When Heroes Die

“I assure you, it will only take five years at most to bring the High Lords under control.”

— Dread Empress Sinistra IV, the Erroneous

The pools of Esme’s ocean blue eyes trailed from person to person as she swaggered with confidence between the people and tents set out in the open air market. They fell on a grizzled man who had raised an expensive rapier with a jewel encrusted handle to eye level.

Discern.

Behaviour: Sigh is wistful, man cannot afford the item that he’s appraising. Hand clenching is involuntary, likely a sign of a substance addiction or battle fatigue.

Speculation: Possibility he’s planning something? Perhaps a heist? No, fogged over eyes. Rapier reminds him of an event in his past. No avarice.

Useless. Esme turned away from the man in disgust. He was a dead end.

Esme had been adrift at sea on a foggy night for the span of a day in the wake of her brother’s demise. The choice he had made had struck like lightning on a cloudless day. Since then, Esme had vowed to herself to never again be caught unaware in such an unseemly manner. She had cursed at the Gods in her anger. Railed at the injustice of it all. Then she had begun to investigate, eavesdrop on every sheltered whisper that she could.

If those who claimed to be good would do nothing to ensure punishment was meted out when it was due, then she would dispense it herself. First she would acquire the funds she needed, then she would purchase the services of those skilled at doling out death under the veil of the night.

Esme had known the purpose she strove for long before she first called upon Discern. It was only a confirmation of the path she already walked. Neither the nobility nor the priests had seen fit to extend a hand to her brother. Worse: some had participated in the farce which brought about his demise — whispering the poison their mother had espoused into his vulnerable ears. She owed them all less than the dirt on her now worn leather boots.

“If you’re not going to spend any silver, then piss off,” the man who owned the fish stall behind her spat at her.

Esme took two steps back, but a thick gob landed in her hair regardless.

“Your salmon has a pungent odour. See that discolouration: it’s a sign that they need to be burned,” Esme shouted out, scowling at the man. “Anyone who eats what you offer will find themselves sick soon afterwards. I think that you should be flogged for hawking rot in the market.”

“You trade in lies, woman. I have no time for stragglers. Leave so that others may browse in peace.”

Confidence. The key to selling a good untruth was confidence. A better fabrication would be a partial truth, or an omitted truth, but confidence sold an outright deception.

“I’m warning all of you,” she made large, sweeping gestures with her arms as she shouted, “this man is attempting to poison us. Better to try your luck at a cleaner stall.”

There weren’t many people in the market for fish. Those that were here to buy had followed along from the moment she raised her voice. They didn’t know if she told the truth or was spinning a yarn, but all of them chose to follow her advice. It was wiser not to take risks with food poisoning. The false servants of Above may be able to cure their woes, but it would still make for an uncomfortable time during the wait.

The fishmonger bleated like a goat in anger, but Esme was already dashing off. She weaved and ducked between other stalls, doing her best to become just another visage in the sea of mediocrity. Should she stop beside that mountain of a baker? He had much in common with the domed roof of the nearby cathedral. No. Esme doubted that there would be anything interesting to ferret there. Esme strode past the rapier of a man hawking tools imported from Mercantis. His two bodyguards made menacing motions with their blades at all who drew near.

Attempting theft within their vicinity would be unwise.

At long last, she came to a stop beside a pallid looking scribe.

Esme scowled.

She reached towards the fine strands of her onyx hair with her wiry fingers and tried to clean them off. That bastard. Her hair was one of the few reminders she had of her dead sibling. It was one of the features they had shared before he had chosen to cut his own thread short.

Esme’s attention fell on her surroundings once her task was complete. Her eyes alighted upon two figures approaching. They passed a cobbler and a seamstress, before pausing to make way for an ox.

The first was an Alamans boy that she presumed was only a few years past his twentieth summer. That made the boy no more than five summers her senior. He was garbed in leathers and silks. His right hand brushed through his brown curls, before dropping towards his side. Esme narrowed her eyes. The boy’s fingers were decked with many rings that twinkled in the reflected light from the snow. None of his many accessories looked cheap.

Esme wondered what secrets the boy held. She longed for friends, allies to help her carry out her vengeance, but those she examined all fell below the waterline of her expectations. Either they were too incapable, too ineffective, or they were too dangerous for her to conspire with. She could not approach other members of the nobility — they were as vile as her family were and would turn upon her at a moment’s notice — and for the same reason she could not approach the priests.

Would he make for a trustworthy conspirator? He was easy on the eyes, but that wasn’t a strong foundation for trust.

Behaviour: Stands loose, but eyes are alert. Watching, aware, looking for danger.

Appearance: Irises are the incorrect colour. Sign of previous injury? Has several other scars.

Speculation: Perhaps a soldier? No, that doesn’t warrant enough pay to afford his clothes.

“Is something remiss?” the boy asked, his lips almost hinting at a smile.

“No, nothing’s the matter,” Esme replied.

“You appeared to be lost in thought.”

“Do you need me to walk out of your way?”

“I would appreciate it if you were to step to one side so that I may inspect the stall.”

Esme moved over and allowed him to peruse the scribe’s wares. She had no desire to earn the ire of a potential war veteran. It was not long before the boy had his attention riveted on texts sold by the scribe. Esme tutted to herself. It was impolite of her to stare. Her eyes trailed left, following the direction of his gaze. Far enough to not be looking at him, but for him to still be trapped within her sight. There. Now she could observe him without giving offence. There were secrets here. Esme could almost taste them on the air.

Appearance: Bracelet is silver, expensive, fitted with a genuine emerald. Symbol of snake carved below the emerald. Rune — not decorative.

Speculation: Likely enchanted. Enchanted? Sorcerer, the man is a war wizard.

Esme bit her lip. The church bells tolled at the back of her mind in warning. She had a suspicion that her discernment was incorrect, but she wasn’t certain of why. It was unfortunate, but she doubted the man would make for an acceptable ally. There was too high a risk of him having existing attachments to any of her chosen foes.

But perhaps this encounter could prove to be of use to her in other ways.

The man had excess capital and could afford a loss of coin. Esme required an injection of wealth to keep her schemes afloat. Stealing from the nobility was fraught with too much risk, but none would listen to the words of a wizard. They were viewed in a worse light than Esme was.

Esme turned towards the girl following him. By examining her, she hoped to learn more about her mark. Blonde haired and clad in green, she looked like a baby yew tree during the month of autumn.

Behaviour: Eyes never settle. Has trouble focusing, inattentive. Subtle changes in expression towards no perceptible phenomena. Lost in either thoughts or memories. Reaches towards her pouch often for reassurance.

Appearance: Too old to be his daughter, lacks any physical resemblance. Not siblings. The two remain within each other’s boundaries. Implies a level of trust. Apprentice?

Speculation: Pouch contains tools of her trade. Wizards frequently make use of expensive or unusual materials for their sorceries. It is probable the contents can be pawned for a not insignificant amount of coin.

Now, how to take advantage of what she had learned?

The girl’s trinkets would doubtless be worth less than anything her teacher possessed, but have a higher value than anything most of her usual targets owned. The girl was also far less alert than her mentor, making her a safer horse to wager on.

“I will return in a while, Yvette. Should I expect you to remain here and browse the markets, or do you intend to follow me as I complete this trade?”

Word order and choice: remain before follow. Expect compared to intend. Indicates a preference for Yvette remaining.

Word choice: while — vague. Unsure of how long the trade will take, believes it will be a long time.

Behaviour: pursing of lips and furrowing of brows. Indicates he suspects Yvette will not approve of what he is about to do.

“I’ll stay here Roland there’s so much to look at ma is always so busy she doesn’t take me to places like this all that often but I like being able to browse shops and see what is for sale I don’t think I’ll find anything I can use but there’s no guarantee.”

Behaviour — Roland: softening of features when Yvette mentions her mother. Amicable with her. No, enamoured with her. Looking after Yvette to earn her approval.

Word Emphasis — Yvette: Strong emphasis on the word “ma.” Implies something happened to her mother in the past.

Speculation: Mother has an injury or permanent disability. A lost limb would be beyond the ability of the priests to heal. Roland is attracted to the mother despite her obvious failings, and took on the girl’s apprenticeship as a way to earn her favour.

Behaviour — Yvette: Eyes are wistful. Cares about her mother. Craves her approval. Insecure.

Speculation: Believes that she does not have her mother’s approval. No, thinks she has it, but that it’s transient. Wants to impress her mother. Mother is hard to impress. Point of vulnerability.

“Be sure not to cause any mischief while I am away.” His voice was injected with levity, but that was not what Esme took away from the exchange.

Behaviour — Yvette: Narrowing of eyes, stiffening of shoulders after the word mischief was said. Attempting to hide the fact that she flinched.

Speculation: Yvette often makes mistakes. Is sensitive about it. Likely made a major mistake in the past. Perhaps she was responsible for her mother’s flaws?

Roland waited while the scribe packed away his merchandise, then fell in step with the man as they both left. This was the opportunity that Esme had been scouting the market for.

Yvette dodged and fumbled her way through the crowd. It puzzled Esme how the scatterbrained girl avoided colliding with anyone, despite appearing to pay no attention to where her boots took her. She even walked in front of an oncoming galloping horse without being injured in the process.

Esme’s bushy eyebrows rose with every fortunate evasion.

Yvette’s wandering came to a stop beside a bronze statue of Clothor Merovins in the centre of the market square. She sat down on a stone bench below it, then fidgeted as she watched the passing crowds.

Esme took a seat to her right. Yvette did not even appear to notice. She was too absorbed in her own thoughts. The pouch was within reach. Esme acknowledged that she could seize it already, at likely no consequence to herself. The girl was such a moon-calf that she wouldn’t notice if somebody cut off her ears, but there was no reason for Esme to take unnecessary risks. It was far safer to distract the girl first.

“You’ll never earn your mother’s approval,” she began.

Yvette turned towards Esme. Her cheeks were inflated like boils.

“Hmm and what would you know it's not like you know anything about me go bother someone else and leave-”

Yvette bristled as she retorted.

“You will take another wrong turn like you always do, or you’ll hurt her again,” Esme cut in.

She frowned with distaste inside. It was uncouth to interrupt another, but she could not allow the girl to muster a defence. She moved her hand at a snails pace towards the girl’s pouch.

“You and I have never met before so I don’t know what you have against me I know I’ll mess up again I always do but that’s fine my ma is fine with it and she’s a priest my mistakes aren’t unforgivable and I’ll learn and do better the-”

Behaviour: physically withdrawing, feels doubt but is unwilling to let it affect her. Latter accusations had little impact. She does not hold herself responsible for her mother’s injury.

Word Choice: Unforgivable — deliberate, has made mistakes that she considers unforgivable in the past.

Speculation: One of her mistakes led to more than a single person’s death.

If Esme had felt any guilt at her ongoing larceny, it would have evaporated with mention of the mother’s vocation. A priest excusing murder? It was as expected as the final grain of sand reaching the bottom of the hourglass. Liars, all of them. Was there even a single person in this city who deserved Esme’s respect? Esme excepted, of course. If anything, she now had further reasons to not only plunge in the knife, but give it a minor twist as well.

“There’s only so many people you can kill before your mother abandons you. With the path you walk, I expect that one day you will cross the wrong bridge and an entire city will burn down for it.”

The girl flinched, her face draining of colour. Esme’s hand crept closer to Yvette’s pouch. She pulled it loose. Yvette was too lost in the maze of her distress to notice.

“That-that’s not true I would never not again I’m not a villain I-”

Yvette shook her head emphatically from side to side as she continued to protest. Her blonde hair became frazzled, covering over her eyes.

Behaviour: impassioned withdrawal indicates she holds herself to a high degree of guilt.

Word Choice: Not again — indicates she believes that she has burned down a city before.

The further she mined the depths of the priesthood’s deceptions, the more certain Esme became of the journey that she had embarked upon.

“I wonder what it will take for you to see the folly of your own actions. How many must suffer first? Is one city not enough, or must the whole of Creation burn for you to understand that you will never amount to more than a failure in the eyes of all around you.” Esme spoke with passion, heat lacing her voice.

She had only intended for this to be minor theft — inconsequential to her at most — but it had become a small part of her quest instead. A chance for her to exact the justice she craved upon one who had evidently earned it and did not have the fangs to bite back. It was a pity that none would believe the child guilty of the crimes writ in invisible ink upon her soul. None but Esme could truly be trusted to hold others to account.

“My ma always talks about people redeeming themselves and how-”

“Your mother is blinded by her own love, but love can only veil so much. I wonder how much more failure it will endure? Do you believe her love for you will survive your next catastrophe? You are nothing more than a disaster on two stubby little legs who will never deserve the love that your mother gives you. One day she will see past her own blinders and cast you aside. You will never make her proud.”

The girl’s face drained of all colour as Esme continued to speak. Yvette had gone entirely still, frozen, much like the corpses of beggars in the slums at midwinter. Her eyes began to water, then she started to shake.

Pouch in hand and satisfied, Esme began to leave.

She hummed as she departed, then opened the pouch. It was time to examine her spoils. Her brows furrowed. There was a mismatched assortment of odds and ends contained within the pouch. Vials containing exotic liquids, fragments of rocks, powders, and many other miscellaneous oddities that Esme could not identify.

A series of crumpled parchments near the bottom of the pouch caught her attention.

Stepping out of the square and into the shadow of one of the upper nobility’s mansions, she halted and pulled them out, then unfurled the texts to learn what she could. She found to her frustration that she could make neither crown nor boot of whatever was noted on the page. That was not the worst of it. The moment she looked up from the sheet of parchment, its contents seemed to slip out from her mind.

Esme scowled. It shouldn’t surprise her that a wizard would enchant their own notes to prevent others from discerning truth from them. Wizards were no better than priests, after all. She hoped that it would not impact the value of the goods when she pawned them off to a fence.

Replacing the contents, she closed the pouch once more and continued on her way.

At least a small measure of satisfaction had been obtained.

One more of the so-called righteous taken in hand. One, among far too many. Esme would not cease until every dark secret had been unearthed and all had faced her judgement. Esme would call them to account one by one. She would feed them the dosage of poison they had earned. Justice delivered at the end of her sharp tongue, before justice at the end of a blade.

None would escape from the unflinching gaze of the Inquisitor.

Her efforts would spare none from the consequences of the wrongs she perceived them to have committed. It did not concern Esme if those wrongs were real or merely imagined. For was it not true that all action was rooted in thought? It was deep within the confines of the mind that all troubles began.

Esme would purge the corruption at the source.

Laurence struggled not to grimace as she departed from the quiet town on horseback. Her mood was as black as the storm clouds above. It was hard to ride when she could not feel her legs. Breath fogging the air before her, she followed where the road cut through snowed covered fields. Autumn had died and winter had come in its wake.

She followed her calling as she drew further south. South and to the east. She had crossed over into the Principality of Bayeux only a few days past.

Day by day she felt her choosing ebb out of her.

A roadblock had been set up on the highway ahead. Laurence slowed. An arrow was fired her way. Her wrinkled hand darted to her side and drew her sword from her scabbard, then intercepted the projectile in mid-air.

Her blade cut just a moment slower when she swung than it had in times long past.

How much longer until she was no longer swift enough?

Roadside bandits. The thought was almost wistful. It brought back memories of better years, when the world was smaller and her problems left scars that did not cut as deep. Memories of years spent wandering when her largest obstacle was what to eat and where to sleep, with few struggles strewn between.

Two more arrows. Both failed to make their mark. The face of her opposition drained of life, matching the colour of the snow. By now they realized that they had made a mistake with gut-spilling consequences.

One of the bandits — a woman no older than thirty — dropped her bow and pulled free a short sword from her side. It did not matter. Laurence swung low. Scarlet hair tossed in the air as the head parted from the body below. Two more swings — and some begging and screaming and in between — and the conflict was resolved.

She would have checked their corpses and buried them or consigned them to flames before the journey into the Chain. That was beyond her now. Laurence cleaned her blade and rode on.

The sounds of the world had almost become muted to her as the days had passed since her departure from Rhenia. She feared that soon she would not be able to Listen at all. It had been a talent she had paid the price for most dearly. A talent that she did not wish to see fade.

Laurence knew what it meant.

Her final hour was drawing to a close.

She was not one to fade away peacefully. For a while, she had considered crossing the border through the Red Flower Vales and taking up arms in Callow. Even crippled, it would not be much work for her to cut her way through those walls. They had been built by the Principate in an age long past, then repurposed against Procer by Callow in the years that followed. Despite that, they did not hold a candle to the fortified bastions in the north.

Much good could be done if the Evils to the east were laid low.

Even if she accounted for the chaos Taylor had brought with her, many seasons would pass before the Calamities were toppled from their wicked thrones. She could hunt for them and cut them down one by one before her life came to an end. She knew that she couldn't claim them all, but each death would help carve a path that would lead to the eventual demise of the band. Perhaps there would even be an apprentice to teach before the final confrontation somewhere at the Tower’s base.

The thought had tempted her, but she had killed it before she made a choice that she would come to regret.

Laurence would not rail against her fate. She knew that her story would remain unclosed if she left the Principate. Evil still remained buried in the heart of Procer. Wickedness ran rampant within the minds of all its leaders, save for the Lycaonese. Even if she died painting the grass with one of the Calamity’s innards, it would still be the incorrect decision to make.

Laurence would stay true to the path that she followed.

She held that it was best for them to put their own house in order first. Skin all the cats that troubled the Principate, before setting their sights on the Tower.

So she followed the road as the hidden knife that Taylor did not know that she possessed. A time would come soon when her blade would be drawn one last time. A final swing of the sword to bring an end to her story and usher in a new one.