... Built on fertile soil, the city of Thurn was once a small trade post thrown carelessly into the center of an empire, but centuries of growth as a trade hub and a steady stream of wealth had allowed for a nearly unchallenged expansion in all directions. The only barrier lay to the south in the form of the Whitmarr, a mighty river that had cut a wide channel inside which the city had flourished. As the decades passed, Thurn grew further into a metropolis, complete with aqueducts to carry water into the imperial sanctum, the first working sewer system, and what were thought to be impenetrable fortified walls. Unfortunately, despite being at the heart of the Old Kingdom, a year of exceptionally heavy rains pushed the Whitmarr’s waters above ground level, crashing over the gates and flooding the city. The torrential waters took the lives of many, and those that survived moved out and moved on, as many thought the city would just crumble into history. It would not be until Neemah’s rule, with the Old Capital still smoldering from his coup, that Thurn would be rebuilt into the gleaming jewel it is today…
-- A Brief Record of Slightly Less Than Nearly Everything, Ch. 2: Major Principalities
Another swamp fly buzzed in front of his face before landing on his exposed forearm, its tiny legs holding fast while its mouthparts moved in sequence, flexing before latching on to his skin. The fly tread so lightly that Thorson wouldn’t have noticed it had he not been watching from the start. His arms were flecked with dirt from their short trek through the muddy goat path into the swamp, and the insect was well hidden. He slowly set his bow to a side, careful not to startle the parasite, moving his free hand into striking distance. His open palm swatted down hard, leaving a small trail of his own blood along with a mess of mutilated parts in its wake.
“Damn bugs, eh?” Nelson nudged him, showing off what little teeth he had left in a big grin. Thorson elbowed him back, adding, “I know, haven’t seen this many blood suckers in one place since we were stationed at that mercantile convent in Gren’tha.” The two archers chuckled under their breath, having to retain some composure as they were on assignment. The swamp waters were stagnant, clumps of sticks and muck surrounding the base of their tree – a huge cypress. They had shimmied up the trees an hour earlier, and had been hanging onto the branches higher up with a leather support strap, boot spikes dug deep into the trunk. Nelson reached under his leather armor, retrieving a familiar friend. “Ahh, nothing like Devil’s Fire to wake a man up,” Nelson took another swig from the flask, gritting his teeth and handing it over. Thorson kicked it back, the harsh spirits burning his throat and almost bringing tears to his eyes, “And to put some hair on your chest.” He screwed the lid on tight, passing it back to Nelson, who promptly slipped the flask back under his armor.
Another fly passed unnoticed as Thorson checked his arcs, other teams positioned in similar trees. A pair to either side, Nolan and Sean to his left and the young brothers, Nick and Lewi, to his right. They were all facing the southern wall of Thurn, at the main runoff tunnel, waiting for their target. Young male, black hair, just over 6 ft, last spotted with a sword and crossbow and likely headed into the sewers. Thorson sighed; they get younger every day, as he unfolded the warrant and looked at the sketch of his target, sorry lad, but you’ve got to die.
Lloyd had finished drying his hair, the spray of uncared black shooting up from his head. He tossed the now filthy cloth aside, stepping back into his boots and reequipping his armor. The blade on his falchion was still razor sharp, as he flicked the water from it, wiping it clean with the damp cloth; which was now stained red in addition to being dirty. Sheathing the large sword over his shoulder he walked over to the shattered door frame, shaking his limbs loose, making sure everything was well affixed. The man that had made such a loud entrance before was now entirely silent, sitting cross-legged with his back to Lloyd and facing down the corridor. “Shall we then, Marked One?” Lloyd nodded, attempting to walk past the stoic figure; who sat still, eyes closed and silent. As he passed, the man’s arm shot out as he rose to height, stopping Lloyd mid step; “Please, allow me to go first, Marked One.”
“Ok, if you’re going to be following me around, stop calling me that; ‘Marked One’ is a little too spooky and contrived for my tastes. You can call me Lloyd.” The man nodded, “And your name?” He furrowed his brow, “My…name?” The word sounded different in his accent, as if he were straining to pronounce it.
“Yes, your name? You do have a name…don’t you?”
“Ah yes,” his smile reappeared, “you may call me Asim, and I am here to protect you, so please,” he stepped in front of Lloyd, standing in the way, “allow me to go first.” Lloyd nodded, “have it your way,” as both proceeded down the stairs. He continued talking as they entered a long hallway, the smooth walls spoiled by the occasional narrow passage, out of which usually flowed a thin stream of sewer water. The small flows were corralled by mason laid channels, that all combined to form a ten foot wide flowing channel in the center. To both sides were several feet of walking room, and they moved along at about half speed, Asim taking care to pass across the entrance of every alley before Lloyd, motioning with a hand when it was safe. “So this whole, ‘protect the Marked One,’ thing, what’s that all about? How did you know where to find me?”
“The one you call Lysander spoke with me, and told me about your location. He sent me to first get this,” he pulled a sheet of wrapped cloth from his robes, handing it back to Lloyd, “and then to find you.” Lloyd unfolded the cloth, trying to make sense of the jumble of crossing inked lines drawn over what looked like a faint outline of Thurn. “A map of the sewers,” Lloyd turned it around, trying to find their position. Asim stepped over one of the thin streams that crossed their path, “Yes, to find you.” He pointed with his right hand, the metal reflecting off the water, “That way, I believe.” The large hallway split in twain, and they chose the right path, heading for the southern exit. Water once again rushed along Lloyd’s ankles, “Goddamn it,” he grumbled under his breath, reluctantly stepping down for what he hoped would be a final time as the tunnel shrank further, causing both to bend their heads down. Ahead he could see light, daylight. As they approached the exit, he could see a forest of wide trees with enveloping branches, shading what looked like a standing body of water, Great, a swamp. When they were just seconds from daylight, Asim paused, raising a hand, “Hold.” Lloyd looked around him into the tall grass and tree line, “What? There’s nothing out there, Asim.” He appeared intently focused, and Lloyd leaned forward, looking at his face – trying to find what he was seeing in the scenery. Asim’s eyes were closed tightly, and he appeared to be looking down, at his feet, if anything. “Oh man,” Lloyd muttered, rolling his eyes and taking a step into the light. “Wait -”
His chest was slammed with pain as the breath was knocked from his system and he hit the ground, pulled down by the scruff of his armor. The clattering of metal on metal a handful of times in rapid succession was followed by what sounded like wood splintering inches away. Vision fuzzy, he was able to make out a man, hurriedly dragging him away from the sunlight. “Asim, what the hell,” he glanced down, broken arrows littering the end of the corridor, a small trail of blood dripping from the side of his leg. “Are you alright?” His normally calm voice seemed to be in a panic, as Asim tore an insignificant wrapping off his person, rapidly bandaging Lloyd’s leg. “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine.” He shifted into a crouch, “Well then, I guess someone knew we were coming.”
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