The Old City

0.51: Revenge

Firkaan was pushed to the ground and watched as the stranger cast a hurried spell beneath his breath. A wall of water rose from the rocks and blocked the nomadic horde, and stretched for several meters in all directions.

"I had it under control," Firkaan snarled. His arms were already transformed into hulking, furry ligaments with powerful claws that could rip a man in two. For all the strength this form bestowed, it hadn't stopped their arrows and blades from piercing his skin and blood now flowed steadily down them.

"Of course you did," said the man, tossing him a piece of cloth to blot at the blood. "We have to move."

Their attackers were forcing their way through the man's spell, connecting their shields into a point to pierce through the water wall, then walking behind the obstruction. The man grabbed bruised Firkaan and tossed him over his shoulder. He was shockingly strong.

"My name is Marek," said the future gang lord. "I just saved your life and I will collect on your blood debt."

Firkaan's Apartment, Southwest Soran.

Firkaan spent the day reviewing the documents Timoleon had sent: military files, Enforcer reports, the notes taken from his own spies. He pored over each detail trying to unfurl the identify of these newcomers.

They certainly were Soran-born – all the reports claimed the native accent and the gutter rat's truncation of the present participle. You didn't choose that backwater inflection for its style. Anyone who heard it knew they were speaking to a rat. You were born with that accent.

Timoleon also believed they were military. Their skill and coordination were too great to have trained solely at Soran's Fourth (unfortunately the academy hardly maintained records). These insurgents were organized, strategic even.

While reading, he sharpened the two sides of his ka'phat, carefully running over the parallel steel with his whetstone to avoid being cut in the small gap between them. Come nightfall, they were razors and the weapon on the whole felt lighter, as a few metal shavings had fallen to the floor. His cruel sword was ready for blood.

He ran his thumb along its edge and pressed it into the exterior face of each blade, drawing down to form a line.

When it was done, he sheathed the ka'phat in his backstrap and moved to the kitchen; though he knew there was no food, he scrounged through every cupboard in a vain hope. Frustrated, he plodded across the room and threw open the window.

Though he'd spent years in Soran, the sea air never felt right. Werewolves weren't meant to live on the water. The desert was their domain. Firkaan longed for the vast dunes of the Shiorah, the sun at his back and the sand at his feet, nothing but open space for miles in every direction. He felt cramped, not only in the apartment but everywhere. He wanted to break off at a sprint, to leave his problems and responsibilities in this howling city.

His apartment was like a cage, this single window permitting sunlight only in the late afternoon, as the room faced west and was on a lower floor. It was adorned with a collection of items from his homeland. He owned two asaats, one with yellow lines drawn on the cheeks and one with red swirls. A lo'netre also hung from his wall, a wide-brimmed hat with a veil hanging from its edge that got tucked under his collar. Beyond the ka'phat strapped to his back, he also possessed its longer ceremonial cousin, the ka'bne.

Though he'd sworn never to use it again.

He breathed in the smells from below and resigned himself to dining out. With Marek gone, he controlled the once-great pockets of Silver Bear, so he could afford to eating something nice – there was only one restaurant in the city that would satisfy his nostalgia now. He threw on a light coat against the evening winds and locked his apartment behind him.