The Count of Castle Rock

Chapter XXIII- High Mountain Pass

Lucky hides in the shadow of a tall pine tree, listening intently to the howling mountain winds and the things it masks. Another cacophonous blast echoes through the pass, muffled by the falling snow. To the west Stafford and Tathagar forces kill each other in the name of one grievance or another. Lucky Blades doesn't usually concern himself with the fighting among the nobility. He merely waits until there is a chance for a quick score, grabs his coin, and takes off before anyone realizes they've been pilfered. Quick feet and nimble hands. That's why they call him lucky.

After the echo of distant blackpowder explosives die down, Lucky focuses on the little sounds. His heartbeat. Falling snow. The hooting of frost raptors. The ever present mountain winds.

Sure he's alone, Lucky moves to the treeline. Like something out of a painting, a picturesque scene stretches out before him. Dozens of pines, encircling this patch of open space. The sky, white with clouds, stares down at him through the sparse canopy. In the center of the snow covered clearing is a tree stump three men wide. The fresh snow appears undisturbed. Lucky sees this as a good sign.

The passes of High Mountain are home to all manner of little nasty critters, including goblins and dwarves. Some have even said a handful of Tusker Orc tribes call the region home. The thought of the violent and bloodthirsty barbarians makes him shudder. His luck often seems to fail when dealing with non-humans. All the more reason to be about the old man's business and get back on the road.

Certain he isn't being watched, Lucky lightly treads across the clearing. When he reaches the stump, he feels around until he finds the appropriate knot. Applying pressure rewards him with a sharp click and the top of the stump slides an inch to the side. He shifts it over the rest of the way, revealing a hollowed out secret compartment.

Inside are a trio of bundles. Lucky looks for the one with his marker and fishes it out. He places the bundle on the flat top and unwraps the thick covering. A bag of gold. A well-crafted but small dagger. A flake of dwarven silver. Two slabs of stone covered in lines of vertical pictograms.

Pocketing the contents, Lucky pulls out the old man's notes and four cylinders of coastal rainbow stone. With the gold, silver, and rainbow stone, Lucky could retire to Hang Du, a rich man. He chuckles. It wouldn't be hard either: avoid the High Mountain authorities, known for their harsh treatment of criminals, then move south along the coast to Ravensport. Once in The City of Orphans it would be easy to stow away on a merchant vessel or use a bit of his coin to purchase transport. Either way, once in the island nation Lucky could spend the rest of his days in relative luxury.

He chuckles again. If he does that, he won't see the fruits of the old man's labors. All of the scheming and manipulation, all of the backroom deals and assassinations. Lucky wants to see it all run its course. He wants to see the big picture.

Wrapping up his contribution to the stash, he removes his marker and replaces it with another from one of his many hidden pockets. A fist and two blades over a triangle. He replaces the bundle and closes the hollow stump. It locks with a sharp click and Lucky walks away, light on his feet and leaving as little evidence of his passing as possible. He moves through the snow-blanketed forest with quick and quiet steps, eager to be on his way. The recent border skirmishes have set the lords of High Mountain on edge and he'd rather not have to deal with their version of The King's Justice.

The wind kicks up and with it the echoes of horses. He stops just before the road, using a tree for cover, as a group of riders gallop up the pass. They slow as they draw close, the lead rider calling to the others about footprints in the snow ahead. Lucky looks in the indicated direction and swears to Xavros, God of Honest Businessmen like himself. He'd let fatigue get the best of him when crossing the road on his way in, dragging his tired feet before catching his second wind.