All things considered, the evening wore on rather pleasantly. The grumbling of his host, the artful deflection of the Bride, and the simple positivity of the Groom made for an interesting collage of conversation. The Lupid clans in attendance soon blended into the background, having evaluated him, and he they in return. Each was friendly enough, none had reason to resent the presence of Varrock's unusual guest. They chalked him up to a strange turn of mind in the patriarch of the Bride's Clan, while the rest were merely satisfied that their clan's scion was happy to be there, doting on his wife-to-be. All but one in attendance knew the lad was marrying up, outside his weight class so to speak. Some were left to wonder as to how he'd pulled it off, given the obvious difference in the presumptive pairing. Ulric had no such doubts.
The lad's clan was filthy rich. Loaded. The boy told tales of his clan, with the sort of absent way of one who was not bragging at all, but was so blissfully unaware of their fortune that it could be offputting all the same. They held a corner of the markets for bringing many of the meats into Bartala and also to distribute the nonperishable processed items made from it to ports wide and far. Sometimes it's easy to believe such success was accidental, but that was rarely the case.
It was a simple but meticulously executed business model: buy relatively generously, but exclusively, from a network of farms and tribes in whose lands resided some particularly savory animals. High-yield beef, mutton, and pork, but also, of critical importance, rare and exotic treats. Through their network, they would load the animals, still alive, onto vessels and transport them to the butchers in the city. The bargain hinged on the fact that all of the beasts being transported were gelded or spayed so that new herds could not be manufactured outside of the agreement.
Almost all of the food on the table was provided courtesy of the lad's family. The Groom's family had done well enough to earn the Magister's seal from Prosper, certifying their clan's enjoyment of the optimal shipping routes and protection of the Merchant Lords, for as long as the taxes were properly paid and they accepted inspection by Magisters whenever and wherever they wished.
Not being the most perceptive guy around, Ulric felt certain that the pair were genuinely enamored of one another. He was also certain that the old wolf never would have gone along with it if not for the boy's clan being incredibly affluent, able to give his descendants a brilliant future.
Meanwhile, the venue and its decoration were Varrock's doing. Ulric discovered that one of the components of the salad he was enjoying greatly at the moment was the sumptuous petals of the murderous [Twilight Finchcatcher], the blue-violet lily with a penchant for avian slaughter he'd nearly donated a finger to earlier. That one was all Varrock, who imported them from the swampy downs where they exclusively grew. The plants were favored in the gardens of the wealthy elite of Bartala.
Narration from the bubbly Bride told of a proud clan of warriors turned caravaneers who had gained a reputation for never arriving late and never failing to make a delivery. That success had blossomed through the early adoption of the Free Artisans Guild and their transition to also making the goods they delivered, which skyrocketed the clan's wealth and standing in the region. Clan Varrock had done well for themselves for several hundred years before breaking with the requirement for Prosper's Magister's seal.
The decline of the clan was talked around, none so gauche as to mention it directly, but Ulric caught enough in the byplays to fill in a few of the gaps in the Old Man's drunken stories the night before. At the end of the day, the clan refused to bend knee to Prosper's control and that was the end of it. They had their own traditions for training their artisans now and rejected the taxes on their goods that did not go to the local territories or clans but instead fed distant Prosper, lining its coffers. Varrock's clan wanted nothing to do with Prosper, they wished to be left alone. Over time, the pressure and overwhelming size of the Merchant Lord's empire was grinding them down, cutting them out of markets.
Clear was the picture from the two sides of the situation. Join Prosper's empire, accept the Seal of the Magisters and the taxation and control policies they dictated, and find success, or don't, and face creeping doom.
Under the steady probing of the Bride, Ulric was sort of forced to present nearly the full scope of his and Taipan's long-established cover story. He slipped, once, when he mentioned Taipan as his wife. That sent the Bride into full inquisition wanting to know all about her, for some reason. He told them mostly the truth, that they had begun with her working as his guide, escorting him through the more dangerous regions while he worked to establish his position and consolidate dominion over his lands. Later, after much struggle, holding each other's flanks against Greater Beasts and variant monsters, and some cultural misconceptions, they found themselves wed.
"WIIIEEE!" crooned the Bride's alto, "So romantic! See, Erswinn, I knew the Barbarian Clans held stories like tales of old."
The Groom nodded placidly, lightly petting his partner's arm as he agreed, "It is so, Nanya. A wonderful tale, Ulric. And fitting to accompany us who will soon join you and your doting love on this marital path."
Ulric wasn't so sure he'd describe Taipan as doting but she had her moments. He lost a second or two wondering what she was doing just then. The time table said she had arrived in Iriel long since, months ago. What had transpired since he had no idea. She was as late with her rendezvous with him as he was his making it to Bartala’s walls.
He was distracted from that train of thought when the pair of lovebirds then traded an almost sickeningly sweet stare at one another, leaving the rest of the world behind for a minute. Varrock pretended to gag on a bone to break them up and Ulric had to hide his face beneath a napkin or reveal his wide grin.
The old wolf winked at Ulric while Nanya, the Bride, none the wiser, attempted to succor her choking grandparent and give him water to clear his throat. Erswinn, the Groom, remained blissfully unaware and suggested a few softer portions to his grandfather-in-law, still trying to maintain favor with the notoriously irritable Clan Head.
All told, this entire Wedding was not so very far off from the ones he'd attended in the Before. If you ignored the canine features of the participants, you might easily find similar scenes on old Earth. In a bizarre twist, if he had to guess, this might be the most normal thing to happen to him since he'd been reforged on Vardan soil. No lethal beasts, no warrior people, no fights for life. Just a couple of lovebirds getting married, an old man resenting anyone who thought they deserved his daughter's precious jewel, and their two clans sort of awkwardly intermingling, as strangers meeting for the first time do.
Wine came around, poured from clay amphoras rather than the bottles of his old world. Ulric thought it was a little dry for his palette but the sort of thing that could grow on you. He kept himself to a modest two glasses, not wanting to risk inebriation causing him to make Earth references in conversation or to do something to cause a scene. It was a little strange, because the wedding was proceeding almost in reverse, with the food and drink coming before the ceremony.
Varrock had explained that the actual nuptials were performed at the setting of the Twins which, Ulric saw was imminent. The rest of the crowd similarly gained awareness and naturally started to drift towards a raised dais with an arched trellis hung with grape vines, still leafed out and bearing their bunches, and a bevy of flowers woven alongside, representing, probably, all the usual hopeful nonsense that surrounds a wedding.
"Hey! Old Wolf, just where are the Bride's parents, anyhow?" Ulric whispered low, hoping he wasn't bringing up anything sensitive.
Varrock frowned and made a beseeching gesture of the skies before he replied, "They were wintering with a caravan, caught by an early freeze and held late, thanks to the reluctance of the ice to break up. Word arrived that they are on their way, but there are certain traditions to be observed and it is the time when the time of the Twins over takes the Moon's coven. Nanya would not hear of delaying the union."
He nodded.
Ulric then caught the older Beastkin's narrowing of eyes towards the Groom.
"My daughter's daughter wished to be wed before she grows fat with pups." He said flatly.
Oh! Oh no. No wonder the geezer had a bone to pick with the happy-go-lucky idiot. Digging in forbidden flower pots. A bold move, young wolf, a bold move indeed.
Speak of the Devil!
Now richly sauced, Erswinn the Groom wandered over, tail fairly wagging from excitement. He wasn't a bad kid. Maybe not exactly what you want to join the family tree, but he didn't have a mean bone in his body and that counted for something. Maybe the kids get their mother's brains. And her brawn. And hopefully just their sire's cheerful smile, and instinct for recognizing opportunity.
"Grandfather! It is time, please, I would like for you to do the honors. Nanya speaks so often of you and with such praise, I would not have any other to bring us together." Gushed Erswinn.
Ulric saw Varrock working himself up to say something biting and jabbed the old wolf in the leg, shaking his head and mouthing "Don't". His granddaughter would never forgive him for upsetting her marriage, especially not right here at the moment of climax.
The hackles on the Lupid dropped and Ulric heard him mumble "End of my line, litters of doe-eyed little soft bellies." as he allowed himself to be led away.
When the couple to be wed took their places on the dais with Varrock between them all the gathered Lupid rose and gave their full attention, so Ulric joined immediately. The pavilion fell to complete silence as the two took each other's hands, delicate grips preventing claws from digging in. Later, someone would tell him what it all meant but, for now, he let the Beastkin tongue roll over him.
"Gathered are two clans, who, through love, become as one." Intoned Varrock, his voice resonant and rich, absent its usual growling complaint.
"Nanya, Clan Hora is here to join Erswinn, Clan Bitsnes for the sake of their future together."
The Elder Lupid began wrapping first the Groom's hand and wrist with a long silk ribbon of white as he went through the ritual.
"Clan Bitsnes of the Bartalan, who brings the wealth of masters in trade and the security of his name, is hereby bound."
With that, Varrock began to wrap his granddaughter's hand in the same fashion.
"Clan Hora of the Horan Reaches, who brings the cunning of pioneers and the ferocity of her name, is hereby bound."
Arms raised over the two as if lifting them skyward, the Old Wolf declared finally
"Clan Hora to Clan Bitsnes, Nanya to Erswinn, may their fortunes intertwine and their children never want. So it is witnessed. So it is done."
Thus bound in spirit and blood, the couple turned to their kin and raised the tied arms high resulting in poor Erswinn being jerked to his toes in his fresh-faced, and far taller, bride's excitement.
And the crowd went wild. Almost literally, with barking and howling and all manner of canine yips and growls. The Lupid language was guttural and used less of the lips than the tongue than did Valin or Aes'r. It was not unpleasing to Ulric's ear, just uncanny. Dredged up from his mind were the long-gone calls of wolves in the forests, of coyotes across the canyons, and dingos ringing through the Outback nights. None of those were to be heard again on Earth. It made him sort of happy that their like could be found here on Varda and not only when a predator turned its hungry maw your way.
As if called, a predator of another sort skulked into the pavilion. Richly robed, sleeves extending well past his hands in a ridiculous show of preening overconfidence. A declaration that the office denoted by the heavy gold links hanging down to his chest, carrying the sigil of a Magister of Prosper, was more than enough to render him immune to all harm. The man's eyes callously scanned the gathering, cataloging those present and dismissing them immediately. They were cold, dead eyes, absent humanity. Ulric knew when he was looking at a psychopath. This man was exactly the sort who liked to peel the wings off flies. This was the kind Ulric knew should be killed on sight, before they hurt someone.
"What is this? An unsanctioned gathering? My office has given no approval for any legal proceedings." Announced the slimy bastard bringing the celebration to a dead halt.
Both clans were suddenly doused, and the honored pair showed expressions of anguish at the peak of their moment being stamped upon. Varrock was visibly livid.
In the sudden absence of joy, the cold wind of the approaching storm blew in somewhat portentiously, sending streamers fluttering from their poles and flower petals scattering into the air. The timing was almost too perfect.
"Ah, so it was known that this gathering was not granted the benediction of my office. A pity. Given that no request for betrothal has passed my desk I feel…slighted. Yes, I am most grieved by the disrespect shown the honorable office of Magister to Prosper. I cannot condone flagrant violations of the laws of our great city Bartala." Declared the Magister, brimming with sadistic glee at having turned this gathering of celebration into an impromptu hearing.
A quartet of guards entered the square to flank the Magister. They were armored in thick steel plate and carried halberds with a wicked half-moon blade and a nasty recurving spike. The men moved like robots, devoid of empathy for what they were doing to these people. The presence of armed men in proximity to his kin sent Varrock over the edge, the Lupid Elder leaped down from the dais and stood in front of the magister putting himself between the Beastkin clans and the Magister.
"You! We need not Prosper's blessing to wed our clans. We need not your sanction to choose our mates. And we need not some pompous slug wearing a golden slave collar to carry his master's barking to our ears from distant shores. You have brought blades into a gathering of joy and I will not stand for it." Growled Varrock, teeth bared.
The Magister looked down his nose at the Beastkin in the crowd before leveling a dead stare at the Elder Lupid.
"I know of you. You are that holdout in the North West. The wretch who smuggles and skirts the laws and brings his unwashed stinking family down in ruin with him." Stated the Magister coldly smug, "Good. Even gladder am I that I noticed this fracas and came to put an end to it. Too long have you operated outside the law, you and your mangy lot. I am not sure I shouldn't have you arrested and put to trial at this very moment. And your lawless pup bitch over there along with you."
A lift of the arm, sent the ludicrous sleeve falling to its elbow, sallow pale flesh revealed, lined with blue veins like it had never seen the suns light. The long finger nails, extending three or more centimeters past the tips of the digits were painted silver and blue, perhaps holding some kind of meaning, perhaps simply an affectation of the owner's whims. At the raised hand the guards stepped forward.
Varrock snarled and suddenly crouched low, his leg whipping to cleanly clear the legs from the ground, bringing the nearest two heavily armored men down instantly. He dodged backward immediately to avoid being skewered by a halberd spike. Ulric was moving as soon as the old wolf did, to intercede when he recognized the turn in the Lupid's body that said violence was coming.
He was too late. Varrock was coming ready from his evasion when a quartet of slender blades of ice entered his chest, originating from the Magister's finger tips, the blue painted nails explained as artificed Infrig catalysts. Blood, thick and frothy, coughed from the Lupid's mouth, and the young couple on the dais screamed, one in outrage and the other in denial.
Ulric smashed his hand down through the ice, breaking the thin lances off before the virulent bastard could tear the Beastkin's body anymore and he supported him with the other hand.
The two guards were picking themselves up as the other two advanced warningly towards the crowd, menacing them.
Blood ran freely to the stones and Ulric knew he could do nothing to stop it. Nothing at all. Varrock knew too.
A clawed hand pulled Ulric close, to force out a whisper, all he could manage through torn lungs.
"My kin. No harm."
Ulric took the clawed hand in his own, and squeezed it as he met the dying man's gaze.
"Never. Not a hair, Honored Varrock. My oath." Ulric swore, forcing the words out past a grief he'd never known.
He saw the light leave his new friend's eyes and felt the force of will that animated those old bones leave them. He held a body now. And Ulric turned grey eyes on the ones responsible for it.
Howling rose up behind him as he gently lowered the brave man to the stones, composing him as he did. He heard the cries of Nanya for her grampa. He heard the rattle of metal on rock from the guards advancing. He heard the feathers of a bird flutter as it flew by unknowing of the tragedy that had just occurred.
"A barbarian, friending the dogs? I should have kno-" Started the Magister.
[Ceraun's Dance, First Movement]
All the world turned to violet light and time seemed to stop. There was Ulric, his hand on Xef'tocht's hilt and there was a murderer with his blood-soaked hand still pointing. And there was a promise to keep. Lightning surged and he became part of it, a living blade of rampant energy that roared forwards faster than an eyeblink and struck the Magister.
The Magister was destroyed, a blacked soot all that remained besides what bits would soon come raining down across the city block. Ulric raised Xef'tocht, its blade embedded halfway along its length into the cauterized stone, and removed the top half of the head of the guard on his left, shearing through inferior metal like a razor through aluminum foil.
Shouting from the guards was drowned out in the thunderclap and they barely reacted when the first of their number was decapitated. Flash blinded and stunned by proximity to the lightning. He would have smiled if he could feel anything but the most sublime hatred. Rage was not in this. Rage was hot, burning inside the mind, consuming everything around it. Ulric was a frozen ocean, with thoughts like the pinging of ice as the glaciers moved.
Moving again, he spun to bring his long blade over his shoulder in a glittering arc that separated the next man's armored shoulder and neck from the rest of his torso. Both seemed to fall too slowly to the stones. Ulric saw a startled expression on the dead man's face, as if he couldn't believe that killing a good man had no consequence.
Ulric started to lunge towards the next guard and found his legs locked up, a screaming agony rolling up through him. The backlash. His core wasn't empty though, he had more to give.
[Surge]
The point of his blade punched through the arm and chest of the turning guard two meters away as Ulric lunged, erupting out the back of him, destroying his heart and lungs. It carved away his spine as it did, and he dropped, pulling the sword down with the weight of his corpse. Ulric loosed the hilt and pulled his knife as the last of the four came charging, polearm raised to split his skull. Ulric threw the knife, which caused the coward to flinch behind his clean, never-tested plate, and the once reluctant warrior laid his hands on either side of the man's helmet before he could bring his weapon down, inhumanly fast even without the magic to amplify his limbs.
[Absolute Zero]
The last of his mana left him in a rush and a wall nut-sized sphere in the center of the guard's brain turned to a pellet of frozen matter that quickly disintegrated while rendering the majority of the rest of the organ solid as it stole the heat from its surroundings to lift itself above thermal zero.
The guard dropped bonelessly, his armor and weapon clattering loudly in the night. Frost spread slowly from the dead man's helmet, the metal transmitting the cold within to the stones.
Done. And done. And done. And done. And done.
Ulric breathed out slowly and straightened with an effort. Now he had to endure the punishment of [Mana Exhaustion] and the backlash of joining the lightning's flow. A distant part of him would have loved to see what the Iriel'en mages though of that. Don't join yourself to the Ceraun they said. They didn't understand at all. You're already part of it, it's in and around and through you. The electromagnetic is everywhere. You just needed to know how to find your way back out is all. Every source has a sink.
He was avoiding thinking about the obvious thing and forced himself to face it head-on. No running, Ulric. Varrock is dead, killed by Prosper's thugs. Now he is avenged, but the work is not done. There were those who set this in motion who still had to answer for it.
The Lupid clans were in shock, both from the senseless murder of their Elder and the incredibly rapid violence that followed.
Nanya freed herself of her paralysis first and ran to kneel over her grandfather's corpse, cradling it in her arms as she wept and wailed. Erswinn lowered himself to take her into his embrace in turn. The Lupid in the square circled their kin, shielding them in their suffering. The man didn't mind being excluded from this, he was not one of them, even if he grieved with them.
Ulric turned and pulled his sword out of the dead guard's torso, grunting at the effort it took him to combat the sharp throbbing pain that felt like it had burrowed into his nerves. His whole body rang like a bell with it, all the way to his eyes.
He almost forgot to pick up his knife from where he'd slung it at the last man's face. Ulric liked that knife, it had helped him kill an Adept Mage and followed him all the way from the glade, so it was a mark of his state of mind that he would neglect it.
Dodging again Ulric, he warned himself. Quit avoiding it. Varrock is dead, killed in front of you. You didn't stop it. You probably couldn't have if you tried. Accept what has happened and learn what you can from it. It dishonors the memory of him to not embrace his death and its meaning to you.
I liked that grumpy old bastard, Ulric lamented, eyes burning. He snatched back his composure immediately. He would grieve, properly. But later, when it was safe. For now, Ulric had just publicly slaughtered a Magister and his escort in front of a crowd of people. People whom he had promised to keep safe. There was only one certain way to do that.
Raising his voice firmly, so that the mourning Lupid could hear him, Ulric demanded "Tell the spineless tools of Prosper what happened here was my doing. Tell them that I was the one who killed their men. Tell them that Varrock tried to stop me and I killed him. Let nothing connect you to this thing. My name is Ulric Einar, and I go now to Prosper to rip the life from the Merchant Lords who have allowed this evil to happen to a good man. Tell them that too."
He left the square and the broken remains of what had been a beautiful day and the sorrow of what had been a wonderful friendship.
The storm rolled in overhead and thunder parted the heavy air of the night with its peels. It sounded like funeral bells to his ears, at first. And then, as he made his way through the wide, mostly empty streets, like the beat of a war drum.
Thoughts crystallized as he forced his battered body to return along the path back to the lowest tier. First, the Baron, Prosper's fist, to go with the eyes that Ulric had just blinded. Then the port to cut off the blood. The city wouldn't starve but it would slow the movement of goods and supplies. Enough to force the expense of manpower to return Bartala to working order.
Would people suffer? Undoubtedly.
The fortunes of the residents of the city depended upon its trade, which depended upon the ships in its harbor, and the piers that gave those ships birthing. Likewise, the shipyards to repair and build those vessels. Ulric would destroy those things anyway and cripple the gears that turned Prosper's machine. He would not slay the populace though. They were innocent. Until they raised a weapon towards him, anyway. If they did that, they declared sides with the Merchant Lords.
I will be your second.
He had said that to Varrock before they left. It was a sort of joke, as the Elder Wolf had acted like he went to his own end. The bitter irony of it almost made him sick. Varrock had not deserved to die this day. He had deserved to live to spoil his great-grandchildren as he had his granddaughter. Out of all the ways this day could have gone, the native of a once tame world would not have thought that it would end like this. And it was not even over yet. Ulric had more to do. Farther to go.
Alright, alright, so maybe not the Baron first. First, he had to gather his things, as much as he could carry and move quickly. The wagon would have to be abandoned. Good riddance, he hated those foul bovines anyway and the feeling was mutual. He hadn't planned on going loud so soon.
He hadn't planned on a lot of things.
Next, he had to procure some reagents. They would be relatively common, but probably under names that were unknown to him. He'd have to describe the various properties of them to arrive at the correct substances. You don't play games with high explosives. He'd have to make a very low mass proof of concept run before upscaling it to useful quantities.
Magic was nice, but Ulric's core was limited, as he was being reminded by the throbbing headache that matched his heart beats. He would need very high-quality clay, perhaps even porcelain. A liquid explosive could be mixed with the clay in proper proportion to create the plastique which he could use to create shaped charges, thus accomplishing maximum efficiency in the use of the yield's energy. He'd never participated in demolitions but he had enough statics knowhow to be able to identify the most easily compromised structural fail points. The wooden docks themselves were a waste of time, replaceable in mere days or a couple of weeks at most. The stone support piers were the real target. Those would take who knows how long to fix, maybe even a year, perhaps longer if no Terra mage were available to speed the process.
The same applied to the ships. Shipbuilding was a fine art requiring specifically aged lumber and a fantastic amount of time. Not something that can be thrown together. Just ripping the bottoms out of the moored galleons would be a heavy blow. If he could get even half the schooners alongside them, he would have set back the transport potential for Bartala for years. Shipwrights don't grow on trees and there are never enough of them as it is. That was a historically documented fact.
Once the charges were ready, he would figure out how to handle the detonator. Really, if a man wanted to be extremely efficient, he would use very small charges in tandem. The right sequence of correctly placed blasts could do far more damage than a single large one. Ulric could maybe figure out a timing mechanism. What about simple mass of the metal conductor pin in the charge? Bigger pins hold more charge before arcing, he could time the series with pins of gradually increasing size all keyed to the same spell for building charge. Another thing to test, detonators are also not something one monkeys about with. It has to be right when the time comes.
So alright then, get your stuff, get mobile. Obtain reagents for the manufacture of explosives. Determine detonator sequencing and range of trigger spell. Place charges at night. Kill Baron in the wee hours of the morning. Leave the city before daylight.
It was a rough plan. Very rough. It would also take some time. He figured he needed at least two weeks.
Rain caught him just past the gate from the second to the first tier of the city. The front dumped a torrent down from the outset that pelted him for a solid five minutes before lightening to a merely soaking drizzle. Ulric was barely holding together by the time he made it to the inn's door. In body, spirit, and appearance he was a half-drowned varmint.
The warmth and light of the Inn bathed him and Ulric froze, living again the impromptu meeting with Varrock in the hall and the night listening to the Old Wolf's tales. A man sitting at a nearby table opened his mouth to say something to Ulric and his teeth clicked together abruptly when Ulric turned and shifted his attention to him. Yeah. He must look a fright right now.
Shaking himself loose of memory's hold, he closed the door to the breaking storm outside and labored up the stairs. It was a frustrating minute before he managed to get the key into the lock and staggered into the room, to fall, face first onto his bed, ignoring the wet of his clothes on the bedding.
The last coherent thought he had was that this was the last safe sleep he would have for a good while. On the morrow, he was going to start punishing the system that let a good man die in the street at the hands of a monster wearing human skin. Exhaustion and the price of his embrace of Ceraun claimed him.
Grey eyes snapped open and he woke instantly alert. Nothing stirred within the room and no sounds indicated what might have pulled him from his dreamless sleep. He took a quick inventory of his disposition.
[Status]
The news could be better. He was mostly recovered from the physical effects of using his [Ohmic Knight’s] pinnacle skill, but his core was still, for lack of a better way to conceptualize it "overheated" and his mana recovery wasn't able to restore him to rights overnight. Good enough though, the news could be worse too. The damage wasn’t as severe as the last time. He felt like he was building some resistance to the influence of saturating himself with Ceraun. Bathe's meditative exercises would come in clutch over the long term, no doubt, though time would tell.
Time. He didn't have enough of it. Got to move Ulric.
Lingering weariness accompanied his change of clothes back into the ones he'd been wearing when he arrived, laundered by the house at his request in a spare moment the day prior and thrown over his small side table to lay ever since. He was going to have to do something about his sword, it was too large to hide and too distinctive, both in hue and form to be anything but identifying.
Along that avenue, a plan was forming: he could burn in a pocket between pieces of thin hardwood planks and carve them to form the shape of one of those broad hacking cleavers that Nalir had preferred. If he glued the planks together nobody would know the difference with the blade wrapped in cloth, as was a not unheard of custom for those difficult-to-sheath weapons. It'd be a little on the long side for one of those things but the way warriors overcompensated around here it wouldn't be much worse than usual. Hell, the guards had used halberds with blades a meter long like they were planning to decapitate a bison.
For now, speed was his ally. It was a big town and he, for once, wasn't too outstanding in a crowd. With that in mind, Ulric left the Inn with a parting tip for the Innkeep who pocketed it as her due. He was not going to miss that woman, even if he appreciated the necessity of her existence to keep the Inn run as tightly as it was. This operation was going to require a slightly less above-ground environment, where people of ill repute moved in circles that asked fewer questions. No doubt by now he was a wanted criminal and his description would be circulating through the rank and file.
Ulric had a moment of weakness wherein he considered simply leaving Bartala, and escaping out into the wilds. But that wouldn't teach these people anything. It wouldn't bloody Prosper's nose and Ulric wanted very much to do that, and more.
In a fit of sentimentality, Ulric went to the wagon that had contained Taipan's joke, which he had turned a hefty profit on by selling to the men who were his apparent genetic kinsmen. Wouldn’t that just tweak her cute little nose when she found out about it? All the shit that remained in it was going to have to be sacrificed, playing the trader, that wasn't an option any longer, he simply couldn't afford to remain visible long enough to source buys and do the exchanges. Not directly, anyway. Perhaps through an intermediary…but who could he trust? A stranger in a strange land, he didn't have the contacts to pull it off at the moment.
Nope, he decided, time to cut his losses and vanish.
"Ciao, you bastards." He told the [Direhorn Oxen], wishing them a clean death and a happy afterlife as boots, belts, and perhaps a nice piece of upholstery.
Ulric shouldered his pack, and turned down the alleyway headed off the main thoroughfares as the milling bustle of Bartala swallowed him whole. Soon, it would choke.
All things considered, the evening wore on rather pleasantly. The grumbling of his host, the artful deflection of the Bride, and the simple positivity of the Groom made for an interesting collage of conversation. The Lupid clans in attendance soon blended into the background, having evaluated him, and he they in return. Each was friendly enough, none had reason to resent the presence of Varrock's unusual guest. They chalked him up to a strange turn of mind in the patriarch of the Bride's Clan, while the rest were merely satisfied that their clan's scion was happy to be there, doting on his wife-to-be. All but one in attendance knew the lad was marrying up, outside his weight class so to speak. Some were left to wonder as to how he'd pulled it off, given the obvious difference in the presumptive pairing. Ulric had no such doubts.
The lad's clan was filthy rich. Loaded. The boy told tales of his clan, with the sort of absent way of one who was not bragging at all, but was so blissfully unaware of their fortune that it could be offputting all the same. They held a corner of the markets for bringing many of the meats into Bartala and also to distribute the nonperishable processed items made from it to ports wide and far. Sometimes it's easy to believe such success was accidental, but that was rarely the case.
It was a simple but meticulously executed business model: buy relatively generously, but exclusively, from a network of farms and tribes in whose lands resided some particularly savory animals. High-yield beef, mutton, and pork, but also, of critical importance, rare and exotic treats. Through their network, they would load the animals, still alive, onto vessels and transport them to the butchers in the city. The bargain hinged on the fact that all of the beasts being transported were gelded or spayed so that new herds could not be manufactured outside of the agreement.
Almost all of the food on the table was provided courtesy of the lad's family. The Groom's family had done well enough to earn the Magister's seal from Prosper, certifying their clan's enjoyment of the optimal shipping routes and protection of the Merchant Lords, for as long as the taxes were properly paid and they accepted inspection by Magisters whenever and wherever they wished.
Not being the most perceptive guy around, Ulric felt certain that the pair were genuinely enamored of one another. He was also certain that the old wolf never would have gone along with it if not for the boy's clan being incredibly affluent, able to give his descendants a brilliant future.
Meanwhile, the venue and its decoration were Varrock's doing. Ulric discovered that one of the components of the salad he was enjoying greatly at the moment was the sumptuous petals of the murderous [Twilight Finchcatcher], the blue-violet lily with a penchant for avian slaughter he'd nearly donated a finger to earlier. That one was all Varrock, who imported them from the swampy downs where they exclusively grew. The plants were favored in the gardens of the wealthy elite of Bartala.
Narration from the bubbly Bride told of a proud clan of warriors turned caravaneers who had gained a reputation for never arriving late and never failing to make a delivery. That success had blossomed through the early adoption of the Free Artisans Guild and their transition to also making the goods they delivered, which skyrocketed the clan's wealth and standing in the region. Clan Varrock had done well for themselves for several hundred years before breaking with the requirement for Prosper's Magister's seal.
The decline of the clan was talked around, none so gauche as to mention it directly, but Ulric caught enough in the byplays to fill in a few of the gaps in the Old Man's drunken stories the night before. At the end of the day, the clan refused to bend knee to Prosper's control and that was the end of it. They had their own traditions for training their artisans now and rejected the taxes on their goods that did not go to the local territories or clans but instead fed distant Prosper, lining its coffers. Varrock's clan wanted nothing to do with Prosper, they wished to be left alone. Over time, the pressure and overwhelming size of the Merchant Lord's empire was grinding them down, cutting them out of markets.
Clear was the picture from the two sides of the situation. Join Prosper's empire, accept the Seal of the Magisters and the taxation and control policies they dictated, and find success, or don't, and face creeping doom.
Under the steady probing of the Bride, Ulric was sort of forced to present nearly the full scope of his and Taipan's long-established cover story. He slipped, once, when he mentioned Taipan as his wife. That sent the Bride into full inquisition wanting to know all about her, for some reason. He told them mostly the truth, that they had begun with her working as his guide, escorting him through the more dangerous regions while he worked to establish his position and consolidate dominion over his lands. Later, after much struggle, holding each other's flanks against Greater Beasts and variant monsters, and some cultural misconceptions, they found themselves wed.
"WIIIEEE!" crooned the Bride's alto, "So romantic! See, Erswinn, I knew the Barbarian Clans held stories like tales of old."
The Groom nodded placidly, lightly petting his partner's arm as he agreed, "It is so, Nanya. A wonderful tale, Ulric. And fitting to accompany us who will soon join you and your doting love on this marital path."
Ulric wasn't so sure he'd describe Taipan as doting but she had her moments. He lost a second or two wondering what she was doing just then. The time table said she had arrived in Iriel long since, months ago. What had transpired since he had no idea. She was as late with her rendezvous with him as he was his making it to Bartala’s walls.
He was distracted from that train of thought when the pair of lovebirds then traded an almost sickeningly sweet stare at one another, leaving the rest of the world behind for a minute. Varrock pretended to gag on a bone to break them up and Ulric had to hide his face beneath a napkin or reveal his wide grin.
The old wolf winked at Ulric while Nanya, the Bride, none the wiser, attempted to succor her choking grandparent and give him water to clear his throat. Erswinn, the Groom, remained blissfully unaware and suggested a few softer portions to his grandfather-in-law, still trying to maintain favor with the notoriously irritable Clan Head.
All told, this entire Wedding was not so very far off from the ones he'd attended in the Before. If you ignored the canine features of the participants, you might easily find similar scenes on old Earth. In a bizarre twist, if he had to guess, this might be the most normal thing to happen to him since he'd been reforged on Vardan soil. No lethal beasts, no warrior people, no fights for life. Just a couple of lovebirds getting married, an old man resenting anyone who thought they deserved his daughter's precious jewel, and their two clans sort of awkwardly intermingling, as strangers meeting for the first time do.
Wine came around, poured from clay amphoras rather than the bottles of his old world. Ulric thought it was a little dry for his palette but the sort of thing that could grow on you. He kept himself to a modest two glasses, not wanting to risk inebriation causing him to make Earth references in conversation or to do something to cause a scene. It was a little strange, because the wedding was proceeding almost in reverse, with the food and drink coming before the ceremony.
Varrock had explained that the actual nuptials were performed at the setting of the Twins which, Ulric saw was imminent. The rest of the crowd similarly gained awareness and naturally started to drift towards a raised dais with an arched trellis hung with grape vines, still leafed out and bearing their bunches, and a bevy of flowers woven alongside, representing, probably, all the usual hopeful nonsense that surrounds a wedding.
"Hey! Old Wolf, just where are the Bride's parents, anyhow?" Ulric whispered low, hoping he wasn't bringing up anything sensitive.
Varrock frowned and made a beseeching gesture of the skies before he replied, "They were wintering with a caravan, caught by an early freeze and held late, thanks to the reluctance of the ice to break up. Word arrived that they are on their way, but there are certain traditions to be observed and it is the time when the time of the Twins over takes the Moon's coven. Nanya would not hear of delaying the union."
He nodded.
Ulric then caught the older Beastkin's narrowing of eyes towards the Groom.
"My daughter's daughter wished to be wed before she grows fat with pups." He said flatly.
Oh! Oh no. No wonder the geezer had a bone to pick with the happy-go-lucky idiot. Digging in forbidden flower pots. A bold move, young wolf, a bold move indeed.
Speak of the Devil!
Now richly sauced, Erswinn the Groom wandered over, tail fairly wagging from excitement. He wasn't a bad kid. Maybe not exactly what you want to join the family tree, but he didn't have a mean bone in his body and that counted for something. Maybe the kids get their mother's brains. And her brawn. And hopefully just their sire's cheerful smile, and instinct for recognizing opportunity.
"Grandfather! It is time, please, I would like for you to do the honors. Nanya speaks so often of you and with such praise, I would not have any other to bring us together." Gushed Erswinn.
Ulric saw Varrock working himself up to say something biting and jabbed the old wolf in the leg, shaking his head and mouthing "Don't". His granddaughter would never forgive him for upsetting her marriage, especially not right here at the moment of climax.
The hackles on the Lupid dropped and Ulric heard him mumble "End of my line, litters of doe-eyed little soft bellies." as he allowed himself to be led away.
When the couple to be wed took their places on the dais with Varrock between them all the gathered Lupid rose and gave their full attention, so Ulric joined immediately. The pavilion fell to complete silence as the two took each other's hands, delicate grips preventing claws from digging in. Later, someone would tell him what it all meant but, for now, he let the Beastkin tongue roll over him.
"Gathered are two clans, who, through love, become as one." Intoned Varrock, his voice resonant and rich, absent its usual growling complaint.
"Nanya, Clan Hora is here to join Erswinn, Clan Bitsnes for the sake of their future together."
The Elder Lupid began wrapping first the Groom's hand and wrist with a long silk ribbon of white as he went through the ritual.
"Clan Bitsnes of the Bartalan, who brings the wealth of masters in trade and the security of his name, is hereby bound."
With that, Varrock began to wrap his granddaughter's hand in the same fashion.
"Clan Hora of the Horan Reaches, who brings the cunning of pioneers and the ferocity of her name, is hereby bound."
Arms raised over the two as if lifting them skyward, the Old Wolf declared finally
"Clan Hora to Clan Bitsnes, Nanya to Erswinn, may their fortunes intertwine and their children never want. So it is witnessed. So it is done."
Thus bound in spirit and blood, the couple turned to their kin and raised the tied arms high resulting in poor Erswinn being jerked to his toes in his fresh-faced, and far taller, bride's excitement.
And the crowd went wild. Almost literally, with barking and howling and all manner of canine yips and growls. The Lupid language was guttural and used less of the lips than the tongue than did Valin or Aes'r. It was not unpleasing to Ulric's ear, just uncanny. Dredged up from his mind were the long-gone calls of wolves in the forests, of coyotes across the canyons, and dingos ringing through the Outback nights. None of those were to be heard again on Earth. It made him sort of happy that their like could be found here on Varda and not only when a predator turned its hungry maw your way.
As if called, a predator of another sort skulked into the pavilion. Richly robed, sleeves extending well past his hands in a ridiculous show of preening overconfidence. A declaration that the office denoted by the heavy gold links hanging down to his chest, carrying the sigil of a Magister of Prosper, was more than enough to render him immune to all harm. The man's eyes callously scanned the gathering, cataloging those present and dismissing them immediately. They were cold, dead eyes, absent humanity. Ulric knew when he was looking at a psychopath. This man was exactly the sort who liked to peel the wings off flies. This was the kind Ulric knew should be killed on sight, before they hurt someone.
"What is this? An unsanctioned gathering? My office has given no approval for any legal proceedings." Announced the slimy bastard bringing the celebration to a dead halt.
Both clans were suddenly doused, and the honored pair showed expressions of anguish at the peak of their moment being stamped upon. Varrock was visibly livid.
In the sudden absence of joy, the cold wind of the approaching storm blew in somewhat portentiously, sending streamers fluttering from their poles and flower petals scattering into the air. The timing was almost too perfect.
"Ah, so it was known that this gathering was not granted the benediction of my office. A pity. Given that no request for betrothal has passed my desk I feel…slighted. Yes, I am most grieved by the disrespect shown the honorable office of Magister to Prosper. I cannot condone flagrant violations of the laws of our great city Bartala." Declared the Magister, brimming with sadistic glee at having turned this gathering of celebration into an impromptu hearing.
A quartet of guards entered the square to flank the Magister. They were armored in thick steel plate and carried halberds with a wicked half-moon blade and a nasty recurving spike. The men moved like robots, devoid of empathy for what they were doing to these people. The presence of armed men in proximity to his kin sent Varrock over the edge, the Lupid Elder leaped down from the dais and stood in front of the magister putting himself between the Beastkin clans and the Magister.
"You! We need not Prosper's blessing to wed our clans. We need not your sanction to choose our mates. And we need not some pompous slug wearing a golden slave collar to carry his master's barking to our ears from distant shores. You have brought blades into a gathering of joy and I will not stand for it." Growled Varrock, teeth bared.
The Magister looked down his nose at the Beastkin in the crowd before leveling a dead stare at the Elder Lupid.
"I know of you. You are that holdout in the North West. The wretch who smuggles and skirts the laws and brings his unwashed stinking family down in ruin with him." Stated the Magister coldly smug, "Good. Even gladder am I that I noticed this fracas and came to put an end to it. Too long have you operated outside the law, you and your mangy lot. I am not sure I shouldn't have you arrested and put to trial at this very moment. And your lawless pup bitch over there along with you."
A lift of the arm, sent the ludicrous sleeve falling to its elbow, sallow pale flesh revealed, lined with blue veins like it had never seen the suns light. The long finger nails, extending three or more centimeters past the tips of the digits were painted silver and blue, perhaps holding some kind of meaning, perhaps simply an affectation of the owner's whims. At the raised hand the guards stepped forward.
Varrock snarled and suddenly crouched low, his leg whipping to cleanly clear the legs from the ground, bringing the nearest two heavily armored men down instantly. He dodged backward immediately to avoid being skewered by a halberd spike. Ulric was moving as soon as the old wolf did, to intercede when he recognized the turn in the Lupid's body that said violence was coming.
He was too late. Varrock was coming ready from his evasion when a quartet of slender blades of ice entered his chest, originating from the Magister's finger tips, the blue painted nails explained as artificed Infrig catalysts. Blood, thick and frothy, coughed from the Lupid's mouth, and the young couple on the dais screamed, one in outrage and the other in denial.
Ulric smashed his hand down through the ice, breaking the thin lances off before the virulent bastard could tear the Beastkin's body anymore and he supported him with the other hand.
The two guards were picking themselves up as the other two advanced warningly towards the crowd, menacing them.
Blood ran freely to the stones and Ulric knew he could do nothing to stop it. Nothing at all. Varrock knew too.
A clawed hand pulled Ulric close, to force out a whisper, all he could manage through torn lungs.
"My kin. No harm."
Ulric took the clawed hand in his own, and squeezed it as he met the dying man's gaze.
"Never. Not a hair, Honored Varrock. My oath." Ulric swore, forcing the words out past a grief he'd never known.
He saw the light leave his new friend's eyes and felt the force of will that animated those old bones leave them. He held a body now. And Ulric turned grey eyes on the ones responsible for it.
Howling rose up behind him as he gently lowered the brave man to the stones, composing him as he did. He heard the cries of Nanya for her grampa. He heard the rattle of metal on rock from the guards advancing. He heard the feathers of a bird flutter as it flew by unknowing of the tragedy that had just occurred.
"A barbarian, friending the dogs? I should have kno-" Started the Magister.
[Ceraun's Dance, First Movement]
All the world turned to violet light and time seemed to stop. There was Ulric, his hand on Xef'tocht's hilt and there was a murderer with his blood-soaked hand still pointing. And there was a promise to keep. Lightning surged and he became part of it, a living blade of rampant energy that roared forwards faster than an eyeblink and struck the Magister.
The Magister was destroyed, a blacked soot all that remained besides what bits would soon come raining down across the city block. Ulric raised Xef'tocht, its blade embedded halfway along its length into the cauterized stone, and removed the top half of the head of the guard on his left, shearing through inferior metal like a razor through aluminum foil.
Shouting from the guards was drowned out in the thunderclap and they barely reacted when the first of their number was decapitated. Flash blinded and stunned by proximity to the lightning. He would have smiled if he could feel anything but the most sublime hatred. Rage was not in this. Rage was hot, burning inside the mind, consuming everything around it. Ulric was a frozen ocean, with thoughts like the pinging of ice as the glaciers moved.
Moving again, he spun to bring his long blade over his shoulder in a glittering arc that separated the next man's armored shoulder and neck from the rest of his torso. Both seemed to fall too slowly to the stones. Ulric saw a startled expression on the dead man's face, as if he couldn't believe that killing a good man had no consequence.
Ulric started to lunge towards the next guard and found his legs locked up, a screaming agony rolling up through him. The backlash. His core wasn't empty though, he had more to give.
[Surge]
The point of his blade punched through the arm and chest of the turning guard two meters away as Ulric lunged, erupting out the back of him, destroying his heart and lungs. It carved away his spine as it did, and he dropped, pulling the sword down with the weight of his corpse. Ulric loosed the hilt and pulled his knife as the last of the four came charging, polearm raised to split his skull. Ulric threw the knife, which caused the coward to flinch behind his clean, never-tested plate, and the once reluctant warrior laid his hands on either side of the man's helmet before he could bring his weapon down, inhumanly fast even without the magic to amplify his limbs.
[Absolute Zero]
The last of his mana left him in a rush and a wall nut-sized sphere in the center of the guard's brain turned to a pellet of frozen matter that quickly disintegrated while rendering the majority of the rest of the organ solid as it stole the heat from its surroundings to lift itself above thermal zero.
The guard dropped bonelessly, his armor and weapon clattering loudly in the night. Frost spread slowly from the dead man's helmet, the metal transmitting the cold within to the stones.
Done. And done. And done. And done. And done.
Ulric breathed out slowly and straightened with an effort. Now he had to endure the punishment of [Mana Exhaustion] and the backlash of joining the lightning's flow. A distant part of him would have loved to see what the Iriel'en mages though of that. Don't join yourself to the Ceraun they said. They didn't understand at all. You're already part of it, it's in and around and through you. The electromagnetic is everywhere. You just needed to know how to find your way back out is all. Every source has a sink.
He was avoiding thinking about the obvious thing and forced himself to face it head-on. No running, Ulric. Varrock is dead, killed by Prosper's thugs. Now he is avenged, but the work is not done. There were those who set this in motion who still had to answer for it.
The Lupid clans were in shock, both from the senseless murder of their Elder and the incredibly rapid violence that followed.
Nanya freed herself of her paralysis first and ran to kneel over her grandfather's corpse, cradling it in her arms as she wept and wailed. Erswinn lowered himself to take her into his embrace in turn. The Lupid in the square circled their kin, shielding them in their suffering. The man didn't mind being excluded from this, he was not one of them, even if he grieved with them.
Ulric turned and pulled his sword out of the dead guard's torso, grunting at the effort it took him to combat the sharp throbbing pain that felt like it had burrowed into his nerves. His whole body rang like a bell with it, all the way to his eyes.
He almost forgot to pick up his knife from where he'd slung it at the last man's face. Ulric liked that knife, it had helped him kill an Adept Mage and followed him all the way from the glade, so it was a mark of his state of mind that he would neglect it.
Dodging again Ulric, he warned himself. Quit avoiding it. Varrock is dead, killed in front of you. You didn't stop it. You probably couldn't have if you tried. Accept what has happened and learn what you can from it. It dishonors the memory of him to not embrace his death and its meaning to you.
I liked that grumpy old bastard, Ulric lamented, eyes burning. He snatched back his composure immediately. He would grieve, properly. But later, when it was safe. For now, Ulric had just publicly slaughtered a Magister and his escort in front of a crowd of people. People whom he had promised to keep safe. There was only one certain way to do that.
Raising his voice firmly, so that the mourning Lupid could hear him, Ulric demanded "Tell the spineless tools of Prosper what happened here was my doing. Tell them that I was the one who killed their men. Tell them that Varrock tried to stop me and I killed him. Let nothing connect you to this thing. My name is Ulric Einar, and I go now to Prosper to rip the life from the Merchant Lords who have allowed this evil to happen to a good man. Tell them that too."
He left the square and the broken remains of what had been a beautiful day and the sorrow of what had been a wonderful friendship.
The storm rolled in overhead and thunder parted the heavy air of the night with its peels. It sounded like funeral bells to his ears, at first. And then, as he made his way through the wide, mostly empty streets, like the beat of a war drum.
Thoughts crystallized as he forced his battered body to return along the path back to the lowest tier. First, the Baron, Prosper's fist, to go with the eyes that Ulric had just blinded. Then the port to cut off the blood. The city wouldn't starve but it would slow the movement of goods and supplies. Enough to force the expense of manpower to return Bartala to working order.
Would people suffer? Undoubtedly.
The fortunes of the residents of the city depended upon its trade, which depended upon the ships in its harbor, and the piers that gave those ships birthing. Likewise, the shipyards to repair and build those vessels. Ulric would destroy those things anyway and cripple the gears that turned Prosper's machine. He would not slay the populace though. They were innocent. Until they raised a weapon towards him, anyway. If they did that, they declared sides with the Merchant Lords.
I will be your second.
He had said that to Varrock before they left. It was a sort of joke, as the Elder Wolf had acted like he went to his own end. The bitter irony of it almost made him sick. Varrock had not deserved to die this day. He had deserved to live to spoil his great-grandchildren as he had his granddaughter. Out of all the ways this day could have gone, the native of a once tame world would not have thought that it would end like this. And it was not even over yet. Ulric had more to do. Farther to go.
Alright, alright, so maybe not the Baron first. First, he had to gather his things, as much as he could carry and move quickly. The wagon would have to be abandoned. Good riddance, he hated those foul bovines anyway and the feeling was mutual. He hadn't planned on going loud so soon.
He hadn't planned on a lot of things.
Next, he had to procure some reagents. They would be relatively common, but probably under names that were unknown to him. He'd have to describe the various properties of them to arrive at the correct substances. You don't play games with high explosives. He'd have to make a very low mass proof of concept run before upscaling it to useful quantities.
Magic was nice, but Ulric's core was limited, as he was being reminded by the throbbing headache that matched his heart beats. He would need very high-quality clay, perhaps even porcelain. A liquid explosive could be mixed with the clay in proper proportion to create the plastique which he could use to create shaped charges, thus accomplishing maximum efficiency in the use of the yield's energy. He'd never participated in demolitions but he had enough statics knowhow to be able to identify the most easily compromised structural fail points. The wooden docks themselves were a waste of time, replaceable in mere days or a couple of weeks at most. The stone support piers were the real target. Those would take who knows how long to fix, maybe even a year, perhaps longer if no Terra mage were available to speed the process.
The same applied to the ships. Shipbuilding was a fine art requiring specifically aged lumber and a fantastic amount of time. Not something that can be thrown together. Just ripping the bottoms out of the moored galleons would be a heavy blow. If he could get even half the schooners alongside them, he would have set back the transport potential for Bartala for years. Shipwrights don't grow on trees and there are never enough of them as it is. That was a historically documented fact.
Once the charges were ready, he would figure out how to handle the detonator. Really, if a man wanted to be extremely efficient, he would use very small charges in tandem. The right sequence of correctly placed blasts could do far more damage than a single large one. Ulric could maybe figure out a timing mechanism. What about simple mass of the metal conductor pin in the charge? Bigger pins hold more charge before arcing, he could time the series with pins of gradually increasing size all keyed to the same spell for building charge. Another thing to test, detonators are also not something one monkeys about with. It has to be right when the time comes.
So alright then, get your stuff, get mobile. Obtain reagents for the manufacture of explosives. Determine detonator sequencing and range of trigger spell. Place charges at night. Kill Baron in the wee hours of the morning. Leave the city before daylight.
It was a rough plan. Very rough. It would also take some time. He figured he needed at least two weeks.
Rain caught him just past the gate from the second to the first tier of the city. The front dumped a torrent down from the outset that pelted him for a solid five minutes before lightening to a merely soaking drizzle. Ulric was barely holding together by the time he made it to the inn's door. In body, spirit, and appearance he was a half-drowned varmint.
The warmth and light of the Inn bathed him and Ulric froze, living again the impromptu meeting with Varrock in the hall and the night listening to the Old Wolf's tales. A man sitting at a nearby table opened his mouth to say something to Ulric and his teeth clicked together abruptly when Ulric turned and shifted his attention to him. Yeah. He must look a fright right now.
Shaking himself loose of memory's hold, he closed the door to the breaking storm outside and labored up the stairs. It was a frustrating minute before he managed to get the key into the lock and staggered into the room, to fall, face first onto his bed, ignoring the wet of his clothes on the bedding.
The last coherent thought he had was that this was the last safe sleep he would have for a good while. On the morrow, he was going to start punishing the system that let a good man die in the street at the hands of a monster wearing human skin. Exhaustion and the price of his embrace of Ceraun claimed him.
Grey eyes snapped open and he woke instantly alert. Nothing stirred within the room and no sounds indicated what might have pulled him from his dreamless sleep. He took a quick inventory of his disposition.
[Status]
The news could be better. He was mostly recovered from the physical effects of using his [Ohmic Knight’s] pinnacle skill, but his core was still, for lack of a better way to conceptualize it "overheated" and his mana recovery wasn't able to restore him to rights overnight. Good enough though, the news could be worse too. The damage wasn’t as severe as the last time. He felt like he was building some resistance to the influence of saturating himself with Ceraun. Bathe's meditative exercises would come in clutch over the long term, no doubt, though time would tell.
Time. He didn't have enough of it. Got to move Ulric.
Lingering weariness accompanied his change of clothes back into the ones he'd been wearing when he arrived, laundered by the house at his request in a spare moment the day prior and thrown over his small side table to lay ever since. He was going to have to do something about his sword, it was too large to hide and too distinctive, both in hue and form to be anything but identifying.
Along that avenue, a plan was forming: he could burn in a pocket between pieces of thin hardwood planks and carve them to form the shape of one of those broad hacking cleavers that Nalir had preferred. If he glued the planks together nobody would know the difference with the blade wrapped in cloth, as was a not unheard of custom for those difficult-to-sheath weapons. It'd be a little on the long side for one of those things but the way warriors overcompensated around here it wouldn't be much worse than usual. Hell, the guards had used halberds with blades a meter long like they were planning to decapitate a bison.
For now, speed was his ally. It was a big town and he, for once, wasn't too outstanding in a crowd. With that in mind, Ulric left the Inn with a parting tip for the Innkeep who pocketed it as her due. He was not going to miss that woman, even if he appreciated the necessity of her existence to keep the Inn run as tightly as it was. This operation was going to require a slightly less above-ground environment, where people of ill repute moved in circles that asked fewer questions. No doubt by now he was a wanted criminal and his description would be circulating through the rank and file.
Ulric had a moment of weakness wherein he considered simply leaving Bartala, and escaping out into the wilds. But that wouldn't teach these people anything. It wouldn't bloody Prosper's nose and Ulric wanted very much to do that, and more.
In a fit of sentimentality, Ulric went to the wagon that had contained Taipan's joke, which he had turned a hefty profit on by selling to the men who were his apparent genetic kinsmen. Wouldn’t that just tweak her cute little nose when she found out about it? All the shit that remained in it was going to have to be sacrificed, playing the trader, that wasn't an option any longer, he simply couldn't afford to remain visible long enough to source buys and do the exchanges. Not directly, anyway. Perhaps through an intermediary…but who could he trust? A stranger in a strange land, he didn't have the contacts to pull it off at the moment.
Nope, he decided, time to cut his losses and vanish.
"Ciao, you bastards." He told the [Direhorn Oxen], wishing them a clean death and a happy afterlife as boots, belts, and perhaps a nice piece of upholstery.
Ulric shouldered his pack, and turned down the alleyway headed off the main thoroughfares as the milling bustle of Bartala swallowed him whole. Soon, it would choke.
