NAME: Speaking solely to present lives, Samael Reyes.
AGE: Thirty-three, a birthday in early summer.
ORIGIN: Northern Amn
NATIONALITY: Amnian
Fresh faced despite the lines entering a complexion once pristine at last, this Oghmanyte is known best for a sunny disposition and eternal smile. Clad in the white and black linens of the church that identifies him as a man of the cloth, color can still be found with the violet mantle worn over his kantlara. The vestment has sparse braids, inset with faint glyphs of gold brocade that glitter should any light catch. Samael is no scholar made - his muscles are lean and corded, evident where he walks even for how his sleeves hang loose and trousers relaxed. His hair reaches his shoulders in a lazy mane of russet waves. Stubble is beginning about his chin and jaw, the only other hint that he might not be quite the same fountain of youth.
But you would be forgiven, still, for racking him with “roguishly handsome”.
The ropes hung taut.
He didn’t have to look up to know who—the watchmen had made sure to scribble it onto a placard beneath feet that swayed with the indifferent breezes flowing up from the Alandor.
WELCOME TO HER CITY OF COIN
ALL THIEVES HANG
ALL SCOUNDRELS CUT FROM TOE TO TIP
ALL SMUGGLERS THROWN INTO THE SWORDS SEA
ALL THIEVES HANG
ALL SCOUNDRELS CUT FROM TOE TO TIP
ALL SMUGGLERS THROWN INTO THE SWORDS SEA
“They made a right fit about him, didn’t they?” Knock said, in a hush.
“Pfah. ‘Course they did,” answered Thatch. “Gotta look like they keep busy for the silverbodies and the golds. They love a good swinger. Come on, Knock. Into the hatch before we join ‘em.”
Thatch was a reedy bastard and Knock didn’t like him overmuch, but that was if anything to his benefit. Canters who mistook association for likeness were liable to get themselves made by their associates—associates who wouldn’t care a whit about taran off a topsider and taran after the guy next. But Thatch was right, and so into the hatch Knock squeezed.
Her many hallowed halls of sewer breath stretched out once his feet touched the floor. Home.
He asked Thatch, “What do you think got him?”
Thatch shrugged. “Who’s to say? Ain’t was one of the good ones, I’ll say that. Probably thought he could hike it and took a wrong way too many. Up here, Knock. I wanna show you somethin’.”
Knock was skeptical, but went on with him. Wouldn’t be like Thatch just to say hello with a rap and, beside, they were both half-full of tarans tonight. Today had been all-right beside the swinger. Thatch let down into a darker passage.
“Light?”
“Uh-huh. Light.” Knock’s lantern was dim but he hit it on, holding it out just behind Thatch. The tip-tap of grates faded into a rash of stone and dirt. What was this about?
“C’mon,” Thatch said, almost grabbing him. “C’mon. Real close.”
Knock kept up, if only just. Then, in an instant, his eyes were blown wide.
“Yeah? You see it now, too? Look at this!”
Thatch was pleased as a peach as he leaned down, kicking off dust while he held it up to Knock. A skull—but that’s not what caught his light inasmuch the—
“Ruby?”
“Ain’t it nice.” Thatch grinned. “You help me get it out of this thing and we’ll cut it both ways, eh? Tried to prise it earlier but it wouldn’t budge. Haven’t got the faintest why. Should really just—”
Tug. Tug.
“—come right—”
Tug. Tug.
“Thatch, I don’t think—”
TUG.
“—OFF!”
Groan…
They both froze.
“Shite.”
