NIGHTINGALE: THE BLACKHEART BEATS AGAIN
The nighttime streets and alleys of Korvosa are a dangerous place to be caught unawares, hidden dangerous lurk around every corner. From the hungry swarms of rats picking over the debris of the day to the Otyughs lurking just beneath the surface; their long tendrils reaching for any foolish enough to venture into the sewers. Amongst all this the dwells worse vermin: thugs and killers lurking in the darkness with the intent of violence.
One such man lurks in an alley opposite a rather well-lit and lively tavern. A slab of a man fueled by alcohol and humiliation, his freshly broken nose swollen and misshapen. He crouches behind a few crates, clutched in his callused hand is a lethal and notched looking blade, more cleaver than knife. This blade has obviously seen a lot of use, from the looks of its user, the use would not been for pleasant things. This is a killer’s blade.
A drunk grumble slurs from the mans mouth “Fuckin ponce of a bard.. talk to me like that..I’ll learn him!”
The would-be killer isn’t the only person sitting and watching. Just above him on one of the low-slung roof tops of Korvosa sits nightingale, his gaze is less on the Tavern and more the killer lurking in the shadows beneath him. His usually flamboyant clothing stashed under a tarp to his left. He sits now clad head to toe in a black duellist uniform, the buckles have been replaced with blackened metal ones and sitting over his left breast is a heart. Once this heart would have been a vibrant red a target for the competition duels. But this one has been painted over, but no matter how hard the attempts are to hide it, it stands out against the uniform a dark gloss black mixed with a subtle hint of crimson. His hair, normally contained in a neat pony tail hangs loose around his head and covering the last half of his face is black fabric mask.
He knows that both he and his target are in for a wait. When he left the tavern the bard Anton was caught up in a swell of adoration and the alcohol was flowing freely. With that in mind, Nightingale settles down to find a comfortable position that wont put his muscles under strain while he waits.
Time drags on slowly and his mind wanders to the story Anton wove in the bar. A rye smile playing over his lips. So much of what Anton said was close to the truth but hidden under a veneer of a bard’s poetic licence.
Nightingale remembers the incident well. He had been tracking those two thugs for a few nights after a series of robberies had left many injured and one old lady beaten to death in the doorstep of her home. Rabid dogs like that couldn’t be left to terrorise the streets of Korvosa, not at the cost of more innocent lives. He had followed them from the roof tops hoping to catch them some where quiet and out of the way where they could be dealt with quickly. It felt strange being able to move freely across the roof tops without his rapier getting in his way threatening to trip him and send him hurtling to the brick work bellow. Flexing his right hand he could almost picture the feeling of the metal move amongst his muscles, he sure it was his imagination, but did his right arm feel heavier than usual? The new spell had been a pain to learn but one that would be incredibly useful, freeing his hands up to climb and what ever else they would be needed for. Also, by hiding the rapier it was another separation from the flamboyant Nightingale, a separation he would need to help keep those he cared for safe from his night time activities.
His plans of tailing the thugs came to a crashing end when they found a new victim and they began a savage assault on the man. Clubs rising and falling again and again. Even from the roof top Nightingale recognised the unmistakable sound of bones breaking. He knew this couldn’t continue. Reaching out with his left arm Nightingale focuses on a shadow in the alley the thugs had just come from. With his right hand he reaches out and grips the shadow, stretching it and reshaping until it covers the alley in darkness. Satisfied with his work, and that the two attackers have been too busy with their grim task to even notice, he begins to descend into the patch of nothingness he has created. Just when Nightingale is sure his feet should be touching solid ground, he loses his grip, tumbling into a pile of crates and rubbish. Luckily for him at the same time a little further down the street a Tavern door opens, the sound of merriment and raucous drunken excess fills the street masking his mistake.
He waits for what feels like an eternity in the darkness. His heart hammering against his chest, his pulse thunderous in his ears. Finally, when he is sure they haven’t heard him he steps out of the darkness and into the alley before him.
The two Attackers stand over the crumpled body of their victim, blood puddling from a vicious head wound, Nightingale curses inwardly thinking his stumble may have cost this man his life, so not risking another second he steps forward and draws his blade.
The first thought that crosses his mind is pain, the feeling of his sword writhing up from within him, erupting from his flesh as metal flows from his hand reforming itself around his fist into the swept hilt of his sword. The blade bursts out between his knuckles, point of the steel shining in the low light.
“How the hell does Byron do this every time…” He remembers thinking in disbelief. He had been inspired by Byron’s ability to grow bone claws concealing his weapons until he needed them. That is why he hunted down this spell to learn, but Byron never said it hurt.
In that split second the thugs have turned to stare at him in shock and disbelief, A man clad in black had just appear from the shadows and grown a sword from his hand. It would be enough to make any harden criminal stop and think about their life choices if only just for a moment.
But a moment was all it took for them to make a choice, the attacker closest to Nightingale raised their blood-soaked club and leapt forward to attack. Nightingale barely had to move, with one quick extension of his arm, his blade lashed out striking forward to impale the thug. Unfortunately, between the charging brute and Nightingale’s own half lunge, the blade had buried itself deep into his attacker, embedding itself in the thick bone of the rib cage. Nightingale knew he only had moments before the other robber attacked. Quickly, he channeled his magic once more, conjuring a stream of acid to course down the blade and burn away the bone allowing him to rip the blade free. In his desperation Nightingale would admit to himself he may have over done it a bit. He pumped so much acid down his blade that removing it was a lot easier then expected, and the blade slid cleanly through the entire body, carving a path from chest to shoulder with ease.
The accomplice paled in horror at the site of his partner in crime cleaved in two by this masked mad man, He flung his club in desperation as he turned to run. The club tumbled through the air with all the grace of a brick, and Nightingale looked up just in time for the club to catch him a glancing blow to the side of his head. The impact stunned him slightly, causing him to stumble and giving his assailant the time he needed to escape and loose himself in the maze of alleys of Old Korvosa. Nightingale knew that if he lost him now he would never see the thug again. Muttering another spell under his breath he threw his arm out towards the robber, watching as the bones and skin morphed and stretched covering an inhuman amount of space to grab onto the mugger’s belt and tug him back towards Nightingale. Without thought, and in a practiced motion of years of training, Nightingale lunged, piercing through his target’s throat and out the other side. The acid still bubbling and churning on the blade, mixing with the blood erupted up the throat of the wailing thief, cutting his cries off in a horrific choking gurgle.
Quickly sheathing his sword, the blade retracting back through the flesh to rest uncomfortably inside his arm once more, Nightingale checked on the fallen man. Thankfully he found that although weak, the man still had a pulse. Reaching into a pouch nestled on a belt at the small of his back he pulls forth a potion. Cradling the man he carefully pours the liquid into his mouth, making sure he swallows. Satisfied the man will recover he gently leans him back against the doorway.
Movement at the end of the alley catches Nightingale’s eye, turning he sinks into a fighting stance ready to defend himself from the unknown assailant. There cowering on the floor, his breeches soaked with an unknown liquid, is a bald and bearded man. His clothes obviously once very stylish now carried years of grime and stain. Satisfied this man is no threat to any one but a pint of beer he turns away and walks back into the shadows.
A noise from bellow pulls Nightingale from his memories and back swiftly to the present. The bar door has opened and stumbling out is Anton, the bard. Completely oblivious to the danger he is in and far drunker than Nightingale expected, he begins weaving along the road, which will bring him inline with the mouth of the alley and the would-be assassin lurking amongst the debris.
Nightingale had learnt a lot from the last time. He has learnt fear is as viable a weapon as his rapier and that it can cut to places what his blade just can’t quite reach. Watching Calli’s performances has inspired him. Holding his palm out flat, he mouths words silently, they form together in the palm of his hand in a small bubble which he casts out to the back end of the alley, further away from the entrance and behind the killer lurking beneath him. When the bubble touches the ground where Nightingale intended, it bursts releasing a whispered hum of noise, voices that sound like steel on steel over-lapping with each other. If you try and focus on it too hard it just becomes a wall of noise, but if you catch it on the edge of your hearing, you’d swear you could make out one word “Blackheart.”
Whirling around his blade flashing up ready to cut anyone, the killer, now seemingly nervous yells, “who’s there… show yourself…Don’t hide in the shadows like some pussy…” Emboldened by his own words, he steps further into the alley, his blade held out before him ready to deliver murder to all that step-in front of him. He kicks one of the crates viciously. “That’s right, you stay hidden, if you don’t wanna see what your guts look like up close!”
While the brute of the man viciously terrorises the empty crates and rubbish that fill the alley, a darkness is spreading behind him, eating the light and filling the entrance to the street, seemingly cutting this corridor of filth from the streets of Korvosa. Nightingale learnt that trying to climb down in the darkness was a little bit tricky last time, so this time, he allowed his arms to stretch and expand, lowering himself slowly down 10 foot at a time.
He had also learnt to pick his moments. Stepping out of the shadows he stood behind the brute, he released another bubble of sound by his own feet, the first sounds stop as soon as the second bubble bursts open, creating again a grinding sound of steel that undercuts and overlays his own words, masking his voice and giving it an inhuman quality. “The bard lives or you die.”
“Fuck you, no poncy bard speaks to me like that and lives… and no one is going to stop me... You think you’ll be the first life my blade has tasted? You sure as fuck won’t be the last.” The hoodlum launches himself forward, surprisingly quick for his size. His blade trails a glittering arch through the half-light slicing towards Nightingale who slips easily to the side, letting the bruiser stagger past him. Recovering quickly, he unleashes a series of cuts and thrusts trying to hack Nightingale apart. Nightingale weaves and dodges the blows using the reinforced sleeves of his duellist uniform to turn aside any thrusts that get to close. Suddenly, as a wild blow swings past, he lunges forward. His right hand darts out and from his balled fist erupts the blade of his rapier, lancing out quickly it drives through the meat of his attackers forearm and out the other side and into the chest of his adversary. The blade didn’t go deep enough to kill, but instead pins the knife wielding arm against his own body trapping it there uselessly. Even trapped the killer wont give up, yelling and screaming threats at Nightingale.
“Fuck you! Fuck your friends, your family, Once I kill you.. I’m going to kill your friends, your family and then I will piss on each of their Gra…ugh……”
In a smooth motion, Nightingale draws back the blade and quickly thrusts it forward burying the tip into his assailants throat, acid then erupts from the blade, burning away the tongue, the vocal chords and the screams of the hoodlum. Sheathing his blade and Nightingale stepping back, he folds his arms as he watches emotionless, waiting to make just to make sure. Only once the thugs wordless thrashing stops does Nightingale feel satisfied to leave. Turning, he extends his arms above him to help him climb back to recover his clothes. As he climbs the darkness begins to fade away, opening the alley back up to the lights of the bar and the noise of Korvosa. Just another night in Korvosa, but this night ends with the streets being a little safer, and a murder lies dead, unmissed amongst the rubbish and the debris in a nondescript alley.