Post by Rachael Freeman on Jul 14, 2013 10:40:50 GMT -5
Using the small lock-pick given her, it took Rachael Freeman less than thirty seconds to unlock the shackles from around her wrists. Less than ten to undo the ones around her ankles. She ravenously drank three of the healing potions left for her and ate several small cakes. She nearly vomited it had been so long since she last ate. Her wrists and ankles were rubbed raw from the iron shackles and she stank like an Orc. None of this mattered, however, because her first goal was to escape this Keep and make her way to her third home hidden deep in the forests of Malas. There she could recover, heal and get her strength back. But one thing at a time. The lock on the iron gate of her cell took a bit longer than she wanted, but, at last, the tiny “click” sounded and she gently swung the bars open. The heavy oak door was no obstacle and, as she crept down the stairs, she heard no sound nor saw any guards. The Keep was silent as a tomb. Leaving the Dwarf’s Keep behind, it took her the rest of the day to make her way through the forest. She arrived at her hidden cottage just after sunset and here she stayed for the better part of a week.
Three days after her arrival home she received word that Julian Randall was dead at the hands of the Emerald Trading Company. As usual, verification was needed and that verification arrived by falcon the following day. So, with Randall dead the captives he held would no doubt be freed and safely back among their friends thus negating the agreement she had made with the Knight. She smiled. Truly it had been an unusual contract, at least for her. Never before had she been contracted to keep a target “safe” from harm.
“A pity,” she thought. “It would have been an interesting challenge, not to mention a refreshing change.” But she knew keeping people ‘safe’ would never be as lucrative or as thrilling as the hunt.
Rachael spent the better part of the next week refreshing her skills with the bow. She had switched weapons to Hammer and Kriss but her first and most favorite weapon remained the bow. She was healing quickly. Unfortunately, there would be scars on her wrists and ankles from the shackles. Constant reminders of the price one pays for making mistakes. For all the world, who would have guessed her former employers would visit an Orc tavern of all places. But one learned from one’s mistakes, painful as they might be. And this was one lesson Rachael Freeman took to heart.
One afternoon, returning to her cottage after a long morning perfecting her skills at stealth, she found a messenger falcon perched on the railing of her porch. The small, hand written, note attached to the falcon’s leg stated that a member of the Camorra would be waiting to meet her in a forest clearing one league north of her cottage. The meeting would take place at three in the afternoon of the next day.
Rachael arrived at the edge of the clearing a full hour before the time set for the meeting. She sat in the shadows of the forest waiting. If there was one thing Rachael had an abundance of, other than talent with the bow, it was patience. She once sat, nearly motionless, on a rooftop in the city of Trinsic for nine hours waiting for her Mark to appear. Waiting was not an issue.
A few minutes before three a small, balding man emerged from the forest opposite her position. She watched as he moved through the tall grass to stand in the center of the clearing. “Amateurs,” she thought as she scanned the edges of the clearing once more before stepping out. The man was new to this business, judging from his twitching. They always sent someone different each time. She had never seen the same messenger twice. He handed her a note and a pouch of gold meant as a down payment. She held his gaze for a long moment. The only words he uttered were; “With extreme prejudice.” Written upon the note was a single name. Rachael never cared about the “why” of an assignment or who had contracted it. Emotions muddled thought, and muddled thought caused one to hesitate, and hesitation often resulted in failure and failure was unacceptable. At least for many of her former clients. She stared at the name for a moment then simply nodded. The man left without another word.
Returning to her cottage, Rachael sat staring at the open note as she ate her late day meal. She smiled. She was very familiar with the name on the note. “With extreme prejudice.” She nodded to herself. This one would be worth the effort and maybe, should the mood strike her, she might just toss in the marks mate for good measure. Later that evening as she towel-dried her hair after emerging from a warm, soothing bath, Rachael stood before her mirror staring at herself. Setting the towel aside she leaned close to her reflection and shook out her hair. She smiled and nodded.
“Aye,” she whispered. “Perhaps it is time for a change …”
Three days after her arrival home she received word that Julian Randall was dead at the hands of the Emerald Trading Company. As usual, verification was needed and that verification arrived by falcon the following day. So, with Randall dead the captives he held would no doubt be freed and safely back among their friends thus negating the agreement she had made with the Knight. She smiled. Truly it had been an unusual contract, at least for her. Never before had she been contracted to keep a target “safe” from harm.
“A pity,” she thought. “It would have been an interesting challenge, not to mention a refreshing change.” But she knew keeping people ‘safe’ would never be as lucrative or as thrilling as the hunt.
Rachael spent the better part of the next week refreshing her skills with the bow. She had switched weapons to Hammer and Kriss but her first and most favorite weapon remained the bow. She was healing quickly. Unfortunately, there would be scars on her wrists and ankles from the shackles. Constant reminders of the price one pays for making mistakes. For all the world, who would have guessed her former employers would visit an Orc tavern of all places. But one learned from one’s mistakes, painful as they might be. And this was one lesson Rachael Freeman took to heart.
One afternoon, returning to her cottage after a long morning perfecting her skills at stealth, she found a messenger falcon perched on the railing of her porch. The small, hand written, note attached to the falcon’s leg stated that a member of the Camorra would be waiting to meet her in a forest clearing one league north of her cottage. The meeting would take place at three in the afternoon of the next day.
Rachael arrived at the edge of the clearing a full hour before the time set for the meeting. She sat in the shadows of the forest waiting. If there was one thing Rachael had an abundance of, other than talent with the bow, it was patience. She once sat, nearly motionless, on a rooftop in the city of Trinsic for nine hours waiting for her Mark to appear. Waiting was not an issue.
A few minutes before three a small, balding man emerged from the forest opposite her position. She watched as he moved through the tall grass to stand in the center of the clearing. “Amateurs,” she thought as she scanned the edges of the clearing once more before stepping out. The man was new to this business, judging from his twitching. They always sent someone different each time. She had never seen the same messenger twice. He handed her a note and a pouch of gold meant as a down payment. She held his gaze for a long moment. The only words he uttered were; “With extreme prejudice.” Written upon the note was a single name. Rachael never cared about the “why” of an assignment or who had contracted it. Emotions muddled thought, and muddled thought caused one to hesitate, and hesitation often resulted in failure and failure was unacceptable. At least for many of her former clients. She stared at the name for a moment then simply nodded. The man left without another word.
Returning to her cottage, Rachael sat staring at the open note as she ate her late day meal. She smiled. She was very familiar with the name on the note. “With extreme prejudice.” She nodded to herself. This one would be worth the effort and maybe, should the mood strike her, she might just toss in the marks mate for good measure. Later that evening as she towel-dried her hair after emerging from a warm, soothing bath, Rachael stood before her mirror staring at herself. Setting the towel aside she leaned close to her reflection and shook out her hair. She smiled and nodded.
“Aye,” she whispered. “Perhaps it is time for a change …”