Too many forks. Way too many-- wait, let's back up.

There seemed to be a crime spree breaking out in Rhy'Din City. A most unusual one. Apparently, thieves were breaking into private homes, estates, banquet halls, even stores, and were stealing their stocks of silverware. Normally, such a thing would make the silversmiths quite pleased. After all, restocking all of the silverware means added revenue.. except, in this case, the death knight himself worked as a silversmith, and just to add another quirk to the case, the thief or thieves were only stealing forks.

And just guess, who'se job is it to replace all of the bloody forks, for every bloody business and bloody home in this entire flaming, bloody city!?


Yep. It's his.

Sitting back down at his little miniature stool, he looked up at the wooden board the owner of the smithy uses to post orders. A thin eyebrow twitches upward as he counts the sheer number of forks on the list.

Ahem.

Sixty-eight: plain, four-pronged forks.
Twelve: plain, three-pronged forks.
Twenty-two: plain, oversized, four-pronged forks.
Seventy: four-pronged forks, with flower engravings in the handle.
Six: four-pronged forks, with dagger engravings in the handle.
One: double-oversized, three-pronged fork, with a dragon engraved in the handle.
One hundred twenty-three: plain, oversized, three-pronged forks.

The list went on. Too many forks. Way too many bloody forks! And this was on top of the usual orders the silver forge got! Ayreg yelled into the smithy proper, "You'd better get down to the alchemist, and take some iron stock for her to convert into silver for us. We've got some major orders to fill here."

"Aye, lad, Ah've alrea'ee don' tha'. Luci`us'll be ba' soon wi' da' stoock f'er ye'!" He heard back.

Picking up a bag of silver stock, his cold chisel, and two hardies -- one sharp-topped, the other flat-topped -- Ayreg makes a note to go about the city tonight and bring a brutal, bloody end to the fork-stealing crime spree.

It was cold, but not cold enough for the snow to stick well to the cobbled streets. Ayreg moved like the shadows he hid in, following the two blotches of dark black on a backdrop of even darker black. Though no curfew existed in the city per se, he kept his movements out of the attention of the city watch as much as the two he followed. It just wouldn't do to have some paid guardsmen sticking his nose into this messy little affair, and then Ayreg would have another body to hide after the night was finished.

Some thirty paces ahead, the youth who called himself Bors walked as calmly as he could. Bors was perhaps fifteen years old -- and a typical street rat. His companion beside him was fourteen-year old Jenell, another street rat. Wrapped in tattered clothes and an ill-fitting sheet he used for a cloak, Bors did what he could to keep the winter's cold out of his body. Slung over his shoulder was the burlap sack they'd been using to hold their pilfered silverware.

Jenell grumbled, softly "I'm cold, Bors, le's get on back to tha' home."

Bor shot back, sharply, "No, Jenell, we've got to get more. This isn't enough to fence yet. If the orphanage closes, you want to be sleeping out in this?"

"No" the girl huffed, stepping over the remains of a wooden crate.

"Then quit flapping your flamin' jaw then, Jenell." Bors ducked into a side-street, followed by his little partner in crime. They ducked behind a refuse pile, emptying the burlap sack of its silver contents and covering them with a straw mat. Later, the two would come back, collect it up along with the rest of the night's take, and deliver them to their fence, Vindson. "Once we have enough to make this month's payment and keep the landlord away, we can stay in. I'll even find you a nice piece of warm bread."

It happened so quick. As Bors pulled the straw mat over the pile of silver forks he added to the original pile, a spray of warmth struck his back. Looking up, he could see glistening streams of red splattered across the wall in front of him, on the refuse pile, and his hand. He lifted his hand and spun around.

Jenell was standing there, eyes wide, and lips quivering. Blossomed from her throat, however, was a length of cold steel. It seemed to have some kind of markings engraved into the blade. The only way he could tell this, though, was because his eyes were drawn to the marks -- they glowed, or perhaps shimmered. It was hard to be sure.

A booted foot pressed against Jenell's back, pushing her forward and off his blade. Jenell landed in Bors' arms, and he cried out her name. Even as he held her, though, he could see his friend was dead. Hollow eyes stared back up at him, emptily. Bors head turned to the attacker.

In the darkness of a drawn, black hood.. he saw a threatening flash of teeth, and a voice like dead leaves burning rolled out at him. The engraved sword was pointed at him, leveled toward his own throat, and Bors could see the reflection of street lamps off of black-enameled gauntlets.

"On your guard.." this demon said. The voice was soft, yet cold, and harsh. As if it lacked any kind of pity. Bors considered pleading for mercy, for explaining what was happening, for trying to show they were just children.

Bors ran.

Bors ran. Or, at least, he thought he did. Cradling one hand over the wound to his shoulder, his head dropped to see his tattered shirt turning red with his own blood. He was so cold, but couldn't decide if it was because of the weather, or because the sheet he used as a cloak was torn from his body.

Wait, when did that happen?

"No," Bors thought, "got to focus. Got to get... away."

His boots seemed heavy. Like they were made of lead, and not cobbled and stitched together from loose pieces of leather. After a few more steps -- was he walking, now? It was hard to say... his mind screamed for him to run, for he himself to scream, but his legs did not seem to want to move that fast, and his throat felt dry, and useless. His face was wet, though. Was it the snow?

Or was it tears?

The snow was falling heavier, now, he could tell. It started to turn the world white. It was so pretty. Bors always loved the snow, when he was younger, before his parents died. Or did they abandon him? His held felt... fuzzy. He could remember being a child, laughing, running around and making angels in the snow. It was so fun. Why couldn't he do that again, with Jenell? Where was she, again?

"No!" Bors said aloud, hoarsely "Go to... go... home..."

The world seemed to tumble. It seemed to spin, though he himself wasn't moving. What happened? The street turned... sideways. He lifted his head weakly, and saw that he himself was the one on his side. Somehow he managed to trip, and now laid on the street. It was so cold.. he turned onto his back, groaning softly. His shoulder hurt, but he was no longer sure exactly why.

Everywhere seemed to be a field of white. Everything looked so pure, so pristine, so wonderful...! Then he saw the trails of red in the snow. His head craned a bit, peering intently at the trails. It was blood. His. Why was he bleeding? He should get to the apothecary and take some jenghi root -- his mother always gave him jenghi root in his tea when he skinned his knee on the tree he used to climb in the yard.

From out of the white field around him came a terrible black shadow. His face was blank as he looked up at the man moving toward him.

"Help...me?" he asked, barely above a whisper. His voice was abandoning him, too, just like his mother! Or... was she killed, again? He could not remember.

"Of course, boy" the figure answered. It was good that this man would help. Bors did not think any part of his body could move again. His head felt like it was full of cotton, now. It dropped limply to the surface of the street.

Bors felt something cold. Not the weather this time; it felt like metal. It was pressed to his chest. His eyes rolled down, and he saw the length of a surgeon's knife -- no.. no, not a knife. It was a sword.

And the wielder was no surgeon.

______

Dawn came, as it always does, over the land of Rhy'Din. The people move on in their day-to-day affairs, trudging through the snow that came to rest over their city last night. Even as the day progressed and the snow melted away to reveal the cobbles beneath their feet again, only a few managed to notice and comment on the darker strains running through the cobbles. The Watch seemed to be on alert, and they appeared to be looking for something. The general public would not know that Cedric did not report back from work last night. They would not find him, though.

Noone would find Cedric, nor the two street rats, ever again.

But at least the stealing of the forks came to an abrupt end.