Satin's Tale: Dealings Done

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Swift and Subtle

“So what’s your story, knife-man?”  Satin glanced at the voice for a moment, then away again.  The woman across from him was meticulously checking the fletchings on her arrows, sitting on a crate, one leg up on a small stool to give her a place to work.  She’d given the name ‘Niara’ earlier, when they’d met up for the job.

“That depends on how much you want to know, and how much of it you want to be true.”  He glanced at her again, watching for her response.  The woman was dressed in a sensible outfit of leather, with reinforcing in vital places, all dyed a dull, muted green.  Her hair was long, a mousy blonde, but she’d kept it tucked away inside the back of her armour for the first stage of their work, and it hadn’t gotten in the way at all.  One small scar marked her face, that he’d seen; a thin line on her left cheek, and he’d noticed the fact that she kept short front and side fringes to her hair, just enough to cover it most of the time, while still looking like a natural style choice. 

They were in the remnants of a small outpost, crudely thrown up in the fashion of orcs.  It was nestled between a small lake and the steep hill upon which the main orc encampment was set.  Several orc corpses had been tossed to the side many feet away, to be worried at by crows.  Satisfied, she slung the quiver back over her shoulder and began inspecting the length of her bow.  She spoke again as she worked.

“Everyone who ends up doing this sort of work has a story behind them.  Most of us tend not to tell the full of it to just anyone.  ‘Satin’ isn’t a real name, and I don’t expect you’ll ever tell me any other, so let’s see…”  Satin raised an eyebrow as she turned to face him properly, eyeing him.  He leaned back against the rocky wall, smiling faintly.  Niara nodded.  “Black clothes, full body, very concealing.  You do most of your work at night.  You fight with knives, and more than the pair I can see you wearing now.  You’ve got more on you, smaller ones, all over.  You give your name as ‘Satin’ but you’re here same as me, on a particular job that doesn’t really fit too well with the rest of your appearance.  I’d say you’re a thief, probably a mugger and a footpad.  But you’ve been caught one too many times, so they gave you an ultimatum: fight for the free people, or face the gallows.”  The woman tilted her head, a question mark hanging in the air at the end of her seemingly confident assessment.  Satin allowed himself a quiet laugh.

“Good guess, but nowhere near.  You might have noticed I’m far too skilled in face-up combat to be a simple night-knife.”

“Assassin, then?”

“Only when there’s no other option.”

“So you’re a knife-fighter who tries to avoid killing people?” this time her remark was incredulous.  Satin shrugged.

“Believe what you will, hunter.  I’m no mercenary, and I’m not part of your ‘Free People’s Army’.  I’m here for my own reasons.  We just have coinciding goals today.”  His eyes flicked up.  “They’re moving out.  Now’s the time, let’s go.”  Satin turned to begin scaling the steep rock wall with Niara close behind him.  Before long they waited, backs against the palisade wall of the high encampment, listening to the main body of the orcs moving out as dusk settled.

“So, coinciding interests?”  Niara’s voice was the barest of whispers, impossible to hear save for Satin’s own ear being less than a few inches away.  “I need to find some sign of their exact allegiance.  Why’s that interest you, if not for the same cause?”  Satin shook his head.

“I need their maps.  These orcs claim allegiance to the Ongburz tribe, out from the Angmar region, as far as I’ve learned.  They’re not the ones I’m interested in, but their maps might tell me more about what I need to know.”  He glanced at her again with a small smirk.

“Now that you know where they’re from, are you going to head back?”  Niara already had an arrow out.

“And miss the chance to hunt some orcs?  I’ve grown quite a taste for it in the past few years.”

“Good.  Ready?”  She nodded once and Satin spun his knives over his fingers quickly.  “Now!”

It was well after dark by the time the two made their way back towards Trestlebridge.  The frequent attacks on the town had left much of it burnt and ruined, but a small portion of the community struggled on in a few fiercely defended buildings.  Even so, they wouldn’t likely make it that far.  Walking beside him, Niara didn’t seem as tired as she probably felt, and Satin could feel the edges of fatigue creeping into his limbs as well.  He glanced up at the stars.

“We’re far enough away now.  We should stop for the night.  The remainder won’t search for long, and if we make no fire, they’ll never catch up or find us.”  Niara grunted.

“Fair enough.  They’re not expecting a report until tomorrow anyway.  There’s a spot off the road there, coming up ahead.  We’ll hike a little further in and camp down.”

They were both silent and efficient as they camped down and laid out bedrolls in the small clear space.  The starlight was enough to see by, though the moon was completely hidden.  In the darkness, Satin watched the stars as he stretched out.  Off to his right, I could hear Niara breathing quietly.

“So…  Satin.  You’re not a mercenary or a conscript.  How did you end up all the way out here in the north?  You’re from Rohan, like me.  You have the smell of the plains in you; it’s unmistakable.  Are you going to tell me your story?”  He heard her shift, turning over to look at him, but he didn’t look back.

“Maybe, if you tell me yours first.”  He was rewarded with a long sigh, and the sound of Niara rolling onto her back again.

“A mercenary has countless comrades, and many allies, but they have very, very few friends.  It’s not a story I tell lightly.  Maybe when if I ever get to know you better.”

“Well, until then, hunter.”  They didn’t speak again that night.

Long before the sun began to send exploring rays over the horizon, Satin opened his eyes and got up, stretching.  A light wind was blowing up the road south to north, and it carried with it the scent of ash and charcoal.  He wondered to himself if the smell would ever dissipate entirely, or if Trestlebridge would forever seem like a burned out ruin.  Niara shifted as he packed up his things, but her eyes remained closed.  Satin glanced at her for a moment.  Normally he would continue with the mercenary act until his companions’ tasks were complete, and they were safely back wherever they had come from, but she would be fine on her own.  He set out northwards.

It was a little over a week later when their paths crossed again.  Satin crouched low, listening as a grizzled, long-armed orc snapped instructions to a small gathering of goblins, whip in one hand, sword in the other.  The goblins milled, trying to appear busy for fear of the whip, but most looked only at the ground, or towards their overseer.  Satin tried to keep his face calm through the irritation.  To someone else the orders being issued might have been interesting, but they weren’t what he needed.  The orc wasn’t using any names, not to expendable underlings like the goblins.  He was all the fear they needed on his own, and he seemed to be wanting to inflate his own position as much as possible to them now.  There had been an exchange earlier, between this orc leader and a tall, black Uruk, bearing a rolled document of some description. 

The orc had been angry, but fearful at the same time, and had accepted the orders, so he was probably trying to make himself feel better by puffing himself up.  Satin eyed the scroll the orc was holding.  That would have a name on it, at least.  Communications, letters, messages, they could be obscure and misleading, but orders; orders needed to be clear and direct.  Orders would bear their authority on them.  As he watched the orc finished giving his instructions and cracked his whip at the nearest goblin for good measure, laughing to himself.  The orders were tucked tightly into a roughly fitted band about his waist, and he seemed inclined to leave them there, even as the camp readied to move.  Checking his knives quickly, Satin took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  The hard way then.

In a moment he became fluid motion, dashing nimbly from his vantage point, over and around the rocks that encircled much of the camp.  The first goblin to see him died with a knife in his throat, a strangled cry only half escaping.  Three more died before their leader noticed the intrusion, and the shouting began.  Satin weaved between the hurried and unpractised thrusts of goblin spears, dodging ad spinning from one target to the next, long knives flashing in his hands.

As he worked, Satin kept one eye on the leader, cracking his whip and shouting at the goblins.  He hadn’t joined the fray yet, but the real worry was him fleeing with the orders still in hand.  Satin dropped a low sweep, feeling his leg connect with the two assailants nearest him, then came up to put down another pair with pin-knives thrown from each hand.  As more of their number fell, the remaining goblins began to hesitate, and Satin pressed his assault, moving quickly through their number towards the leader.  With a snarl, the orc leapt at him, managing to look surprised and betrayed for a few seconds as the assassin’s knives pierced his body a moment later.  As he fell, Satin snatched the scroll from his belt and spun to face the remaining goblins.

Those nearest him turned to flee while the ones he had passed quailed back.  A whistling sound caught his ear and Satin snapped his knives up again.  One of the fleeing goblins went rigid, an arrow bursting from his chest, then another, and a third.  The sharp sound of falling arrows continued in quick succession as the remaining goblins broke into a panicked run, scattering as the unseen archers brought them down.  Silence fell a few moments later, and Satin watched warily, his eyes on the small cluster of trees by the camp, where the hail of arrows seemed to have come from.

It was a moment before he heard the soft thud of someone dropping down from a branch, and Niara appeared from between the trunks.  Her bow still had an arrow nocked, though she wore a small smile.

“You looked like you were just going to let them run away.”  She slipped the arrow back into her quiver and Satin lowered his guard.

“I would have.  The others?”

“No others.  I was just here to scout the camp.”  She shrugged, rolling over a goblin body with one foot.  “Good thing it’s deserted.”  Satin regarded her, measuring.

“No-one else?  Then you’re much faster with that bow than you let on, last we met.”

“I’ve had practice.  I’m guessing you’re here with ‘coinciding goals’ again, ‘Satin’?”  She smiled more openly, adding a slightly teasing twist to his name, and began to retrieve her spent arrows.  She bent at one corpse then turned, tossing him something in a gentle arc.  “One of yours?”  Satin caught the throwing knife out of the air, cleaning it on a scrap of goblin clothing before tucking it back into place.

“Possibly more similar then you guess, this time, huntress of Rohan.  Especially since we were both here to gather information, and did decidedly more killing than intended.”

He watched Niara check her last arrow and slip it back into her quiver.  She looked at him, a searching gaze that he knew he was already returning.  The green of her eyes seemed more intense in the evening light.

“You seem very well spoken for night-knife and a loner.”  There was a hidden question mark behind the comment, but Satin only raised an eyebrow.

“And you, for a hired mercenary.”  Niara shrugged, looking away.

“I used to keep my father’s books, and accounts.  Was going to take over the whole lot, one day.  You need a head for words and figures, for running a horse farm.”  Her gaze snapped back to him a moment later and she sat down on an outcrop of rock, arms folding across each other.  “Your turn.”  Satin smiled.

“Nice try, but I never said I was honest, or played fair.”  Niara made a frustrated sound and snapped her fingers.

“Well at least tell me what you were here for then.”  This time he nodded.

“Let’s find out, shall we?”  He held up the orders for a moment, then unrolled them.  His eyes scanned over the page, searching the actual orders briefly before dropping to the mark at the bottom.  “Saruman of Many Colours.”  He spat.  “Does that serve your purpose too?”  Niara was glowering at the sheet in his hands, as though willing it to explode.

“I suppose you know that the sorcerer is the one responsible for everything that’s been happening in Rohan?”  Satin glanced up at her.

“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to confirm.  You seem certain.”  Niara laughed, though it sounded bitter and wretched to him.

“Hah, you should have just asked when we met.  I could have told you then.  That bastard is behind most of the trouble in Rohan.  He’s the one I should really be blaming for everything.”  He waited as she looked away for a moment.  “Much as I’ve put that life behind me now, I think I might just have a bit of a story for you, Satin-who-is-more-than-he-seems.  Not here though.”  She stood again, unstringing her bow and slipping it over her shoulder.  “Come with me, if you can keep up, I’ve got a half-way place I rest up at sometimes.  We can make it there by nightfall, if we take the short paths.”  She was already moving, and after a moment Satin swallowed the small grimace that tried to creep onto his face, and followed.

Night had long since fallen by the time they arrived back in inhabited space, and, rough as the pace and path had been, Satin found himself marvelling at just how much ground they had covered in the afternoon.  Niara led him up a last hill to a small house, then stooped to retrieve a heavy key from the stonework by her feet, replacing it after she had lifted the latch.

Inside was a sparsely furnished set of rooms, much more of a lodge than an actual house.  Satin looked around briefly, taking in the assortment of small trophies and he neatly laid fireplace.  A study table in one room, and a trapdoor that likely led down to a cellar of some sort.  Niara had already lit a few candles and kicked off her boots, before dropping down to sit on the large bear-skin rug that covered much of the central floor.

“Sit, get comfortable.  I don’t know when you left Rohan, but there’s plenty of things you’ll want to know.”  She began to massage the muscles in one leg casually as Satin took a seat opposite her.  Something still felt uncomfortable though.

“This is a Free People’s Army neighbourhood.  Supplied housing.  They could move anyone they like in here with you at any point, or move you on.  How can you call this a safe-house?”  The woman only smirked.

“Bought the place from them for my own a while back.  It suites my needs, and I’ve no desire to move on yet.  I’ve got a couple of other friends who come and go on occasion as well.  Sarabien’s not so bad, keeps mostly to his own.  Don’t get on the wrong side of Khima though.”

“You say that like you’re inviting me to stay.”  He regarded her side on, but she only shrugged.

“I’ve brought you here now, and I’m guessing you don’t have an actual home of your own out this way… if at all.  Am I right?”

“Perhaps.”  Satin shifted slightly, shrugging.  The woman certainly was persistent, but she had knowledge that he needed.  “You had a story for me?”  He could tell from her expression that she felt she’d won something.  Perhaps she had.  He let it slide as she nodded.

“Right.  Saruman, and Rohan.  Here’s what I can tell you for certain.”  Satin listened as she began to speak, confirming many of his suspicions about the wizard’s treachery and attempts to further his influence.  Partway through she stood, returning with what could only technically be called an evening meal; hard biscuits and dried meats, tough, mercenary, and probably perfectly nourishing, by his estimate.  She also brought a bottle of something that smelled like cider and a couple of tankards.  Satin refused the mug, but Niara shrugged and poured for herself anyway.  The story continued to unfold, mediated by sips from her mug and the occasional refill.  When she was finished, she stood and stretched, draining her mug.

“Anyhow, that’s what I know.  What are you going to do with it?”  As she spoke she ventured into the other side room where he had glimpsed a bed earlier and he heard the sound of straps being undone.  Satin stretched out his legs and glanced around the rest of the main room.

“Well, I’m going to have to head back to Rohan, at least briefly.  I need to tell some friends of mine these things.”

“Must be an important bunch.  Getting back there will be difficult now.”  When Satin glanced back, Niara had returned to her spot on the rug.  Though she was still wearing her leggings, she had stripped off her leather chest armour, and now faced him quite casually wearing only a breast band on her top half.  He raised an eyebrow, casting a glance across her body briefly for emphasis, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Regardless.  That will be my next move, since you asked.  Then I’ll probably come back north.  There’s a lot more going on here than I originally thought, and the band will need to do without me for a while.”  He couldn’t help noticing that Niara had acquired a fresh bottle of the strong-smelling cider, and was now drinking directly from it.

“A band, huh?  Maybe if I keep you here a bit longer you’ll start to really tell me something.  I’d assume, normally, that you’d stay the night, now that we’re here and it’s late, but last time you were gone before morning came.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Well, it was a bit odd telling them back at town that I’d been helped by a mysterious stranger who’d disappeared in the night.”  She rolled her eyes at him in a pained way, then stretched.

“So how did you come to know all of this, anyway, Niara?”  The woman looked mildly put out for a moment.

“Like I said.  I don’t tell my story to just anyone.  I’ve got to get to know them a bit better first.”  She smiled in a way that was slightly unnerving.  “I wouldn’t mind arranging that though.”  Satin noticed that she had moved forward, subtly at first, but now much more overtly, crawling forward until her face was close to his.  He picked up the mugs and stood, returning them to their shelf, but the woman followed.  When he turned around she stepped right in close to him.

“Come on, what do you say?” 

“Do you bring many ‘colleagues’ home with you like this?”  He kept his voice dry and neutral, but across from him Niara’s eyes changed for a moment, betraying something deeper, hidden away.

“You have no idea…”  She murmured, and then it was gone again, replaced by the apparent drunken eagerness that he was certain now, was faked.  Her hands reached for his clothing and he took gentle hold of them, pushing her away.

“Not a good idea, trust me.”  She pouted, freeing her hands, only to move forward again.

“Oh come on, men don’t say no.  You never say no.  Just let me…”  Again Satin fended her off gently, this time guiding her back until she was seated near the fireplace again.  He held each of her hands on her knees to prevent them from wandering again, and made sure he had her eyes before speaking again.

“Niara, you’re not drunk.  You’ve had a bottle and a half of that stuff, but you’re not drunk, I can tell.  So tell me why you’re really doing this, because I don’t like deception.”  She blinked, taken aback.

“Oh, I’m not…  There’s no trick.  I just, I wanted…  What do you mean why?  Why else?  Because I’ll enjoy it, and you’ll enjoy it, and you helped me out, but I didn’t get a chance to thank you before, and I want to now, and…  Are you… am I, uhh, not your type?  That would be typical, since you’ve got such a handsome face.”  She pouted again, trying to reach for the bottle, and Satin suppressed a chuckle.

“I like women, if that’s what you’re getting at.  Here’s a deal; I might even consider proving that to you, if,” he paused, stressing the word.  “If you’ll tell me why you really feel the need to do all this.  What’s your real story, Niara from Rohan, farm-girl, turned huntress who can’t bear to see an orc left alive.  Tell me that.”

He watched the thoughts war across her face until she looked away, eyes cast down.  After a moment, her body relaxed, giving up.

“Fine.  But you might really want to get a bottle for yourself.  It’s a long story, and unpleasant.”  This time Satin did laugh, unable to stop the bitter mirth.

“I’ve got a whole world of unpleasant behind me as well, Niara, I’d have thought you’d have guessed that by now.”  He sobered, catching her eye again briefly.  “So you know I’ll listen well.  Go on.”  The woman let out a long sigh.

“And here I was hoping for some exercise and a good night’s sleep.  Alright, here it is…  I should begin from a few years ago, when I was back on the farm.”

Satin listened as Niara began to tell her story, growing more than a little horrified on her behalf as she went on, even if he could not be shocked.  The woman spared no detail of the misfortunes of her story, as the night wore on, and Satin watched the vicious hatred and rage boil beneath her skin as she described her torments to him, and all that had come about since the attack on her farm.  Her rage didn’t cool even as her story finished, and the face watching him at the end was red-eyed and tear-stained, but still cold, hard, and very much sober.

“I may have moved on with my life since then, but it’s still shaped me, and I swore an oath of vengeance, not just against them, but against anyone, everyone who does such things.  If it’s in my power to kill a servant of the Enemy, or any other filthy, raping, torturing bastard, then I will not rest until I’ve done so.”  She looked at him hard, and planted her bottle firmly on the floor beside her.

“Now, Satin, just Satin, and no other name, or place or history.  You, Satin, owe me a story.  There’s a few hours yet before dawn; talk.”  Satin could only nod.

“Alright.  You’re right, I do.  Perhaps I shouldn’t have coaxed that out of you, but I did, so, you’re right.  This is where I’m from then.”  He hesitated for a moment, then took a tentative sip from the cider bottle.  “It stared when I was six, I think.  I don’t remember my exact age.  I don’t even know my exact age now.  But it started with fire, and death.”

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