The night was cool and quiet. He stood alone among the piers and planks of the docks. Leaning against a crate, the cherry on the end of the hand rolled cigarette glowed in the still of the night. Soft whispers surrounded him as he stared into the heart of the city, watching the neon glow ebb and flow similiar to the tides that lick against the shore. A voice calls out his name, bringing him back from his solitary place in space. His senses slip into a higher, more alert, status as he turns his attention to the blue woman making her way toward him.
She seems to know him. His name at least. But he cannot remember her for his life. words that could hardly be considered memorable pass between them as the usual pathetic human greetings are exchanged. A shift in the breeze forces him to reposition his body. On a whim his eyes slide over the rooftops when, like a cat spotting a critter in the brush, his attention is brought to the flue of a chimney no more than 30 yards from his lowered position on the dock.
A bit of strange shadow, a glint of movement against the still air, and the being on the rooftop is mobile again, his entrance having been covered by darkness and lack of attention, but his exit quite noticeable as he trips, making quite a ruckus against the clay tiled roof.
That's all it takes for Cal to draw his weapon and give chase. The being upon the roof moves as quickly as his legs and feet will allow him, damning the silence for utter speed. An elevated foot chase being less advantageous to the unknown runner, Cal uses a stairwell railing, then a windowsill to run up the wall, and jump to an adjacent rooftop, keeping good pace with the other.
A rather flashy display of stupidity has the runner diving feet first from the rooftops, behind a fence in a closed off alleyway. The fall and speed of impact crushes the mans ankle and he collapses to the ground with a bit of a scream and a slew of curses. Cal slows his pace and drops off the edge of the rooftop on the other side of the fence, and hops it deftly.
He keeps his weapon trained on the runner as he circles him on the ground, judging the threat level. he kneels down a few feet away and growls to the runner as he speaks, his voice curled with the waves that slap against the shores of a thousand distant lands, his accent twisted by a thousand languages, and spat out with a bit of a lazy and lax lip. "W'at dae ye t'ink ye be daein', boy' Runnin' abou' o' tae roo's ca' be...'azardous...". The runner plead for his life, knowing the name and a basic description of the man he was supposed to avoid at all costs. And here he now stood. Well, kneeled, before the runner, and the runner was stuck.
"Please sir", the runner begged, "I was hired to deliver a package to the market, that's all, I swear.". After the clear choices of bribery or death were presented to the runner he chose wisely and handed over the package, finding a few coins of the empire enriching his pocket for his troubles.
"Sir", The runner spoke once more, "I have this as well..." and he hands over a small folded piece of paper with few sparse words written on it. The instructions were simple and clear enough. Deliver this to the marketplace. Avoid Calavera at all costs. No signature. No watermark. Black ink on cheap cotton thread paper. Curiousity now plaguing him, Cal lifts the man to his feet...er...foot and dusts him off, handing him back the package.
Cal speaks gruffly once more. "Finish yer job, boy...". The runner understood what was being asked of him and he limped toward the gates leading to the market.
She seems to know him. His name at least. But he cannot remember her for his life. words that could hardly be considered memorable pass between them as the usual pathetic human greetings are exchanged. A shift in the breeze forces him to reposition his body. On a whim his eyes slide over the rooftops when, like a cat spotting a critter in the brush, his attention is brought to the flue of a chimney no more than 30 yards from his lowered position on the dock.
A bit of strange shadow, a glint of movement against the still air, and the being on the rooftop is mobile again, his entrance having been covered by darkness and lack of attention, but his exit quite noticeable as he trips, making quite a ruckus against the clay tiled roof.
That's all it takes for Cal to draw his weapon and give chase. The being upon the roof moves as quickly as his legs and feet will allow him, damning the silence for utter speed. An elevated foot chase being less advantageous to the unknown runner, Cal uses a stairwell railing, then a windowsill to run up the wall, and jump to an adjacent rooftop, keeping good pace with the other.
A rather flashy display of stupidity has the runner diving feet first from the rooftops, behind a fence in a closed off alleyway. The fall and speed of impact crushes the mans ankle and he collapses to the ground with a bit of a scream and a slew of curses. Cal slows his pace and drops off the edge of the rooftop on the other side of the fence, and hops it deftly.
He keeps his weapon trained on the runner as he circles him on the ground, judging the threat level. he kneels down a few feet away and growls to the runner as he speaks, his voice curled with the waves that slap against the shores of a thousand distant lands, his accent twisted by a thousand languages, and spat out with a bit of a lazy and lax lip. "W'at dae ye t'ink ye be daein', boy' Runnin' abou' o' tae roo's ca' be...'azardous...". The runner plead for his life, knowing the name and a basic description of the man he was supposed to avoid at all costs. And here he now stood. Well, kneeled, before the runner, and the runner was stuck.
"Please sir", the runner begged, "I was hired to deliver a package to the market, that's all, I swear.". After the clear choices of bribery or death were presented to the runner he chose wisely and handed over the package, finding a few coins of the empire enriching his pocket for his troubles.
"Sir", The runner spoke once more, "I have this as well..." and he hands over a small folded piece of paper with few sparse words written on it. The instructions were simple and clear enough. Deliver this to the marketplace. Avoid Calavera at all costs. No signature. No watermark. Black ink on cheap cotton thread paper. Curiousity now plaguing him, Cal lifts the man to his feet...er...foot and dusts him off, handing him back the package.
Cal speaks gruffly once more. "Finish yer job, boy...". The runner understood what was being asked of him and he limped toward the gates leading to the market.