It was quiet, in the still of the night. Then again, it was always quiet in this neighbourhood, and that is why Furley loved it so. Or rather, had loved it so. The Company headquarters were based up the road, or rather, had been based up the road. He hadn't seen much activity there for some time but then again, that didn't surprise him. Ana was off with her husband, Altheric was god knows where as he roamed the world, and De, whom he had thought of as a friend, had a knack for vanishing and racking up serious charges with the Bree Watch which was never good for business. When he walked away, the Company had almost died, and with it, the noise of the neighbourhood, it seemed.
Aside from that strange, purple geode that his neighbour had owned, Garden Street was tranquil, and he had loved that. Or at least, he loved the thought of it. Mostly, he had spent his hours tired, filling out paperwork, writing orders or arranging trade agreements and opportunities. The rest of it he had spent drinking wine and wondering how his friend was doing, wherever she was in the wilderness or not. She was his greatest companion, and he appreciated her beyond measure. No matter the distance, he knew somehow they'd be connected, even if she was never to return.
Now, he looked at what remained of his house, windows smashed and boards pulled off the frames. The banner of the Wold he had so proudly displayed was in tatters on the ground, torn, ripped and trodden into the mud. He sighed, deeply. He knew that was a personal touch. He'd rubbed far too many people the wrong way in his lifetime, but the elf was right. If he were to truly move on, he'd have to return to the beginning instead of running if he were truly to leave the old life behind. Jumping nimbly, he swung himself through the shattered window, and inside.
The living room was overturned. Bookshelf thrown to the floor, books burned or torn, pages strewn across the room. His Company files had been flung, though he suspected a great deal of pages were missing. Perhaps whoever had done this thought they'd have a trail that'd lead them to him. Or, maybe, they wanted to cover up something they didn't want known. He cared not either way. He was taking no backwards steps, and that was no longer his concern.
The bedroom didn't fare much better. Bed overturned, ash everywhere, clothes and ornaments thrown, crumpled and smashed. Still, it didn't concern him, and he refused to let it trouble him even if he did feel pangs when he looked about. He did, however, allow himself a groan of sorrow as he saw the remnants of his wine collection, smashed and soaked into the floor. "Not the Dorwinion" he said aloud, allowing some of the disappointment to leave his lips. "No class, these people".
No matter. He had to stay on target, and as he pulled at the stone on the fireplace, he was pleased to see that they hadn't found his hiding spot. As he removed the stone, he pulled from it the one weapon he'd not given up, and never told dear Edelinia. His cavalry sword from the Mark. Earned in the fires of battle and by the spilling of his own blood in pursuit of what had driven the Southrons north.
Drawing it from his scabbard, he grinned as the familiar 'shinngg' echoed as he drew it, and he swung it a few times, allowing himself a moment of joy with it. He drew the elven blade, and swung them both simultaneously. A little clumsy, but it was a style he had worked on for a while.
Suddenly, the door handle creaked on its rusty hinges, and he knew that playtime was over. He didn't stay around to discover who it was, but he had an idea. They called him the Bloodhound for a reason, and that was because he was as relentless as he was ruthless. Grabbing the papers that were also in a neat leather wallet from the hole where the stone had been, he slipped them into his pocket, and clambered out of the bedroom window.
He hadn't been the quietest when he'd done it, but either way it wouldn't have mattered. He quickly skirted the pond and hid in the reeds, watching as a pair of beady eyes scanned for him by the way he had come out. Finally, when they had stopped searching, he grinned and made his way round High St to Chestnut St, where he could slip away into the South Downs and double back round on the Greenway.
It wouldn't be long, now. He knew that there would be a final confrontation. An unavoidable moment that seemed written into his destiny, with victory being his only chance at truly living. All or nothing. Death and glory. He had the advantage now, though, so he needed to be clever. He would pick the moment. He would pick the place.
"I dint leve" the note had said. He guessed he would find the truth of that sooner now than later.
