Mists

[Adrian Kane]

Byron / Inquisitor Jeorune

The blood spatter on his uniform earned no reaction from Inquisitor Jeorune. Such things were of no consequence, and he was not a man ruled by emotions. This was but a childish display of resistance. Even the boy's words and displays of knowledge and would-be wit were of much the same; crude attempts at intimidation and slander to try and weaken the Inquisitor's resolve. It was met with a calm shake of the head as he stepped back, letting the boy sort himself out.

The boy's questions and statements went unanswered; they were unworthy of it. And, after all, a blatant disregard of the simple rules laid out already. Further punishment would be required, naturally. The poor boy even seemed to think he was in charge; another common enough display of childish bravado; pitiful attempts at holding some sense of power. The boy would learn over the coming days, and hopefully was not so thick-headed as to warrant excessive punishment. The Inquisitor wished to break the boy's resolve, not shatter the mind. A broken mind would taint anything that could be gleaned from the boy, which was contrary to the needs of the Light. And the Witch, of course.

Inquisitor Jeorune turned away from the child and returned to the table, letting the boy sputter and spin his yarns for the moment. The bag was neatly packed for the moment; there was nothing within of use for the time being, unless the child particularly warranted more barbaric practices. When he turned back, he offered a smile akin to that given to a child caught misbehaving, although his eyes were far too cold for it to be comforting, and spoke with the air of a spoiled child, "I know you are, but what am I?” A child's rebuke that likely spanned the Ages since only the Creator knew when.

Then he returned to his usual cold tones, "You insist on acting as a child. You cannot follow simple rules, boy. No discipline.” Working alone was going to make the task of breaking the boy challenging; the child was arrogant and as cocky as a prize rooster. There were going to be many changes to the boy's life style in the coming weeks, and none for the better.

Arikan

Disgust flashed his eyes. Followed by lip-curling disappointment.

This was the best the Aes Sedai could conjure? A smiling man child of an unranked Hand? It spoke to her stupidity, and amplified the ire that one so beneath him now had him in chains. 

He could wait this out. Endure whatever device mankind crafted to inflict the most exquisite of pain. Because mankind's contraptions were eclipsed by the mere memory of the Great Lord's glorious pressure. Ripping the soul to a thousand pieces, burning the carcass only to be crafted anew, left to pant with face in the ash. That was pain. That was torture. And the memory of it filled his eyes with a drowning, obsessed adoration. The glory of it was eternal. 

This mortal Hand was an infant wailing tender lungs soon to be smothered to silence by its father's palms. A man who could endure whatever pain the infant could inflict would only laugh and ask him to try again. If only to remind him of the truth: that someday the torturer would enjoy the comprehensive repayment for the kindnesses this man would share.  Arikan could endure anything the Hand could imagine because he’d already endured something far worse; and, Tel'aran'rhiod waited. Doubtful the Hand would allow an Aes Sedai to shield his dreams. They would soon see. A puzzle, how formed this unusual alliances between the fervency of hateful youth and Tar Valon's witchcraft. He stared at it. Stared at the Hand. Knowing he would win in the end.

Byron / Inquisitor Jeorune

Inquisitor Jeorune was done talking with the child for the moment. The boy would have this chance to rest, and was wise to take it without further confrontation, a likely to be rare glimmer of common sense in the child. Inquisitor Jeorune had no expectations of it being repeated often without proper encouragement. His things were gathered and packed with careful attention to the task, as if taking count of every item to be in it's proper place, and then the satchel was tucked neatly under arm with his cloak still neatly folded. He turned and left the room without giving the boy further notice, and moved out to the corridor beyond, mind racing and chasing tidbits of half-forgotten memories. Things were needed, and he had to trace back many a year to remember the names and faces of those that might be able to provide what he sought.

Illian. Master Dekan had travelled there often, and had brought young Byron along for some of his business trips. Some misguided, unrealized desire to have the young Andoran lad take the reigns of the business some day, perhaps, showing him the ropes so to speak. By the time he came into view of Nicole, his decision was made. Another trip through one of those wonderful Gates was in order; he'd not be getting much sleep this night either, but it was necessary for the task at hand.

He still carried himself in the guise of Inquisitor Jeorune, not missing a beat as he strolled past her. He would not risk the chance that the child might over hear, however unlikely it were for echoes to carry to the boy's hole. The blood stains on the pristine white of the cloth were a stark contrast that still bore no source of anger for the apparently unflappable Inquisitor, and Nichole's presence was met with hardly a brief glance and dismissal.

Normally, Byron would be more willing to drop a guise when it was unneeded, but having had to adopt it so suddenly he needed all the practice he could get. Organizing his thoughts just right, the mannerisms and reactions were a challenge even with weeks of practice, and this was perhaps the most challenging role to date. To try and trick a Dreadlord was no easy task...although truthfully, he doubted they were as infallible as the stories might paint. They were, after all, human. Humans too weak of soul to resist the lure of the Dark One. Sad, really.

Byron of course meant no ill will to Nicole, but the Inquisitor Jeorune would be distant and cold. She was an acquaintance of a Witch, after all and so not to be trusted. Then he was past her and towards the room where the faint hint of Lythia's and Blake's voices came. Although Inquisitor Jeorune would have strolled in unannounced, Byron opted to check himself at the doorway and gain their attention by clearing his throat. "I must go to Illian. For the night."

And then he turned and headed for the room he had first used to get changed. The uniform of Inquisitor was carefully hung. He had plenty of experience with getting out blood stains, even from so pristine a white fabric, and added those items he would need to his mental shopping list. They would be far easier to come by. In short order, he was wearing the simple farmer's clothes he had first arrived in; they would be glaring out of style for Illian, but he was going there as Byron, not some simple Ghealdanian farmer after all. This would be a night of skulking in the muck that he grew up in.

Farmer Byron

When next he emerged he wore the clothes of a farmer but was certainly not the same man. Finally a hint of a Warder's training shown through. He didn't dally or offer up much by way of explanations; he knew full well he was going to end up leaving a few bodies cooling in the night air and didn't wish to leave any hint of it on Lythia's mind. She was committed to her plans, and something so minor likely wouldn't hinder her stride, but better that she simply didn't know if it could be avoided. A simple trip, to get some supplies to assist him in the task of breaking the boy. Even no longer wearing the guise of the Inquisitor, he still refused to the boy as such.

The trip was quick and simple, arrangements made for pick up later, and he was off into the night shadowed streets at a purposeful gait. The usual haunts were visited, likely candidates approached and questioned. There was no time for bribes or subtlety, and it was only the Creator's will that Byron found a suitably loose tongue attached to a mind that knew what he needed. Only two men lay cooling in back alleys in the harbour district.

His course took him to the head office of a shipping guild, a company that dealt in the larger sorts of contracts for ferrying of goods. Lights shown in the sprawling warehouse's second floor rooms, and Byron let himself in with all the grace and skill of a killer on the hunt. The few guards posted didn't need to die by his hand, after all. Luckily for most, the insides were mostly empty at so late an hour, and soon enough Byron waltzed into the office he sought. An older man, bulging at the middle and wearing a most gaudy wig to hide his balding, liver spotted scalp sat puffing a pipe wile brokering some shadowy deal with a younger man.

Byron recognized the old fat man from his youth; an old contact and supplier of Master Dekan. Not to be trusted, and with less than pleasant tastes in regards to the bedroom. Byron had been tasked once to help clean up after the fellow's mess...not the disposal of the body, but the actual cleaning of the blood. He'd been much too young to be expected to drag a dead woman's body down to the water line, after all.

The fat man's contact was dead before he could even turn in his chair, and the fat man rose in, surprisingly, fiery indignation rather than the cowardice and self-preservation Byron had expected. This fellow had risen in the games, apparently. Enough to expect these sorts of things not to happen to one of his stature.

Byron's questions were short and to the point, and the fat man was given no chance to call for help or bluster and boast. Byron's knife in his gut spoke strongly against any attempts to struggle. The explanation was simple enough; he was in a hurry, no time to dawdle, and no need for anyone else to die in that room. So, the fat man spilled the beans, pointed Byron towards a ship in the harbour, who's captain was known to smuggle such things as Byron sought from distant Shara. And the fat man was dead a moment later. He only lingered long enough to lift the coin purses of the two men, and a moment’s lament that he couldn’t turn the office over properly; who knew what else of use was hidden away there.

He was gone again without notice, back into the city's dark streets. There were people about, making it just that much easier for him to make his way around without drawing unwanted attention. Just another person heading somewhere; his odd style didn't stand out so much in the harbour district either, although he was clearly a foreigner.

He had forgotten how much he hated the city; the mud, the reek of it. And this had been Malaika's first taste of freedom. It was pleasantly surprising that she had made it to the safety of the Tower at all. She'd have been a prize catch for some of the flesh dealer's that lurked the slums. If her life had turned that way, had she been lucky, she might have ended up sold up from the mud-wenches hovels to some higher-class establishment. Assuming whomever scooped her up was smart enough to know how much could be made selling her, at least.

He found his way to the dock easily enough, and was even so lucky as to find a harbour master still at work overseeing the unloading of supplies from a ship. An innocent man, as far as their type went, corrupt and open to bribes but likely with no blood on his hands at least. A few coins changed palms, and Byron was pointed to a sleek, well-appointed merchants vessel moored off the docks a ways.

Two hours since he had entered Illian, he was on a small dingy, acquired through theft, a few hundred yards off the moored merchant ship. There were no signs of men on deck, although there were a few lights from portholes below; most of the crew were ashore, enjoying their hard earned pay, but it was on good authority the captain slept aboard rather then taking rooms ashore. A simple matter of lashing the little dingy to the anchor, and he was aboard through the classic approach of climbing the anchor.

Only one man stood watch on deck, half asleep and twice as much drunk. He was dispatched easily enough. Then Byron was skulking the ship, off to the Captain's quarters. There were sounds of other crew aboard, the unlucky few who pulled that night's duties, although they were below decks and hard at a game of dice from what he could hear. The Captain's quarters were right about where one could expect, and Byron let himself in as quietly as he could.

The room was sparsely lit, only a single storm lantern on a low tinder, and the Captain sound asleep. Byron shut the door and locked it, then was on the Captain, a knife to the man's throat. This fellow responded more akin to how he would have expected the fat man. Terror, confusion, yells and sputtering and fluster, but Byron silenced him with a quick prick of the knife against throat and a whispered threat of violence. Hopefully, he hadn't been so loud that the crew aboard might have heard.

This round of questioning was a bit harder to work out of the fellow; the man was a fool, offering bribes and deals, but Byron got what he was after with minimal fuss. Not quite the answer he wanted though...the Captain had had the very thing Byron was searching for, but had already sold it. A bit more coaxing got the answer of the who's and where's and what not. Of course, he couldn't leave the Captain alive to send warning as soon as Byron left, nor could he risk simply rendering the cowardly fool unconscious in risk that the crew might check on him. He was still cleaning the knife when there was a loud knock on the door and a report that the crewman on watch was missing.

When whomever on the other side found the door locked, and had no response from the Captain, there was the sound of keys jingling. Byron crossed to the door while tiredly rubbing his eyes, not wanting to play this little game. Time was wasting, after all. When the door was opened, the poor Second was met with a knife to the throat that silenced him quickly. Unfortunately, he was not alone in the hall.

As the Second slumped to the floor, Byron was left staring at a young lad, hardly more then fifteen, holding a lantern and staring down at the dead second's body, thoroughly dumbstruck with the turn of events. This was turning to a most unpleasant evening. Byron was just readying to crack the boy over the skull when the child managed the most shrill of boyish screeches of alarm, cut short by Byron's blow but still more then enough to alert the remaining crew aboard.

As one might expect from some common tavern hall tale, the lantern the lad held dropped and smashed, and flames and oil licked the walls and floor. Three more men lay dead on in the corridors before Byron had returned to his little dingy, rowing away from the merchant vessel as what remaining crew tried to fight the flames that were spreading rapidly through the ship. By the time he reached the land, the fire was just becoming visible as a reddish glow in the portholes. Minutes later a crowd was gathering, but he was already gone.