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"Ambush!"
Date: July 13, 1999 
The shadows have been lengthening for some time now, the sky taking on the peculiar shade of amber-brushed violet that signals night being close at hand. A few brave stars have already begun to peek here and there around the light cloud cover. The air itself is as cold as their sterile white glow, the type of chill that leads a person to bundle up completely in a cloak and hide their fingers in their armpits to conserve warmth. All in all, a typical winter evening, where time is counted by the number of frost-cloudy exhalations a person puffs out as they go about their business. Enter Kiral, his soft steps lost amongst the steady, solid tread of his guard. Dusky features are set in a dour, furrowed frown, dark eyes flinty as they scan the street. Not a wary glance, his -- this is swan's territory, true, but his guard have proved themselves more than capable at handling any trouble. Hands slipped in pockets, haik drawn close against the chill. Shadows are plentiful now that twilight is descending -- plentiful enough that a living shadow atop one of the rooftops would hardly draw attention. A dark-garbed figure is crouched upon the peak of a shop adjacent to the massive bulk of the coliseum, and black wings are spread somewhat, for balance. The shape is unmoving, save for an occasional ripple of cloth or feathers -- and would likely go unnoticed by even the sharpest pair of eyes. It watches, avidly, the entrance of the street toward the east, and as a group of figures move into view, a silent hand-signal is given -- glimpsed only by those who'd been waiting and watching for it. Fingers into armpits really only works if the material of the cloak is warm to begin with. So says that particular beggar. His burlap's starting to wear a bit in spots, gettin' a li'l thin. Great for the summer, but it's hell in the colder months. Out on that rooftop... okay, why he got onto that rooftop is anyone's guess. But let the beggar huddle, rubbing palsied hands together. It's... slightly warmer? Tertius stands on a rooftop, the mist of his breath pouring from his helm like the smoke out of some bizarre dragon's throat. One pace back from the edge he stands, not kneeling or crouching like some common gutter-rat -- no, this one stands, narrowed eyes intent on the streets, sword sheathed to avoid reflecting the fading light. A signal is noted. Slight ruffling can be heard as tired muscles are stretched. Pale blue eyes stare out from behind a horned mask, a gargoyle sitting upon the rooftops. After the brief motion, the figure freezes again, becoming like the gargoyle it resembles. The pale eyes catch the signal and follows it to the target, watching... waiting. Brief flicker of fingers can be seen, as a silent hand code spells out what needs to be passed on, through the Thieves' Highway, to those who need to know. Stooped over in a corner, a tall and dark man casually glimpses around the crowd. Glancing upward and receiving a subdued gesture from the lead man on the rooftop, Pentus nods silently and slowly makes his way through the crowd toward the target. From within his canvas pants pocket, he pulls out an egg and cups it out of sight in his hand. Flinty eyes lighten, turn lecherous, as a young Empyrean commoner hurries along the other side of the street for destinations unknown. Kiral's steps slow for a moment, head turning to track the swan's departure, dour expression exchanged for a feral-slick grin. He chuckles once, exhaling a plume of steam into the frosty air, then turns his attention forward again, steps speeding up once more. The four exceptionally burly men surrounding Kiral have that dark and set-jawed focus of... well, all Agni-Haidar, though these have a certain extra deadliness to the black glitter of watchful eyes. Who wouldn't, having to watch over Kiral? Long ago, they learned the best way to cope with their charge's personality quirks was to focus almost all attention on the surroundings -- in effect, ignoring Kiral almost completely. He leers at a girl? They scrutinize her briefly and thoroughly for threat, but ignore the intent behind his leer. He slows down? They do too, to keep him orbited completely. Be sure that any unlucky enough to catch their unfriendly attention, and need a whupping, will be getting their whupping and a half, as consequence of long-suffering tension. One of those figures watching from the rooftops -- the shop near the coliseum -- leans marginally closer, jet-black wings unfurled for balance, as pale eyes observe the party of Varati below. Aside from that initial signal, no more movement is given, but the pose is watchful, intent. After leaving the Agni-Haidar, the eyes within the depths of the mask dart swiftly toward the other rooftops -- to shadowed side-streets adjoining the main thoroughfare of Fairway and Vicina, and even toward the crowd below. The trap is set. Now it only needs to be sprung. All beggars must have the Hacking Cough. Says so, right there in the manual. It's that wretched noise, the wet sound of a man trying to bring one lung forcibly out of his chest. Sexy. However, the Cough shall be delayed, for there is commotion down below. Well, okay, so there are Agni-Haidar down below. Close enough, for a winter's night. Gets the beggar leaning (almost) precariously over the edge of his rooftop. His rooftop. Gotta see who's so very important. Tertius' wings stir, slowly stretching to ready for his impending flight. Aside from that, the man remains motionless, taut, wings ready to bear him into the air once this dance begins. Words are murmured to himself, far too soft for even Tertius himself to hear. One hand goes, beneath his cloak, to the hilt of a gladius. A grin passes unnoticed beneath the horned mask, as the mask turns to his two compatriots. Quartus nods once, and slips his finger from behind to in front of the trigger of his crossbow, his motion matched by those next to him. Patience is a true virtue, one which these young whippersnapper Praetorians seem to have never quite perfected, despite the practice. Wings shift slightly, fingers clench and unclench while teeth grind together, waiting for, praying for time to go faster. Pentus walks to intersect the path that Kiral and his guards were entertaining. He halts a good thirty feet in front of the group and faces them, his pale mask becoming visible as he heaves a rotten egg towards Kiral. And with this action, he shouts, muffled slightly by the grinning mask, "Kiral's mother is a whore to mongrels!" Now to see if the guards take the bait. The God-King's Lions, a military force capable of policing even the Varati. Their steps slow and condense around Kiral when Pentus steps out. No order is given; it just happens, as if purest instinct. The taunt is met with stony expressions, but the lobbed egg gets a reaction. Inbound missile. One of the front two guards steps forward, putting himself in the path of the egg, while the other draws his falcare with a steely rasp. The rear two do not draw their weapons, though dusky hands linger at the hilts. Kiral, however, does not meet the insult with a stony expression. There's a frown, a moment of incredulity, after which his face sours with scornful, outraged disgust. Insult his mother's good name and tread upon his muruah, will you? "You! Guard!" he snaps at the one with egg dribbling down his armor. "Catch that insolent kafir, bring him here." Egg clotting fine brigandine is not important -- his honor is. There. The first part of the ambush manifested in the form of a rotten egg. The mask of tragedy is only a cover for the avidly-gleaming eyes beneath, and now they make a quick circuit of the streets and shadows, picking out darker shapes lingering within. Another signal is given -- swifter, while lusterless black wings spread wider in anticipation of flight. 'Now' the signal says. 'Now!' Ooooh. Now they're gonna scrap. This should be good. Got that beggar-onna-rooftop's attention. Peering over in earnest, to watch the possible fray. Hey, it's amusing to witness some street punk get halved by a Varati falcare. Got the beggar mumblin' to himself, most likely. (Back in myyyyy day, we didn't have disrespectin' street punk, noooo sir. Andwelikedit!') Looks awfully interested in that fight. Into the dark sky ascends a still-darker form. Tertius' eyes are upon the five Varati swine which litter the street. The blackened wings pull him higher, higher still... turning in an almost lazy arc towards the Varati quarter of town... and in doing so, lining himself up for a dive....*beat* *beat* *beat* His cloak streams behind him, this dark eagle's ebon plumage. Another smile is lost behind the horned facade, as Quartus taps his two comrades on the shoulder. Spreading one hand wide, he signals for scattering fire, to put some distance between the steely Lions of Atar and Kiral. He himself takes a leap up into the air, before pulling himself down towards the ground, wings folded back, falling as the angel of vengeance, ready to pass down his message. Pentus smiles to match his own grinning mask as he turns on heel and heads away from the others. Even if he manages to lead one guard away, he can always go back for more after. Through the crowd again he forces himself, dodging bystanders rather than pushing them. Into a dark alley he ducks, where he instructed his recruits to wait. Alas, not even one of the Agni-Haidar follows after Pentus; their duty is to protect Kiral, and not be led away to deal out petty vengeances. The sword-wielding one is tempted, however -- he takes a step forward, jaw set, but a cold, cold look from his leader stops his chase. "Imphadi," he starts to say. "There's--" He shudders suddenly, stance wavering, then clutches at the back of his skull as he crumples to the ground. The leader shows no dismay at one of his comrades falling -- he draws his own falcare as he utters, "Swords." A second later, the rear two follow suit. One of them fumbles with his weapon and wavers as well, going down on one knee, muscles trembling with the effort to push back up. The trembling ceases suddenly, and he crumples as well. Kiral's expression, meanwhile, is slowly changing from indignation and outrage to the blank incomprehension of a gaffed fish. "What?" he demands, as the first guard falls. "What?" Agni-Haidar do not... fall. Incomprehensible. He draws his blade as well, the keris so small compared to the curved falcares. His men have their orders. As soon as the egg was thrown, that was the signal to attack. And now, the second part of the plan falls into place -- three of the Agni-Haidar show visible signs of distress, two having crumpled completely. That leaves two conscious -- two against almost a dozen. The prowess of the Lions of Fire is legendary, but surely the remaining guards will fall beneath the onslaught of those dark 'birds of prey,' swooping even now toward their quarry. The first figure upon the rooftops, Primus, is compelled into flight as well, but his path leads him upward, ready to lead the way toward their chosen hideout. Dark wings cleave the air as the cloaked figure leaps into the sky, watching what transpires below. Wow. Must have been some bad fish at the Atesh-Gah this evening. Or something. Hey, at least they had fish tonight. And when Agni-Haidar are dropping like flies, and black-winged... whatevers are coming out of nowhere? Well, maybe there was too much mold on that last piece of bread, huh? But the beggar is still transfixed. Watching oh-so-carefully. Excellent... two of the weak-willed dogs are down. The Agni-Haidar are not his target, but they remain Tertius' concern. He need fear no harm from Kiral, so as he tucks his wings and begins gathering speed, the gladius at his belt is freed from its sheath. And so an angel dives from the skies, that Haven should know a taste of Hell. The next move of those guards will decide his strike.... Crossbow bolts rain down upon the Foreign Minister, careful aim taken to avoid hitting anyone... for now. Two dark figures can be seen on the rooftops, one foot on the edge while the crossbows are loaded and fired, in a continuous stream. A fairly loud *thwump* can be heard as one of the diver's wings spread out, revealing a huge wingspan of dark feathers. His crossbow remain unfired, the bolt loaded and waiting. He follows the actions of the Agni-Haidar and of his fellow conspirator as he provides more specific covering fire, ready to remove an arm or leg should the guards interfere with the removal of their target. Pentus pauses at the alley long enough to hear one of his associates mutter, "They're not coming!" With a quick change of plan, Pentus turns around and commands the others with the authority of one who is trained in such manners. "Follow me. We attack." Each brandish their clubs, long and menacing. They rush back into the opening, shouting what might be a war cry. Crowds see them rushing onward and stumble over themselves to part a path out of their way. A violent tremor runs through the Agni-Haidar leader, falcare tip wavering. He stumbles, as if a sleep-dart had been shot into the base of his skull, but pulls himself upright with great effort. "Go!" he shouts at the other Lion that remains standing. Standing and fighting has proved useless -- time to split up and try to get their charge back to the safety of Atesh-Gah. He shudders again, fist white-knuckled around the hilt of his falcare, and tries to focus on the nearest target. The Agni-Haidar closest to Kiral, Maimun by name, hunches his shoulders as bolts rain down from the sky, and swooping spectres fill his vision. But he did not survive all those grueling years of training beneath the Throne of Fire to cringe and cower under attack. Though disoriented, his falcare remains ready, but his charge is his first concern. At the leader's shout, he forces weakened limbs to shove the Minister none-too-gently northward, ready to follow at his back and keep those winged warriors at bay. Meanwhile, a dark shadow rises on darker wings, watching the ambush unfold far below. The outcome is out of his hands at this point -- Primus can only watch and hope that the strategy will succeed. Nono, you can't run off. That would spoil all the fun. Though, rumor has it that most people don't consider a hail of crossbow bolts to be their definition of 'fun.' Doesn't suit the beggar. Not that he's taken notice, the coot. He's still up on that frigid rooftop, cheering for which team seems to be winning. Get those Varati! Yeah! Unless they fight back! Faster... faster, with ever-growing speed and force, Tertius dives towards his mark. That captain is disoriented, and isolated... even the others should be able to distract him. That other, however... there lies the only conceivable difficulty. So, with shield dressed towards his hated foe, and gladius readied for a blow, this dark angel strikes. With all the weight of his body, and all the force of his dive added to the strength of his blow, the man sweeps down upon the one called Maimun... Kiral can wait until his Guard is dispatched. This dark winged figure's sword flies at the Varati's head... pommel first. 'Do not kill them.' Those fateful words ring through the floating, dark-winged figure as he aims. First, the head, and then the point drops lower, to the chest, and lower still. Even Agni-Haidar can do little when their manhood has been shot... is the thought going through his head, as Quartus releases. Before the bolt even reaches the target, another bolt is nocked into place by the speed-loader and moving on to the Foreign Minister, prepared to remove his mobility in a similar manner. Meanwhile, the rain of bolts has slowed down as the two figures step back and then leap into the air. Perhaps missing is not enough. Perhaps it is time to finally shoot for real. The group of four hooded, masked figures who appeared from the alley have closed the distance and prepare to engage the remaining guards. Despite the odds, (as planned), the attackers are more on the defense. They seem to prefer to block rather than take the opening for attack. Arrow to the codpiece, and the various soft and blood-filled tissues located within. The *zhip* of arrow through air is suddenly silenced -- and replaced with a deep, animal grunt. A shuddered breath, as the leader drops to his knees, sword clattering to the cobblestones. Fingers clutch at the arrow shaft as blood starts to flow. Disoriented and dazed he may be, but Maimun is also Agni-Haidar. Elite. The best of the best. He sees a Shape come diving toward him and that sword, already raised, is hefted in a wicked slash. He may be striking blind, struggling to act despite the sluggishness clouding his mind, but he's determined to at least hit something before he goes down -- if go down he must. The pommel of Tertius' gladius and the momentum of his dive hit the Agni-Haidar at the same time. He doesn't cry out, merely crumples in slow-motion, retaining hold of his blade. Has to see... whether it came away scarlet or not... And, far above the fracas, night-black wings beat the air as a cloaked figure circles, watching, waiting, anxiety and apprehension neatly hidden behind a mask of Tragedy. And now there's blood. At least it finally got interesting. Though, the beggar has to feel for that poor Varati soldier, getting shot in the unmentionables with a crossbow. Please. That's a little harsh, isn't it? At least aim for a kneecap or something. The spectating beggar is continuing his pastime. Giving out style points might be a bit pretentious. Besides, it'd just draw unwanted attention. And as Maimun's sight fades into darkness, the last image to catch his eye is his own blade, reflecting a ray of the dying light... cruelly clean. Tertius spreads his wings in an effort to slow himself, helmeted head turning now towards Kiral... The dark angel's balance is saved in a moment, and his attention goes to the Varati Foreign Minister. Now for his true task; enough of these... diversions. Not only can Kiral's guards be dropped, but they can be hurt. Kiral stares at the crumpled leader and the red-black flowing out between clutched fingers, then turns to the advancing mob. A snarl smears across sharp features, and he lunges at the closest attacker, keris stabbing. The Agni-Haidar were overconfident. That's it. He can handle the kafir himself. Over-confident? No. They are just at something of a disadvantage at the moment. Three lie like discarded, over-sized dolls on the pavement. The leader is curled up, likewise on the ground, breath escaping him in raw-edged groans that cut short before his lungs can fully fill and empty. Every third moan forms into a harsh curse -- those taking the time to listen might hear grated and disjointed orders, hissed at the three who are sprawled nearby. It has some effect... the men begin to stir, though there is no coordination to their efforts. But it is definitely movement, and from three who -- if they manage to get on their feet -- are more than willing to turn this into a proper bloodbath. Confusion. Chaos. The few passersby who had glimpsed the ambush are crying out in fright, most of them scattering, ducking, cowering beneath the bolts that rained down from the heavens. A few take cover and watch -- this is better than the Games, as long as they stay out of the way. Though the entirety of the spectacle has only lasted no more than a handful of minutes, it will be talked about for weeks to come. After all, that is Kiral Khalida, and four of his Agni-Haidar. There will be consequences, for these bold attackers who strike from the shadows. Quartus and his two dark-garbed companions are quick to provide cover for Tertius -- especially when they notice that those Lions of Fire who'd first been felled are now stirring. The orders were not to kill, but they can keep them occupied, at least. It is up to Tertius now, to abduct the Minister. Another pair of eyes watches from high above as Primus circles, keenly glued upon Kiral and his swooping opponent. 'Hurry' whispers the beat of his wings. There he is. The one called Kiral did flee, as anyone with a grain of sense would have. Too professional to allow a smile to touch his face, Tertius squares his shield (a shield which now bears a broad gash, courtesy of an Agni-Haidar falcare) and sweeps it to one side, intending to knock away the Varati dog's dagger. A second pommel blow is aimed at the foul creature's forehead. This is taking too long... no time to dally. Kiral is trained in combat -- that is, as much as any kshatri male is. He is not a warrior, though, especially considering Tertius' expertise and training. His keris bounces off the shield, startled fingers letting it skip and spark along the cobblestones, and furiously startled eyes meet Tertius' mask for a second before the *tock* of pommel greets his forehead. He stumbles back, staggers, hands numbly flailing in the air. Stunned. The felled Agni-Haidar -- those not attempting to staunch the flow of blood from certain... critical areas -- go from stirring to active attempts at rising; hands pressed to aching heads, swimming eyes narrowed to try for focus. Groan. One makes it to a knee, where he wobbles precariously with an outstretched hand for balance. Another pushes himself up on first elbows, then hands, before groping for his blade. Not entirely battle-worthy, these two proud examples of Lions, but they are trying. And beginning to succeed. Another moment, maybe two, and certain attackers will be well into the darkness of death. But now... now they are vulnerable, and as three dark-winged figures glide above, another quartet of men, similarly clad in black, yet wingless, set upon the dazed Lions with clubs. Clubs will not kill -- not immediately -- and the weapons are employed to keep the guards unconscious at best, disoriented at least. One man, bolder than the others, starts to kick the falcare out of the way of the hand that's grasping for it. The winged attackers, meanwhile, circle like crows over carrion, ready to shoot down their hapless opponents, orders or no. This has already gotten too out of hand. Primus, higher than the others, is finally compelled into action, himself. He angles his wings inward, ready to drop like a stone and swoop down to assist Tertius in grabbing the Minister, if need be. Anything to hasten an ambush that has already dragged on too long. One of those panicked witnesses is bound to alert the Hounds.... Tertius moves quickly now, sparing a precious half-second to sling his shield over one shoulder, The dark-winged attacker rushes forward, setting his newly-freed right shoulder into Kiral's midsection, and grasping him around the back. Normally, such a move would have gained the stunned Varati a faceful of soot-scored feathers, but Tertius' wings are already stroking, carrying the hunter and the prey into the air, aided by a powerful push from the angel's legs. His left hand still holds the gladius, just in case this prey offers further resistance. The rising Lions are left with the sight of dark wings, and a sable cloak, ascending to meet the night sky.... And the last piece falls into place... finally. Kiral Khalida, the Foreign Minister of the Varati Kingdom, is hauled from the ground, a limp weight of baggage for the black-winged abductor. His cohorts, those three who'd provided cover during the ambush, remain, circling, over the party below, while the one who had kept himself apart and above the battle the entire time suddenly veers westward. No command is given -- none is needed. Tertius, flight slowed by the 'trophy' he carries, gains altitude and sets off after the leader. Meanwhile, the Agni-Haidar -- battered, bruised, one of them in danger of bleeding to death unless a healer is called soon -- are soon abandoned by their erstwhile attackers. If they cannot stand, they cannot give chase. The Varati may have won the war, but this is one battle where they did not triumph. As it goes to show... peace was not to be had for long.
FIN
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