Blind, not Broken.

Sylvia trudged through the mud, her feet threatening to give way underfoot at any moment. With each cautious step her blistered, damp feet rubbed against the worn tread of her once immaculate boots. How long had it been since her exile? Three days? No, perhaps four? A life of luxury having been replaced by sleepless nights in the woods and constant anxiety, warped her sense of time and place, over and above her recently acquired disability.

In the darkness, she reached out her hand and felt the hard bark of a sturdy tree, “Not the King’s quarters, but it’ll do for the night”. She collapsed among its roots, wrapping her cloak around her shivering body, hoping to regain some strength for the unknown journey ahead.

“By Miralda’s Embrace!”, cursed a voice in the darkness, “Looks like today’s our lucky day lads!”.

Sylvia woke up with a start, blade in hand, trembling as she thrust her gold tipped dagger in the direction of her uninvited guest, “Who goes there!?”. Her feeble assaults were in vain, as she felt two sets of arms grab her hands from behind the cover of the tree, her dagger falling to the ground, as she was forced to her knees by her assailants.

A raspy grunt and a vile smell wafted about her, as her captive to the left mocked her, “I say! Who goes there! Jeeves, remove these men from my chambers at once!”. The man to her right buried his face in her braided hair, he breathed in deeply, his hot breath seemed to pollute her scalp as he did so, “No doubt about it boss, she’s royalty she is!”, he thought for a moment, “Or something like that, certainly ain’t no tavern whore or milk maid! I know their scent better than when the troops come home, I do!” The man spat, as his coarse hand grasped Sylvia’s throat, “What you’se doing out ‘ere lovely!? Tired of all them balls and banquets? Come to see how us Freemen live, all wild and savage like?”.

The bandits got their answer as their leader emerged from the darkness with lantern in hand, thrusting it in Sylvia’s face so as to cause the heat to scorch her pale skin. The strong light radiated her figure, revealing her filthy robes and grief-stricken expression, the men saw with clarity the reason for her exile, Sylvia’s unseeing, milky white eyes continued to stare, unblinking at the harsh light.

The bandit leader searched for a moment, picking up Sylvia’s dagger among the gnarled roots of the tree, he turned the blade on Sylvia, tapping the golden brooch of her cloak, “Blind as a rat in a snake’s belly she is, ain’t no use for folk like her in Alorian cities, royalty or otherwise”.

One of her assailants snickered, “Good news for you Modo, she don’t gotta see your ugly mug as the last thing she sees before she meets Miralda in the Great Beyond”.

“Shut it Wozza!” cried Modo, “Or I’s will clobber you good this time!”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! Please, show some respect!” said the bandit leader, giving a poor imitation of Alorian dialect, “Doth thine know, we are in the presence of a lady?”. Wozza and Modo, cheered as he gave a mock bow, removing his hood as he did so, revealing his pocked and scared face.

With a fiendish grin he cut loose Sylvia’s brooch, pocketing their loot in his coin purse. Sylvia kicked and struggled as Wozza and Modo tore off her loose coat, revealing her bare shoulders and corset, “Let’s show our guest some Freemen hospitality”.

Sylvia clawed at her assailants, halting their advances. In the darkness, she smelt their stench and labored breathing. Then, from out the inky blackness ahead, she heard the unmistakable sound of a crossbow bolt roar pass her ear, as it embedded itself into Wozza’s skull. The earthy, unwashed aroma of the bandits gave way to the foul stench of blood.

Sylvia loosened her arms from Wozza’s grip, as his strength faded away in time to the drowned, gurgling sound of a throat awash with blood behind her. A panicked scream broke out to her right, as Modo’s cheap leather armor gave way to another bolt, shattering his rib cage and piercing his heart.

Free from the clutches of Wozza and Modo, Sylvia leapt forward toward the bandit leader, tumbling head over heel among the vines, as he fled in a blind panic, away from the chasing crossbow bolts. She sat still for a moment, as the whizzing of flying bolts haltered. A soft-spoken voice pierced the silence, “My lady, please, if you would come with me. More of those fiends will surely return”. Sylvia wrapped her cloak over her bare shoulders, grasped her savior’s tunic and set forth into the night.

#

Sylvia awoke, along with the morning’s first rays of sunlight, grateful to once again be under warm covers, rather than her recent accommodation of overturned logs and looming willow trees. The voice from before startled her, as it’s wispy notes trailed from across the other side of the room, “Early to bed, early to rise. Good, I always love an eager student”.

Startled, Sylvia retaliated, “And what would you have me learn? While I appreciate your assistance, the knowledge I seek lies within myself alone, I care not for the ramblings of woodland soothsayers and charlatans”.

The man gave a laugh, “A charlatan I may be! Soothsayer or kindly forest nymph I am not! No, what I seek to teach you is the blade.”

Sylvia rolled her lifeless eyes, giving a disapproving groan, “The blade!? What would you have me do? Dance around gaily, flailing steel above my head for the amusement of fat lords, bored of their court jesters? I think not! Besides, even if I weren’t blind, why would a lady of my standi…”

“Pah! A lady! You may have some drunk Freemen fooled, but I know of the Alorian ways: Thee who provide naught, are but naught. Unless mad, which it appears you are not, your woodland wanderings speak of exile. What is an assassin without her eyes? Aye! She is naught, better off in the woods than in the royal chambers of your shadowy guild”.

Sylvia laughed, “You think me an assassin? Truly you were exiled a madman! No, my sight was not harnessed in the ways of poison and cruel blades dancing in the moonlight. I was but a royal scribe, entrusted with matters of cour…”

The kindly voice gave way to frustration, “Enough! Do you think me a love-struck fool, seeking damsels in distress? I see your movements, although you do not, as I did your brooch gleaming in the moonlight. This is not a rescue, but a recruitment, Sylvia Blackfoot!”

Awkward silence lingered in the air, as Sylvia sat aghast at the man’s insight, “It seems I am found dishonest”, she lowered her defenses, “My secret exposed, would you do me the grace of revealing the name of my ‘recruiter’?”

The man, thought for a moment, before resigning himself, “I have gone by many a title, whispered in the halls of lavish abodes and crumbling monasteries, however, exile forced upon me a new start. A new beginning, for myself and would-be pupils. As both the first, and the last of my people, I chose Adam for my wanderings”.

Sylvia, stifled a laugh, “A rousing speech! Oh, how the bards wish for such a silver tongue and yet you say you are not a soothsayer? A mere ‘Adam’ would have sufficed”.

Adam blushed, not bothering to hide his embarrassment from his blind visitor, before composing himself once more, “On to more pressing matters. While an exile of Aloria, my recruitment philosophy remains the same. As such, I will see you in the yard for sparring.”

As Adam turned and left, Sylvia stumbled after him in bewilderment, “And how do you suppose I stand my ground against a man as eagle eyed as yourself?”

Adam peered over his shoulder, “You’re a member of the Blackfoot clan, I’m sure you’ll figure it out”.

#

Sylvia never ‘figured it out’. While grateful for lodging and company, the grueling training regime did little but leave her bruised and battered as the months wore on into the tail end of winter. And while the sun began to shine brighter in the midday heat, the frustration of training and the growing realization that Sylvia would not be mastering her four senses in the foreseeable future, left the relationship between herself and Adam cold.

“Sight is a distraction, a burden”, Adam would lecture, “Without it, you extend beyond the self, your other senses heightened. Your surroundings an extension of yourself, darkness a friend and ally, not a mere tool for the advantageous assassin”.

Often this would lead to heated arguments and a storming off from the yard, “So says you! A man complete and sturdy, all seeing, all knowing! Darkness a friend? I suppose you picture us of the Blackfoot clan squatting in murky cloisters, tea in hand, bickering like old housewives about our friend ‘Darkness’. Absurd! It’s a tool, no more, no less. Our sight is the key to a blade from the hand, to a blade in the throat!”

Frustration led to desperation, as Sylvia abandoned her training and sort help from those deep within the woods. Bed time stories woven to scare naughty children, made real. Decrepit hovels wherein lay perverted sorcerers and twisted druids. Dark brews and darker magic, unnatural familiars for supernatural assistance.

#

Sylvia stood in the dusty forest clearing, a semi-circle of flattened leaves and twigs, a favored spot of Adam’s for target practice. Adam handed her a clay mug, the hot broth bubbled and threatened to ooze from its lip. The months of bickering between them seemed juvenile, in light of what was to come.

Adam looked at Sylvia, his voice shaking, “You don’t have to do this, please I beg of you. If it takes months, even years to become whole once more, I believe in time it will come to pass.” In contrast, Sylvia’s voice remained relaxed and confident, “I thought you a follow of the ways of Aloria? No, the decision is mine and mine alone. Already I have been declared naught, I would rather face death than be re-branded same”.

She drank the foul brew with vigor, grimacing as she struggled to keep herself from vomiting, “You know what must be done. When the time is right, let loose a bolt. If I am to die, let it be with dignity.”

Adam nodded and reluctantly made his way to the other side of the clearing, raising his crossbow, ready to fire upon Sylvia’s command.

Minutes passed, before the effects of the brew started to take hold. At first, it was a simple light headedness, followed by a burning sensation in the core of Sylvia’s stomach. Rapidly she began to convulse as her arteries bulged forth from her white skin. An explosion of sound, followed by silence, as Sylvia felt herself take flight, peering down upon the empty guild halls from time gone by.

There her ghostly presence began through the empty halls and into her chambers, where she spied herself. Her body lay still in the four-poster bed, it’s maroon bedding contrasting with the dark, stonework surrounding it.

She looked down in horror as she saw herself rise from her bed toward the jug of water, which lay in the center of the room, she screamed as she saw herself put her lips to a cup, unaware of the poison housed within.

The clay cup shattered on the hard floors as she clutched her face in agony. Her dark emerald eyes, turning a lighter shade of green. The searing pain completing the assailant’s plan. The last remnants of colour faded to grey, as white clouds washed over her eyes.

“Who would dare rob a raven of her sight? Tear away the claws of a panther? Such cowardice! Such wickedness!”

And then she saw him, or rather she felt him. Sitting on the windowsill, his coat flapping in the wind of the open window, like some vampiroc menace. He sported a dusty hood, which covered a pock marked face. Hid dagger flashing the insignia of a rival clan. She knew his cruelty and felt revulsion at his stench. He dropped down from the windowsill and made his way into the forest. An assassin? No, more than that. A Freeman, a bandit lord.

She tried to follow him, darting through the air, passed crooked branches and thick shrubbery. All was darkness, yet she felt at home, her spirit aligning with the tall trees, the singular droplets of the babbling brooks and the tiny heartbeats of scuttling rodents on their burrows. There was no escape from her, in time he would know, but what pleasure is there in a kill without the thrill of the hunt? She rushed to the clearing, knowing what needed to be done.

“Do it!”, cried Sylvia, as she felt her presence return once more to her convulsing, scorching body. She felt hesitation, the wind did not move, the bolt locked shut. To her surprise, she felt Adam through the void and saw through his lifeless eyes. Darkness and yet boundless sight, his exile her own.

“Now Adam! You long for sight and fail to see what must be done! Fire, so I may be whole!”. Adam understood, awaking himself from fear and doubt. He said a silent prayer and fired. His aim was true, as the bolt dug into Sylvia’s brow and stopped dead.

Blood poured from the gash between Sylvia’s eyes, the trickle ever so slight as the first layer of skin split raw and broken, the bolt in the iron grip of her gloved hand. She threw it aside, clutching her totso as she allowed herself a moment to adjust to her heightened senses. 

As an assassin, she knew that as both a wielder and target of death; that it's skeletal form crept around every corner. Avoidance was the tactic employed, staring it down and allowing it to get within inches of yourself, was not.

Despite the humidity and the lingering flame deep within her belly, she felt a chill within her bones as she sought to compose herself. She welcomed Adam’s presence, as he made his way across the clearing and draped her cloak over her shoulders, holding the front closed as his sturdy arms held her from behind.

His soothing voice, became gleeful with malice, "I think it’s about time, we got your brooch back.”