Subterfuge

[Black Hand Enclave]

The Collector was very anxious with the turn of recent events. A courier had come to his private residence bearing word of need. The Collector was not troubled by the particular need of the unknown contractor so much as the fact that he had been contacted so directly. Someone was either very well connected or another head was about to be mounted on wall of The Overseer's Great Hall. The Collector reviewed the document for a third time, not so much reading as disecting the paper, the common seal, the hand writing and even the way the ink had dried when the inquiry had been written. Someone of little to no importance had scribed the request, no doubt while an even toned voice had dictated the message. The writer had been far away from the thoughts of the speaker, setting a flourish here and there in the communication. The writer had obviously been driven by personal desire to mark their own current joy in the black markings. A grimacing upward turn of his lips that served as a smile broke The Collector's serious countenance as he mused about how the scribe was quieted. He knew what he would have done. The scribe appeared to be young but well educated so it was probably a trusted associate of the contractor. Something so delicate would not have been handled by an outsider unless of course the individual could be easily disposed of without raising suspicions. The Collector suspected the scribe was a close confidant that was very aware of the one he or she served and likely a sympathizer to the needs of their master.

The Collector reviewed current events in the city trying to discern who the as yet unknown benefactor might be. The time was right for a rebellion with the lack of food for the commoners. The Church was either unprepared or unconcerned with the flock that fed the religious leaders of Lochwar. It was common knowledge that the Lochwarian Church's food stores had been locked up tight in an effort to make sure the neophytes and priests were able to make it through a cold, long winter. No doubt Father Minuvas would give fiery preachings to distract the hungry as the people began to starve but words did not fill bellies. There was no greater danger to a governing house than hunger. There were stirrings of an uprising already with whispers at the tavern fires of what was to come. Some bold drunkards even spoke aloud of their plight and that another God outside the faith would send them food. The celestials meant little to The Collector but the promise of rebellion meant the promise of coin. War was the providence of knights and soldiers but it was also the profit of spies.

One of his own had to be sent after the courier, slipping from one shadow to the next, to answer the summons. The place the courier led the shadow made no sense at first as the area was far too public and well traveled to be a good drop point for delicate messages. The Collector made way personally to the place the courier had gone. The place would not be watched by the Hand and he left his reply in the prescribed manner. The Collector was used to being unknown and he found this new lack of information about his contractor intriguing. The Overseer may be testing him as he had done before handing over control of the Hand in Caer. The Collector had not failed his Master then and nor would he now.

[Stalkinghorse]

It is ever within the grim grinding gears of government, hidden beyond the veil of the public's mindless trust, in which one may uncover creatures of the basest turpitude. Blackmail, embezzlement, extortion, fraud, bribery, these are great virtues of the Empire's petty apparatchiks, opening doors to the sort of vices, fetishes, addictions, and secret pleasures that can only be purchased with black coin.

Such men are often well-protected with hired goons, bruisers, or guards, worse -- ideological and/or religious zealots. Thus, they can be difficult to strike in the open. Their weakness is of course, their great predilection for secret places in which to commit their black deeds out sight of the public's lazy eye. There is also a certain naive readiness to welcome other hopeful monsters into their trust, a wishful, paradoxical desire for belongingness and similarity, perhaps validation of their normalcy, which can be exploited by the quick-thinking.

Storm King is such a man.

Bring me the finger and the silver ring he wears upon it and our contract is executed.

I await the inevitable.

-S-

[Black Hand Enclave]

"Ah, the pleasures of power and the lack of cunning." The Collector thought aloud as he read over the newest communication. "There is no greater gift to the masters of shadow than corruption in government and religion. When the two intertwine, the target becomes all the more inticing for the dangers of discovery. Paganism and debauchery, terms for those who feel it is their right to judge the actions and beliefs of others. Your life will become all the more dear once the contract is complete, my unknown benefactor. We will be all too happy to aid your purification of the dead who walk with souls unredeemable."

The Collector prepared the message for those who were most practiced in the arts. Shadow would find the Storm King soon enough and that would be his undoing. The Collector could only wonder how long it would be before the one so intent on bringing eternal peace to the target became a target himself. "What blessed messengers we are to be gifted with only so much sight to know enough but never too much." The Collector grimaced petting the messenger that would bring the others. He almost seemed pained to have the creature so near knowing that the eyes of the one were the eyes of the Master as well.

[Black Hand Enclave]

Some time later...

The pain was excruciating. Every nerve pulled to the breaking point and his eyes weeping blood from the pressure in his skull. The pulsing thought, calling it a voice would have been too kind and more famiiliar than the Collector wanted to admit, that entered his mind was almost a relief. I wanted the souls of them both. You were aware.

The Collector knew better than to make excuses to the force. Thought was not even possible. His practiced response to the communication was all he could summon. Yes Master.

The Collector thought the measure of pain could not be more than what he was experiencing. He was wrong. You are gifted with power and strength beyond the mere mortals that surround you with the promise of eternal service and legions at your call when you join me. You answer me with no answer but this? Weakness cannot be tolerated. Failure is promised a thousand deaths. What possible price can I exact in payment for your lack? The pain began to lessen as the thought finished allowing the Collector to breath. The reason became apparent with the next thought.

You have served two masters for too long and it has made you weak. You will deliver to me the souls of two preists of your God for payment or you will rot for all eternity at the foot of my throne. The maggots will sup at your flesh as you regenerate so I may hear your agony for my amusement. Perhaps we shall alternate flame and rot to torture you. I will have to think upon it as I await your failure.

This time the Collector summoned the strength to answer. I will not fail you Master.

The reply was immediate and almost amused. Damned if you do.

[Stalkinghorse]

Stalkinghorse emerged from the Gaol with a smile on his face, a spring in his step. They had questioned him for brief moments before their minds grew soft and suddenly wandered off, as if they'd forgotten why he was there in the first place. It was the nature of his power, to move openly, but quickly meld into the masses of the uncounted, unsuspected, and unremarked. Not long after he'd been released, while his erstwhile inquisitors had suddenly remembered they'd had important business elsewhere today.

He casually flicked over a mental image of his instructions as he wore down the cobblestones past Cear Arena, then Ironback Brothers' Smithy, towards his old haunt at the bottom of Trades and Commons. With Stormking out of the way, two others still bore the mark, and the Black Prince would be next. He chuckled softly to himself, wide grin beaming.

[Stalkinghorse]

Collector,

My agent in the North informs me of the arrival of competitors in our fair haven of Cear. They made landing at Lancon a fortnight ago and have made their way down through the quarantine zone in secret. For reasons unknown they have chosen to eschew putting into port here.

I know not what business they may have in Cear, but their presence here concerns me greatly. While it can be fairly said that many of us in this line of work have long since sold our souls, one must interpret this somewhat more literally in the case of the Immortali. To what black powers they have pledged their undying servitude I cannot say, only that their supernatural abilities are rumored to derive from some sort of demonological pact.

This cannot bode well for business.

-S-