Craftsmen of all types were needed in every good construction. Every building in the cities and villages across The Splinterlands required many hands to keep beams straight, hammer nails in place and generally not make a house-shaped deathtrap.
And even the best craftsmen could make small errors. A bent nail, a warped plank or a door hung just off-perfect to need that little lift every time you tried to throw the latch.
Sometimes a step was forgotten or a minor detail missed; of themselves not crucial but almost always with a consequence somewhere down the line.
It was this Derian would think of later. Currently, all he heard was the creak of a floorboard in the inn room he had rented for himself. Alone.
Rolling off the bed in a flash, he heard the metallic whisper of the dagger pass over him and plunge into the mattress with a muted ripping sound. Derian's brain tried to tell him all about how that would have felt had he not woken up. Derian did his best to ignore the thought.
Crap, crap, crap, crap, Derian chanted in his mind. His hands frantically dragging himself free of his blankets and towards the chair where his scabbard hung. Booted feet scraped on wooden floorboards as the assailant pulled the dagger free and moved to intercept the young nobleman. With relief, Derian's hand grasped the hilt of his blade and drew it as he scrambled to his feet.
Immediately he was met with a powerful lunge from his foe, the blade glinting in the moonlight streaming in through the open window. The shrill, almost melodic sound of steel on steel barely registered as Derian managed to deflect the strike away from his heart. And into his shoulder, the pain waking him fully. Grunting, he pulled one foot up and roughly kicked the figure as hard as he could.
The blade leaving the wound hurt much more than the initial wound and Derian's eyes blurred as he cried out. He heard his opponent thump against the wall behind the bed distantly through the haze of pain. The training of his youth was starting to assert itself and he glanced around to take what stock he could of his surroundings.
The door, get to the door. He was already breathing hard, he hadn't had a sparring partner in months, and now it was going to get him killed. Pushing himself away from the wall and towards the door was a sluggish effort, the blood beginning to spill down to his elbow as he held the arm close to his chest. The cloaked figure steadied themselves before lunging again.
Derian brought his blade up defensively and deflected the attack to his right, deep into the doorframe. Bringing his sword down hard at the figure's chest dragged a jagged tear through the front of the figures shirt. Leaving the dagger embedded in the door, the would-be assassin jumped back quickly, avoiding the worst of the slash, putting themselves in front of the open window.
"What's going on in there?!" The rough voice was accompanied by a powerful knock at the door. Derian registered the noise but he was too focused on the intruder to answer. The figure paused for a moment then, seeing its opportunity lost, turned and began making its way out the window.
"Oh no you don't." Derian yelled as he charged forward to grab one of the figure's feet as it slid dextrously back out the window. With a firm grip and a tug, the figure collapsed on the small, slanted bit of roof just below the windowsill. Derian was suddenly quite confused as the figure slid off the roof to the alleyway below.
Derian was confused because the assailant's boot was still in his hand. Turning it to get a better look, he noticed a glint of white sticking out of the boot. Reaching out cautiously, he touched and felt the unmistakable feeling of bone. His mind reeled with questions, why would a dark eternal try to kill me?
Derian's mind ran roughshod over a hundred different theories. He knew better than to blindly think of the Dark Eternals as unthinking monsters, but what other reason could there be? His hand went limp then, promptly dropping the boot, complete with skeletal foot, on the floor. As he took an unbelieving step backwards, the door burst open. The burly, mustachioed innkeeper stumbled shoulder-first into the room, brandishing a heavy knotted club and ready for a fight. Derian was still staring at the skeletal foot.
"You alright?" the Innkeeper's eyes fell on Derian's bloodied arm. "Burn it all, what happened?" The innkeeper moved and tore a strip off one of the sheets and began bandaging the wound with a practiced hand. Derian didn't say anything, simply stared in confusion at the foot on the floor.
"I don't know." Derian looked up, "to both questions I suppose. But I'm here, I'm breathing and I think I need a new room." His vision swam again as the adrenaline began wearing off. The innkeeper guided him to a seat on the bed. "And you might want to call a healer, please and thank you..." Derian trailed off as the world swam upwards and his vision went dark.
***
Bonus Entry!
Journal Entry #14 - Nov 13 - A Terrible Visit
I am unwound. An assassin attempted to take my life last night. I cannot tell you how lucky I am to have chosen the one room in this inn with a squeaky floorboard, never again will I complain about such minor nuisances.
I also need to remember to buy Tellek a drink. Hell, I'll buy him a distillery. Every time that damn dwarf woke me in the middle of the night to beat me with broomsticks... I was so angry, so young. I shouldn't have complained so much. At least the teaching stuck, I'm thankful for that.
But why? Or who? Who would send an assassin after me? And why? I need to find answers, but the wound in my shoulder tells me that may not be the best idea. Even hold the page stead as I write is a chore presently. I know the Dark Eternals recruit the living into their ranks through their contracts but certainly this is not a situation such as that. A contract signed by knife's edge is no contract at all, in truth.
Praetoria, as yet, has been strange. I do not know the rules here, perhaps I slighted someone and this is how matters of offense are dealt with. But who would I ask for confirmation without revealing my ignorance? Surely this cannot be how any society could function, so I must believe it not to be the case.
It could be nearly a year before the Wizards release their grip on the lands they have offered. A long time to mill about amongst strangers, let alone strangers with hungry daggers.
I must send a letter home, Maybe something is wrong? This is all alarming and even now after the moment has passed, I find it difficult to think. Rest will not come easy, but come it must if I am to be clear-headed tomorrow. The innkeeper gave me something viscous and foul-smelling to help with the pain. The smell is nearly as bad as the throbbing in my shoulder. Nearly.
Perhaps all will be clearer in the light of day. For now, I will try and rest.
Derian Kell, Nov 13, Redfellow Inn
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