Normally, Farron wouldn't have bothered killing the nectar addicts. Unlike some, he gained no enjoyment lording his power over the weak. Given the right circumstances, he might have even felt an inkling of pity.
These were not the right circumstances.
As his softly spoken command wormed its way into the would-be muggers' minds, their already vacant gazes clouded even further. Mental manipulation had severe limitations, more than most magic. Even with the siren's amulet and an almost third step Leadership, issuing an order that ran so directly opposite to their interest barely worked. The only reason he was able to overpower their Willpower was the nectar overconsumption weakening their wills.
Stiffly, the two men turned to one another. Even in their addled state, they managed to resist briefly. Slowly, inevitably, they raised their knives in unison, before plunging them down in a twisted mirror. Farron turned away as the two men slashed into each other, trusting his orders would be followed to completion. Using a magical compulsion left him feeling oily inside. Even after all these years, some small part of him still roiled in shame and disgust. He was fighting for the freedom of Usas, ostensibly, and yet he took it from these men. Technically they were imperials, but he wasn't deluded enough to think street rats were his enemy just because of where they were born.
He never used his Leadership like that on his own men, of course. They would have died for him, or for Usas, or their own homeland, or just to spite the Empire even without being forced to.
In the end, the results of the 'fight' were the same as if he'd done the deed himself. Three men lie still behind him, their lifeblood filling in the cracks in the cobbled road, and he alone was the one to leave the alley. He wiped the blood off the back of his hand — from the first man whose neck he'd snapped — and allowed the cleaning enchantment on his clothes to dispose of the evidence.
He quickly squashed that tiny, niggling voice in the back of his mind with a practised hand. He couldn't afford to not seize every advantage he could, not against the overwhelming might of the Empire. If he was caught now, after all this time and effort, just because he got a little soft? Unthinkable.
Putting the scene behind him, he quickly approached his destination. Before he turned the final corner, he picked up the final element of his disguise — a small wooden crate next to a vacant stall. It was empty, but the guards wouldn't know that. Slowing his pace, he observed the jailhouse once it finally came into view.
It was a squat and unassuming stone structure, although Farron knew the look was deceiving. The simple stone walls were heavily reinforced and enchanted, while the tiny windows — more arrowslits than something designed to let the light in — collectively provided a 360-degree view from the inside while preventing an outside observer from peeking inward. The streets and alleys were a claustrophobic place, the walls leaning over you like the boughs of a tree reaching for sunlight. That wasn't true for the jailhouse though, as several metres of cleared space encircled the building, its neighbours leaning away as if afraid.
He knew that the bulk of the jail was underground, although the details available to him were limited. The petty criminals were kept on the second floor, while the guards' quarters were at ground level. Bribery of a few previous guests of the jail meant he had a solid floor plan for the aboveground levels, but he'd be in the dark for the maximum security area. Of course, that just so happened to be where his target was.
Casually, he walked up to the front door, box in hand. The single entrance was guarded, although he used that term loosely. Two men stood on either side of the entrance, a sword sheathed at each of their hips. One of them had his spear in one hand, its butt firmly planted in the cobbles. The second had his spear lazily resting against the wall.
"Halt!" the first one commanded, puffing out his chest as he did so. "The Guardhouse is a restricted area. State your business."
The other guard had his arms crossed and was silently staring at Farron as he leaned against the doorframe. From up close, he could see that the talkative guard was younger, probably fresh out of training, while the other was closer to middle-aged with a thick layer of stubble on his face.
"I'm just a humble dockhand here to drop off supplies, sir. I have a delivery for the warden," Farron replied meekly, drawing his shoulders inward as he did so.
"Present your signed requisition papers for inspection, citizen," he commanded, before gesturing for him to place the box on the floor.
"Erm, requiwhat papers? Bossman didn't tell me anything about that..." he said, feigning an embarrassed look. Acting wasn't one of his talents, but it wasn't hard to align yourself with someone's preconceived notions. In fact, it could be difficult to escape them. The young guard expected some idiotic grunt worker here to drop off food for the prisoners, and so that was all he saw. It wasn't magic that caused the guard's attention to slide off the dangerous intensity of Farron's eyes, or the slightly out-of-place accent, or the oddly light thud of what should have been a heavy box being dropped onto the cobbles. Instead, it was simple human nature.
"No papers, no entry."
"Well, if you say so. But I thought this was a really important delivery..." Farron replied.
With a sigh, the other guard straightened up from the wall. "Gods above, Micah, let's just check it ourselves. It'll be our asses on the line if we turned away the supplies."
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For the first time, the imperious guard hesitated. "But... it's in direct violation of protocol! It clearly states that all inbound and outbound deliveries require a signed and—"
"Fuck the protocol," the more jaded guard interrupted. "You want to be the one to tell the warden his prisoners are going to starve? Check the damn box, and if he's screwing with us we'll just beat his ass and toss him in a cell for a few days."
Micah grumbled wordlessly to himself before relenting. He approached the box, coming well within Farron's range. As he bent to lift the box off the ground, Farron's hand flashed out and wrapped around his throat.
To his credit, the other guard reacted quickly as his partner was lifted bodily off the ground like a misbehaving child, but not quick enough. Micah's surprise quickly turned to panic as his hands scrabbled ineffectually at the iron grip, leaving him defenceless as Farron stole his sword.
"Move another muscle and he gets it," he said to the older guard as he shifted into a one-armed choke from behind, his forearm and bicep squeezing the sides of Micah's neck. The stolen sword swished lazily at his side.
The guard had grabbed his spear from its position against the wall and levelled it at him, but now he hesitated, his eyes following the trail of the sword's tip. "This isn't going to go the way you think it is," he said, once more doing a respectable job of remaining calm.
Farron smiled in response. "Open the door, nice and slowly. Make any noises, call for help, or shape any mana and little Mikey will be dead before you know it."
He just stared at Farron, but when he tightened his grip and Micah let out a strangled groan, he got to work. With slightly shaking hands he pulled out a thick ring of keys before using one to unlock the door.
"In we go. If you've got any pals in there, you tell them I have a hostage before they do something stupid," Farron said.
With a wordless nod, he pushed the door open and entered. Farron followed just behind, close enough to plunge the sword into his back if need be.
Predictably, no one was just hanging out in the first room past midnight. The lobby was surprisingly normal looking, as long as you ignored the thick manacles attached to a row of chairs in the waiting area. Multiple powerful bright white lights kept the room fully illuminated, the artificial colour and lack of shadows making the lobby appear oddly flat. There were two doors, and he already knew where they led. The right went up to the next floor, where the majority of prisoners were kept, while the left led to the rest of the ground floor where the armoury, supplies, records, and break room were.
It also contained the hatch to the basement.
"Left door," he ordered, loosening his grip on Micah's throat slightly and allowing him to draw in a thin breath. It was easy to forget just how strong one was, especially for Farron who spent months at a time at sea with his crew, all of which were second step. Most people didn't spend the majority of their lives fighting and training, even the soldiers, but Keelgrave had been at war for years. The only people he could consistently compare himself to were his crew, who were similarly powerful due to living a similar lifestyle. Chances were high that these two guards, especially the younger one, had never actually killed a man. Chasing after thieving street rats and beating up belligerent drunkards did not a powerful fighter make.
Much like the first room, the hallway behind the left door had eerie, stark lighting. He didn't spend any time appreciating the architecture, instead pushing his unwilling guide onwards. The guard hesitated slightly in his steps as he figured out where Farron was taking him, but a little nudge in the back with the tip of the sword encouraged him to pick up the pace.
"You picked up an orc, about two days ago. Take me to him," he ordered once they reached the door he knew led down.
This time, the guard paused completely. "You're here for him... gods above and below. He's an enemy of the Empire, not just some common murderer! Just who even are you?"
"Someone worse," Farron smiled. "It'll be best for you and your little friend if you turn your brain off and try not to guess."
With an audible gulp, the still-nameless guard returned to his ring of keys. By now, he was shaking so badly that someone less generous might have assumed he was trying to use the noise of the jingling keys to alert someone, but the faint sheen of perspiration visible on the back of his neck told Farron it wasn't a ploy.
"Here's what's going to happen," Farron continued. "We're going to go down into the secure hold. We're going to lock you and your pal in one of the cells. I'm going to leave with my friend. Everyone gets to live happily ever after as long as you behave."
He nodded emphatically, relief warring with stress on his face. "Please, I have a wife and two—"
"Shhhh," Farron hissed, "I don't care." He pointed back to the door, and the guard resumed searching through the keys.
The door eventually creaked open, revealing dimly lit stairs. They reached down to an equally dimly lit hallway lined with heavy metal doors. He didn't know exactly what they were made of, but it was presumably mana steel, and he could feel the ward schemas even from a distance.
After taking the keys and sword from the guard, he pushed him into a vacant cell and threw the now blue-faced guard in after him. As he checked on his companion who was gasping for breath, Farron slammed the door into place and locked it. Someone would eventually realise they were gone and find them here, or they'd be noticed the next time someone came down to feed the prisoners.
It did seem a little odd to him that he hadn't encountered any other guards. There were many guardhouses spread across the city, so it wasn't like all their forces would be concentrated here. The guards had their own homes and families they would go back to when not working, so there wasn't a barracks filled with sleeping guards here on the premises. Even still, he'd expected more defences.
I guess they just don't expect someone to sneak right into their seat of power...
One by one, he went down the hallway, checking on the insides of each cell through a tiny slit in the door. Most of them were empty, but a few had occupants.
Two cells side by side had identical human twins in them. Each of them were covered in bright blue tattoos, visible even in the darkness of the cells. They both looked at him through the feeding slit in the door, but were both silent. For whatever reason, they were wide awake at this late hour.
They creeped him out with their identical reactions to him peering through the door despite not being in separate cells.
The next occupied cell had, of all things, an elf. The feral beast launched itself at the door when Farron opened the tiny viewing and feeding slit, but a massive chain clamped around its neck arrested its leap midair. It fell to the floor and landed on all fours, hissing and snarling at him in the way elves do, so he quickly moved on. He had no idea why they bothered imprisoning such a creature instead of just killing it — you wouldn't lock up a wolf for eating your child.
It just so happened that the final cell at the very end of the hall was the one that contained his target.
"One-Tooth you big bastard, wake your lazy ass up!"