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Posted on April 17, 2013 at 11:19:22 PM by
 "Shhhhh, the pirate whispers in the ear of the guard he's just jumped from behind. The hapless man struggles only for a moment, his cry muffled behind a ring-adorned hand. He stands no chance as the arm around his neck constricts and wrings him into unconsciousness. Eyes roll back into his head and upon release, he sinks to the ground in an undignified heap. Killian grins. One down. Swift and silent he darts from one shadow to the next, blending in until black leather and black intentions become just another extension of the darkened castle rock. Like a wraith, he knows how to work the absence of light, treating the darkness like an organic thing to be woven into, to dance with rather then through. These places, the holes in the highlights, used to be so foreign, places a light-wielder ought avoid. But now they are allies, confidants, and he relies upon them as brothers in arms. He waits no time, slinking along the outer curtain in the direction of the west wing. Upon reaching the curved wall there, he slips the skein of rope from his belt and ties a noose at one end. With a grunt, he hoists it airborne, smirking when the loop catches soundlessly over one of the thick merlons in the crenelation of the rampart. He gives the rope a perfunctory tug and climbs. It's easy enough work for a sailor constantly scaling the rigging, the callouses on his hands numb to the burn, the muscles in his shoulders defined enough to handle double his body weight. He drops nimbly on the ramparts, crouching at a run as he dodges along shadows. Twice, he's forced to pause as guards pass in patrol, ducking low to avoid being spotted. Rather the risk them alerting the castle to an intruder's presence, he chooses to let them go unhindered, memorizing the number of steps it takes for them to cross the length of the wall for future use. He memorizes the unbalanced lean in their pace caused by the heavy plate armor. The blind spots at their shoulders. The lung problems of the man on the right, wheezing every third step. He catalogs all these details, stashing them away in an arsenal until the time comes when he'll need to utilize any and all weapons. It's vital, this level of attention. One wrong move, one miscalculation can send a man in his line of work straight to the gallows. One overlooked weakness can mean the difference between being the best and being slaughtered. Fortunately, Killian's memory is steel-trap tight. Unfortunately, it's also what's gotten him into his current predicament. He can't forget. He wants to, to be free of the ghost that's haunted him since he last left Shaman; he'd like nothing better then to burn it from behind his eyes. She stays though, through dreams and waking hours and he can no more avoid what he's about to do then forget her. No, he won't forget. And he certainly won't forgive. He makes his way into the west tower, pressing himself against the spiral staircase wall in anticipation of attack. None comes. Killian narrows his eyes in suspecion- he knows this castle, he's been a witness of it's inner workings. Where are all the guards? There have never been so few in the west wing. The King has always put his family's safety as priority, especially after the queen's disappearance so many years ago. It is unlikely he's ordered a reprive in the defense of his home. It makes a cold trickle of unease slide down his spine. But he does not stop long enough to let it evolve into more then that. He's come to far to let paranoia deter him from his goal. Killian makes for the forth room on the right. The door is not locked, another fact that has him pause. He would have guessed the King might have locked it away, the room serving no purpose now except as a tomb to gather dust, only cobwebs left to reside where once did a creature of laughter and light. This room has not changed. Every curtain tassle, every ceramic vase, it's all in the exact same spot. All the knick-knacks, the combs, the pictures; they sport no coat of dust. There are clothes strewn across the edge of the bed, which lays in disarray with crumpled sheets and pillows with the indention of a head. It's like this room has been frozen, cut off in it's own little piece of time and left untouched just as it's previous owner left it. It's as if she was here just yesterday. Killian swallows hard, chastising himself for being so vulnerable and strides over to the vanity in the corner. His eyes scan the surface and land on the tiny, plain box there, a sorry excuse for a jewelry keep. But it might as well have been encrusted with rubies for the way he fixates on it. It is, in this moment, potentially more precious then all the gold in the King's treasure. He's ashamed of the tremor in his fingers as he reaches for it, lifting the lid slowly, reverently. Killian's breath hitches in his chest; he's not ready to face what's cradled within this jewelry box. What it means. He flips back the top...to discover nothing. Empty. He exhales sharply, anger welling in the wounds this room has already caused. A snarl leaves his lips on it's own accord and the poor, plain box is left to the wrath of his fury. He hurls it against the wall, where it splinters to a hundred pieces and scatters all over the floor. "Oh! My heavens!" squeaks the maid who's just appeared in the open door, hand clutched to her chest in fright. She regards him with wide, shocked eyes, rooted in her terror. Killian takes full advantage of her surprise, crossing the room in a handful of long-legged strides and grabs her roughly by the shoulders. The maid squeaks again, whimpering as she's tossed maliciously into the wall. Killian follows in a lunge, pinning her there with a forearm across her throat and glaring daggers. "Where is it?" he growls. "I-I don't know. I-I don't know w-what you're talking about," she stutters pathetically. Killian slams her once more against the stone. He snarls again, unmoved by this show of ignorance. "The Lady Morgana. She wore a silver crucifix round her neck when she was alive at all times. Where was it put when she died?" "Please-" "WHERE IS IT?" Killian roars. The maid, pale and trimbling beneath his hand shakes her head, pleading hands upturned in supplication. "But she-"her voice falters, dies off as her air supply is cut off by his arm. He loosens it an inch, the warning clear in his eyes. "Speak, damn you." He's moments away from knocking her into oblivion, the fury turning his vision red and his reason to ash. The maid sucks in a choked gasp, trying to comply with his orders. "The Lady Morgana," she rasps, voice shaking. "She's-she's not dead." Killian's heart stops. And then he backhands her just hard enough to send her tumbling into merciful unconsciousness. He stands over her prostrate form, wondering what the girl could have imagined gaining from such a lie. Perhaps she's in league with the person or people he hunts. Perhaps she was just simple. Either way, it only fans the flame of his anger and scowling he stomps from the room, splinters of the destroyed jewelry box crunching beneath his boots. He'll just have to keep looking elsewhere. After all, the castle is a big place. With many rooms and many secrets. But they can't stay hidden forever. Captain Killian Shaw I knew you were trouble when you walked in, so shame on me
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Replies:
- I gave up my soul - By m o r d r e d April 29, 2013 at 00:23:08 AM
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