Darkening Sky, Chapter 1

  • Chapter 1

     

     

     

     

                            Gaspard was getting nervous. Throwing his hood back, he turned to the Bosmer beside him and tapped her shoulder.

     

                    ‘Well, can you make the shot or not?’

     

                    Naenel steadied her compact crossbow with both hands, squinting at the Altamonte mansion in the distance. Then her lips tightened and she shook her head, taking a step back from the edge of the roof.

     

                    ‘If I had my longbow with me, I could fell every one of those nobles on the balcony before they had a chance to run inside,’ she said, waving the crossbow with disgust. ‘This, though, has the range of a child’s sling.’

     

                    ‘Be grateful you even have any kind of bow, elf,’ Cuvier growled. ‘This was the best we could smuggle in through the checkpoint. If you can’t even hit a mark from sixty feet, what good are you?’

     

                    Naenel turned her thousand-yard-stare on the two Bretons. Gaspard raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. I’m staying out of this.

     

                    ‘It’s not about hitting the target, it’s about killing him,’ she snapped. ‘I could draw your little toy with my pinkie. This thing is practically useless beyond twenty feet. But if you want me to give Duke Altamonte a good tickle before he runs to his saferoom, just say the word.’

     

                    Cuvier snarled, then pulled his dagger from his belt and tested the point. ‘Fine. We move in closer then.’

     

                    Gaspard sighed, his hopes of finishing the job quickly and leaving Wayrest before dawn dashed to bits. Hit the mark when he’s alone and unguarded. Failing that, pick him off from a distance. Why run the risk of getting close? Mother had been fond of saying that, and she had been one of the top assassins in High Rock only ten years ago. Never once captured. She managed to build up a tidy fortune, retired, then promptly fell – not to a guardsman’s blade, or when the corsairs raided the city a decade ago, but from the stairs to her new house, dashing her brains out.

     

                    ‘Boy!’ Cuvier hissed, tossing a length of rope his way and disappearing from the edge. ‘Stop lollygagging. Move.’

     

                    ‘Right,’ Gaspard muttered, tugging on the rope. Satisfied that it would hold his weight, he began shimmying down from the rooftops towards the courtyard below. His boots touched solid ground at the exact same time a patrol of four guards appeared from around a corner, the Altamonte rooster crest sewed onto their gambesons. One of them pointed at him.

     

                    ‘You there, stop!’

     

                    Cuvier burst out from a nearby bush and clamped a hand over the guard’s mouth, stabbing him under the chin. Before the remaining three could draw their swords, he leapt towards another and bore him to the ground, where they rolled over each other, struggling over the dagger.

     

                    Taking advantage of the distraction, Gaspard drew his own knife and rushed towards the leftmost guard, who managed to get his rapier out. The moustached young man twirled the thin blade in the air in a fencer’s salute.

     

                    ‘Have at you then-’

     

                    Gaspard grabbed him by the wrist before he could bring the sword back down, then stabbed him five times under the waist, where his studded jacket split. The guard’s eyes bulged at this blatant disregard for chivalry, then he promptly died.

     

                    ‘Go be a gentleman in the afterlife,’ Gaspard sneered, hawking a gob of phlegm on the ground next to his feet. Cuvier dispatched his opponent as well, elbowing him in the jaw as they grappled and jabbing his dagger through his eye.

     

                    The last guard turned and ran for the alarm bell. There was a sharp whizz, and a bolt sang between his shoulder blades. He stumbled and fell.

     

                    ‘Well, what do you know,’ Naenel said lightly, loading a fresh bolt into her crossbow. ‘It came in handy after all.’

     

                    ‘You said there wouldn’t be any guards in the courtyard!’ Gaspard said, glaring at Cuvier accusingly.

     

                    ‘I said there might not be any since the banquet’s being held inside the mansion,’ Cuvier said, rolling his eyes. ‘Not everything goes according to plan; it’s high time you drummed that into your thick skull, lad. Now let’s get moving.’

     

                    Lad, Gaspard mouthed behind him, snorting as the grizzled Breton led them across the courtyard towards the entrance to the pantry. Cuvier was in his fifties, ancient if one considered the line of work he was in. So you got lucky and lasted this long. Bully for you. Nobody’s luck lasts forever, friend, and if you keep this up you might find it running out sooner than you expected.

     

                    He was reasonably confident he could take the old man if it came down to it. He was thirty years younger, stronger, most certainly faster, and he had learned his trade from the best.

     

                    Cuvier came to a halt abruptly, forcing Naenel and Gaspard to stop as well.

     

                    ‘Oi, what’s wrong?’ Gaspard said impatiently. ‘Going senile on us?’

     

                    Cuvier turned. The courtyard was dimly lit with torches and the night was cloudy, but Gaspard could still see his brow furrowing. For a brief, absurd moment he wondered if the old man had somehow sensed his mutinous thoughts.

     

                    ‘Gone mute as well?’ Naenel crossed her arms.

     

                    ‘We’re being tailed,’ Cuvier said, his face sharpening. ‘It might just have been my imagination, but… no, someone’s watching us for sure. Ready your weapons.’

     

                    Gaspard scanned the courtyard with practiced eyes. ‘Nothing here but shadows, old man.’

     

                    ‘We know you’re there. Come out!’ Cuvier raised his voice. Gaspard gaped. Is he trying to get us spotted?

     

                    No response. Cuvier tried again. Still nothing.

     

                    Scowling, the old Breton ran his gaze across the rooftops above them several times.

     

                    ‘Are we done yet?’ Gaspard said, unease beginning to chew at him. ‘The guests will stop arriving soon, and Altamonte will close the-’

     

                    ‘Naenel,’ Cuvier interrupted. ‘See the weather vane over there? Shoot a bolt under it.’

     

                    ‘Why?’

     

                    ‘Just do it.’

     

                    The Bosmer frowned, puzzled, but raised her crossbow anyway. The bolt whistled through the air, disappearing into the dark.

     

                    ‘Well, now that that pointless-’

     

                    Gaspard blinked and rubbed his eyes. Two shadows had detached themselves from the weather vane and were speeding across the rooftops.

     

                    ‘I see them!’ Naenel yelled, letting loose another bolt. The shadows swerved and dropped down in front of them noiselessly. Now that they were closer, Gaspard saw that they were humanoid figures.

     

                    ‘Who are you?’ Cuvier demanded. ‘You’re obviously not with the Duke’s men. Who sent you?’

     

                    The smaller of the two figures drew two curiously shaped daggers, each with a ring behind the hilt. Gaspard deduced from the figure’s silhouette that it was female.

     

                    The male figure produced a six-foot-long staff and advanced. The torchlight caught his face and Gaspard saw black fur under a hooded cowl.

     

                    ‘So it’s like that, then. All right.’ Cuvier’s voice lowered to a deadly whisper, and he motioned with his hand. Naenel snapped her crossbow up and fired in one fluid motion.

     

                    The shadows moved with inhuman speed. In barely half a second they had closed the gap between them. The female engaged Cuvier, bringing her daggers down. The old man reacted more quickly than Gaspard had thought him capable of, trapping one blade under his own and grabbing the other with his bare hands. Cuvier uttered a pained groan as his fingers began to bleed.

     

                    A third dagger seemingly flew of its own accord from the figure’s waist, and Cuvier barely ducked in time. At first Gaspard thought the red glow was blood, then he realised it was coming from the dagger’s grip.

     

                    ‘Telekinesis,’ Naenel cursed, reloading her crossbow as fast as she could. Then the fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh daggers rose hovering around the shadow. One caught Naenel in the crook of her arm, another in the side of her neck, and the last two carved a perfectly symmetrical pattern through the air and buried themselves on both of her temples. The Bosmer twitched and collapsed.

     

                    ‘Bitch,’ Cuvier spat, freeing his blade and thrusting. The figure pulled on her right dagger and cut off his fingers at the knuckles, then the third dagger curved around in the air behind him and sank into the back of his neck, followed immediately by two more daggers to the throat.

     

                    For a split second, all of the figure’s daggers were occupied. That was Gaspard’s chance. He lunged. Then the second figure appeared in front of him from a cloud of smoke, staff whirling in movements too swift for Gaspard to track.

     

                    The first blow was to his knee, the second to his pelvis, the third to one of his ribs. Gaspard felt all three bones shatter and opened his mouth to scream, only it wasn’t air in his lungs but blood.

     

                    The figure wound the staff back and struck again. There was a sickening crunch and he felt his forehead cave in.

     

                    Gone the same way as Mother. Well, at least I put up a fight.

     

                    The pain disappeared as the world went black.


     

                    Aveline L'Ouverture adored banquets.

     

                    Free food, dances, and of course, gossip. When she was younger she detested the politics of High Rock nobility, the power play, the petty squabbling, but now that she was older, thrice married and twice widowed, she found that the game had grown on her. The attention, the sense of importance of even the most trivial little things as she blurted them out for all to hear. Enough entertainment to last a lifetime.

     

                    ‘Trust me, dear Emeric,’ she squawked after she swallowed a spoonful of onion soup. ‘All girls go through that… ah… phase. Let her prance off, swaddle herself in robes, hurl a few fireballs where she pleases, whatever mages do. Once she realises what kind of world it is out there, she’ll run crying back to you, I guarantee it.’

     

                    ‘Lady Aveline, please. We are a House of merchants, not spellslingers! Skyrim is a harsh land. My daughter might not even make it back. Besides, there are new suitors lining up-’

     

                    ‘Oh, pooh, suitors,’ Aveline giggled. ‘As if a girl from your house would ever have to worry about finding admirers!’

     

                    ‘You would be surprised.’ Lord Emeric was wearing a pained smile as he rose from the table. ‘Excuse me, my lords, my lady.’

     

                    ‘Our family has never had to worry about wayward children,’ Lord Adrian said smugly, swirling the wine in his glass. ‘Why, my own sons-’

     

                    ‘Oh, shush up, Adrian, nobody cares,’ Aveline snorted. The stout nobleman swelled with indignation and she grinned. One of the perks of being an old crone was that you didn’t really need to watch your mouth.

     

                    Lord Adrian left the table tersely, followed by a few other lords. Unperturbed, Aveline prattled on.

     

                    ‘Have you heard about Emilie Lefevre’s pet hound? Apparently it got loose on one of her sojourns in the countryside and tore apart a dozen chickens before they put it down…

     

                    ‘I wonder if any of you here still remember dear Mathieu. Ah, the man was a boor, but his skills in the bedroom… and I’ve made the young lady blush, heh heh.

     

                    ‘Ah, Lord Guillot, before you leave – are you going to be attending the Mad Pelagius Feast next week? I hear a cabal of sorcerers are planning to summon Sheogorath himself!’

     

                    Guillot thanked her politely, though she was quite sure he didn’t believe her. ‘It’s true,’ she muttered as he left the table. ‘You’ll see.’

     

                    ‘You are as knowledgeable as they say, my lady,’ Lavallette smiled. The young artist was cutting his steak with surgical precision. Aveline supposed it was natural for a painter to have steady hands.

     

                    ‘Why, you flatterer, you,’ she said happily. She was getting along quite well with the quiet, black-haired young man, even though they had only met that evening. ‘I’m sure you don’t find anything I’m saying interesting, though.’

     

                    ‘Quite the contrary.’ Lavallette slid a slice of meat into his mouth and looked at her, his eyes twinkling. His irises were a peculiar shade of silver. ‘I only recently became a noble, so every bit of information helps. Thanks to you, Lady Aveline, I won’t have to worry about embarrassing myself in court now. Well, not as much.’

     

                    Aveline shook her head. ‘How old are you? Seventeen, eighteen? My, my, they’re starting off young these days. Which reminds me, how did you earn your title, dear boy?’

     

                    ‘The High King himself took a fancy to some of my work,’ Lavallette said proudly. ‘He bestowed upon me the honour of a House for helping furnish a new wing of his palace.’

     

                    ‘Mmm,’ Aveline said, spearing a chunk of potato with her fork and chewing on it with what was left of her teeth. ‘What kind of paintings do you do, exactly?’

     

                    ‘Still life, mostly. Portraits. But between the two of us, Lady Aveline…’ The young man leant close and winked. ‘I sometimes do imagery of a more… ribald nature.’

     

                    ‘Oohhh,’ Aveline cackled. ‘Mayhaps that was what the King really elevated you for, hmm?’

     

                    They shared a laugh, then Lavallette scratched the back of his head. Aveline knew the look on his face by heart. ‘What do you need? Ask away.’

     

                    ‘The truth is, my lady,’ the painter whispered. ‘I’ve heard that his Lordship Gerard Rousseau greatly enjoys that particular form of... artistic expression, so to speak. I hope to present my work to him, see if I could…’

     

                    ‘Curry favour with the man,’ Aveline finished, giggling as Lavallette winced. ‘Don’t sweeten your words so much, dear boy, not all nobles are as fond of bootlicking as they might seem to be. Anyway, if you’re looking for Gerard, the old lecher’s probably in the ballroom.’

     

                    ‘Thank you, my lady,’ Lavallette rose, finishing his wine. Under his fine clothes, he was quite slim.

     

                    ‘If they’ve already started the dances, then you might as well not bother,’ Aveline warned him. ‘Gerard does the exact same thing every banquet. He butters up the first comely young lady to dance with him and spends the rest of the night with her either in the guest bedrooms, the baths or even behind a tree in the garden. Shameless, really.’

     

                    A curious glint appeared in Lavallette’s eye, and he left the table after thanking her again.

     

                    Shrugging, Aveline raised her glass and called for another drink.


     

                    I am a man of simple tastes, Gerard thought as he examined the gaggle of girls that passed in front of him, prim and proper with their powdered faces and upturned noses. But this won’t do at all.

     

                    The lords and ladies of High Rock seemed to have insisted on bringing only the ugliest, most undesirable daughters they had with them. This one was too thin, that one was too fat, the one walking over to the other end of the ballroom had such a pockmarked face it was as if it had been chewed by rats – now that I think of it, it might actually have been. By Dibella, is she ugly.

     

                    The few good-looking ones were all taken, of course, clinging demurely to their partner’s arms. Gerard felt the corners of his mouth tug down in displeasure. No luck tonight, eh? Well, it’s not what I’m here for, but it would have made for a fine distraction.

     

                    Heated voices came from behind him. A couple arguing. Gerard turned, and almost felt his luck shift like a switch.

     

                    A blond-haired girl in a dark purple dress was struggling to free her arm from the grip of a fat nobleman. Even from the side he could see that she was extraordinarily pretty. Her figure was sylphlike, but still well-adorned.

     

                    ‘M-my lord, we mustn’t!’ What a pleasant voice, Gerard marvelled as he approached.

     

                    ‘But you said-’

     

                    ‘It seems to me that the lady would like to be left alone,’ Gerard said sternly, cutting the noble off and peeling his fingers from the girl. The man mumbled a few threats, but one look at Gerard’s muscular frame and he caved, slinking off into the crowd.

     

                    ‘Are you all right? He had quite a grip on you.’ He pointed at the handprint left on the girl’s arm, taking the opportunity to stroke her skin.

     

                    ‘Thank you, my lord,’ the girl beamed, turning to face him. Gerard could not help but be drawn into her eyes. They shone an exotic silver. She was even more stunning up close, her features perfectly refined. Gerard hazarded a guess that she had more elven blood than the average Breton. A delicate, ornamental pin held her hair up in a chignon.

     

                    ‘No wonder he was so captivated,’ he murmured, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘My lady, you are exquisite.’

     

                    Streaks of red blossomed on her cheeks as she looked down, bashful. The bards finished testing their instruments. Lords and ladies began to mill on the dance floor.

     

                    ‘I am Gerard of House Rousseau,’ he said formally, bowing and extending his hand. ‘May I have the pleasure of this dance, Lady…?’

     

                    ‘Yvonne,’ the girl replied shyly, slipping her slender fingers onto his palm. ‘And I am no lady, my lord, only a simple handmaiden to Lady de Fleur.’

     

                    ‘Madame Yvonne, you are anything but simple. Truly, the Lady knows her flowers. She chose the most beautiful one for her court.’ Gerard led her by the arm, smirking as he felt dozens of jealous stares burn into his back, and together they joined the other nobles.

     

                    Yvonne swept into the dance with a grace and fluidity that set his heart racing. At times she would bend away, the two of them connected only by their clasped hands. Then just as quickly she would lean close, unbearably close, with only a hair’s breadth separating their skin. Gerard found himself fantasising about her prowess amongst the pillows, and almost missed a step.

     

                    The music reached a crescendo, and Gerard wrapped his arm around Yvonne’s slim waist, holding her against him as she leant backwards, curving her back into a finale with flawless form, her body hanging languid and loose from his. Most of the spectators clapped, many cheered, some even tossed flowers their way.

     

                    Fifteen minutes later they were wrestling in his quarters.

     

                    ‘Mmph,’ Gerard protested as they fenced with their tongues. ‘Mmmph.’

     

                    Yvonne broke from his mouth, a sticky string of saliva connecting their lips. ‘Do you yield, my lord?’ she asked, her voice playful, inviting. ‘Our duel has barely begun.’

     

                    Wanton little thing, Gerard thought with delight. You’re a different creature in the bedroom.

     

                    ‘Never,’ he replied, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he pushed her against the wall, groping for her laces. ‘But as Bretons…’ He slid a hand inside the folds of her underskirt – they had long since discarded their overclothes – and began caressing the inside of her thigh. ‘…there is a certain… decorum that we must follow.’

     

                    Yvonne gasped at his touch, squeezing her legs together as he worked his way up the smooth, creamy flesh. ‘I don’t…’ She grabbed his hand, pulling him in. ‘…quite take your meaning, my lord.’

     

                    ‘We are not rutting Nords or savage Orcs seeking animalistic release,’ Gerard whispered as he nuzzled her shoulder. ‘For Bretons, lovemaking is an art, no? An act meant to be savoured like a fine wine.’

     

                    ‘I have heard,’ Yvonne breathed throatily as she draped her arms around his neck. ‘That the Rousseaus were firm... proponents of culture and tradition. I never thought to find out in such an intimate manner.’

     

                    ‘Perhaps Dibella, in her wisdom and grace, sought to enlighten you.’ Gerard moved his arm down the small of her back and pressed himself against the ripe swell on her chemise, which shifted on his bare chest in time with her breathing. ‘We are indeed very stubborn when it comes to preserving our roots. I, in particular, become very… agitated when upstarts break from tradition.’

     

                    ‘Such as when Duke Altamonte declared his allegiance to Camlorn?’

     

                    He frowned at her. She looked up at him, sweet and innocent, then slipped a hand between his legs, her nimble fingers drawing involuntary groans from his lips.

     

                    ‘Politics in the bedroom?’ Gerard managed to regain control of his voice. ‘Yes, old Orren and I had quite the row, didn’t we? I suppose everyone’s heard of it by now. Bastard’s a son of Wayrest, but he pledged his House to Camlorn. As good as selling us to Daggerfall if you ask me.’

     

                    He shook his head, forcing a smile back on his face. ‘Let’s not dwell on that,’ he said, moving his left hand to Yvonne’s serpentine hip and his right hand further upwards in the warmth between her legs, feeling her passion mount as she shuddered. ‘Every time I hear of it, I become needlessly angry.’

     

                    Two things happened at once.

     

                    Gerard reached the very base of her thigh, and he came into contact with a very suspicious bulge.

     

                    As he blinked in confusion, Yvonne spoke again, not in the velvety, ladylike tones of a posh handmaiden, but in a mysterious choppy accent he had never heard before. Her voice lowered and gained a hard, sharp edge.

     

                    ‘Angry enough to have him assassinated?’

     

                    He stared at the girl in horror. She stared back. Those silver eyes were no longer lusty and dazzling. Their light was icy cold, filled with killing intent.

     

                    Gerard tried to push her away, but under the handmaiden’s sleek arms were muscles forged of steel. Yvonne didn’t budge an inch. She slid the leg he had been stroking mere seconds ago from her underskirt and curled it around his waist, locking her heel on his hamstring and forcing him to his knees. At the exact same moment, she reached for the hairpin on her chignon, pulling it free and revealing a honed point.


     

                    The target’s eyes widened as his hand touched his crotch.

     

                    Took you long enough, Harrow thought as he drew the hairpin from his wig.

     

                    Over a decade of Whispering Fang training meant that he knew exactly which of the fatal acupoints to target. He shoved the Breton’s head to the side and plunged the hairpin in behind the back of his ear, sending the entire length of metal into his skull. The hairpin had gone in directly between two arteries, so there was very little blood.

     

                    He hugged Lord Rousseau’s head close with the same arm he used to stab him, smothering the nobleman’s dying chokes in the pads on his chemise.

     

                    ‘Unfortunately for you, House Altamonte is an important ally to the Empire,’ he whispered in his ear. ‘The enemy of my friend is my enemy. It was very, very unwise of you to come here personally, my lord.’

     

                    Gerard of House Rousseau twitched one last time and was still. Harrow ran a current of electricity through the hairpin, confirming the kill, then stood.

     

                    His left hand was still between Gerard’s legs. There was a nasty squelch when he pulled it out.

     

                    Well, this is unpleasant. My fingers are stuck together.

     

                    Luckily, the guest quarters had a washroom and a basin. He rinsed his hands as he debated whether or not to go back and pick up his Lavallette disguise.

     

                    Not worth the extra time. I likely won’t be using the same alias again anyway, he decided, slipping into Yvonne’s dress again and tightening the corset. Ack. No wonder the stereotypical lady swoons so much.

     

                    The banquet was quieting down when he reached the main hall again. The guests who were staying the night were retiring to their rooms, while others were leaving, carriages arriving one after the other to pick them up. Harrow melted into the crowd and exfiltrated the mansion through the front door.


     

                    ‘I wonder if Harrow-to is all right,’ Diia said, worried.

     

                    Ambarro scoffed, scraping the last specks of brain matter off his bo. ‘Please. He got the easy assignment. We were the ones who had to deal with the assassins.’

     

                    Diia frowned at him. ‘Harrow-to is-’

     

                    ‘Going to be fine,’ he reassured her, giving her shoulder a squeeze. ‘Come on. This is him we’re talking about. Probably on his way out even now.’

     

                    Diia placed her hand over his, smiling at him. Ambarro smiled back uncertainly. ‘Uh… why’re you blushing?’

     

                    ‘So dense,’ she chuckled sadly.

     

                    ‘Eh?’

     

                    ‘Look,’ Diia pointed. A lone noblewoman was making her way down the alleyway.

     

                    ‘What’s a pretty lady like that doing in a seedy part of town like this?’ Ambarro wondered.

     

                    ‘Oh, so you think she’s pretty,’ Diia pouted.

     

                    ‘Ehh? That’s not the way I meant- I mean- I was being sarcastic, you know, Breton ladies are sort of… uh… known for being… I mean, not being pretty but acting, uh, thinking like they’re, uh, you know-’

     

                    Diia’s cheeks puffed out as she tried to keep from laughing out loud.

     

                    ‘You’re teasing me,’ Ambarro complained.

     

                    ‘Let’s quiet down,’ Diia said, still giggling. ‘We’re on the rooftops, but we still shouldn’t run the chance of being overheard.’

     

                    ‘It’s not as if they ever- wait, what’s she doing?’

     

                    The lady leapt ten feet into the air, grabbed a handhold on the building the two of them were perched on, jammed her legs on a ledge and pounced upwards again.

     

                    ‘Those are shinobi moves- Harrow?’ Ambarro’s jaw unhinged itself and dropped open.

     

                    ‘Keep your voice down, dunce,’ the elven youth hissed as he flipped himself up to face his teammates.

     

                    ‘What in the name of Masser, Secunda and all the stars in between are you doing in that outfit? You went inside as a nobleman painter!’

     

                    ‘Your aptitude for undercover work never ceases to amaze me,’ Harrow said dryly. ‘I stole this dress from the maid’s quarters.’ He gave a brief account of how he managed to isolate and eliminate Lord Rousseau.

     

                    Diia nodded appreciatively. ‘Nicely done, Harrow-to.’

     

                    Ambarro grunted. ‘Still don’t understand why we couldn’t simply tell the Duke about the danger.’

     

                    ‘Because then he would have insisted on taking action himself, which, in High Rock, likely means involving every noble House in the province and making a needlessly big fuss out of what we just resolved in five hours. Really, for a shinobi, your political acumen is disturbingly low, dunce.’

     

                    ‘There’s a chance he might have listened,’ Ambarro argued.

     

                    ‘Tsukikage does not take chances, and neither does the Empire. In any case, this was a good exercise for building up our experience.’

     

                    ‘This was a man’s life we just saved, and a Breton bigwig at that. Come on, don’t act like it’s not a big deal.’

     

                    ‘The Altamontes are important, yes, but not that important,’ Harrow shrugged. ‘If he had been truly crucial to the Empire, Takarro-ri would have dispatched masters, or at the very least, full Shadeclaws.’

     

                    ‘Still another year,’ Ambarro said glumly.

     

                    ‘Four years,’ Harrow corrected him. ‘Counting our three years as urotsuki-nin.’

     

                    ‘Hmph,’ Ambarro grumbled. ‘Ever wonder where they’ll send you?’

     

                    ‘No. Our instructors will tell us in due course.’

     

                    ‘Speaking of which, Master Torako is waiting for our report. Shall we go?’ Diia cut in between the two boys, who stopped their bickering and nodded. Harrow freed himself from the dress and went over to where he had stashed his gear.

     

                    Thirty seconds later, the three shinobi bounded across the rooftops of Wayrest, taking care to stay in the shadows, for the moons were shining bright tonight.

     

                    They needn’t have bothered. By now the alarm had been sounded, and the eyes of all the guardsmen and Breton Knights were being drawn to the Altamonte estate, where seven fresh corpses had just been found.

     

     



     

     

     

    (TO BOOK ONE)

     

     

     

     

     

     

Comments

11 Comments   |   Karver the Lorc and 7 others like this.
  • ilanisilver
    ilanisilver   ·  June 24, 2018
    Well, shit. The whole time I've been reading Rose and Azalea, I've had this feeling I was missing something. And yeah, I was. And entire book. Well, better late than never! 
    • The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
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      ilanisilver
      ilanisilver
      Well, shit. The whole time I've been reading Rose and Azalea, I've had this feeling I was missing something. And yeah, I was. And entire book. Well, better late than never! 
        ·  June 24, 2018
      Hahahaha, well, don't worry, you didn't miss anything. Rose and Azalea is set in between the Gathering Clouds and Darkening Sky storylines.
      • ilanisilver
        ilanisilver
        The Sunflower Manual
        The Sunflower Manual
        The Sunflower Manual
        Hahahaha, well, don't worry, you didn't miss anything. Rose and Azalea is set in between the Gathering Clouds and Darkening Sky storylines.
          ·  June 24, 2018
        I'm hoping reading this will give me a little more insight into the shinobi/tsukikage culture. I remember having a question about the childbirth lottery in Rose, and wasn't sure where that came from, you know, that sort of thing. I still don't know how I ...  more
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  June 21, 2017
    Nice to see Harrow get himself out of yet another sticky situation. :D
  • A-Pocky-Hah!
    A-Pocky-Hah!   ·  June 16, 2017
    It seems Harrow has develop a habit of wearing women's clothes. Should I be worried this will turn into a fetish for him? Cuz I got deep 'forced cosplay' vibes... man.


    Yeah, yeah just hold your smoke bomb, kunai and other ninja tools....  more
    • The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
      A-Pocky-Hah!
      A-Pocky-Hah!
      A-Pocky-Hah!
      It seems Harrow has develop a habit of wearing women's clothes. Should I be worried this will turn into a fetish for him? Cuz I got deep 'forced cosplay' vibes... man.


      Yeah, yeah just hold your smoke bomb, kunai and other ninja tools. It's hard dealing...  more
        ·  June 16, 2017
      Ah, don't worry. I realise that putting this and the Twinstinger scenes together so closely might throw readers off a bit, but this doesn't happen much again throughout the course of Book 2. Or Book 3, for that matter. Even though I haven't gotten that fa...  more
  • DeltaFox
    DeltaFox   ·  June 16, 2017
    And the first chapter is finaly here. :) And it's looking good.
    Looks like the ideas bursted out of your head earlier then you planned.
    • The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
      DeltaFox
      DeltaFox
      DeltaFox
      And the first chapter is finaly here. :) And it's looking good.
      Looks like the ideas bursted out of your head earlier then you planned.
        ·  June 16, 2017
      Well, I'd already written most of R.T.H.L. up to Chapter 40, which is now Chapter 5 of Book 2. So all I really have to do is edit until I'm happy with it...
  • Karver the Lorc
    Karver the Lorc   ·  June 16, 2017
    Why am I not surprised that Harrow always gets his hands...dirty? xD


    And Desrosiers, huh? Foxy :)
    • The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
      Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      Why am I not surprised that Harrow always gets his hands...dirty? xD


      And Desrosiers, huh? Foxy :)
        ·  June 16, 2017
      ♫ Per-vert, per-vert, Karver-jo is a per-vert ♫ nyeeeeeee

      Yeah, I'm developing a habit of forcing references into my work... and that was also a little nudge to Kaiser-jo to HURRY UP AND RELEASE ANOTHER CHAPTER, YOU HEAR ME?! EEHHH??!!
      • Karver the Lorc
        Karver the Lorc
        The Sunflower Manual
        The Sunflower Manual
        The Sunflower Manual
        ♫ Per-vert, per-vert, Karver-jo is a per-vert ♫ nyeeeeeee

        Yeah, I'm developing a habit of forcing references into my work... and that was also a little nudge to Kaiser-jo to HURRY UP AND RELEASE ANOTHER CHAPTER, YOU HEAR ME?! EEHHH??!!
          ·  June 16, 2017
        Me? Perverted? Nah. xD But if yeah, it's only your fault, Harrow-Sticky-Hands. :D


        And yeah, Kaiser needs to pull his head from the sands of A'likr and give us a new chapter.