((OOC: Firstfall 9, 9:32, The Waking Sea))
Cool water splashed upon Ricmo’s face, drops cascading in a slow drip, washing away the faint kiss of salt air upon the skin. He never liked travel by boat. Ships rocked too much and left him feeling unsteady upon his feet. He much preferred solid ground over the tumultuous unpredictability of water.
He glanced into the mirror, signs of aging apparent at the corners of his eyes. He had been an assassin for more years than he cared to recount. The scars of his profession left their marks upon him. His training as a child, the jobs taken as a man, each further pushed him along a darker path in life.
He would look at those people that lived conventional lives, look at the light in their eyes and the smiles upon their lips and wonder, what it was like to be them. Would he have ever been happy with such a pedestrian existence?
Such thoughts were for fools and daydreamers.
Such a life would never have been his for the taking regardless.
If it had not been for the Crows, his brother and he would have perished as children. The horrors of his childhood were kept tucked away, not thought of, not remembered. The day a Crow murdered Ricmo’s collector and discovered Ricmo and his brother in their unguilded cage brought an end to that nightmare and set him on his current life’s journey.
He was a Crow and took great pride in his work.
Pangrazio’s summons had found Ricmo at La Bella Morte, a rather exclusive brothel found within the heart of Antiva City. The name always struck Ricmo as particularly ironic given the number of contracts he had completed within the silk and damask covered walls of the establishment. The madam of the whorehouse had once been a particular favorite of Pangrazio’s in a prior life before the blush of youth left her skin and the sag of time took its toll upon her body. She had named the brothel La Bella Morte as a tribute of sorts of Pangrazio, having once been told by him that lying her arms would have been a beautiful way to die.
Pangrazio’s mission for Ricmo was received with mixed feelings. There was no love between Zevran and Ricmo, scores from the past long unsettled between them.
With a flash of white teeth and a toss of blond hair, Zevran took something from Ricmo he had not known he wanted until it was gone. She died and there was nothing Ricmo could have done to stop it.
With a flash of white teeth and a toss of blond hair, Zevran took from Ricmo the one connection to the past he wished to remain tethered to. He died and there was nothing Ricmo could have done to stop it.
But Pangrazio had been quite insistent. “I want him alive.”
Ricmo knew Pangrazio meant to make an example of Zevran, to show what happens to those that cross their masters, their betters. That did not help silence the need for revenge that roiled within Ricmo, though, and he was not sure when the time came, when he finally met eyes with the great Zevran Arainai, if he would be able to follow Pangrazio’s instructions.
Soon enough he would find out. He sailed on a ship bound for Jader. Ignacio’s last missive mentioned Jader as the port of call for the vessel Zevran left Highever upon. Much coin had been paid to insure the expediency of the voyage. Ricmo needed to get to Jader before Zevran and the Orlesian whore moved on to another location.
More water splashed upon his face, hands rubbing at the skin roughly. He would find Zevran and he would do as Pangrazio requested and should his dagger be perfectly imprecise and kill the elf rather than maim, so be it. Ricmo would deal with the consequences.
He looked into the mirror once again, staring at the reflection from the past that looked back at him. With the exception of a small scar upon the right eyebrow and a slightly straighter nose, he saw his brother in his face.
He saw Taliesen.
Cool water splashed upon Ricmo’s face, drops cascading in a slow drip, washing away the faint kiss of salt air upon the skin. He never liked travel by boat. Ships rocked too much and left him feeling unsteady upon his feet. He much preferred solid ground over the tumultuous unpredictability of water.
He glanced into the mirror, signs of aging apparent at the corners of his eyes. He had been an assassin for more years than he cared to recount. The scars of his profession left their marks upon him. His training as a child, the jobs taken as a man, each further pushed him along a darker path in life.
He would look at those people that lived conventional lives, look at the light in their eyes and the smiles upon their lips and wonder, what it was like to be them. Would he have ever been happy with such a pedestrian existence?
Such thoughts were for fools and daydreamers.
Such a life would never have been his for the taking regardless.
If it had not been for the Crows, his brother and he would have perished as children. The horrors of his childhood were kept tucked away, not thought of, not remembered. The day a Crow murdered Ricmo’s collector and discovered Ricmo and his brother in their unguilded cage brought an end to that nightmare and set him on his current life’s journey.
He was a Crow and took great pride in his work.
Pangrazio’s summons had found Ricmo at La Bella Morte, a rather exclusive brothel found within the heart of Antiva City. The name always struck Ricmo as particularly ironic given the number of contracts he had completed within the silk and damask covered walls of the establishment. The madam of the whorehouse had once been a particular favorite of Pangrazio’s in a prior life before the blush of youth left her skin and the sag of time took its toll upon her body. She had named the brothel La Bella Morte as a tribute of sorts of Pangrazio, having once been told by him that lying her arms would have been a beautiful way to die.
Pangrazio’s mission for Ricmo was received with mixed feelings. There was no love between Zevran and Ricmo, scores from the past long unsettled between them.
With a flash of white teeth and a toss of blond hair, Zevran took something from Ricmo he had not known he wanted until it was gone. She died and there was nothing Ricmo could have done to stop it.
With a flash of white teeth and a toss of blond hair, Zevran took from Ricmo the one connection to the past he wished to remain tethered to. He died and there was nothing Ricmo could have done to stop it.
But Pangrazio had been quite insistent. “I want him alive.”
Ricmo knew Pangrazio meant to make an example of Zevran, to show what happens to those that cross their masters, their betters. That did not help silence the need for revenge that roiled within Ricmo, though, and he was not sure when the time came, when he finally met eyes with the great Zevran Arainai, if he would be able to follow Pangrazio’s instructions.
Soon enough he would find out. He sailed on a ship bound for Jader. Ignacio’s last missive mentioned Jader as the port of call for the vessel Zevran left Highever upon. Much coin had been paid to insure the expediency of the voyage. Ricmo needed to get to Jader before Zevran and the Orlesian whore moved on to another location.
More water splashed upon his face, hands rubbing at the skin roughly. He would find Zevran and he would do as Pangrazio requested and should his dagger be perfectly imprecise and kill the elf rather than maim, so be it. Ricmo would deal with the consequences.
He looked into the mirror once again, staring at the reflection from the past that looked back at him. With the exception of a small scar upon the right eyebrow and a slightly straighter nose, he saw his brother in his face.
He saw Taliesen.