THE MARK OF MIST
The Mark of Mist is one of twelve "Marks," powerful sigils that manifest different abilities in their user. Marks are of unknown origin, as they seem to have existed before the creation of civilization, and the written word.
The Mark of Mist, also known as the Thief's Mark or Mark of Shadows grants its user a number of illusory and umbramantic abilities. These range from casting of simple visual illusions and construction of solid objects from shadow, to mass suggestion and creation of independent "shikigami," shadowy constructs that obey the user's will.
The Mark can also be used to force sensory inputs upon a target or group, making it an exceptionally useful tool in interrogation or combat. This can be used to slow the user's perception of time in combat, or inflict unspeakable torture on an opponent, without leaving any sort of wounds.
One particular previous user of this mark was known to use this particular trait to perform assassinations, simply by breaking the mind of the target within an illusion where time stood still.
The particular techniques a Marked individual will manifest and utilize varies between users, but all of them are theoretically possible to learn for the Marked.
The current user of this Mark, Five-Seals Dolorem, is under self-imposed limitations in regards to its usage. He cannot inflict any kind of torture on another, nor can he use illusions to kill, as doing so will kill him in the process, thanks to a magically binding oath. In return, however, his Mark is less physically taxing to use otherwise.
The air was still in the House of Mist's Keep. The summer had so far been unbearably humid, and a lack of wind had done nothing to help the situation. That morning, a messenger had arrived, in the regalia of a more Northern noble house. This was uncommon, the North and South of the continent regarded one another with a practical caution. His message, however, was even stranger.
"Bring him in", Solomon sat back in his chair, in one hand he held a letter bearing the Cranswell coat of arms. His other hand was tapping his quill on a blank parchment, waiting. Silently, Dolorem entered the room. His presence was felt nonetheless, it was like the torches on the wall shrank away from him. Mistwalker Dolorem, the prodigy of his house, the finest shinobi of his clan. He spoke with his usual demeanor of absolute calm. "You called, Lord Solomon. How can I assist you?"
Dolorem was a uniquely imposing figure, not for his size, but for the way he carried himself. He had hard blue eyes set against a sharp face, his hair black, and kept in perfect order, jaw-length and carefully kept from his eyes. He wore his own variant of the attire of a shinobi, his navy jacket sporting a high collar and a lengthened tunic, reinforced against impacts by splints. His boots were tied, made of soft leather and cloth. Around his waist was wrapped an obi belt of plaited rope, double tied, looped at the back. It secured his longsword and paired shortsword. He stood absolutely still, his exposed right hand showing the Mark of Mist proudly.
"I did, a matter has arisen that requires your attention." Solomon said, seemingly accustomed to Dolorem's manner. Dolorem nodded, "Very well". Dolorem was well used to being sent on tasks requiring discretion, and more often than not, cloak and dagger tactics. Solomon continued, "I have received word that a close friend of the Archduke, Johan of Cairt, has been unlawfully imprisoned in the Black Iron Prefecture, and word coming in suggests that there's a rebellion afoot. I need you to retrieve him."
Dolorem said nothing, he picked apart the task in his mind, unraveling the information he was given, trying to find reasons for the request. It sounded so alien that Solomon would concern himself with the affairs of another house, let alone that of the Cranswells. He responded after some time
"Why do you care about what happens to the Cranswell House, Lord?" He felt a sudden rush of anger, almost from nowhere. "How does this have anything to do with us?" Tensions with the North had driven up the price of food, as the Cranswell expanded their territory. Every square yard of land taken by polite tyranny starved a peasant. Dolorem had grown up poor. Talent had lifted him from it, but his kin were the poor of the Red Pine Prefecture.
Solomon sat up sharply, startled by this trivial act of insubordination "Why, Dolorem, is none of your concern, I think you'll find it beneficial to focus on the task at hand rather than the reason for it." Dolorem's expression didn't change, but a hard light shone in his eyes. The air seemed electrified at that moment.
Dolorem spoke, his voice now rimed in suppressed anger. "If I ask the reason for something, Solomon, I deserve a response, given the fact you are not carrying out your own will, do you not agree?" He was shocked by Solomon's willingness to aid the most powerful family on the North of The Continent, Solomon was mercantile, and certainly apathetic, but aiding a potential invader would be a step too far, even for him. No amount of Southern magatama, nor Northern coin would be enough, Dolorem hoped.
Solomon struggled to contain his rising annoyance at Dolorem, as his pulse raced in his ears. "If you must know, I was asked of this as a favor, out of human decency, and respect for our fellow man and I will not let you drag this House's name in the mud in service of your pride, Dolorem!"
Dolorem's face remained serene, indifferent. He wouldn't let anger be the cause of him making a mistake. "That is all I wished to know, my Lord, besides, I do not wish to dishonor the house or my title", he said, raising his hand to display the Mark of Mist. "Betray you, dishonour your decision to have me marked when you wouldn't be…" he continued.
"Just see that it is done, Dolorem." Solomon cut in. Dolorem left without a word. He knew better than to waste his breath on Solomon. He was a shell of a man, hollow. He disliked Solomon, as most did, due to his arrogance, coupled with his preference to have others do things he should, but unlike many Dolorem also pitied the man, for he was haunted by a lifetime of regrets.
Dolorem supported his parents with his earnings. He wouldn't let them fall into poverty again, not after they had spent their last copper magatama to fund his training as a shinobi. Solomon had been his salvation, their salvation after taking him in.
Solomon was the one who had opened his house to him, after his own eldest son had passed. Solomon had orchestrated it all, the servant who found him, the retainers who helped him settle in, his master who taught him his art, they were the ones he was grateful for, Solomon was at the helm, and in the days of Dolorem's youth, a benevolent second father to him. Part of Dolorem wished he could turn back time and see Solomon smile, or crack a joke just one more time. After Solomon lost his wife, after his son, he had lost his heart.
He was shaken from his train of thought by Lilith's voice "That was quick, who'd you kill.." she began jokingly, only to stop upon seeing the grim look on his face. Lilith was the heiress of the House of the Morning Star, a dark elf with soft features and intricately braided, snow-white hair. "You're being deployed?" she asked. "Hmmm." Dolorem was in a world of his own again "I'm being sent to recover a noble from prison, it's a favour for Cranswell, well so I'm told, it's the start of something more", he began, avoiding her gaze.
Lilith stepped in front of him, her purplish-grey eyes full of concern, at first, Dolorem had difficulty reading her face, elven eyes especially gave little away, being a single solid colour, but he had, in three years, learned to pick up on tiny changes that conveyed her emotions. "Hey, what's the matter?". Dolorem raised his gaze, his blue eyes dulled, conflicted. "My obligation is to follow the orders of the superior", Lilith stopped him "..And you don't want to bail out some greasy old fellow from a prison he more than likely deserves to be in"
Dolorem smiled. "Yes, I suppose that's it", he was grateful for Lilith's intuition. "Well", she said, "once you get there, run into a problem, you couldn't do it" Dolorem's eyes widened "You're suggesting…" Lilith held his hands "Of course, deception for deception, it's your business, is it not?" She told him. "But I'd be failing in a mission," he began "And what of it, Dolorem? Will you die? No, you'll get a telling off, docked pay at worst." Dolorem looked at the ground, saying nothing. "I'll evaluate the situation when I get there, I won't make any rash decisions." He let go of his fianceé's hands. "I'll be back as soon as I can" Lilith sighed, "Just come back safe, please". He turned to leave but stopped. "Lilith" he called over his shoulder, "When I come back, we can plan the wedding."
Lilith's expression brightened, Dolorem was always going to be Dolorem, but he would also always care for her "Are you sure you want to come back if that's what comes after it?", she shouted after him. "Probably not", he said, laughing. That was the last thing he said before the front door closed behind him, leaving Lilith once again, alone.
She returned to her assigned guest chamber, a room furnished with the best wood and decorated with the finest weaving. Despite this, it was distinctly uncomfortable to her, lacking any kind of warmth. Dolorem would be fine, he always would be.
Her concern was the reason for this shift within the House of Mist, from silent peacekeepers to mercenaries. There had to be a reason for it somewhere. She just needed to find it, and do so quietly. Dolorem could be trusted, Solomon could not. She decided that a preliminary investigation would be carried out by walking the house's grounds. Nobody would question it, simply a visiting noble, soon to be a valuable ally, enjoying the scenery. In reality, she planned to eavesdrop on the staff, the young guards and soldiers especially, they were still enthusiastic, still itching to prove themselves. They'd probably discuss any chances to mobilize freely. She wanted the truth as much for her curiosity to be satiated as for Dolorem. A certain excitement came with applying this kind of theory she'd learned.
***
Dolorem had gathered his equipment, he traveled light, as always. A single knapsack and whatever pouches and pockets his clothing had. Enough for a week, maybe ten days. He took his hat and mantle, to avoid any unwanted attention, and set out, his swords drew no attention in his prefecture, nor in Black Iron or any between the two. Most men carried theirs openly, as did several women.
He had forty kilometres, as the crow flies, to travel, on foot. Horseback was the place of a knight or a noble, he was a shinobi, regardless of where he lived or who he served. He could have, in actuality, disguised himself using his mark, changing into any form he wished, but that would make him feel guilty. He had been trained in open infiltration and would continue to use it. He wouldn't betray his old master's memory by taking the easy route, the route he could lose access to.
He set out, hoping to make it by sunset at the end of the second day, and be heading for home by sunrise on the fifth. The evening air had cooled somewhat, and the humidity subsided a little. His mantle was surprisingly light, and his hat kept flies away from his face. All things considered, it was shaping up to be a pleasant journey. He had time to himself to think.
His mind was primarily occupied by Lilith. Once they were married, there was the risk she'd be used as leverage against him, as was common practice in the area. The wife of a shinobi would be held as a hostage to ensure loyalty. Granted, hostage was a far less pleasant status in most places, as hostages in the south had servants, a house and access to a messenger, but were still hostages nonetheless. He hated the concept regardless. He could, of course, live with her, but that was reliant on approval from Lilith's parents. They themselves weren't bad people, he thought, but they existed in an isolated culture and didn't trust outsiders, especially non-elves. Lilith had told them that Dolorem was to be trusted, and they at least appeared to accept, for their daughter's sake.
Dolorem tried not to antagonize them whenever he met them, and they could certainly tell this, leading to several awkward interactions between the pair and himself, especially when the subject of lineage came up. Them being of pure noble stock, still bearing the pointed ears of their ancestors, Dolorem being the son of common parents, a brewer and a weaver, whom he had provided with a home and a shop with the proceeds of his work. They had given him up to Solomon in the hopes his future would be brighter. His magical aptitude would be wasted if he hadn't become a shinobi. He would be someone, they said.
The sun and stars wheeled overhead as these thoughts swirled around in his brain. He slept through the worst of the midday heat, and traveled by night, the journey was uneventful save for the rain that fell on the second morning, where the road turned to reddish sludge, slowing his progress if only a little. His hat and mantle spared him from the worst of it. Once the rain had subsided, all that remained was damp heat, and the smell of sodden earth, which remained the same until about a kilometre from the main town of Black Iron, where that all-too-familiar smell drifted across the land. That acrid stench, the kind that seemed to invade one's sinuses, forcing its way in, burning them. The rain had only served to worsen it. It was the smell of corpses.