The Masks of Lesser Men -- [ Open! ]

[maeve]

"... Seek him out, and dispatch of him quickly. He wears a ring insignia of his house on a chain around his neck. Bring this to the dead drop I've marked on this map. Your next set of orders will be issued at the same drop, but if you delay, they will be gone by the tenth day of Cloudreach. Do not tarry. I look favorably upon haste."

Corin Branston; that was her mark's name, and the slightest bit of information she'd been actually given in her direct, written hiring. What she had learned in the day and a half of her hunting for this man had made her job all the more intriguing, if only because it became so much more confusing. He was a member of a small, nigh forgotten noble house of ages past, with little in the way of lands and a penchant for trading goods in a wandering, one-or-two person caravan of his own making. He was of no importance in the politics of Ferelden, had little to no influence in the dictating rule of the highborn, and had earned the base, dismissive approval of everyone the Avvarian had questioned.

Every town, of those border towns or distant villages from Denerim that knew of him, described him as much the same. Simple. Pleasant. And always selling the finest wares at ridiculously low prices.

What could Corin Branston have possibly done to earn her hiring? She was interested. Curious. Perhaps, at this point, a little invested.

Creaking and telltale in sound against the buzzing, wild hum of the Brecilian night, not so distant hooves tugged a trader's carriage across the worn muck road. Maeve, aware of her prey's path and assuming all oncoming traffic as her mark, roused from her musings and settled into her web; her golden eyes flickering to the dull light of the torchfire that suddenly illuminated their now shared patch of the wood. She exhaled against a lifted, gloved hand, emitting a low call familiar as a common barred owl.

A primer.

Settled in a crouch in a lower but foliage-hidden branch, the Avvarian assassin's ruse was as easily swallowed as any other sound within the Brecilian. Especially as the objects of her scrutiny seemed ultimately distracted.

"What's this? Ha! Your pagan Gods haven't been listening for a long while, knife-ears," joked the driver.

The woman beside him was frail and, as if his words had been doubted at all, very obviously elven. Her face was intricately marked in the way of the Dalish, and the steadfast defiance in her eyes told her as much beyond the ability of any tattoo. Stripped into basic clothes and forced into some apparent shame – was that a chain around her neck? – her hands were pinned together with a metal spike between their palms, bleeding and forcing her to tremble against her bruises and a fat lip. That she was out in plain sight at all, and seated at the front of the carriage, was peculiar in and of itself..

.. But Maeve watched. A brow quirked and her head tilted to the side as she waited for the transport to come closer still. Along its side read the words in flamboyant lettering; The Wonderous Wares of the World.

Indeed.

"Mine have not abandoned me, Shem," the elf huffed in a voice made to hiss and to whimper. She was beginning to falter under her pressures, and by the latent lack of regard for any possible passing authorities or curiously prying eyes, Maeve could only assume they were getting close to wherever he could possibly be bringing her. The Dalish prayed further, but the words were repeated and familiar to Maeve's ears from only moments before. Whatever the girl begged for and to whomever she pleaded, her chants were all that she likely knew in the face of a crumbled civilization now apparently being dared into servitude.

"Aye. I'd watch your blasphemous mouth, bitch. Especially once we get to–"

"I'll not go! You can't force me!" the Dalish suddenly yelped, and in a last show of exhausted defiance she swung her spiked hands to drive a jutting, pointed tip into her captor's shoulder. It was an ill placed attack made of passion and force, hurting her as much as it did him but doing no permanent damage.

The carriage stopped.

"Agh! Sodding whore!" he snarled, ripping the inch of metal back out of his shoulder and practically throwing her arms – and her slight figure – away from him. She yelped again, realizing her folly too late. The chain along her throat was yanked into a choking pinch, and malnourished and exhausted, she became, once again, a helpless plaything to a vicious onslaught of physical blows.

The barred owl called again, but this time it was a command. The trees above rustled to wings, but either of the seated party was far too distracted to notice. The assassin lowered onto the back of the carriage quietly, revealing herself to shadow, torchlight, and no one at all.

"–Fuckin.. bring.. in alive.. "

"... Stop! S.. Stop! I.. "

"This was.. a new.. shirt!"

Maeve's disdain for lowlanders – and vaguest sense of solidarity due to similiarity with the Dalish – completely aside, the entire event was coldly fortuitous. Slinking into the backs of those completely distracted by beating their captives was far easier than getting in clean grabs on those more wary of their surroundings. The Avvars boots, as a result, were on either side of the man at his seat before he was even aware of her foreboding presence, and a fistful of his hair was grabbed to jerk his head upwards to look at her.

"Hello," the barbarian cooed with a taunting grin, watching his eyes go from powerful to fearful within a breath. Standing over him with black paints marring her face and feathers dangling from her hair, she looked decidedly wrong to him. Her features were human, but her visible nature..

.. What was she? What did she want?

The force of his hair pull and the predatory look of her eyes left him to acknowledge it as nothing good, and he made a sudden decision based on the assumption that she'd come specifically for his captive.

And a sudden movement that brought a serrated dagger ripping through the flesh of his throat. It was a deep but delicate slit at first, enough to still him and most definitely kill him with time, but secondly accentuated with another ring around; a sawing that made good on the fracturing of his neck's integrity by the first mark of the blade. His head was quickly, albeit not cleanly, removed for the sadistic pleasures of his killer, and tossed unceremoniously beside the stopped carriage's wheels.

Maeve easily plucked the requested token of her employer from Corin's accomodatingly available neck and looked up to the elf. The girl was huddled and clutching at her throat, and the assassin quirked a brow.

"I've no approval for witnesses, but I've a feeling you'll hold your tongue, won't you? Go, before I change my–"

The elf suddenly uncurled, her hands freeing from her neck to reveal a strange runic brand burned and still sizzling into her flesh. It flickered and shimmered as if it were encrusted with gemstones, and the Dalish now had an expression of absolute calm. Complacency. Stilled beneath whatever magic had been slapped across her neck, she glanced impassively towards the killer that stood above her attacker's body – and then to the bleeding stump that was once Corin's neck.

Tattooed, marked and bloodied, the girl suddenly began to scream in horror. Maeve was keen to the sounds of the pained, and lifted both brows in startlement as she sounded heartbroken. Her hands reached for his clothes and she sobbed uncontrollably, shrieking against herself and his nearest, dead arm.

"Y-YOU KILLED HIM!"

"I did," Maeve stated in calm fascination.

She began to sob again, sputtering out unintelligible worlds and broken remarks. Maeve reached to still and hush her, but the Dalish turned on her suddenly at the touch and began biting and swinging with all of the same fury she'd originally shown against the very captor she mourned. She peeled her hands – with no lack of physical grief or crying – from their shared impaling spike and then seemed of a mind to drive the thick metal nail into Maeve.

A dagger plummeted down through her temples, nailing her suddenly calm form into the back of the seat, and the Hillsman very obviously changed her mind.

She stared down at the scene before her for a moment, lingering beyond what was necessary or advisable. Still, Maeve couldn't help but wonder just what sort of a mess she'd been hired into.

[Eilir Paola Basanti]

Eilir had been tailing what appeared to be an Avvarian woman for quite some time from the tree tops. She was not one to appreciate people encroaching on her territory as this woman did.

It looked as though the Avvar had been trailing prey of her own at least since this morning, and Eilir was curious as to what exactly was going on. So she followed this intruder, who was following a caravan which housed people that Eilir had yet to see. It was not often that people ventured into the Brecilian Forest, and often when they did they had some sort of ill intent.

Eilir watched as the caravan came to a halt and stared in amazement as the Avvar killed the driver, and in turn--when she attacked the Avvarian woman--the Elf hidden in the back.

What on earth had she just witnessed? What was this woman doing in this forest? One could only assume that the Avvar was sent to assassinate the man, such a strange profession for a Barbarian. The question nagging at Eilir's mind was: Why?

Sending an arrow whizzing past the Barbarian woman's head and into the caravan, Eilir dropped from her tree and stood facing the gruesome scene with an almost angry expression on her face. She studied the intruder for a moment, seeing that she had feathers and furs woven into her hair and clothing. This woman may have been a force to be reckoned with, but this did not scare Eilir in the least; she had met and dealt with her fair share of frightening enemies over the course of her life.

"Give me one good reason not to kill you now, Shem," Eilir shouted powerfully. She knew that her threat would not sway the Avvar in the least, but she supposed it was the presentation that counted.

Eilir stood facing the Barbarian and waited, unmoving, an arrow pointed at her head for a response.

[/size]