Draken's eyes were itching and tired, and he still had an occasional hacking cough. His stomach was empty and hollow, and he now understood why his mentors would forever go on about fasting and the preparation of an eventuality without food. Body creaking, he managed to get off the tiny, filthy cot, and stumbled across the room, trying not to break anything. The last thing he needed to do was to start an explosion of concoctions and anger the man, Rowan, who had removed that infernal poison from his body. Already they were not the best of friends, their upbringings and traditions meshing and demanding they be against each other, if not enemies. 

There was no mirror, and he had no change of clothes. But this was not the first time he'd woken up in a stranger's room, filthy and hungover and befuddled after a night of doing crazy things. So, he made do. He combed his fingers through his hair, straightened his clothes, and took a moment to compose himself. Only a single tear had slid down his face during the night, but inside he was still raw and weeping. He'd made a decision, and he was going to stand by it. And the only way he could do that was to close off his heart, and push all memories of his home and family and of Zachariah away. 

Cautious, lacking a bit of coordination after all that had happened and his fitful sleep the night before, he exited the room and went down the hallway, following the serious voices of the only two people he knew in this city.  Draken entered a dining area, a small room with a dingy table laid for three people. When he saw the scant victuals laid out on the table, he wrinkled his nose and inwardly groaned. He knew enough, though, to hold his tongue. Hospitality was hospitality, and if it was offered, you did not give insults.

"There you are," Rapier said. He looked awake and ready, with a sharp glint in his eyes that told of things to come. The other man was more somber, but seemed somewhat relieved to see Draken standing and well. Of course he would be relieved, Draken admonished to himself. Now I am in his debt until I fulfill his demands - and of course, do whatever those 'important people' want me to do. Great. I am to play the pawn now. 

Swallowing down anger and resentment, he sat down on the third rickety chair, and forced himself to eat the food - it it could be called that - that was on his plate. Though he choked and reviled what he was forced to eat, he managed to push it down. He knew manners and the rules of conduct, and he would not shame his ancestors and those who had raised him. Not here, not in front of them.

When Draken went to strap on his sword, which had survived the journey here, he had the first taste of what the day would bring. Rapier held a roll of parchment in his hand, and the seal of the parchment, a gaudy green, instantly brought feelings of dislike and foreboding. His instincts were mostly right - which meant that the letter contained nothing good. 

"Read this." Bristling at the command, Draken did as he was asked, and crumpled the piece of parchment in a fist as soon as he'd read the last word.

"What is this?" he hissed. "What is this?" 

"So you know the tongues of the lands not ours," was all Rapier said with a smirk.

"Of course I know the tongues!" Draken all but yelled, furious. "What is this?" 

"Your new, ah, orders..." 

So his new orders were to storm a base full of armed renegade warriors, which people of his descent and upbringing were taught to never do, deliver documents (ergo, letters to men who would be better off with their throats slit) like some common youngling of a lower caste, and defy almost everything he was taught to act the pawn of a Potioneer who was being managed by a pirate of the name Geoff. 

What insult, what complete crap! He was about to unleash his weapons and rage on the two men in front of him - until realizing that the promise he had made in the night forbade him to do it. He would be the pawn, the fight-less pawn that did what he was bid. And the wise, often grating words of Zachariah came floating into his consciousness. 

Wise is the man who recognizes his limits and faults and weaknesses, and knows when to stand down and when to fight. Wise is the warrior who pays no mind to his ego or pride in times when promises of blood or debts are in play. Wise is the one who recognizes those things, and applies it, specially when it is against his natures and values. How Zachariah always knew the right, wise things to say...

The close call of the morning was the first indication of the horrible sentiment of the entire day. After Draken had forced himself to stand down, the uneasy silence from the two others followed them out of the house into the sun-drenched city to a storage place for the dead - some called it morgue? - where they stocked up on weapons with poison blades. Then, of course, they stormed the stronghold of black-clad men with spiked weapons that were against the rulers of the realm, which was a total fiasco. Firstly, like all battles, nothing happened the way according to the plans, and Draken felt like he was betraying everything his parents stood for. He only cared about himself and ignored everyone else; the ones who had raised him believed, and fought for that belief, that people were entitled to their own opinions, and were within their rights to do so. 

Going against those who did that was a betrayal of them, of their values, of the only thing he'd ever done right in their eyes. But he did it nonetheless, even though he was filled with disgust against himself and everyone around him. 

Many battles were fought, some against strange winged creatures that swooped down on them once or twice, in the middle of the streets, some against men, those who deserved to be out of this world (in Draken's opinion, as they were all creatures of greed and sin and all things wrong). It was harsh. He and Rapier were tasked with running the messages to certain higher-ups, and they were forced to run fast and hard and with great agility, over and over. By mid-day Draken was drenched in sweat and droplets of his own blood, had a stomach that craved good, warm food, and a heart much heavier than it had been in the early morning. 

"Damn, Draken. You actually manage to keep up! Good for you, good for you..." gasped Rapier in an amused voice, as they leaned against a wall of warmed stone. They were taking a break, and were alone in a deserted street of shops. It wast true. Draken was keeping up - but barely. If it had not been for his stubbornness and rough, fighting lifestyle, he would not have been able to continue. All of his born skills, training, had come into play in a major way.

"Yeah. Good thing." His reply was curt; he did not feel like talking, and there were more despicable errands to run.

"Tell me, why are you so on edge with all of this? Like, I understand, more than you think I do, about how difficult it is for someone like you who is of the old, entrenched traditions. I get it. I get that. Most of what you are asked to do probably goes against your values, or the values of those close to you. But why are you on the edge of the cliff, on the verge of snapping and flying at all of us? I'd really like an answer, since I'm sort of in charge of you, and since I'm actually not sure that I could walk unscathed after a fight with you. So, why?"

"Because I hate being a pawn. I am never the pawn! All my life, I at least have been able to decide my daily actions. I don't give a damn about anyone! Every single person can rot, for all I care! Yet I am coerced - and there is not even a reward or payment - into being your, and your friend's, personal carrier. I am to do every single thing you ask of me, take it all dutifully, and I hate it. I hate every minute of it! And the worst," he hissed, lunging to face a taken-aback Rapier, "is that I know this is only the beginning! It will never end! I will be forced, and coerced, time after time, to do your bidding, not say anything about it, and it will never, ever end!"

Breathing hard, he forced himself to take a few deep breaths, and continued on the trek, wishing more than anything that he was at the forges, or at the ancestral home, or sitting beside Zachariah as he did some nefarious things in the world of papers and words. Beside him, Rapier said nothing. A nod was the only acknowledgment of what had just passed.

On Rowan's orders, they were to meet at the edge of some manse, to talk with its owner. It seemed that many 'upstanding' citizens here in this place dealt in the trade of forbidden arms. A bit different from the Isles, but the same type of law-breaking that everyone does. The walk there was quick and quiet, and they kept a brisk pace.

"Hey," Draken said softly, trying to not sound too furious at Rapier, for a reason he did not want to examine too closely. "What is that spire over there in the horizon? I've never seen something like it, except in vague tomes that gave anything but concrete information."

"Ah..." Rapier replied, in a somewhat giddy voice. Draken felt that it was not really appropriate for the topic or situation, but he knew not to tangle too much with someone like him. Rapier had dark, hidden depths that were better off unexplored.

 "I am so glad you asked that!" The spire of that cluster of tall, spacious buildings is a sort of monument, and also an observation point - for those skillful enough to climb it, and those crazy enough to attempt it. It is also a rebellious reminder of the dark truths this city hides under a mostly gleaming reputation. Anyhow, it is called The Remorse, in the olde tongue, and is the very recognizable landmark of this place. Though not many know of its true significance. I fully encourage you to look up its history; you know, since you might be here for some time..."

"Don't. Just don't."

"It's the truth," was the rather petulant reply. 

"Doesn't mean I have to hear it coming from you..."

"True, true. Fine. I shall stop talking for now - oh, no!"

They had arrived at the sprawling mansion, still sparse by the standards of some Outsiders, and the sight that met their eyes was not a pleasant one. The shadows had come, along with a small army of feral, snarling men that had been possessed. Rowan was held at knife-point in the middle of the scene, and the higher-up dead in a pool of his own blood. 

His teeth gritted, Draken adjusted his arm guards and took out his ankle knife and sword, prepared to fight a lengthy battle. Between him, Rapier and Rowan, he was sure of their victory. It would not be painless, however. By now dark was a bit closer than before, and he was already wishing the day would just be over. Not that it looked like it, however.

"Will this day never end?" moaned Draken, preparing himself for extreme bodily pain. "Will it never stop?"

Rapier just laughed at him, twin knives flashing in his hands. "Welcome to the life, Draken. Welcome to our world." 

Joy. Just great. 

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And this is for falloutboymcrfan101, for helping me get back inspiration for this story. :)