Ewan had never stepped foot inside the Scathachian Sanctuary before. Even when he and Storm and dropped off the knife, it had been a random meeting of luck outside, and he felt neither need nor desire to step inside that building. It was not that it felt wrong, but perhaps too guarded. A point of interest he only thought upon in fleeting measures of footsteps that carried him past it, and then was gone as he.

This time, though, he had been summoned by the priestesses of Scathach, and for that it could mean only business of a very dark nature. He wore the gifted cloth frequently in this land now, as uncertainties rose and fell like an unruly tide. The language of the city a tumbling of joy and strife, he countered it with the wearing of his blades now more often crosswise on his back, and always when on the way to meetings that called upon the locked away part of him.

Information was what they wanted, more of it. Talk turned in swift counterpoints from direct greetings as they walked the hallways to a room into purpose. Pleasantries were not a necessity at the hour that was growing later with each element brought to light between the two parties.

Everyone had their spies, some more than others. That Ewan's resources were numbered in the hundreds of volunteers that passed observations of random sightings of their daily lives to those more skilled in reconnaissance put him in good stead to hear much of the city in all corners. So it was when Isuelt revealed the skeletal ram's head, Ewan gave a nod.

"Bhaal you say?" The question came smooth and seemingly unconcerned. While the name held no more significance to him than any other, the way the name was spoken gave it all the weight and meaning he required, and that weight ran an oppressive taint around the room. It could not be taken without its strong measure of consideration.

It was not that he had no concern, but it was locked safely away to the lighter part of him. "This I have seen," a mild nod in the reference to the evil symbol, "and it has been marked in some interesting places." He revealed no perturbation as he stood between the two Scathachians. There were no signals to give in this place, no random bits of information floating his way that he had to acknowledge with a turn of a cup or the scratch of a cheek. Contrary to that stillness, the pulse inside him quickened and emerald green eyes narrowed as thoughts spun out in their possibility, drawing connections and casting warnings in rapid wild firings.

From one to another he shared a glance, and then nodded once more as he continued. "My sources, as well as I, have noted its appearance on corner stones of buildings around the West End, and in association with a particular guild we have been watching." In order to explain the last, he added, "When someone begins to consolidate power, they always gain our interest."

A cursory step back so he could look at both of them equally instead of turn his head one way and then another, "I am sure you have heard of, perhaps even had encounters with, the Black Wolf Guild. They are, or were, more as splinters in the thumbs of our working hands, but they are making connections, bargaining deals, and others are starting to sway under their influence."

His smile was grim, predatory, as one would see on the face of a man gone mad, and it was as quick as a flash of summer storm lightning before gone to the power of the passive expression. "It seems they have made a larger deal than anticipated."

((Edited to add that this thread takes place two nights before the events in the "Of Rolling Thunder and Pouring Rain", "Arise, Molotoch, Arise!", and "Storm Raging" threads))

Ewan observed Isuelt, but it did not take a man of training in reading expressions to see the woman was thinking towards histories of defeat in just the knowledge of what faced them. The surreal realization that this woman, strong in conviction as much as body, was bending beneath the struggles of the past drew an actual response from Ewan.

Not a man of comfort by nature, and particularly not when dabbling with the depravities of those that sanctioned evil works for twisted pleasures. A slender brow rose and he spoke in firm, yet not abrasive voice. "Clean victory seems to be a rather prosaic desire. Victories come in all varieties, and rarely in a pretty box with a bow, and I think you know this all too well, Isuelt." Which is what drew his brows together once more to puzzle it over.

"I am not foolish enough to think you will fold under the weight of the wall before you. We have our own eyes and ears. And almost lost is not lost. Take what victories come: dirty, soiled, and unpleasant."

There was a spine he needed to see stiffen and a back straighten to hold her head up high. He wanted to see the fire of defiance in her eyes and not in the mocking flames of the hearth. "This guild has not yet been tested, nor have we played any of the tricks in our hands." It was a low bark of breath more than a laugh. "Let me see what manner they have made their trades. Persuasion works both ways," he spoke in mild fact but the shadow of darkness underlaid the words. "We will see how strong this house of cards stands if I begin to switch out the deck."

He did feel at least one or two of his better spies should be able to change out with a lower lackey. The level subtle and the craft subdued to weaken the pack of the Black Wolf Guild. It was, he reasoned by the look of the woman, worth the risk to poke at the hide of the beast of war before them and see what makes it stir.

Isuelt's eyes lifted from the dancing shadow and light play from the fire and focused on Ewan. His words were wise as well as true; victory never was easy, nor was it effortless. There was a gentleness about him that seemed to juxtapose Isuelt knew not what; but it had always intrigued her. Instead of a smile, the Judge's lips lightly pursed and reasserted their place on her face. She bowed her head slowly to Ewan, she wanted to convey her agreement as well as her appreciation of his words. Especially since she was temporarily at a loss for them.

Mirage took her place, sharing her own thoughts on the matter. As her Sister spoke, Isuelt's watchful attention shifted from Ewan to Mirage. Her dark head nodded as Mirage mentioned Krysira. Isuelt indeed remembered her and her somewhat childish antics of flaunting in front of Scathachians. Pieces were beginning to come together, the picture was starting to focus.

Only a few times did Isuelt cringe. And it was not that Mirage spoke out of turn or said something she should not have. It was hearing the words, Whatever that vile temple touches, it either thoroughly destroys or turns into a brutal juggernaut of death and suffering. Isuelt's focus flicked to Ewan. It wasn't that she had secrets to guard for Scathach or her Temple, it was simply that she was not used to sharing such thoughts in front of those who were not Scathachian, let alone male. Her shoulders relaxed in a near instant, however; she realized that this was no treasure of knowledge that must be kept in the darkness of secrecy. It was fact. And Ewan was a friend.

Isuelt sat back against the modest cushion of the couch and sighed. As physically taxing as her WestEnd duties were, they were no comparison to the mental drain that this situation had produced. Her voice, when she found it again, was smaller somehow. "Serena has spoken true. Every word." She paused, perhaps to pay respect to her last shred of denial as it was finally ripped away from her eyes. "If the Temple of Bhaal is here, and there is no denying their presence or their power, things are going to get very bad very quickly. There is no wait time with them, they indeed move forward as a juggernaut would."

She could hear her mother's voice in the back of her head, nearly forgotten as it was, telling her to lift her chin and face her fears. Still, her mother had been speaking of childhood monsters lurking under her bed, not the very real monsters that frothed at the thought of tearing into her flesh. Her chin spent a few moments at her chest before she did raise it and look to both Ewan and Mirage. "I think that Ewan is right. And almost lost is not lost. A victory may still be at hand, if we are able to gather all that we can." She nodded once more to him, "As my Sister has said, any knowledge that you can drudge from the ranks of the Black Wolf Guild may give us some inkling as to where to strike at Temple Bhaal. Slashes in the dark will do no good against these tested foes. We will rely upon you and your network to guide our weapons, Ewan."

Sitting forward now, she rested her elbows on her thighs and looked at her two comrades. She was eager to begin cultivating a plan that would allow them to see their enemy more fully and to strike at them more sharply.

Mirage carefully listened to the sound words spoken by both Isuelt and Ewan; her thoughtful concern was most likely visible within her dour expression. It was during this discussion that Mirage solemnly vowed that she wouldn't allow the sinister temple the opportunity to slither into her brain and defeat her long before the open warfare had commended. There would be no easy victory for that den of serpents; no conquest for the skeletal ram.

The Judge's dark eyes focused on Ewan as he made his gracious parting statements and began to walk towards the main door of the Sanctuary. Mirage quickly moved to his side and walked him to the doorway, her long longs keeping pace with his steady stride.

Her voice was even keeled despite the disturbing topic of conversation which they had just reviewed, "Thank you again for your serious inquiries into all of this mess, Mr. Corinsson. I honestly meant what I said before"about your steadfast support and consistent gentlemanly behavior. Both are rare findings these days; especially here in Rhydin. Please let us know when you hear of something notable, and if you need anything at all in the interim, do not hesitate to contact this Sanctuary or one of us directly."

The Scathachian Sister firmly clasped Ewan's shoulder when they finally reached the large door. As she looked into his eyes, her tanned face was devoid of her oft glowing personality and her voice was quite unwavering, "Mr. Corinsson. I am not in any way questioning your highly skilled background or the extent of your combat training. Please sir, heed my words in this dark hour. Trust yourself and your intuition implicitly, and be wary of anything which seems to be out of sorts to you in this grave matter. Do not take things lightly nor lose your infamous intensity. Believe me when I tell you that it is not only mere flesh and blood which we now will face together, but rather true principalities and powers of darkness. Once it is known that you are in allegiance with our faith, the very sights of Hell will be upon you. It is whispered that the arms of Temple Bhaal are frighteningly long, and its claws beyond a razor sharp hone. With that said, be safe my friend, as the night has many eyes."

The night has many eyes.

And so it did. Some of those eyes answered to him. Ewan listened to all that Mirage had to say and did not doubt the intentions. Warnings were always well heeded. In this matter, not only heeded but confirmed in his own mind. Not a man to believe in such things as Hell in any mystical sense, that did not mean the threat of evils were less of a reality. All was a matter of perception as one looks through a looking glass warped by the pressures of time.

The effects were the same, and it was this that Ewan would see altered, not perceptions. Intent on that goal, he stepped away from the sanctuary and on to the roads of Rhydin, making his route as circuitous as his thoughts. Against brick buildings at their dingy back corners he would wait and listen. A splintering of his mind, awareness of his surroundings, the trust of senses to the out of place, and inside he planned his next move against the Black Wolf Guild.

A Tunnel entrance passed without hesitation and another. He would not enter those dank mazes until he was certain of his plot. The path he took drew him into crowds and away to solitude again, in passageways between clumped houses like so many child's toys tossed upon a rambling web of streets. Petty thieves scattered as sand from a gust of wind as he came and went through their territories, and all the while his mind turned darker, preparing for what he must do to find the information he needs.

The night's temperature was not growing any warmer as this shrill game of "cat and mouse" played itself out to a climax. Despite his loathing for Ewan, Cazgul had to acknowledge his mark's impressive fleetness of foot. Mr. Corinsson was certainly quite a mover; already he had sped up his pace and weaved through this debris laden thoroughfare like he was casually walking across a clear open field. Moving as his prey did, the disfigured assassin was not about to be left empty handed on this rather special occasion.

The muted sound of honed metal sliding along itself was muffled under the thick layers of Cazgul's blackened cloak. As both men determinedly ventured further down the dark alleyway, the appointed murderer sped up his own velocity, forcing his strong legs to close the distance between himself and this Mr. Ewan Corinsson.

As he tightly gripped his cruel blade close to him, the hired killer's other gloved hand steadfastly clutched a reliable bolo from the inside of his shrouded cloak. As he continued to progress towards the elusive Ewan, Cazgul skillfully whirled the dangerous bolo far above his head and then quickly let it loose towards his mark's moving legs.

The crafty weapon zipped through the night air and struck its target with surprising force; it should have even broken the bones of a lesser man's legs with the force behind the lead balls which directed the snare of its intended quarry. As Ewan, most assuredly a tad surprised by this selection of attack, fell face forward towards the street, the pursuing assassin wasted no time in closing the gap between himself and his fallen prey. Untouchable, indeed.

The fire-disfigured assassin glared at his victim from behind his overtly menacing mask; murder's trace was in the very air that they were breathing. As he gloatingly approached the exposed back of Ewan Corinsson, the anticipated coppery taste of blood filled his own depraved mouth and he could nearly taste the juicy fruits of his labor. Ms. Krysira Clayborne would be quite pleased, indeed.

While stalking over to him, Cazgul's raspy voice was deliberate and pitiless as he allowed his razor-sharp sword to arc from the veiled confines of his cloaks, "The mark of the "Skeletal Ram' is not your pressing concern any longer Mr. Corinsson. In fact, you are about to become quite worry free. Oh, a small suggestion friend...in the afterlife try not to be so inquisitive....it could get you killed......again.?

With that stated, and a sadistic grin now complete upon his burned visage, he swiftly brought down his gleaming weapon. It was a dead on strike as Cazgul heartlessly plunged his cruel blade towards Ewan's back in an attempt to savagely skewer him like an eviscerated slab of beef.

Cazgul had swiftly learned much indeed from their first row in the close confines of the dank alley. Given the fact that the Black Wolf Guild had held Ewan Corinsson's name in a high position on the list of those to be eradicated, Cazgul was not amazed that the man had a strong countenance as well as a quick striking style. Were he some poor slob of a threat, it would not have been so difficult to gain the upper hand in this clash.

But, just as Ewan, "The Saint of the Sewers", was agile and deft in combat, so would his luck appear to be something almost supernatural in origin. Cazgul had landed several strong blows to Ewan's midsection; by the talented assassin's count, Ewan's back and stomach should be splayed open already, and displaying the contents of his body over the grungy alley floor. But all swipes with the sharpened blades had cut only through the fabric, not the skin. Cazgul's eyes burned as he quickly flicked one of his knife's blades into the light to examine it. Clean, not one drop of blood. Impossible.

The scarred visage that was encased by the leather mask grimaced beneath its shroud in pure rage. How was this possible" Was Mr. Ewan Corinsson undead" No, he showed no other signs of being a lich or golem. Was he, himself, mystical" Perhaps, angels and demons often chose mundane and secular robes to disguise themselves as they walked this bland plane.

The questions continued to vex Cazgul as he pushed back against his adversary. The two men, both desperate for their respective causes, began anew after the brief period of assessment. It was now Ewan who struck first in the proceeding sequence. He moved forward, double bladed, and swung his blade in a classic thrust. Cazgul just managed to lift his shoulder and pivot to the left to avoid a slice along the right side of his ribs. The strike did, however, produce some satisfaction as it cut his leather doublet. In the waning seconds before Ewan regained his offensive balance and released another strike, Cazgul pulled his own sword from beneath his black cloaks. Again, the men were matched, blade to blade, brawn to brawn. The angry battle waged on, until one would take a risk.

Cazgul led with his sword, producing a blow that exploded upon Ewan's blade. Both weapons clattered to the stone floor in a cacophony. Both men now reassessed their situation. Just as Ewan had earlier crashed his forehead to Cazgul's gruesome mask, he again opted for another intimate move, catering to the close confines of their arena. Ewan's left hand struck out and grabbed at Cazgul's right wrist; each man was now sufficiently handicapped. It was a challenge, akin to the days of old where squabbles between two men were settled by joining them together and letting them fight to the death, or a resolution. A resolution, indeed.

Ewan was close enough now to not only demonstrate his strength, but to witness the edges of the ceramic and leather mask and the lips of charred skin it concealed. Two eyes, one blackened, one amber, turned slowly from Ewan's hand that held fast Cazgul's wrist to the "Sewer Saint's" face. Ewan's strength was deceptive, he did not look as if he could crush the bones of a grown man, yet his attempt was coming frightfully close. Pain channeled through his elbow, and seared up Cazgul's arm. This was not how he had pictured things at all.

"How quickly does the little mouse forget...", Cazgul hissed as he knew he must free himself quickly lest the bones in his wrist would pay a price. The sociopath's raw brutality was now forced to the foreground as Cazgul pushed steadily against Ewan's brawn until the pair had taken a few steps toward the opposite alley wall. "That when he is so far from home, all manner of creatures and natural disaster may strike." Visions of fire were blossoming in Cazgul's warped mind's eye.

He was imagining Mr. Ewan Corinsson, "Patron of the Rats of Rhydin?, burning before him. Ewan's taut skin bubbling and melting from his very bones, Cazgul could nearly smell the meat sizzling as if a great feast were being anticipated. The hired assassin attempted to get as much distance between the pair as he could; he pushed off of Ewan's hand, testing the man's strength. It had worked, and as Ewan had no choice but to retreat, he made sure that he swept himself backwards out of the reach of Cazgul's cruel dagger.

The shining moon betrayed the Tunneler's hero, however. As Ewan readjusted himself and his balance, the light reflected off a sliver of flesh at Ewan's neck. Cazgul's off-colored eyes narrowed, perhaps this prey of The BlackWolf Guild was not so invulnerable, after all. Perhaps he was not supernatural...he must have had the added benefit of some unseen armor. Yes, Ms. Clayborne's elusive prize was still prime for the taking.

This "weakness" would provide all of the initiative that the heartless mercenary needed. Under the guise of attacking low, Cazgul lunged forward, almost scraping the floor with his ebon glove. He watched for Ewan's knees to buckle in order to meet him where he was, then he made his move.

Cazgul leapt up, not forward, in order to get the angle he so desired. The flesh where Ewan's shoulder and neck met, shone like an ivory target in the wan moonlight. Had Cazgul had the time, he would have licked his dagger's blade to insure a clean piercing. Alas, his time was more than short, and his strike had to be fast. His distorted expression, behind the macabre mask, widened its gaze as the trusted dagger swooped down from above, its razor-like point hungry for the ripping of flesh and the gurgling of blood from his enemy's exposed throat.