The bastion cities were established with a rare clarity of purpose. Everyone, from the King in Arsilet, to the Dukes in Westerlen and Terrast and the Twin Cities, to the lower nobility, to even the common citizens of those glittering bulwarks, knew that they were all that stood between the Realm and a horde of outsiders.
This dedication of purpose was not shared by the trade cities.
Founded little more than a century before, the three mercantile cities existed primarily to enable the movement of goods throughout the Realm to support the bastion cities. Even their joint military police force, the wardens, was focused exclusively on securing the highroads that the traders relied on. As the trade cities proved far more effective at moving goods quickly, safely, and efficiently than any other system attempted in the three centuries prior to their founding, the nobility, and even the King, gave them certain allowances unseen in the history of the Realm.
On the day of their formal founding, King Selen IV had ruled that the trade cities would forever remain independent, outside of the influence of any of the traditional peerage. Instead, they would be governed by their citizens, in whatever way they saw fit. The only exception their charter allowed for was if the King ruled that they were failing in their duty - then, and only then, could the High Court of Arsilet take the reins.
This broad independence had led to a wide array of results between the three cities. In the heartlands of the Realm, Correntry had grown in the civilizing influence of Arsilet and Elliven. It was administered by a representative government, elected by the merchants, artisans, and business owners that lived within the city’s walls, and was often considered as beautiful and safe as the bastion cities themselves. In fact, many noble families from the bastion cities maintained a branch of their family within Correntry’s walls, for the sake of comfort as much as influence. With those nobles came the law keepers of the Arbiter that ensured the safety of the city’s streets.
Along the southernmost coast of the Realm, the trade city of Emeston had developed very differently. The closest bastion city, up along the curving coast to the west, was Westerlen. Westerlen’s much more relaxed, individualistic culture had influenced Emeston just as Arsilet had influenced Correntry. Unfortunately, this centering of the self over the community had created a city in which only the wealthiest and most powerful merchants, the Golden Council, had any real influence. What little government existed within Emeston was dedicated wholly to managing and enforcing the bewildering array of trade agreements and mercantile contracts that bound together the various merchant companies. For those commoners with the misfortune to seek opportunity in the city, it offered little but scarce wages, high costs, and dangerous slums to live in.
The volatile combination of an oppressed under class, a lack of official oversight, and a stark wealth disparity inevitably resulted in a thriving criminal culture. In the Realm’s other cities, the archetypes of law and order, like the Noble or the Arbiter, would stymie such development, but as organized crime only opened up a new revenue stream for the canny and ruthless merchants, it was allowed to flourish. In a city that prized wealth over order, the Rogue stood ascendent.
Emeston was built on a section of gently curving coastline that formed an oval-shaped bowl of a bay, a natural harbor which now boasted a dozen different ports strung along the once pristine coastline. A scant few miles from the coastline, the terrain ascended gradually into a chain of rolling hills that, elsewhere along the coast, turned into a series of steep cliffs. From this privileged perch, the richest men in Emeston looked down upon the slums that had been allowed to grow like a fungal bed between them and the ports that generated their fortunes. Ramshackle tenements, rundown dive bars, twisting alleys, and sparse markets blended together to form a wretched stretch of city collectively known as Lowrun, and from that fertile seedbed sprang a thousand drug dens, brothels, arenas, and other institutions built to prey on the poverty of the city, each owned and operated by middlemen who ensured that wealth continued to quietly and surely flow up the hills to Highreach.
It was these dark and dangerous streets that Allana Dalamis had roamed for as long as she could remember.
#
Allana’s brisk stride slowed for a bare second. The brow above one incandescent violet eye arched, and the challenging glare coming from her inhuman eyes was enough to make the pair of dirty men that had been swaggering up the street towards her pause. But apparently the look had failed to sufficiently intimidate them, and the two scoundrels continued towards her.
“Oi, lookit this one here!” one said as they approached, his slurred voice demonstrating how deep he had gotten in his cups.
“Oh, I dunno about her, Rol. She looks like she might’ve spoiled.” Both men guffawed at the joke.
Allana bristled at the comment on her skin and its unique purple tint, and she found her fingers flexing, itching to conjure her daggers. But she had an appointment to keep, so she kept walking.
“Oi!” The first man called after her. “Where do you think you’re going, bitch?”
Allana paused, and finally stopped. She always hated that word. Bitch. She gave into temptation and flicked one hand, conjuring a long brass dagger into her palm.
In a city the size of Emeston, wraiths were not unheard of, but neither were they common. The fact that every wraith’s body uniquely expressed the magic that flowed through their blood only made others more cautious of them. But even among the many wraiths that lived in the slums of Lowrun, few were as singularly striking as Allana. Where for other wraiths, the unnatural mutations of the magic that had warped their blood often manifested in horrifying mutilations or unsettling defects, Allana was, at worst, uncanny.
Her figure was that of a fit, athletic young woman, her body a comely combination of taut muscle and lush curves. Were she a normal human, her athletic body and alluring, heart-shaped face would turn heads wherever she went, but her wraith heritage was obvious to anyone that saw her. She wasn’t lucky enough to have some horns she could cover with a loose hood or hat, or blemishes that the right clothing could conceal. Her skin was a deep purple that looked pitch black in dim light. Her hair, which she kept trimmed short around her ears, with shaggy bangs that often hung over her eyes, was a similar shade near the roots, but brightened to the same brilliant violet as her eyes near the tips. To most, the unnatural violet and purple shades that defined her appearance were unsettling, but too many only found her unique features that much more alluring.
Allana turned to face the two drunkards, tilting her hand to make sure that the silhouette of her dagger was obvious, a clear and simple threat.
The second man blew out a low whistle, its note as cracked and flawed as the man’s scarred face. “Well lookie here… I take it back Rol, I think she might be ripe after all.”
Despite her beauty and the dangers any young woman had to be aware of in Lowrun, Allana dressed in clothing both functional and appealing. Above the waist, she wore only a leather vest of supple calfskin, that conformed to her chest and stomach, leaving the lean muscles of her shoulders and arms bare. Below, she wore trousers of the same material, which hugged her body just as tightly. To anyone who asked, she explained that the clothing was important to her work, helping her to be more stealthy, but given her gifts, that was an obvious lie. The simple fact was that Allana was proud of her body, and it would take more than some crude drunkards for her to change her mind.
“Move. Along.” Allana emphasized each word clearly, her voice carrying down the quiet street easily.
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Situated along the coast, the salt-tinged air in Emeston was rarely less than cloying, and as the warmth of the first day of spring gave way to the lingering chill of the night, the moisture rapidly collected into a dense fog. The light of the few street lamps still lit on the otherwise empty street could barely penetrate the mist, leaving Allana in a tiny island of light with her two potential assailants.
“I don’t think so, lassie. How’s about you put that eeny blade of yours down before you hurt yourself, and don’t try to fight too much, eh?”
“We’ll be gentle.” His hungry eyes implied otherwise. “Scoundrel’s promise.”
Allana rolled her eyes. The two were practically salivating, to the point that even if she was as helpless as they seemed to believe, she’d be unlikely to trust their word. She shook her head and made a disappointed noise. “You two really are that dumb, aren’t you? I was going to let you go once you apologized before, but I’ll not inflict you on some poor girl with the bad luck to find her way across your path next.” She flicked her other hand, and her bracelets jingled merrily as a second dagger, with a thicker iron blade, hooked at one end, appeared in it.
Ensouled Item Conjuration - Active, Conjuration - Conjure the ensouled items bound to this gift. No cost. Current conjurations: iron dagger, brass dagger.
“Look around you girl! No one’s gonna come save you, so stop talkin’ so big and–”
The first man cut off as the second grabbed him by the arm. “Rol! You hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Her bracelets!”
Allana smiled, though there was no joy in it. It was the smile of a snake finding a pair of foolish mice. She took a couple steps closer to the two men, so they could better see her.
“Purple skin… two daggers… a buncha bracelets… The Violet Edge!” Rol swore as he realized who Allana was.
There was a reason Allana could walk the streets of Lowrun at night, alone and dressed to show off her body. She had taught her little corner of Emeston’s slums her name and her skills. As capable in a street fight as she was at cutting a purse or tripping a lock, Allana had been defending herself as long as she could walk, and she had earned the overwrought nickname the citizens of Lowrun had hung on her in the year since she had first received the gift of stealth and the gift of poison.
Then the idiot continued, “She’s Telik’s bitch!”
Allana frowned again, as much at the mention of the crime lord as that word again. She hated being associated with Telik like that. Yes, he had saved her from a life on the streets. Yes, he had taught her to run and climb and rob and fight. Yes, he had bought her the ensouled daggers that sat in her hands, and the gift that came with them. But she wasn’t some kept pet, like the others Telik had given those same opportunities. Her reputation was hers.
“That was your last mistake.”
The men looked at her wide-eyed, fear robbing them of their intoxication. Her grin came back, as wicked and hungry as ever, and she lunged forward. Both men flinched, the one called Rol falling on his ass - but Allana was simply gone. The fog moved in vague, shapeless patterns before them.
“W-where’d she go?” Rol asked, looking wildly around.
“Bitch must’ve run aw-” The other man’s words broke off in a wet sound, and his body collapsed on the street, blood spilling from his cut throat.
Rol spun around just in time to see the grinning Allana stepping away from the corpse and fading into the fog. “W-what the fuck?” The man belatedly pulled a rough oak cudgel from the tatty piece of rope he was using as a belt. “I’ll kill you, bitch!”
Rol felt a brief stab of pain at his side, and spun around, bringing his club down on Allana where she crouched behind him, but she easily rolled away, fading into the fog again with the help of her gift of stealth.
Obscuring Veil - Active, Illusion - Manifest an illusion that partially masks you from conventional senses. Veil is most effective in darkness or other obscuring conditions. Minor focus cost recurs as long as the veil is active.
The drunkard’s club threw up chips of cobble as it hit the ground, revealing that he had some sort of gift to empower his strike. That wasn’t a problem for Allana. He wasn’t going to get another chance to attack her. She stayed hidden in her veil, mere feet from the man, as he spun around, fruitlessly looking for her in the fog. He likely had the gift of the outlaw, which certainly didn’t give him the awareness boons he’d need to see through an Apprentice level veil.
Finally, he swore and gave up, running down the street. Allana calmly paced after him, counting backwards softly in her head. He had made it a block before he fell, clutching his heart. His face turned red as he writhed on the ground for a few moments, then finally went still. Allana smiled and looked down at her brass dagger - and the film of dark green that mingled with the would-be rapist’s blood on the blade.
Toxic Manifestation- Active, Conjuration - Create a simple magical poison affecting resilience. Three potencies of poison can be created, with lesser, moderate, and major quintessence costs respectively.
Poisoned Conjuration - Poison, Stealth - Passive, Conjuration - Ensouled items may be conjured already coated in the poison from toxic manifestation. Poisons conjured this way have their quintessence cost reduced by one stage.
He was lucky she had places to be - otherwise she would’ve used a weaker poison and watched him suffer.
“Who’s the bitch now?” she asked the corpse, her voice soft. She let the veil drop, as there was no one left to see her, and tried to take joy in killing two wretches. But she couldn’t. Though she couldn’t quite put words to it, part of her wished that she didn’t have to be so ruthless. But in Emeston, ruthlessness was a way of life.
#
Allana paused as she reached a cross street, considering the directions Telik had given her. She absently reached up with one hand to brush an errant lock of hair behind her ear. The motion drew a soft jingle from the set of loose fitting bangles and bracelets she wore on her wrist. Like the similar set of anklets she wore, they were made of common materials - brass, iron, hempen string and twine, bits of shell and stone she thought pretty. The rumors surrounding her ornamentation were just one more part of her carefully cultivated reputation. Many were convinced that they were magical charms and talismans given to her by Telik to protect her and enhance her abilities.
She preferred the whispers to people knowing that they were a simple hobby of hers, and that she liked the way they felt on her skin. The only downside was that it only furthered the impression that Telik owned her.
That thought made Allana frown as she walked. For her entire life, her loyalty to Telik had been a simple fact of life, as obvious as the blue of the bay. Only of late had she begun to chafe at his leash on her neck. The frown sharpened the already intense look on her face, further ensuring that the few passerby that saw her scurried out of her way. No one else was as foolish as the two drunkards had been.
Finally, she reached the place she had been directed to. The building was a rarity in the slums - well lit, well built and well maintained. It was smaller than the ramshackle tenements that climbed up awkwardly to either side of it, but fine wood and stone it was made of spoke of gifts involved in its construction. Allana had the impression that the ragged buildings to either side of it could collapse on the large house, and it wouldn’t even need repairs.
That was notable, in and of itself. Telik was likely the most wealthy and influential man in Lowrun, and one of the highest level as well. Yet his abode was still a cobbled together series of crude buildings he had bought and linked together over the years. The result was a sprawling structure the size of a small neighborhood. His personal bedchambers and office were lavish in their own way, but even they lacked the simple austerity of the building before her. Yet, she had never heard of this place. That could only mean money, power, and influence, perhaps as much, even, as Telik himself. Why would he send her here?
“Only one way to find out…” Allana muttered under her breath. She refused to be intimidated by a simple house, no matter how ostentatious it was. But she did pause a moment to conjure her ensouled daggers and slide them into sheathes sewn into either side of her vest.
The wood of the door was so dense and solid that Allana was sure anyone inside couldn’t have heard her knock. Nonetheless, the door swung open only moments later.
“The Violet Edge, I assume?” The man on the other side of the door asked. He was a well-built man, tall and broad of shoulder, with long, curling hair like spun gold. A tidy goatee framed a small smile that matched the amusement dancing in the back of his tone.
Allana rolled her eyes at the dramatic title. “Allana is fine,” she told him.
He nodded, caramel eyes dancing with silent laughter, and he took a step back. “As you will. Please come in, Allana.” He gestured in a flourish as he said her name, gesturing down the hall behind him.
Allana rolled her eyes, and stepped inside, suspicious of whatever plotting had brought her here. But then, suspicion was what kept her alive. It, too, was the way of life in Emeston.