Post by Beagle on Aug 14, 2009 18:20:08 GMT -5
A lone figure, dressed in tattered, soaking, reeking rags wanders the dark winding corridors of the village tonight. Few notice him, those that do don't recognize him. Perhaps they didn't get a good enough look, perhaps they've forgotten. If anyone was following this beggar, they would be surprised at how well he knew the village: every corner, every loose paving stone, every...
The figure silently disappears over a wall into a courtyard. On the other side of the courtyard, he reemerges, blending seamlessly with the night fog. He is carrying a bit more weight now, but you wouldn't notice, unless you'd been following him closely. But no one pays him any mind; he's just a beggar from another town wandering through.
But if he's from another town, how does he know so much about our village...
In the morning, several robberies and murders are reported to the doshin. The victims, well off tradesmen with families and estates, have lost minor parts of their wealth: several blades, some armor, some scrolls of mystical power, gold, food, clothing. Some had lost their lives, though the deaths don't appear to follow a pattern.
The cuts are direct, clean. We're dealing with someone with training. Years of it. I haven't seen this type of skill in along time. Let's just hope who ever it was is only moving through town, and not here to stay...
The day wanes...
A beggar in reeking rags sits on the street under a torch, the hood of his tattered cloak shading his face from view. He shakes his alms bowl whenever someone walks past. He is invisible in his presence, he is rich in his poverty, and he is powerful in his stooped walk and his....
...wait, he didn't have that cane last night....
. . .
The figure silently disappears over a wall into a courtyard. On the other side of the courtyard, he reemerges, blending seamlessly with the night fog. He is carrying a bit more weight now, but you wouldn't notice, unless you'd been following him closely. But no one pays him any mind; he's just a beggar from another town wandering through.
But if he's from another town, how does he know so much about our village...
In the morning, several robberies and murders are reported to the doshin. The victims, well off tradesmen with families and estates, have lost minor parts of their wealth: several blades, some armor, some scrolls of mystical power, gold, food, clothing. Some had lost their lives, though the deaths don't appear to follow a pattern.
The cuts are direct, clean. We're dealing with someone with training. Years of it. I haven't seen this type of skill in along time. Let's just hope who ever it was is only moving through town, and not here to stay...
The day wanes...
A beggar in reeking rags sits on the street under a torch, the hood of his tattered cloak shading his face from view. He shakes his alms bowl whenever someone walks past. He is invisible in his presence, he is rich in his poverty, and he is powerful in his stooped walk and his....
...wait, he didn't have that cane last night....
. . .