Introducing Orawyn in an original universe called Burned and Shattered Skies. I’m not sure if I will always be writing it in this tense and style; it’s a departure from what I’m accustomed to but that has been part of the fun! Warnings for violence and death.
“Meduithel. You have reviewed the contents of your latest assignment, I presume?” The man at the front of the room is tall and lean, his long black hair held back in a sleek ponytail ending at his mid-back. Clean shaven, his face is angular, and his eyes a light, molten brown. They aren’t his natural colour, but then, people like Councillor Vitos rarely bother with natural. Natural means flawed. Natural means weak. He is neither.
Orawyn’s hands clasp firmly behind her back. She is halfway across town, far from the spiralling towers making up the Councillor’s apartments and offices. She sees in double, the cityscape below her visible only beneath the holographic projection of Vitos’ offices. They never met in person for such things. She is a member of the Drimmician of which he and the six other Councillor’s preside. The organisation is prestigious, and powerful. They bring order to the city, and know that any threat to order could bring ruin onto them all.
“Yes Councillor,” Orawyn replies, and then, “the timeline?” She turns away from the floor to ceiling windows looking out over the city’s lower middle section. Her rooms in the Drimmician quarter have gone unused for several weeks now, business for the Councillor – for the city – keeping her near its lowest levels. Her heels click against the floor as she makes towards the door, stopping to check her weapons. She pulls her long hair back out of her face, securing it tightly, before her gaze flicks to the upper right corner, minimising the view of Vitos’ office.
“Immediate. I expect your report no later than the morning.” Her eyes widen with pleasure as her thoughts race ahead. It has been nearly ten days since her last assignment. An exceedingly long time for her, and Vitos knows it. Her nod is curt, staring straight into the Councillor’s back – he has not turned around. He never does.
“Are there further considerations?” She asks, pulling a plain black mask up over the bottom half of her face, and adjusting the cuffs at her wrists as they run through a quick diagnostic.
“There may be others hunting him. The Drimmician does not care how he meets his end, just that it is done. Do you understand, Enforcer?” Councillor Vitos speaks with a command and authority she has always respected. When she bows, it is with her right fist over her heart. “Yes, Councillor. The Drimmician’s will shall be done.” The call ends immediately, and Orawyn’s vision returns to her daily display.
It does not take long for her to adjust it for her hunt. Information on her target: Lenn Crewe, is drawn up on the left. An Outcast supplier officially marked as running guns, Crewe is wanted dead by many. Orawyn’s eyes narrow, fixing on the affiliation. The Outcasts were a growing problem. One of several ‘resistance’ movements active over the last decades, they have proved the most organized of all. Still, Lenn Crewe has no chance for survival – he just doesn’t know it yet. The thought makes her smile wide enough to show teeth.
It is raining out on the streets and Orawyn flips up the hood of her coat. It takes effort to not appear overeager, to keep her expression bored and her pace even. It does not take her long to reach the community work district. Exposed light bulbs flicker overhead, and electricity thrums at constant pitch through the district. The water here is greasy, the rain turning black on contact with the ground.
It is another few minutes before she reaches the warehouse. The property is not listed under Crewe’s name, but the Drimmician has never been limited by what is on the books. Order is to be maintained at any cost, and the Enforcers are the only ones whose loyalty is strong enough to see it done. It is an honour to be selected, an honour to undergo further augmentation and training with Councillor Vitos. The Enforcers answer to him, and him alone.
And much like Crewe’s warehouse, they do not exist on paper.
Orawyn’s eyes scan the building, mapping its interior and the positions of those within. Crewe is immediately tagged in her vision, outlined in gold. On the right of her display, additional information flares. A single gun, a knife, and protective gear worn beneath his clothing. Caution, or preparation? She does not know. It does not matter.
Her casual stroll around the side of the warehouse is interrupted by a new arrival: a man of above average height, a weapon secured on his back. Orawyn’s gaze narrows as she follows his progress, watching as the electronic lock is dispatched with quick efficiency. A sweep of the area plots her path to a nearby roof, and with a quick shimmering of her outer layers, Orawyn vanishes from sight.
The stranger makes quick work of entering the building. Quick and violent work, which she appreciates. Seeing Crewe’s associates scatter brings an amused breath out of her and into the cool, fetid air. Watching the man fight makes her restless, her pacing steps from the opposing rooftop quickening as Crewe makes his way towards the only open window. His attacker is in close pursuit. The fire-escape they clamber down buckles and crashes to the ground under their combined weight.
Orawyn does not wait to see if the stranger survives the fall. He does not matter. Crewe is on the move. She follows at an easy pace overhead, taking the gaps between buildings in stride. She can see Crewe’s vitals rising, his breathing growing erratic with exertion and fear. It fuels her, a tingling thrill working its way through her bloodstream and driving her to closer pursuit.
When she sees Crewe’s path leading to maintenance tunnels, Orawyn’s gaze sweeps ahead. She can cut him off from overhead but – ah. The stranger is following close behind. The Councillor does not care how Crewe dies. Orawyn can let this man take care of it. He wants to, she knows he wants to. The knowledge just makes her want it more.
Her eyes close as she takes a deep breath, and steps off the roof. It is a clear path from here to the maintenance tunnel entrance, and she is precious seconds ahead of her target. Space warps around her as she steps an impossible distance, no trace of her passage save a faint blue crackle of energy emitted from her cuffs. She slips into the tunnels, taking off at a dead run.
The tunnels are lit by a faint strip of overhead lights. Orawyn passes through them unseen, her steps now silent. She hears Crewe enter. His boots pound against the path, and his breath is heaving, loud. She could track him even without her augmentations. Overhead, the stranger follows, and the distance between him and the next manhole cover tells Orawyn how much time she has before he interrupts.
The kill comes quickly. Crewe rounds the corner blind, panic wreaking havoc on his senses and mind. Without a sound, Orawyn becomes visible, weapon snapping from her back into her hand. Crewe impales himself on the blade. A wet, red gurgle of surprise bubbles from his mouth as he looks towards her.
Orawyn leans down towards him as she grasps his body, lowering him to the ground. Her eyes glow briefly with a faint ring of white. Crewe reaches towards her, grasping uselessly. Orawyn smiles as she grabs his hair, yanking his head back. Her eyes remain fixed on his as she leans closer, cheek to cheek.
“You die as you lived,” she whispers, twisting the blade in his gut, “as nothing.”
The light leaving his eyes brings with it immense satisfaction. Orawyn revels in it for a moment, in the adrenaline, in the rush. Strength and power thrum electric through her veins. She is ready for more. She wants more. The desire is almost enough to turn her victory sour. Almost.
She pulls her blade from Crewe’s body, wiping it clean on his jacket. She slips it back into place, attention snapping back down the tunnel. Company is arriving, and it makes her smile.
When the man rounds the corner, he is crouched. She sees his eyes slowly rising to meet her own, and there is no hiding the pleasure in her voice when she speaks. “Too late.” She is taunting him, she knows, and it thrills her.
Orawyn can see his rage reflected in his vitals. His heart rate and breath giving him away even before his murderous glare does. It sends a shiver down her back, a mix of anticipation and pleasure. He is a hunter, and she has stolen his kill.
Her wink is entirely teasing as she rolls her shoulder and neck. When she vanishes from view, it is with the confidence that he will not be able to find her. She is Drimmician: there are no better augments and no better magi-tech anywhere in the city.
It is when she is a few blocks away that Orawyn brings back up her display. Her eyes flit over the keys as she composes the message, sending it to the Councillor on a secured line. Her body is still alight, senses sharp with a burning desire for more. Crewe’s death had been too quick. As she makes her way through the community work district, Orawyn falls in with the crowd, visible once more. All the while, one thought on her mind: her next assignment could not come quickly enough.
The Cozy Cauldron 