A door broke open in Pelargir.
Guards rushed in the room, as Tûrdir jumped up, horrified. They grabbed him, chained him. Gúrverior drowsily opened up his eyes. He saw the guards. He smiled. They dragged them both away. They brought them to Arphenion's Estate.
Tirithon had requested to see them before they were thrown in the dungeons. He had enough friends in high places to see his request granted. The guards dropped them at his feet. He started with Tûrdir. Hours passed. Hours filled with shouting, beating, threatening. When he was done, Tûrdir was unconscious, his face little more than a bloody pulp. The guards took him away.
Then, Tirithon turned to Gúrverior. He was still smiling, a fact that made the merchant furious. He lifted his hand. He struck in anger. Gúrverior spat some blood on the expensive carpet.
"You stupid old fool..." Gúrverior looked at the man, a playful glint in his eyes. "You kept the wrong guy. The guards are dragging away your thief, as you waste your time with me." He smiled again. Tirithon stared at him, unconvinced. He struck again.
"Who do you think informed the guards," Gúr asked, picking a loose tooth from his mouth. "None of you posh fat nobles know where us rats live... None of you know where to find us. Ask your friends in the guard... Ask them about the note I left at the southern outpost yesterday."
A northern wind blew over Pelargir.
Rushed footsteps were heard outside. Gúr smirked triumphantly. "On second thought... You won't have to." The doors opened loudly. The captain of the guard, sweating, his face red, stood in front of them. He was holding a note in his hand. "Tirithon, no..." he managed to say, struggling to catch his breath. "He's innocent. Let him go."
Gúrverior broke into a victorious chuckle, as Tirithon simply glared at him. "Why? Why would you do this? Why help the guards catch the thief? Why betray your friend?" Too many questions. Men like Tirithon would never understand.
"Who says he was ever my friend? Who says he was anything more than just a means to an end?"
Tirithon pushed him away. Gúr stumbled backwards, hitting against the wall. "WHAT end?!" Men like Tirithon always demanded explanations. Gúrverior wiped the blood from his mouth, his confident grin not once fading from his beaten face. "I am a hero, mister Arphenion... I helped catch the man who stole from dozens of nobles... While they were guests in your house. I saved your reputation... Reward me, and we can say it was an elaborate ploy to catch Tûrdir... All along."
Tirithon stood baffled. He stared blankly at Gúrverior, his mind requiring a few moments to process the information. Suddenly, he burst out laughing. It was a laughter of relief. It was a laughter of genuine happiness. In his joy that his name would not be sullied, he cared little to ask about his daughter's necklace.
Clouds hid the sun over Pelargir.
Gúrverior walked out of Arphenion's Estate. He walked out a free man. A wealthy, free man. He turned and slipped into an alley, one of the many he knew well. There was a loose cobblestone on the road. He wriggled it free. The crevice was just large enough to contain the pouch. One hundred gold coins. More than double the value of what they had stolen yesterday. All of it legal. There was only one last step to his plan. The step where Tûrdir found out about it.
Stars dotted the night sky over Pelargir.
Tûrdir was in his cell. He had shouted, he had cried, he had bloodied his fists against the wall in rage. His best friend had betrayed him. The guards laughed when they threw him in. Tomorrow, they said, he would be hanged.
There was the sound of a door opening. Footsteps walked closer to his cell, pausing outside the bars. He didn't bother to look up. Sunk in a corner, he had no strength left in him. "You look horrible, old friend." A familiar voice. A familiar chuckle.
"What do you say we get you out of this miserable cell, and go celebrate? Come on, three very eager wenches are waiting to meet you..." Gúr unlocked the cell. Oddly enough, the guard responsible for guarding him, had vanished.
No sooner had the door opened, that Tûrdir leapt up and charged at him like an enraged bull. He dropped him on the ground, growling; wrapping his hands around Gúr's throat.
"You piece of shit! You left me here to die! You sold me out!"
Gúr struggled. If Tûrdir had his full strength, he would easily have choked him. Luckily, he was too worn out, and Gúr managed to shake him off, leaping up to his feet quickly; he took a few precautionary steps back, as his characteristic smile appeared on his face. "It was all part of the plan, brother.. I would never leave my best buddy behind, you know that. But in order for the plan to work, I had to deceive you. We made a hundred gold coins... We're rich, brother!" Gúr's smile widened. It was contagious. Tûrdir smiled at first, then he chuckled. Soon, he was laughing loudly.
"You maggot! I was prepared to die and have my spirit haunt you for the rest of your days!" They walked out of the empty jailhouse.
Soon, the guard returned to his post, counting his newly-earned coins.
A crow perched on one of the rooftops of Pelargir.
They were headed to their usual tavern. Chuckling, teasing each other, having fun. They would drink, they would celebrate, and tomorrow, they would set sail for Anfalas, to live like kings. A sharp whistling sound cut through the air. Tûrdir was in the middle of telling one of his usual dirty jokes. Suddenly, he stopped. With awkward movements, he brought his hands towards his back, reaching for something he could not grab. He muttered, blood gurgling from his open mouth. He fell on his knees, then face down on the ground. The black handle of a throwing knife was sticking out of his back, lodged perfectly between two of his vertebrae. It had pierced his heart.
Gúrverior muffled a scream. He glared around him, panicked eyes wildly looking for the killer. There was nobody there. He ran. He never knew he could run so fast. Stumbling multiple times, he finally made it to the place where his stash was hidden. Quickly, trembling, he retrieved it. There would be no drinking tonight. There would be running and hiding.
A figure landed silently in an alley in Pelargir.
Gúrverior stood up and turned to leave, running, as he had arrived. As he turned around, his eyes widened, staring shocked at the silhouette in front of him. He could only see the eyes. A pair of emerald green eyes, calm, emotionless, looking back at him. Suddenly, he felt an excruciating pain on his chest. He fell flatly on his back, the pouch slipping through his dead hands, coins scattering everywhere around him. The silhouette disappeared in the night; silently, as he had arrived.
A scream split the silence of the early hours in Pelargir.
Guards had blocked off the alley. It was a brutal crime scene. Imrahil, the captain of the guard had just arrived. He only had to glance momentarily at the body. He frowned. He knew. A guard approached him. "Mornin' sir... Wouldn't say it's the best of mornings, eh?" The guard smiled sheepishly. Imrahil glared at him. "Shut it, Eddie."
Gúrverior's body lay lifelessly in the alley. Three distinct wounds, like brush strokes, across his chest. Imrahil leaned over the corpse, already knowing what to expect. The aorta was sliced open. Both coronary arteries were cut with surgical precision. Gúr was dead before he fell to the ground.
Imrahil looked around the alley. Something was missing --no, not missing. There it was. A figure of a flying crow, wings outstretched, painted with blood on the far wall. The captain shook his head, a saddened sigh escaping his lips. He took out his notebook, and started writing.
"Gúrverior of Pelargir, Male, age twenty-three, was found dead today. Another poor victim of the maniac known only as Crow."
A flock of black birds flew north, over the stone walls of Pelargir.
[Originally written by the player of Crow (Derakoth)]
