*COMPLETE* Allayria promised to do what it takes to stop the Jarles, to make the ugly decision. She thinks, at last, she understands what the dynast meant. The lesson earned from the top of that lonely cliff and given the dark murky water below.
It...
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It's in the dark of the night, when houses are shuttered and the streets crawl alive. Ben has selected a special few, the devoted cherry-picked out of the loyal, and they wear hoods and masks beneath this electric city light.
At his side are Iaves and Meg, the two who always remain, the two who can be trusted above all else, who must be kept close for a little longer, so they are all on the same page.
Because Ben can see the path ahead of them, and it is dark and splintered.
Everything feels like preparation now, like he must place his pieces carefully on this board. Build up their reserves so that when he leaves they stand strong.
Because he must leave.
The glow of warm and cool hues flickers across his face as they pass storefronts, simmering bars, and other, unsavory places. They are winding down familiar roads, down to familiar skullduggery.
He doesn't like this, leaning so heavily on the Brothers of Wren, but with Grimes going dark, Ben needs to rearrange his board.
He spots the pair at the corner of The Hanged Man, their reedy twin figures casting tall shadows on the sidewalk as they linger, cloaked and hooded, beneath the towering lamp post. For a moment, Ben's gaze shifts behind them, toward the bar, but he knows the shadowy corner of The Hanged Man will be deserted, just as the narrow rooms of the Open Arms will lie empty of anyone he might care to know. It's a flicker of fingers, a quick signal, and the others follow as he crosses the street.
The Brothers of Wren nod when he approaches, acknowledging in their singularly nonverbal way, his familiar face.
"Gentlemen," he says in greeting, halting and sparing the empty stretches of the streets to either side a long glance. "What do we have this evening?"
They don't move for a moment, and then one, his thin arm shifting slowly, reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small knife.
"Jarles resistant," he mutters in that low, gravelly mumble of theirs, and Ben takes the thing, balancing it above his fingers.
"Hm," he murmurs, and he tosses it in the air toward one of his masked men. The slight Solveig man throws out a hand, grasping with Skill, but the knife does not even shudder and its point buries into the ground with a thud.
"Clever," Ben admits, reaching down and picking up the blade, "but no different than any other metal sword against most Keesark soldiers."
"Not the Protector," the other brother says.
Ben's brows twitch, and he allows a small, amused nod of acknowledgement.
"Just in case," he agrees, and he twirls the thing between his fingers, testing its weight, its balance, before handing it back to Meg. "Is that all?"
"We have a new oil shipment."
"How much? We'll pay."
"Double," one of them says and Ben bares his teeth again in something like a smile.
