[[PROLOGUE]]


...It was a cool spring night within the city of Lados, the noble capital of the Alsing Empire. The streets were, as usual, congested with the busy population. Within the not-so-large slums, one would find the usual underworld activity to partake in, whether it be gambling, fighting (which often went hand in hand with gambling,) or prostituting (the greatest gamble of all.) There would, of course, be the occasional murder within an alleyway or some mother's home while she was out on vacation. Anyone whom did not expect such a thing to happen was clearly a foreigner to Lados.

I, however, was no foreigner. I was a man on a mission, and an important one at that. It was the usual job one would expect to find when working within the inner rankings of a group such as mine: A job that entailed espionage, improvisation, and, without a doubt, death. So is the best way for one to begin such a job, one may ask?

In a crate of course.

***

I had recently been heavily at work, going about on my manhunts and information collecting, for what must have been a good two years. My... employers, I suppose we shall call them, had me looking for a man whom went by the name of Jornar Vance, a very wealthy noble whom, through his influence, had managed to root out information that my employers felt best remained hidden from those they deemed not fit to know of. After months of stalking and beating on those whom would be able to grant me information on Vance, and perhaps be... persuaded into helping grant me a tactical advantage, I was able to setup a trap for my prey with the help of someone whom happened to hold their own influence of sorts where Vance would be one night.

The genius combination of a theatre house and brothel. Where else would one find a noble past the midnight hour?


And so there I was: Shoved without mercy into a crate originally meant to transport a violin the size of a young child. It was cramped. I was sweating. I believe the two gentlemen that were pushing the trolley the crate was being transported with had managed to ride through manure of some sort or another while on their way to the storage room of the building, via a back entrance through an alleyway.

"'I never understood the point of hiring all these little bands to play in the theatre house." one of them grumbled to the other. My head smacked painfully against the top of the crate as they went over a bump. Possibly a body.

"To make money you numbskull!" squeeled the other. I could not help but imagine a rat whom had quite the smoking problem when I heard it. "The manager doesn't hire em! If anything, they hire him to let them play."

"But couldn't we use that theatre for something else?" I felt the trolley stop for a moment. Either the two gentlemen were about to be attacked by street urchins, or preparing to open that storage room. "Why not host uh... I don't know... little shows where a guy comes up on stage and tells jokes to everyone!"

"Are you gobbin stupid? That's what the drunks are for! Something like that would NEVER catch on. You'd have to be a damn ant to fall for a scam such as that!"

"But the Emperor has a guy for stuff like that! If the Emperor does it, it must be somewhat sophisticated!"

"The Emperor is a stupid little ninny, and with the way you're talking right now, I have reason to believe you are as well!" The trolley began to roll forward again. Thankfullness swept through me toward the fact that I would be receiving a new set of clothing upon meeting with my contact inside the theatre, as my current apparel was damp with the sweat that had accumlated on me for the past three hours inside that crate.

BUMP! My head slammed against the side of the crate as it suddenly shook about. Were these two oofs incapable of maintaing a container as if someone was trapped inside it? They could have killed me! It's rather hard to hunt a target when one is in a state of not being alive, unless you have a good friend to grab your remains and hit the target with them. Unfortunately (fortunately) I had no friend to do such a thing. And though my skull throbbed with pain, my arms would have to wait another day before they could be used as weapons.

"Why do you always shoot down my ideas?" I heard the voice of the man aspiring to be a jester call out, growing distant.

"Because they are worthless. Almost like you!" The sound of doors slamming quickly followed. And then, silence.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I suddenly found myself aware of the pocket watch that was sticking to my chest now. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The damn thing was making it rather impossible ot not acknowledge the amount of time that was passing, with me still stuck in that crate. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Did my contact from inside this building forget that he had to pull me out of a crate? Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Ten minutes passed, which I had the pleasure to count every single second of, getting sorer with each one. I came to the conclusion that my contact was either dead, or I'd be killing him myself later that night. My hands struggled to move toward my waist, a feat not easily accomplished in so cramped a space. Fingers slid across my belt, brushing against the many pouches that I had personally sewn into it. Finally, they wrapped around the object that I believed would be my savior: A jagged stone that I had immensely sharped one side of in the event that this very thing happened. Gripping onto it tightly, I looked for any slits to jam the thing into in an effort to pry the crate open.

Did I mention that it was dark inside that crate? Have you ever tried breaking out of something when you couldn't see what you were doing? I will say this right now: It is certainly not the most glorious moment you will ever have in your life.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Five minutes passed, and I was facing quite a dillema: My stone wouldn't fit in any of the damned holes. At that point, I had resorted to thrashing the thing violently against one side of the crate with very little effect, due to only having a few inches of space to work in. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. My thrashing grew more rapid, as did my breathing. Were the air holes in this crate big enough? Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. My brown hair was drenched in sweat at this point, and the stuff was rolling down my forehead like rain would on someone whom happened to catch themselves outside during a stormy day.

Slam! Slam! Slam! Was I even putting a dent in it? SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! Maybe I should of found a bigger rock. SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! If only I could of brought my weapons along with me, but alas, walking around with a sword sheathed in your belt is not exactly the most covert thing someone can do. SLAM!!! SLAM!!!!!! SLAM!!!!!!

CRACK! The side of the crate burst open, bright light blinding me as air rushed in. I fell forward, face and hands landing against the cold stone floor as the stone rolled from my hand. It suddenly became much more easier to breathe, and relief was spreading all over my body where there had only been aching before.

"Oh!" a gruff voice exclaimed from above me, "So 'ats were yeh were locked up, Rosewood! Oi 'ad teh dig through three of these damn crates teh find yeh!"

My eyes wondered around. I was certainly within a storage room, judging from the crates stacked ontop of one another in well organized rows, barrels surrounding them like a crowd of onlookers. Oil lamps hung from small poles of metal sticking out of the wooden walls, casting a yellow glow throughout he room. I slowly lifted my head, becaming aware of the drool that had accumlated around my chin as I spotted a rather large looking man standing over me. Brown hair with bits of gray covered his face, that on his head descending down his back. His clothes were something you would expect to be worn by a man whom works on ships and in ports, rather than... theatric brothels. As a matter of fact, that was where I would normally find this man whom I had not expected to be working with me on this night.

"You're my contact, Pearson?" I inquired, pushing myself from the stone floor. He extended a fat hand that looked sweatier than I was.

"Aye laddy, I am." I grasped on tightly, allowing the giant to pull me to my feet. Oh how good it felt to stand again. "Looks like yer bosses want tis one done well. Yeh look like 'ah load 'o graft, Rosewood."

How kind of him.

"You would to if you had been in that crate for as long as I." I looked my clothes over. The white shirt worn under my black vest was certainly ruined, and rather exposing at this point. "I was told that you would have an outfit ready for me when I arrived? Something to help me blend in."

"Roight this way." Pearson waddled his way toward another crate that lay open, struggling to bend over and grab whatever was within as I followed at a distance, keeping an eye out for any intruders. The ticking of my pocket watch reminded me how much time was wasted inside that crate.

"What's the situation out there?" I inquired.

"Not as bad as could be." Pearson turned from the crate, tossing a assortment of clothes at my feet. Black boots, dark pants, a red shirt, brown vest, and very dark red jacket to go over it all. I immediately began to strip down, tossing my equipment belt amongst to the side. "Vance is accompanied by three others. Seems to be talking business with two of them, but the third one I'd look out for."

"Why?" I slid the black pants on, getting to work with the shirt.

"Two reasons. One: He doesn't look like any of his personal guard that you've described, nor does he look like a businessman negotiating with. The fella seems like he is accompanying Vance for the long term of the night."

"And the second?"

"Looks like he has some skills with science." I could not help but feel a strong sense of discomfort sweep over me at that statement, going to work on the boots.

"What kind of skills are we talking, Pearson? Did he slip something in a lovely lady's drink before carrying her off to his lab to perform deviant acts?"

"No." Pearson turned back to the crate, reaching into it as I began to work on the vest. "If that was the case, we would have nothing to worry about. He seems to have some kind of chemical trick that lets him make fire out of thin air." My body went stiff. Could it be...? "It's really well done to. The way he pulls it off, it looks like magic."

"When did you see him do this?" I slowly reached for the jacket, pulling it over my body.

"Vance needed a light for hs cigar. The man provided with just a flick of his fingers." Pearson turned from the crate, holding in his hands a rather magnificent looking tophat and a cane. "Catch!" He tossed the cane toward me, my hand snatching it with grace. I felt like a king... whom was spending his night in a theatre brothel.

"Was he wearing any gloves?" I asked, looking the cane over. Save for the metal top, carved to resemble an eagle's head, the rest of the thing appeared to have been made out of a refined wood that had been painted over red.

"Does it matter if he was?"

"Pearson, was he wearing gloves or not?"

"Let me think... No... No, I don't think he was. Maybe the flame was fired from a pipe or something?" The poor man had no clue. I suppose it was to be expected, considering how far away he was from -their- land. Most people in Lados had no clue whom -they- were. A frown quickly formed on my lips as several questions began to run through my head. What were -they- doing all the way out here, so from from their home?

"Pearson," I began, turning my attention from the cane to look him in the eyes. "That was no scientist that you saw, though I would much prefer that it was." The look of puzzlement on his face told me I would have to elaborate before his following question would.

"So what are you saying? Is our target working with a wizard or something?"

"Something would be correct." I ran a hand through my hair, sighing heavily as I used the other to lean against the cane. This was going to be a long night. "We are dealing with an Apostle. You may or may not have heard rumor of a people in lands far to the east, beyond the Keywalk Mountains. They make their home hundreds upon hundreds of miles away, across remote terrain that not even The Empire has yet to settle."

"So he is a wizard?"

"Let me finish will you!" I growled, raising a finger his way."Amongst those people are the Apostle's: I've had few encounters with their kind, but they are a people whom are... different, in many ways from you and I. Anyone in this city would likely refer to them, as you have, as wizards. From what little I have seen of their kind, however, they are more dangerous than any wizard you have read about in a fairy tale."

"Will yeh quit the buildup and get to the gobbin point than!" Was that a small tint of worry I detected in his tone? "Is the mission botched by this bozart? Are yeh and I pullin out?"

"Absolutely not." Both of my hands were on the tip of the cane now, and let me state that the thing was certainly capable of holding my weight. "Apostles, from what I understand, are people whom are born with an ability of sort over the six elements that create our world: Earth, Water, Wind, Fire, Darkness, and Light. I've only encountered those of the dirt and liquid variety, but, unless you were seeing things, I imagine we are dealing with a Flame Apostle of sorts."

Without warning, Pearson plopped himself ontop one of the naerby crates, hands going to his temples as he muttered something that I imagined to be rather impolite underneath his breathe.

"Roight than..." his voice raised, "So yeh're tellin me that we're dealin with some punk that can breathe fire, ehh?"

"I'm not so certain about breathing, but the general idea is that he can burn us, yes."

"So... 'ow bout we.... throw a bucket of water at him before shoving our target off a balcony or something?" This was not going to work. I pulled my weight from the cane, wrapping one hand firmly around it before turning my back to Pearson, shaking my head.

"No," I commanded. "I'm sorry my friend. You will have to sit this one out. My employers could not have anticipated the presence of an Apostle here tonight, therefore, I will have to make do with what I can." I could hear the crate he was sitting on groan with relief as Pearson rose to his feet.

"Now 'old on ere Rosewood!" he boomed, much to my cringing displeasure. " Oi was sent 'ere teh elp you out, and I intend teh do just that!"

"It is not up for discussion!" I turned to his face him, slamming the cane against the floor as if it were my mallet. "You are to leave this building before it goes up in flames! If any of my people question you later, tell them they can thank my handlers! Now go!" Without another word, I began to leave the storage room at a fast stride, sliding the tophat onto my head as I came to the door. "What was I expecting?" I muttered to myself. "Complications are Fundamental."

***

The best way for me to describe the Brothel Theatre House, which to this day is still lacking in a proper name, is that it was a diamond infested with dirt. The architecture of the place was very...royal, for lack of better word. Candles hung from the walls, casting a gentle glow upon the many portraits that were spread throughout each hall (the subjects of said portraits would vary from scandalous woman whom were more than happy to show themselves to that of wonderous architecture, those of woman clearly outnumbering those of wondrous structures.) I distinctly recall stepping into the reception hall of the theatre to find myself... awestruck.

Rolling from the practical entrance (the one that doesn't involve a crate) of the building toward a stairway that split into two was a blue carpet with gold trim, fairly worn down and tattered. Above my head hung a chandelier of ruby stones that I had no doubt were acquired through the least legal of means. I made my way toward the stairs, taking note of the people bystanders that were spread throughout the building.

Several ladies of the night. Several more lonely men. Was that a chef poking his head around a corner? Was THAT a set of kids running down a hallway? Goodness. The steps creaked loudly each time my boots came down upon them. Very likely for someone of a fatter variety than myself to crash through them before the year was over. Upon reaching the top, a large archway opened itself before me: the entrance to the theater hall.

I stepped through it, looking the hall over. Several round tables were spread out, occupied by all kinds of people, many of whom looked not to belong in the slums that the building was located within. There was the poet in the corner, no doubt hoping to get himself abest seller out of some gritty short story he was currently working on. The four drunks howling with laughter as sweat decorated their fronts. Second thought: It could have been puke. One woman looked as if she was having a bad night. How I would have loved to switch places with her at that moment.

There was also quite the abundance of nobles spread out. Some were clearly their for the woman, and some were their to discuss business with their associates. I estimate that around 34.2% of them were wearing wigs, and of that 34.2%, only about 20% was of the powdered variety.