to stay. No Mom, no Dad. No food, no warmth. Just a piece of s@#+ that wandered in like a stranger every other night and passed out in his own piss."

He took a deep breath, trying to calm down so he could continue. The mage across from him just waited, silent, no sympathy or pity, no anger.

"I tried to stop cold turkey, that night. I couldn't do it. The shakes, sweating, my head felt like it was going to explode, my heart pounding constantly, aches and vomiting, it ain't pretty. I practically crawled back to my dealer. The years after that, I don't know. I lost my job in the guard not long after my kids ran out, worked odd jobs, bodyguard, bouncer...I'd go weeks without getting high, then I'd have a bad night, think about s@!# too much, and I'd give in, get hooked all over again. My head kept bouncing between, 'if I can just get clean, my kids will come back', and 'my kids will never come back, so I may as well get my high'. Wasn't til I decided to get clean for ME that I actually stuck with it."

The two men stared at each other a moment before the old guard veteran spoke up.

"That's it."

"That's it?"

"Now I'm here."

"Your kids?"

His jaw clenched, "Won't see me."

"What about blackmail? Extortion? Murder? Theft? Still involved?"

"I'm an honest man now."

"I doubt that, but I'll take your word you won't commit any future crimes."

"Thanks?"

"As damning as one side of your reputation is, you have many talents, talents we need."

“You need doors kicked in--I can do that, but that ain't nothing special.”

"A tip? Don't be modest when you're trying to get a job."

He laughed at the mage, "For a second I thought I was just trying to avoid prison."

"Your 'history' will be cleared, and you will work for the Tower, in all that we request. No questioning."

"Do I have a choice?"

"Yes. You can go back to your s@$~hole and hope that if you keep doing what you're doing, your kids will eventually forgive you," the mage's voice was even and emotionless.

The veteran stood up sharply, causing the wooden chair to squeal in protest. Bad idea or not, it looked like he was about to slug the mage. After a tense moment he clenched his fists and sat back down.

"I'll take the job."

The mage showed his first sign of emotion: a thin, cold, smile.

Ian was getting more and more tense the further he got into the poorer southwest districts. He passed thieves, con men, smugglers, drunks, beggars and thugs--but they weren't what worried him.

It started to rain. Four streets past the Pig's Coin Tavern, then north until the Ringing Iron Blacksmith, the house is just across the street, he repeated Hazel's directions in his head. Worn and beaten faces watched him from the dark windows and nooks of the closely packed houses. The streets were filthy, and he was drenched by the time he spotted the blacksmith. The ex-guardsman got nervous, sweating. Good thing for the rain, he thought.

The day had been cold already, before the rain even started. Hazel's bed was always warm, for a price. They had known each other for almost a decade now. He was stalling, thinking of Hazel. He wasn't sure how long he had been standing out in the rain, in front of that run-down house. Back in the guard, this would have been a place to raid and flush out the pesh addicts. His hands were shaking--he clenched them into fists. Mustering his courage, he wiped rain from tired eyes and walked up the steps to the front door. The planks underneath creaked and groaned. He wanted to leave the coin purse on the doorstep and go home, but he had to make sure. He had to knock.

Ian raised his gauntlet-clad fist to knock, but hesitated. The door opened, and a face sneered at him through the gap.

"Who'you? Whatdya want?" The young man asked.

"I'm looking for Kira, I was told she lived here," Ian responded, feeling like a wet dog, and hoping he didn't look it.

"She ain't here," The stranger said, before slamming the door in Ian's face.

He looked at the closed door for a moment, the coward in him wanting to take the chance to leave.

"I have coin," Ian finally said.

There was silence on the other side of the door for moment, but he thought he heard whispered arguing. As he was leaning in to try and hear, the door opened a crack.

"Fine, give the coin here, I'll give it to Kira when she's home."

Ian grimaced and held the heavy coin purse out. When the man reached for it, Ian shoved the door open, knocking him flat.

The inside of the house was worse than the outside--holes in the floor, broken glass, cobwebs. It was dark, save a few candles and a fire in the fireplace. Smoke clung to the ceiling, and the air stank of whatever was in the cauldron, stewing over the fire. Ian looked down at the young man, who was clutching a bloody nose, and saw Kira crouched over him. When their eyes met, Ian grinned wider than he had in years--but the look she gave him made his heart sink and his smile wilt.

"The hell did you do that for," she asked, pulling the young man's head up on her lap and cradling it.

Ian looked at him. Dagger on his belt, but sense enough not to draw on me. Least he's got that going for him.

"I needed to see you," Ian answered. He wanted to say more.

"Just leave the coin and go. You haven't caused enough damage? Now you break into my home, attack my friends?"

Ian choked up, gesturing angrily at the injured man, "He wasn't gonna' let me see you. I needed--"

"--to see me, yeah, you said that. Please just go."

His throat constricted, he stood there in silence a moment. The young man pulled free from Kira and stormed off, holding his broken nose. Ian watched him go, contempt seeping into his expression.

Before he could say anything, Kira cut him off.

"Don't. Who I'm with is none of your business."

"With?" Ian asked, his anger rising again.

Kira stood up and confronted him, looking him dead in the eyes.

"It's none of your business. You made damn sure of that."

His anger was replaced by desperation as he felt his chances slipping away.

"Kira--"

She held her hand out. He almost smiled, then realized she just wanted the coin. He held the pouch out hesitantly. She snatched it away. Then she crossed her arms and stared him down.

"You're welcome?" Ian chuckled dryly, but he was struggling to keep his composure.

"Yeah? You should be thanking me for taking this, so you can't spend it on pesh."

"Kira, I'm clean. I've been clean."

"Now that's a familiar song."

Ian clenched his fists, the metal gauntlets creaking. He knew there were words that would make her understand, make her forgive him, but all he could think of was the same lines she was so tired of.

"It was...it was good to see you. I'm glad you're okay."

For a moment, she seemed sad. Ian felt like there was a connection there, that he could almost reach, but then the moment was over. She steeled her expression and met his eyes again.

"You gave up the right to worry about me a long time ago. When I needed you, you weren't there. And now you're here, breaking my boyfriend's nose, and you're glad I'm okay?"

"Boyfriend?" Ian's anger flared up, "That druggy kid?"

"You're such a f*&#ing hypocrite."

It all went so wrong, he screwed it up, another chance blown. He didn't know what to say. How many times had he said 'I'm sorry'? It just pissed her off now, but it's all he could think of.

"Get out," She said.

When he didn't move, she pushed him.

"Get out!"

She pushed him harder, a wisp of a girl--no, a woman now, but still a leaf pushing on a castle. He took a few steps back. A part of him was grateful she was this close to him, and he felt pathetic for it.

"Sweetheart..."

She was shaking, face red, eyes watery. "Don't call me that."

Ian took another step back, outside the door now.

She shouted at him, her voice cracking, "You were never my father, never. You can't make up for abandoning me, not with coin, and not with 'sorry'. You feel guilty, you want to haunt me and give me your coin, fine! But don't act like you'll ever be part of my life," she was screaming at him by the end.

The door slammed in his face. He smacked it once in frustration, then stepped back down into the street, glad it was raining. He wiped his face anyway, and started walking. He still had two more coin pouches, one for Pityn and one for Dona. Two more chances. Eight streets north of the Ringing Iron blacksmith and Kira's house, five streets west...

About twenty years prior to the campaign...
Only a few reasons corpses go missing, none of them good. Ian preferred the dens of thieves and murderers, at least they were predictable, but necromancy? Maybe it's just a lone sicko, having a little fun. Wishful thinking. He'd be staking out the graveyard til morning.

Ian rented a room above a merchant shop for the night, blew out all the candles, and sat at the window overlooking the graveyard. It was going to be a long night. He had bought a basket of apples from a street vendor on the way, and hoped they would last him. Hours passed. Ian spat out a half-chewed worm from a mouthful of apple, then kept eating. He tapped his fingers on the edge of his chair, fidgeting. He felt the itch, he needed a hit. Lucky he brought plenty. He felt the effects of the pesh immediately, the faint shadows on the ceiling beginning to form headstones and skeleton hands. Then the rush hit, pumping euphoria through his veins, his own shadow grew large and smashed the skeletal hands into pieces. Laughing in triumph, he took a vase from the nearby table and threw it against the ceiling, scattering dirt and broken pieces everywhere. His eyes darted around the room as the blankets and carpet began to swell like ocean waves.

He sat up gasping. How long've I been out? It took a moment for his vision to clear. He wiped saliva off his jaw and righted his fallen chair, hefting himself up onto it. When his head finally stopped spinning, he parted the curtains a little, peering out at the graveyard. Stillness and quiet. Like any good graveyard outta' be. He started to turn away when movement caught his eye—a cloaked figure pulling a loaded cart out of the graveyard.

”S#$*!”

He ran downstairs and stumbled out into the street, the noise was loud as a thunderstorm in full plate. Guess he knows I'm comin'. The hooded figure was staring, perfectly still, when Ian spotted him. For a moment they just stared at each other, then Ian began the chase. For awhile, the graverobber tried to pull the cart along with, but Ian was gaining quick, so he ran into an alleyway, leaving the cart blocking the entrance. Ian put his shoulder against the cart and heaved it onto its side, barely breaking stride. Corpses dumped onto the street as Ian barreled down the alleyway after the elusive figure. His lungs were full of fire, and he was drenched in sweat. The heavy plate-mail was like carrying another person. He thought he'd lost sight of the cloaked figure more than once, but he knew these streets well enough to run them blindfolded. He was gaining. Finally, the graverobber put his hands up, slowing to a walk then stopping. Ian could hear him panting and gasping for air.

”Enough, enough,” he said between breaths, turning to face Ian, hands still raised.

Ian shackled the man then pulled the hood off. Underneath was a wiry man with brown hair and hazel eyes, mid 20's, about Ian's age. His skin was pale, though not pale enough to be a real bookworm type. He seemed calm, considering the circumstances, though out of breath. Ian shoved him forward.

”Get moving. And if you try to run again, I'm just putting an arrow in your back.”

”Fair,” The graverobber replied quietly.

Despite his stoic mask, Ian could sense despair underneath, panic, a mind racing to find a way out. They walked in tense silence for awhile, Ian ready to draw and fire on him if he ran.

”So...how did you know?” The graverobber asked, without turning.

Ian chuckled, ”Not me. Captain Jerez. He put it together. You never took from the same graveyard twice, and there were only a few graveyards that hadn't been hit in the months since you started. So he assigned a guard at each one, to stake it out. Said something about how you had to work by moonlight, so tonight would be the night. Clever bastards, the both of ya.”

The wiry man nodded slightly, still looking forward, down the street—towards imprisonment, or worse. The punishment for necromancy wasn't pretty, from what Ian heard. And even if they couldn't prove necromancy, they'd get him for graverobbing, and that wasn't pretty either. The shackled man must have been thinking along the same lines.

”How much does the guard pay?”

Ian chuckled, ”Money just keeps me fed. I do it for my own reasons.”

It was a half-truth. Ian was good at his job, and not much else. He was a s#~~ husband, and a worse father. Being good at something kept him afloat. But coin was coin.

”Mhm,” the prisoner replied.

They continued in silence for a moment. Ian knew what the graverobber was thinking, but he could also sense his growing fear, so he let him stew. It didn't take long.

”It seems my work is endangered. Perhaps I could interest you in a deal,” the prisoner said, then stopped walking, turning to Ian. ”You said your captain, he realized I never went to the same graveyard twice, and there are still a half dozen more in the city. If you were to tell your captain that I escaped, it would follow that this graveyard would then be safe to visit as many times as I needed.”

”That's a real expensive 'if',” Ian said, staring the prisoner down.

The graverobber smiled, ”My name is Tavrus, and you are...?”

About twenty years prior to the campaign
“Your mother wants you to visit,” the scrawny kid told Ian, then held out his palm expectantly. Ian kept the wadded up tunic held covering his groin with one hand and tossed him a coin with the other. The kid was gawking, staring past Ian at the whore in his bed, who didn't bother to cover herself. The tossed coin bounced off the kid and rattled on the ground, snapping him out of it. He hurried to collect his fallen payment.
“Get outta' here, little tramp,” Ian said, nudging him back out the door then shutting it.
The whore laughed, “Still got enough coin for another go?”
“Can't. Gotta' leave.”
She smiled impishly. “Really? For your mother?”
Ian glared at her, but diverted his attention to collecting the haphazardly discarded clothes and pulling them on.
“My armor,” He nodded towards the heap of steel plate near the door.
After a little show of pouting, which Ian didn't humor, she scooted out of bed. She had helped him suit up countless times over the years. He loved her, but couldn't say it.

The curtains were all drawn, as usual, at Tavrus' modest home. Just as Ian was raising a gauntlet-clad fist to knock, the door swung open.
“Finally, what took you?” Tavrus said, quickly peering outside past Ian. “Did anyone follow you, any guard friends?”
Ian smirked and put a heavy arm over Tavrus' shoulder, walking him inside and shutting the door behind them.
“Relax. Why would I lock you up while you still have coin?”
Tavrus shrugged him off, glaring.
“I pay you to do your job, now do it,” He said, pointing at a closed door, across the room.

Inside, the room was pitch black. Tavrus shoved a lantern into Ian's hand.
“What am I here for, exactly?” Ian asked, peering into the dark. The lantern didn't help.
“There's a trinket, in there. You need not know its name, it's on the floor, somewhere. I dropped it. You must force feed it this trinket.”
“'It? What is it?”
“If I told you, you still wouldn't know. So get going. The longer you wait, the more it feeds. The more it feeds, the stronger it gets,” Tavrus said.
Ian scowled. “The f&@@ did you do?”
Tavrus didn't answer for a moment.
“The trinket is an amulet with a—a greenish gem. Remember, it must be fed the trinket.”
“Whatever this s&&% is, this is beyond our little deal.”
Tavrus sneered, “Our little deal is me paying you gold to do what I say,” he leaned in a little closer, and Ian caught a whiff of rotten blood on his robe. Tavrus whispered, ”Or...if you're breaking our deal, an anonymous tip about your Pesh habit may reach captain Jerez.”
“You're a f~&~ing grave-robber and you're threatening to expose me?” Ian almost laughed.
“And you're my accomplice,” Tavrus replied flatly.
Ian looked at Tavrus now, really looked at him, and realized he wasn't the skittish little sicko he had thought, he was dangerous.
“Or...” Ian began, stepping closer to Tavrus, dwarfing him with his large armored frame. “I could kill you. Here and now, in broad daylight.”
Tavrus smiled up at Ian, “In my own home? With all those witnesses to see you leave? Even a guard can't get away with cold blooded murder.”
“Murder? No, I came here investigating grave-robbing and necromancy. You resisted arrest, tried to use your magic on me and I defended myself. I bet there's plenty of skeletons in these closets.”
“I'm not a fool. In the event of my death, a message will be sent to the captain of the guard, incriminating you in the drugs and my murder, accusing you of planting the necromatic evidence. It's all been arranged.”
“Captain Jerez? I'll take my chances, and you'll be dead.”
The two men stared each other down for a long silent moment. Finally Tavrus waved him off dismissively. “I'll pay you extra for this. It's a special job, after all.”
”How much is 'extra'?”

As Ian walked into the dark, the lantern outstretched in front of him, sword drawn, a wave of stench hit him—rotten flesh. Somehow it hadn't leaked out of the doorway, despite how pungent it was. The lantern barely lit the area in front of Ian's feet. A dark reddish brown paste was spread thinly over the wooden floor, making his boots slick. He walked carefully, holding the lantern low to watch where he stepped. The smell just kept getting worse, until finally he puked. As he was catching his breath, he looked back for Tavrus, expecting to see him smirking from the doorway—but he couldn't see anything, it was too dark. Tavrus must have shut the door. Bastard, Ian thought. Probably locked it too. As he trudged further into the black, rotten air, he nearly tripped over a body, badly decayed—dead for weeks it seemed. A woman.
Soon he was stepping over more corpses, and began to wonder how big this room was, when he saw the amulet. It was halfway buried in the foul-smelling paste. As he knelt down in the filth, he heard a faint sound, not far. Ian kept still, listening for a moment. It sounded like someone chewing messily. He took the amulet off the grimy wooden floor as quietly as he could, wrapping the chain around his sword-hand, and rose slowly to his feet. Shining the lantern forward, he walked slowly towards the sounds. The light poured over rotten corpse after rotten corpse, they were in piles now, and Ian had to find solid footing on them.
Then the lantern revealed a pale, stretched taut face. It had human features—a nose, eyes, ears—but it's mouth was several times too large. The thing was tearing rotten flesh out of a corpse's stomach when the light hit it. It exhaled sharp and wet through its nostrils and crawled backwards away from the light faster than Ian could react. Ian stood there frozen a moment, his heart pounding, and then turned away, stepping on and over the corpses as quickly as he could without falling, back towards where he thought the doorway was. He was now keenly aware of how quiet it was. The silence almost hurt his ears, and every footstep and breath was deafening.
”Force feed that?! You're f+~#in' kidding me,” He hissed nervously, trying to break the awful silence.
His steps were careful and solid. Door can't be far, he thought. Some primal instinct made Ian turn around suddenly, and his lantern fully revealed what was following him. It had long, scrawny arms and legs, with a bloated belly and sickly pale skin that folded and wrinkled as if it used to be much fatter. It's eyes were clouded, as if blind, but its face twisted into a grimace of rage when the light hit it, opening its mouth as if to scream but no sound escaping. It lunged at Ian, smashing the lantern out of his hand with a lightning fast swipe, then crouching, circling, its distended belly dragging on the ground. The lantern was still barely lit, a tiny flame emitted the smallest glimmer of light—but not for long. Then Ian noticed the amulet was gone. He must have dropped it in his retreat, Gods know how far back. He gripped the longsword in both hands, heart pounding, keeping his eyes on the creature. It opened its mouth, vomiting rotten flesh onto the floorboards, then licked its thin lips with a black tongue. Before Ian could grimace, it pounced at him, slamming into his chest plate and knocking him onto his back. He was stunned, and winded, but managed to keep the creature's maw away from his face and throat. It was strong, far too strong for its scrawny limbs. Claws raked against his armor. Even as it twisted and strained to bite him, the creature was dead silent. The silence was far more terrifying than any sound Ian could have imagined it making. He was breathing heavily, almost sobbing, as the needle-like teeth drew closer. His sword was nearby, but he needed both hands to keep the creature at bay. Screaming in desperation—to survive, to break the silence—Ian put his knee into its bloated belly and flipped the creature over his head. It landed with a thud and immediately scrambled back to its emaciated hands and feet.
Ian was tired, his muscles and lungs were burning. It took every last ounce of determination just to stand up again. I'm going to die in here, Ian realized, this is where I die. He sobbed through a laugh, edging backwards, away from the creature as it stalked after him. Pulling a dagger from the belt-sheath behind his back, he held it defensively, edging backwards. Each step his boot hit a corpse, a rotten leg, a rotten arm, each a chance to trip and fall. He wouldn't get back up from that. The pale creature leaned back on its haunches, about to pounce, and Ian felt true fear sink in, into his bones. Not the fear of something terrible happening, but knowing it will happen—then the pale, scrawny body smashed against his battered chest-plate, denting it further in, breaking ribs. Thin claws and teeth tore at the steel, searching for flesh to rend. As his back hit the floor, Ian nearly lost consciousness, but he had kept hold of his weapon this time and thrust the dagger between the creature's ribs. It thrashed and twisted in silent fury, and Ian heard the blade snap off inside it. The pale creature opened its jaws, the stench of rotten meat on its breath worse than anything Ian thought possible. The amulet, I need to shove that amulet down its f%~*ing throat. He raised his arms in front of his face for protection, and the black needle-teeth sunk in through the exposed chain-mail, piercing deep into the flesh underneath. The creature shook its head like a dog trying to tear meat free. Screaming in pain, Ian clawed at the ground within reach, trying to find anything—the amulet, his sword, the lantern—as the creature shook and yanked at his arm, trying to tear it off if it couldn't get the meat inside. There was nothing, no salvation—but someone grabbed his wrist, pulling. Tavrus, Ian thought, his face a grimace of agony.
In the dim light of the dying lantern, Ian saw it wasn't Tavrus. It was a rotten hand, clutching at him. He felt more hands, grabbing his ankle, his shoulder—holding him down for the creature to freely feed. The decayed faces around him watched with empty eyes as they clutched at him. Ian cried out in pain again as the pale creature yanked harder, tearing through more of the chainmail. Ian's face was covered in tears, snot, and the blood that had spurted from the gaping wound in his arm. He screamed at the top of his lungs, throat burning, and wrenched free from the corpses' hands that held him down. One of the decayed arms was ripped off in the process, broken bone exposed. Ian grabbed the severed limb and slammed the jagged end into the side of the pale creature's neck. He kept screaming, and stabbing—black blood spurting from the wound—until the needle-teeth loosened. As the pale creature started to pull away, Ian grabbed it by the throat, despite the horrific wound that arm had suffered. He sobbed and screamed, rage and agony, as he kept stabbing. He felt the tipping point, when the creature started to panic, and tightened his grip around its throat. Tearing his shoulder free of the grasping hands, he rose to one knee, and began bearing down on the creature, forcing it to the floor through sheer strength and will, until he was straddling its bloated belly, stabbing it over and over in the neck. It's pale skin was drenched in its own black oily blood. It squirmed and struggled against the wooden floor. Ian sobbed through clenched teeth, and finally yelled, voice hoarse, as he took its neck in both hands and began smashing its head against the floor. He didn't stop until its head was a crushed mess, and had been pulled free from its body. Rising to his feet, covered in both crimson and black blood, Ian stood over the remains, breathing heavily and ragged.
He wasn't sure how long he had been standing there, staring at the mess, when the darkness began to recede from the room. The decayed bodies grew still. Even the smell died down. Ian winced at the light, finally able to make out the outline of curtained-windows and furniture. Looking around, he saw the door, and stumbled towards it, clutching his bleeding arm. It was locked. He didn't have the voice to call out, but he beat his fist against the door, leaning heavily on it, and then passed out.

When he woke, Tavrus was standing over him. He was laying on some kind of metal table.
“Am I dead?”
Tavrus looked up from a piece of parchment he had been scanning. “Dead? No. If you were dead you wouldn't be able to ask that question, would you?”
Ian tried to sit up, but groaned and fell back. Tavrus shook his head.
“I admit that fact surprised me as well.”
“Bastard. You sent me in there to die,” Ian said weakly, but with some remaining fire in his voice.
Stepping closer, unafraid of the wounded man, Tavrus said quietly, “No, I sent you in there with an artifact to banish...It. Through your own incompetence you must have dropped it,” He paused to look at Ian a moment, “It's near impossible to kill. Blades are useless. Most spells soak right into it with no effect. That is why I'm surprised you're alive.”
“You...why didn't you tell me all that?” Ian coughed, pressing a hand against seeping bandages.
Tavrus pushed his hand away and began unwrapping the soaked bandages, “You were given very specific instructions. Easy to remember, even for you.”
Ian felt blood running down his side as the bandages came off. Tavrus took small tool from a kit nearby and leaned in close to the wound.
”Nevertheless, you accomplished your task and the gold is yours,” he paused a moment to look at Ian, “I'm...grateful.”
“Don't go falling in love—” Ian began, but clenched his teeth in pain as Tavrus dug into the wound.
“Quiet. Its claws pushed shreds of your armor into the wounds. I thought I got it all but I must have missed some.”
Vision blurring, Ian's last thought before he lost consciousness was: Not the dark, not again.

As they walk to The Silver Spirits, Ian points out some burnt-down ruins.

"That used to be the big popular tavern, before the Spirits--this was uh...eight years back or so. Little group of petty criminals started called themselves 'Red's Messengers' or some other b&~%%$&# they made up to sound dangerous."

Though he has an intimidating demeanor, Ian seems protective of the halfling, keeping himself between Tomlin and any dangerous looking passerby. Not that Tomlin needed protecting. Maybe old habits die hard.

"Guard was investigating a kidnap and ransom case, and they were the prime suspects. Group of us went down there to do a sweep—they ask for a password at the door,” Ian laughs, ”So we kick it in. I uh, I made some clever remark about the password thing as we went in, but can't remember what it was. Anyway, place is full of these thugs and petty thieves, all wearin' red. One of em puts a knife to the stolen kid's throat and says he'll kill him if we don't leave. Guard to my left, uh... Valan, I think his name was, puts a crossbow bolt through the thug's eye, but the kid runs off as soon as he hits the ground.”

They spot The Silver Spirits sign up ahead, a few blocks down. Ian seems to be staring far past it.

”Some of them scatter, some try to rush us. Not sure if they set the fire on purpose or accidentally. Smoke kept getting' thicker, and we couldn't find the kid. The other guards left but I kept lookin',” He nods slowly, still staring off.

At the door of The Silver Spirits, he looks to Tomlin.

”Never found him. I like to think kid ran outta' that place before the fire even started. Never forgot that—coulda' been one of mine.”

He smirks a little, ”I mean it, coulda' been one of mine,” and nudges Tomlin, before going inside.

He just got paid. It wasn't much, considering the work he did, but it was enough. Enough for meals, for drinks at the tavern, and for her. His heart was already hammering in his throat as he made his way to Hazel's.

Thinking of her brought a cocktail of emotions stirring up inside Ian, most he couldn't put a name to. Lust, definitely. But there were so many others, stronger. Visiting her felt like coming in from the cold wet street to sit by a warm fire. Warm eyes, warm smile. Warm bosom, Ian thought. He smiled like an idiot, a passer-by glared at him. He didn't care, he was on his way to see her.

Walking boldly up to her small house in the slums, Ian gripped the single flower he had bought in the market on the way over—purple, cheery, pretty. Stupid, he thought. She doesn't want flowers, she wants coin. With a grimace he tossed the flower aside, into the weeds and garbage that grew with equal fervor in the neighborhood, and stepped up to her door, hesitating, knocking. His heart beat faster as he heard her footsteps approaching from inside the house. He glanced back at the flower, discarded amongst the weeds.

“Ian! Just...give me a moment,” she said, flashing him a brilliant smile before shutting the door again.

Beautiful. Maybe not what noble lord and ladies considered beautiful. To someone else she might look scrawny, dirty, with messy black hair, short unladylike fingernails, but he saw her. Her green eyes made his heart beat in a way that probably wasn't healthy. She was fragile, smooth and soft, unlike everything else in his life. He lov—

”Pardon,” a gruff man said as he pressed out of Hazel's door and past Ian, who was staring blankly.

The bearded man, a head shorter than Ian, avoided eye contact with the infamous guardsman, bowing his head twice before hurrying out into the street. Ian stared after him.

“Good to see you, love,” Hazel's soft, thick voice said as she ran a hand down his blade-scarred steel breastplate, tracing the lines with her fingertips.

For a moment, Ian couldn't bring himself to look back at her, afraid of what his face might betray. He put on a relaxed smirk and tore his eyes off the retreating man.

She smiled slyly, and leaned closer to Ian, whispering conspiratorially, “I'm feeling very unsatisfied. He wasn't anything like you.”

Probably just saying that because she saw his jealousy. He didn't care.

“Well, come on,” She said, gripping the collar of his breastplate and guiding him inside, shutting the door and locking it with a click.

That sound, Gods, the sound of that door locking... Ian was already breathing heavy.

Cold water splashed into his face, making him break into a fit of coughing.

“Hazel,” He gasped between coughs.

“The f~#% he said? He's still out, toss the other.”

Another bucket was thrown into Ian's face. He inhaled more water as he gasped and coughed awake.

“He's comin' round. Check the rope again, don't want him gettin' a hand free again.”

Vision blurry, shapes formed in the dim light. An ugly face leered at him. Esteban's.

Ian slurred through busted purple lips, “Was havin' a good dream, wakin' up to your deformed goat-sack of a face is worse than a beating.”

A meaty fist knocked his head to the side, tipping over the chair he was tied to.

“Stupid f!%&. You're gonna be even uglier after this—should bring you a f+$@in' mirror, piece of s@!!,” Esteban spat, his dirty leather boots pacing back and forth angrily in front of Ian's view from the wet floor.

The thugs around him laughed on cue. Ian flexed his wrist, pulling on the bindings, trying to loosen them while the room stopped spinning.

“Checked the rope, right?”

“Yea, and double-checked. He ain't gettin' out of those knots.”

“On your f+~*in' word then—he get free again and you'll be in the chair next.”

The voices were faded, distant. Someone strong—or a couple people—lifted Ian's chair upright again. Esteban tugged on the rope binding Ian's wrists behind his back.

“I said I checked 'em...”

“Shut up.” Esteban snapped, staring down the thug.

Ian swallowed blood, “I told ya already, your boss made his point, his shop's got new protection, I get it.”

Esteban showed yellow teeth in an unfriendly grin. “Afraid he don't forgive so easy, you extorted him for a good many years, a 'sorry' ain't gonna cut it—and we're just getting' started makin' our point,” he nodded to one of the thugs, and the heavyset man brought out a leather bundle, unrolling it on a nearby table. An assortment of blacksmith tools clanged against each other. Pliers, tongs—the works.

Stretching his bindings to try and look behind him, Ian saw two thick-armed men in his peripheral back there, one with a broadsword and the other with a handaxe. Six men, seven counting ole' Esteban, Ian thought as he looked back at the iron tools.

“I ain't a blacksmith, I don't even know what these things are used for,” Esteban picked up a particularly cruel looking one. “But when I look at you, I get all sorts of creative inspiration.”

As Esteban gripped one of Ian's hands with the device, he smiled pure hatred. Ian could see the bruises on Esteban's neck, even in the dim light, from where he had nearly crushed his throat when he got his arm free.

“There's an old whores' trick for covering bruises like that, you wouldn't want to give anyone the wrong idea would 'ya?” Ian said with bared teeth.

Esteban's expression flickered from disgust to fury before his wiry-muscled arms flexed and the blacksmith's tool punched a hole through the meat of Ian's hand, scraping bone and sending spasms of agony through his body. The yell of pain that started in his gut was cut off by clenched teeth, Ian laughed, a dry, bitter laugh, with a shaking voice as his maimed hand trembled.

“I know a few whores 'got toys they love too,” Ian coughed sour phlegm, but forced himself not to throw up from the pain. “Keep em in a nice roll of leather, just like you. You sure you ain't a whore?”

Shaking with anger, teeth bared in what couldn't even generously be called a grin, Esteban picked up the blacksmith hammer, approaching Ian with a white-knuckle grip on it.

Before Ian could speak, Esteban smashed the hammer across his jaw, and the world dimmed to black again.

“You can't stay, Ian. I'm sorry, wake up,” a soft feminine voice said, quietly, gently.

Ian's head smashed against the cold wet floor again.

“You can't stay.”

The floor was almost comfortable as he drifted unconscious. Really really comfortable, actually. He never wanted to raise his head again. Why would he ever leave? Hazel's soft, warm breasts under his head, her gentle hand running through his hair.

“You'll come back though, won't you? I'll miss you if you're gone too long,” She teased. He didn't believe her, but he wanted to. The words were good enough.

They were naked in her bed, and a fire popped and crackled quietly nearby. He listened to the music of her breathing and heartbeat for just one more moment before clearing his throat.

“Yeah, my coin's yours and only yours,” he said, but didn't mean it to sound so bitter.

Silence hung for a moment, her hand stopping in his hair, before she continued.

“Good. I'm a jealous woman.”

He wasn't sure what to say to that. He thought of the gruff bearded man that left just before him. They laid together in silence for another long moment before Ian spoke.

“Ever think of quittin'?”

She sighed quietly, “Not the 'leave this terrible life behind and run away with me' speech, not you, Ian.”

“Not sayin' that. Just askin' if you ever thought of quittin',” Ian responded, dejected.

Hazel sounded like she was going to say something, but kept silent instead. Ian waited, but finally she just said “You can't stay,” and turned Ian aside onto the pillow.

She sat on the edge of the bed to put stockings on, then stood to continue dressing. When she caught him watching she only smiled impishly. “I should charge you for this.”

His heart ached, and someone was kicking him in the ribs.

“Wake up you stupid f@@$ing waste of pile of pig s*~#!” Someone spat, cursing violently as they kicked at him. Esteban.

As he inhaled, he knew he had a few broken ribs—he coughed in pain. His jaw was broken too.

“I was wrong about you,” Ian said, gravelly voice full of blood, pain, and dark amusement, “You ain't a whore.”

The two men stood Ian's chair up again. Esteban was browsing the variety of blacksmith tools, deciding on his next toy. He turned to Ian, eyes sparkling and a sadistic, hateful smile—a pair of iron shears in hand.

“Oh?” Esteban asked, leaning in to savor the brief flicker of fear that crossed Ian's face when he saw the shears.

“Whores hit harder,” Ian said, spitting blood in his face. It was a nice, thick, coagulated glob and Esteban jerked back in surprise. He felt a manic sense of satisfaction, a deep chuckle slurring past his broken jaw.

Wiping the blood from his face, expression completely blank, he grabbed Ian's left ear, and with a sickening flame of sharp iron through flesh, cut it off.

Struggling and jerking around in the chair as he screamed, slurred, muffled, Ian stared murder at Esteban. I'll f~%&ing kill you, I'll f*%+ing kill you, he thought over and over.

Esteban gloated to the other thugs, who laughed and leered. Then he turned his sadistic grin to Ian, leaning close. “What was that? You sound like a whore with a cock in her mouth. I must've broken your jaw.”

Ian threw every muscle from his legs, his stomach, to his neck to slam his forehead into Esteban's teeth. Struggling around in the chair had loosened his bonds just enough. The impact was loud and wet. Ian felt blood running down his forehead into his eyes, probably some of it his own. Esteban made a choking sound then crumpled, one hand pawing at his destroyed mouth. Ian strained hard against the chair, trying to break the wood if he couldn't escape the rope. The nearby thugs stared in shock for only a moment before they fell on him, beating him with the pommels of their weapons, their fists, their boots.

This time he didn't fall unconscious. Damn, Ian thought, remembering the dream. He wanted to go back there. Everything hurt like hell. Vaguely he recognized his ear, laying on the floorboards not far away.

“With Esteban dead, that means I'm in charge. Got it? We kill him, we leave.”

“What about the bodies?”

“F#~* them, no ties to us. Esteban's the one who got his grubby hands in that merchant's pockets, he's the face they'll know, not us.”

His head spinning, barely conscious, Ian felt the rope was loose on one of his wrists. He pulled, and a sharp pain shot up his arm. Broken, that's why it was lose, his arm was broken. Suppressing a pained chuckle, Ian steadied himself for what he'd have to do. Flexing the muscles in his broken, twisted arm, he began to pull his crushed hand and wrist through the rope bindings. The pain was worse than anything Esteban had done to him, and he was barely able to stop himself from screaming.

“Gregory, stand watch outside. We leave right after I cut his throat.”

'Gregory' stared in shock as Ian slowly stood, pieces of chair breaking off him, one arm hanging twisted and limp. The thug that was giving orders—Nash?—turned around as fast as he could, dagger swiping from his sheath.

Blood sprayed in a thick slap against Gregory's face as Ian shoved a broken chair leg down through Nash's collar bone, down into his chest a whole arm's length with sheer strength. The look on Ian's face froze Gregory in place. The other thugs drew their weapons and ran at him.

A thug raised his handaxe as he charged, going for a killing blow. Ian grabbed for the haft as the axe came down, missing, but catching hold of the thug's wrist. Yanking hard, he threw the thug off balance, sinking his teeth into his ear, ignoring his broken jaw. The thug screamed in pain as Ian shoved him away, tearing flesh free, then screamed at a higher pitch when Ian stepped hard on the side of the thug's knee, snapping it inward.

This caused the other charging thugs a moments hesitation. He spat the chunk of ear onto the floor and lumbered towards them, one arm broken and limp at his side, forehead bleeding, face covered in blood, ear missing just like the thug he had maimed—and a handaxe, gripped tightly so it didn't slip from bloody fingers. This time only two of them charged, as the maimed thug still clutched his maimed knee, screaming.

Ian slammed the hatchet into the face of the first thug, splitting it like gory kindling, pulling free from Ian's hand as the body collapsed with the axe stuck in it. The other thug ran his sword through Ian's gut. Baring blood-covered teeth, Ian grabbed the hilt of the sword, preventing the thug from pulling it out. He saw the exact moment when the man realized he should have ran, and savored in it, used it to keep his will burning hot even while his body begged to collapse. When the thug turned to run, Ian pulled the sword out of his own stomach, blood spurting, and caught the fleeing man in a one-armed headlock before dragging the blade across his throat. The other two were already rushing at him, daggers drawn. Ian shoved the dying man into one of them, then crudely hacked the other's arm off, ignoring him as he tumbled into a screaming heap, thrusting the sword into the belly of the man who had just regained his balance. He hefted upwards, bellowing agony and rage, lifting the thug several feet off the ground with the impaling blade.

The only one left standing was 'Gregory', who had ran for the door. Ian stomped after him, floorboards creaking. Gregory was two steps out the door when Ian cleaved down at his shoulder, nearly splitting the man in half diagonally. His mutilated body tumbled like slaughtered meat down the stairs, spilling blood and insides onto the street. There was a moment of shocked silence from the crowd of passerbys, then screaming erupted. Ian stalked back inside, covered from head to toe in blood. The crumpled thug was clutching where his ear used to be, crawling towards the house's side door. He looked up as he heard Ian's heavy footsteps approaching, pain and terror on his face. The room began to spin and Ian stumbled. He swiped a hand, grasping for the thug's ankle as he fled, but missed. As consciousness slipped through his fingers, he thought of Hazel, and the purple flower he had tossed aside outside her house.

He didn't dream.

Weeks passed—he took the Cleric's word on it. Benefit and drawback of being in the guard: they just won't let you die. Nice enough old man, the Cleric. Seemed like he had seen a lot of injured and dying in his life. Ian vaguely remembered the faces of fellow guardsmen, coming to visit. Even Captain Jerez, congratulating him on something. Something... he wondered, before passing out again.

When he next woke, everything went by in a blur. He felt better, could walk, but faces came and went so quickly. The Cleric had even reattached his ear, or healed the strange stump into a fresh one, he honestly didn't want to know which, but he swore to the Cleric it was a little crooked. Captain Jerez was still commending him. They seemed to think Ian went in to arrest that gang. He didn't argue.

Finally well enough to leave, he walked instinctively towards Hazel's house, a purse of bonus pay on his belt. He passed a merchant's flower cart. She just wants coin, he thought bitterly, but hesitated. After an agonizing moment of indecision he clenched his fists and stalked back to the flower cart and angrily bought one.

When Hazel opened the door and saw Ian, the relief in her face to see him alive was a moment he stored deep inside, a talisman, to keep him going. She hid the relief quickly, and tried to cover it with her usual impish smile. She began to speak but he hugged her then, without thinking. One arm around her waist, the other behind his back, holding a single purple flower. She didn't hug him back, but it didn't matter.

Ian remembered the house well. It was an old, beat up thing, once upon a time. Now barely a frame with planks nailed all over it. Just a shack, made almost weatherproof, in a long crowded line of others like it. He wore a tan cloak over his breastplate to hide the Tower insignia, and a helmet to hide his newly pointed ears, with the visor raised. It was raining again, just like last time, and the upturned visor helped keep the water from his face.

As he walked up the stairs to the front door, a step gave way underfoot with a rotten snap and his boot came up covered in mud and rot. Cursing, he smashed his gauntlet-clad fist on the door to knock--and it opened a few inches, unlocked. "Kira?" Ian called out into the dark shack.

No answer. He pushed the door open as he stepped inside. "Kira," he called out again. The shack was dark, no fires or light inside, just dim overcast daylight shining in through holes in the roof as rain spattered and dripped on rotten, water-soaked old floorboards. Ian's boots thumped dully as he walked through to what was once a bedroom, the door hanging from one hinge.

"It's mine. Get out. Mine. Get the f*&~ out. I'll gut you. Out," came a low raving voice from the dark of the room--but Ian could see him there, a shaggy man in rags, backed in a corner with a hatchet.

"Ain't here for your spot. Looking for someone who used to live here," Ian said with a level, flat tone, lowering his hand from his greatsword. Apparently the man saw that as a sign of weakness and rushed him, swinging his hatchet in a wide arc. Ian stepped into it, the shaft of the hatchet bouncing harmlessly off his armor, and smashed the forearm of his gauntlet into the squatter's mouth, knocking him flat on his back. While the man lay there stunned and bloodied, Ian snatched the axe from his hand like a parent taking a toy from a child. "Just stay down or I'll knock you down again. I said I ain't here for your spot. Just want information."

Spitting blood and angry, the haggard, scarred man around Ian's age glared daggers up at him. "Wut den?"

"Girl, bout 19--no, I guess 23 now... short, blue eyes, brown hair, named Kira," he frowned. "With a boy."

The squatter tried to stare Ian down in the slim hope he'd just go away, but sighed heavily. "'Bout a week ago, some thugs came, killed the boy, girl got away. That's how I got the place," he sounded proud of himself.

"What thugs, who? Where'd she go?" Ian took a step closer, looming over the fallen man.

He seemed to shrink, curling his body up defensively. "Dunnow, dunnow. She just ran, she climbed out tha window, ran and ran."

"What. Thugs. Who. What's their names, who they work for?" Ian gritted his teeth. If he couldn't find Kira today, at least he could get a little payback for her. Keep her safe.

"Who every thug works for here. You dun know? Gregory. They all work for Gregory now, ever since summun' killed ole' Esteban, one-eared Gregory been in charge. Ruthless bastard. And paraonid."

Ian remembered Gregory. Remembered taking his ear off, too. And the memory of killing Estaban? That almost got him hard. That was a good kill. F%#!ing bastard, he thought, remembering.

The squatter had crawled backwards all the way to the wall, cowering there, apparently not liking whatever he saw in Ian's eyes. "Wait wait, wait. Please. I, I think I know where she ran to. Alright? Please, just leave me be," he nearly sobbed. "There's a orphanage, takes in runaways. She worked there, every day, helpin' the kids. I think she'd go there. But but I'd never tell Gregory and 'his lot that. We gots to stick together, you know, us kids o the slum. Eh? Please..."

Ian turned and left. Something was eating at him, deep in his gut. Something about Kira working at an orphanage tore him up inside. He'd find her, and then he'd track down his old friend Gregory and get reacquainted. Orphanage first.

Mother Mercy Orphanage was its own little independent power in the slums. Nothing as grand as a Thieves' Guild, but a respectable neutral ground. Most of the city's thieves grew up there, or at least spent time there. And if they hadn't, they were close to someone had. All sorts of criminals grew out of Mother Mercy's, but that's not what was bothering him. If anything, that was a good thing. She'd be safer, with some protection, some family. Orphan. May as well have been. When her mother died she lost her dad, too, he thought grimly.

He'd stalled long enough, staring at the orphanage, thinking. He worked up his courage and stepped inside. Hungry, suspicious faces watched him from bedrolls, hammocks, and tables. It smelled like mold, but there was food on the air, too. Maybe a stew. A weary old woman approached, maybe twenty years Ian's senior, and put on a forced smile. ”Can I help you with something? What brings you here.”

”Lookin' for Kira,” Ian answered bluntly. He noted the recognition and instant defensiveness in her face when he said Kira's name.

”Haven't seen her in a week or more. Sorry,” the old woman began to turn away, returning to her duties.

Ian walked past her, towards a closed door to another room that had caught his eye. The old woman frowned, calling out after him. ”If there'll be nothin' else I can help ye with, I'd have to ask ye to leave, sir.” He tried the door handle and it opened to an empty office with a desk and dusty shelves. ”I'm—I'm afraid I'll have to fetch the guards, “ she threatened. Ian tried the next door down, and it was locked. He shoved his shoulder into it and it obliged with the soft crack of wood splitting.

He saw Kira, then felt the point of a dagger slip between armored plates, press through the leather and chain mail to rest against skin, from behind him. Kira's face went from fear, to recognition, to frustration. ”It's okay mum, I know him.”

The old woman slowly pulled the slim dagger out from Ian's armor, but whispered harshly to him before leaving, ”Poison'd kill you before you could turn around. Don't f$%*ing touch her.”

He let out a careful breath, then grinned at Kira. ”Fierce protector.”

She ignored him and turned away, ”Shut the door—if it even closes now. You're going to get me killed.” He walked in and obliged. Kira sighed heavily and turned back to face him. ”What do you want? Money? You can donate it to the orphanage, I'm not taking it.”

”It's...good to see you,” Ian mustered as he set a heavy coinpurse on her bookshelf.

Kira crossed her arms and stared at him impatiently. ”Good to see you too. So, goodbye? I have work to do.”

Ian took a deep breath and hoped he could say the right things. ”You're a woman, I mean, not a kid. You've grown up—and I'm sorry about the boy, you were with. You look good, and...” He took another breath. ”I thought maybe with this new job at the Tower I could just throw enough coin around and get us all together again. You, your brother and sister. Provide for you all and protect you, that's all I wanted. But I don't think you need it. I mean you've all survived just fine without me. Seeing you now, grown up, I get it. Hells, you've thrown it in my face enough times. When you actually needed a father I wasn't there, and now you don't need me.”

Kira's face had softened, despite her jaw being clenched. Did that mean he was saying the right things?

”I just, wanted to say I'm sorry, and...” his chest felt deflated but he forced the words out anyway. ”If you tell me to not come back, then I won't. I'll stay out of your life for good. I promise I won't look for you anymore. If you say so.” Gods, don't say it, please.

She laughed, angry. ”I've been telling you it for years, you want to hear it again? Fine. Stay. Gone.”

He stood there, a prisoner of his own decision, realizing this might be the last time he'll get to see her face. Kira started crying and Ian felt even more trapped in uncertainty. Somehow he thought this would be it, when the walls would finally collapse and they'd reconnect. Did I f$#! it up? Anguish slowly calcified into a cold, hopeless anger. He nodded. ”You won't have to see me again. And you won't have to worry about Gregory and his thugs, either. We're old friends,” he walked away and didn't look back.

Turns out Gregory had tried to kidnap Kira to get at Ian, hurt him, extort him. Didn't make any difference. After they were all butchered meat littering their little 'headquarters', Ian bought a night's worth of Pesh from a local dealer and a cheap room at a cheap inn. At least she's safe.”