Two shadowy forms slipped through the darkness, moving as silent as secrets. There was a reflective glint of steel as the lead figure unsheathed a small blade, which she used to cut the bindings on the flap of the tent into which she quickly vanished inside. The second form huddled outside and made a handsome motion with his hands, indicating that they would keep watch outside. Could a hand motion be handsome?
Once she was inside the tent, the lead figure allowed herself to breathe for the first time in what felt like minutes; but she could not dally as the mission had only just begun. Getting in this tent unseen was the first part of the plan, but killing this sleeping brute in its sleep was the next step, and this was going to be even more difficult than getting here unkilled.
She slunk closer to the giant form sleeping upon a straw mattress on the hard ground, and she wasn’t sure what was louder: the creature’s rumbling snores or the sound of her own heart pounding in her chest. Soon, she was hovering just over the scaly dragonman, its mouth curled in a toothy grimace as it dreamt of what she could only imagine was past or future cruelties, and not of an adoring draconic wife and child waiting for it back home. It is a monster! It uses innocent people for target practice. You must do this! She steeled herself and positioned the razor tip of the small dagger under the beast’s chin…and froze.
“Wow, you’ve gotten so much better since I was here last,” Ispin said with a grin as Lyric limped over to him, covered in sweat and with the beginnings of an angry welt forming on her forehead. But Lyric flashed him a sore, rueful smile at the praise, nonetheless. She had hoped to put on a better show for him but Kavrash was having none of her tricks this morning and the bout had been terribly short and even more painful than usual.
Lyric had really wanted to impress her Uncle Ispin as it had been several years since he had last visited and she had gotten much stronger and faster than the last time he had seen her fight. But somehow, she could never quite match her mother’s skill and speed. Ever. For every improvement she made, her mother’s skill seemed to grow in equal strides as well. “I thought I was getting as about good as she is, but every time I think that she has just been holding back on me,” Lyric said with a cast-down expression. “Besides, I don’t even know why we bother training like this every day, I’m never going to be a warrior or adventurer like you.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” Ispin responded, placing a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder as the pair of them turned to follow Kavrash to the farmhouse, walking slowly in an effort to put some distance between the two of them and the girl’s mother. “No one knows what the world has in store for you.”
“Well, she sure acts like she knows,” Lyric shot back in annoyance.
“Your mom is just looking out for you. She is trying to turn you into a rose.”
“A rose?” Lyric gave the man a quizzical look.
“Roses are soft and pretty to look at, but they are protected by razor sharp thorns. She is just trying to protect you...to give you the tools to protect yourself.” His eyes flashed mischievously as he added, “Roses smell nice though, so maybe not a rose…more like skunkweed maybe.”
“Hey!” Lyric shot him an indignant look and pushed him away in mock anger.
Ispin chuckled and ruffled her hair. “Look, I’m serious. No one, outside of the snake-readers and oracles know what the future brings, and we can’t even be certain most of those aren’t grifters or charlatans. What you are learning here, what your mom is teaching you, can only help and not hurt, a…”
“Oh, it can hurt,” Lyric snapped, rubbing her bruised temple.
“Yeah, that looks like it hurt. Sounded like it, too. You almost ducked out of the way of that swing.”
“Almost,” she responded. “Always, almost. I see it coming, I panic and freeze, and then…smack!” She rubbed her temple more vigorously to emphasize her point.
The pair reached the farmhouse and sat down on the straw-lined bench on the porch and looked out over the fields and towards the vibrant cresting sunrise which was just beginning the process of painting the wheat and corn in a palette of iridescent shades of purple and orange. Ispin took his pipe out of his coat pocket and began to tamp the tobacco in place as he got that faraway look in his eye, the look he often assumed whenever he was about to tell a story or impart some nugget of wisdom. “I had no idea where my life would take me, and I never would have imagined that it would send all the world over. And while I never went looking for trouble, trouble found me more times than I can count.” He looked down on her with an earnest expression, “I can tell you with certainty that I wish I had started my adventures with as much training as you have had already, I would have a lot fewer scars, for sure.” He touched the end of the pipe with a finger and whispered a word in a foreign tongue, an act which caused the tip of his finger to flash with a small flame, which caused the pipe tobacco to spark to life and send a lazy tongue of smoke wafting lazily into the air.
“Neat trick,” Lyric beamed at him. “Can you teach me that one?”
Ispin smiled down at her and nodded in assent. “Of course.”
Lyric then looked down at the green-handled sword on his hip, the scabbard of which jutted down at an awkward angle from the bench behind him. “Have you had to…kill…people with that?” she asked softly.
Ispin glanced down at the sword then back at the girl, weighing his response carefully. “I never wanted to. But I have. Yes.”
“How? How could you do that? Kill someone,” she asked, in a soft whisper.
“Sometimes you have to. It’s them or you. Or them or someone else, someone less deserving. Or them and many, many someone else’s,” he answered at last.
“But….how? I mean, how do you even…do it. Weren’t you scared of…?” Lyric trailed off, unsure how to continue.
“Scared? Every time. You never know which fight will be your last, and actually killing someone is the hardest thing a person can do. But…when you’re afraid it can sometimes help to…assume the role of someone who is brave and confident and sometimes ruthless.” Lyric began to interject but he powered on, “Let me see if I can explain. I am Ispin the bard, raconteur and gadabout, explorer and general ‘good-time-haver,’ but when I draw this…” he motioned to the sword on his hip, “…and raise my shield, I become Ispin the Greenshield, protector of the weak and the innocent and, more often than not, protector of my own narrow hide as well.”
“So you…become…someone else when you have to k…fight someone?”
“Well, yes and no. Let’s see…you know how the Knights of Vashir, their armor is always gleaming and their swords are always shiny and their horses and equipment are always meticulously cared for?” Lyric nodded as he continued, “Well, they put a great deal of energy into that because that is who they are when they might have to fight. When they might have to die. That armor imparts an identity upon them, one of bravery and virtue, because when they wear it it, they are transformed into the brave and virtuous Holy Knights of the Realm.”
“Aren’t they still knights when they are not in their armor?”
“Well, yes. They are the same person, but that person in the shining armor protects the them that is inside of it, both literally and figuratively. This is why they show such respect for their gear, almost as if polishing it is a form of meditation or like an actor assuming a role.” He saw the confusion on her face and tried to change the subject, “It’s hard to explain, I…”
“No, I think I get it. You are still you but you are also the you that has to be brave and do bad things so that the other you doesn’t have to do it.”
There was silence for a moment, then they both broke out laughing. “Somehow you are totally right, but I have no idea how,” Ispin said with a broad grin.
Lyric matched his smile. “Maybe I need some armor, then I could fight better.” Her grin faded quickly however, “But mom says I am too small and armor will only slow me down and get in the way. I tried carrying Sherriff Gemlick’s shield once, and I could hardly even lift it. Besides, the best block is to not be there, as mom always says.”
“Well, you don’t need armor if you’re quick enough, I suppose,” Ispin chimed in, “I have heard of a ferocious hill tribe of kender warriors who don’t wear armor to battle and are as fearsome as they come. And the Onian monks don’t need armor or even weapons to fight and they are some of the most deadly warriors in the land.”
“But how can I stop from being so scared?” She looked at him, looking up at him with sad, wide eyes.
Ispin thought for a long moment, staring into her watery eyes as he measured his response. “Maybe you can make another you. How about a you that isn’t afraid of a fight and will do what needs to be done? An identity with some figurative armor to protect you while they do the fighting.”
Lyric though for a long moment then blurted out, “I could be the Black Widow, deadly an…”
Ispin snorted in laughter, “Gods, no. I know dozens of ‘Black Widows’ and all of them are insufferable.”
Lyric looked crestfallen for a moment then began to laugh. “How about Queen Cobra?” she asked with a smile, narrowing her eyes to dangerous slits and feigning an expression of utter ferocity.
Ispin thought for a moment then responded, “Too Goth.”
“The Brown Recluse? Small and deadly.”
“Sounds like the name of a sad and lonely hermit.”
Lyric shot him an evil stare, “The Brown Recluse doesn’t need friends, on account of how terrifying she is!” she snarled as she stabbed at him with her fingers, causing him to shuffle away from her in mock terror.
A voice from the doorway interrupted them as Kavrash called out, “Are the two of you going to come in and eat some breakfast or what?”
“Coming,” Lyric answered as the two of them stood and headed towards the door.
“Don’t worry, it’ll come to you,” Ispin responded. “Besides, I’m famished.”
“I’m not hungry, but…Lady Nightshade...is starving.”
“No.”
The shadowy figure hovered over the snoring form of the sleeping draconian, the razor-tip point of their dagger resting a hair’s breadth from their scaly throat. Lyric knew that she could not do what needed to be done in this moment, but the Veiled Widow would not hesitate. And so she handed the reins over to her, this cold and ruthless killer. As the steel blade plunged into the sleeping creature’s throat she could almost hear Ispin’s voice in her head, “The Veiled Widow? That sounds like an old crone whose husband died of dropsy and less like the name of a deadly assassin.”
Crap, he’s right. What about the Obsidian Thorn? Or the Dark W…The thought was cut short as the draconian’s eyes flashed open and glared at her with deadly malice, clearly more annoyed than dead at the blade sticking out of its neck.
“Fuck.”