The symbol of the owl was ubiquitous in Iinaan. Revered as the mark of the unnamed Old God of wisdom, the patron of the Protectorates, it figured prominently in the art and architecture of Iinaan Proper especially. The owl adorned keystones of archways, the tops of columns, and chimneys, not to mention its official black and red standard. Outside of the city's official so-called owlery, it was forbidden to own or keep captive the bird.
Killing an owl was, of course, taboo.
So it was that in the city of Iinaan, eyes are always upon you, whether they are the disinterested stony ones of its partisan or those of one with more sinister intentions. Despite the city guard, patrons of the Grand Bazaar and the more squalid areas were wise to give darkened alleyways and dead ends a wide berth under the best of circumstances. She was a handsome city by all means, but not immune to the darker elements of the civilized peoples of Erythis.
To this, knight-paladin Tybolt was acutely familiar as he strolled down the narrow Wall Street not a block from the Thrice-Baked Lamb. Wary, but with a practiced confident gait, he seemed one not to be trifled with, being almost impossibly tall and sufficiently wide with a barrel chest and muscles enough to cover his girth. His constant smile tonight was grim and he rested a ready hand on the pommel of this great-sword as he walked the rain-slicked cobblestone. The storm had broken unexpectedly at the half-light of predawn, leaving in its wake a thick fog and starless sky. The warrior himself could see no more than a stone's throw ahead but was certainly cognizant of the fact that fog conceals little from those that actively seek to meddle.
There was a sudden scrape of stone on stone from above followed by a shattering crash less than a spear's length behind Tybolt. He spun around with a fighter's alacrity that his size belied, his sword half-drawn. There hidden by the fog was the figure of a hooded being tumbling down from the roof of an adjacent building. The dark-clad being rolled smartly as it hit the cobbles and nipped up just as quickly as it fell. It seemed wholly unaware of its proximity to Tybolt as it checked itself over for injuries. Tybolt concluded, for all that it was worth, that his new companion was an elfin man, from what he could make out in the shroud of fog and twilight. As things go, a person of any type coming from a rooftop at night shouldn't necessarily be trusted and so he quietly brought his weapon fully to bear. He waited fully two breaths before acting further.
In that time the elf turned and saw him, and though no star or moon gave light, the man's eyes glinted briefly as he spied Tybolt before him. He seemed to smile coolly then, clearly sizing up the paladin. “What ho, night-stalker?” Tybolt said, feeling the elf out. He adjusted his grip on the great-sword then, subconsciously readying for an attack.
The elf said nothing, but his hand flashed somewhere into his loose midnight-blue jerkin and just as suddenly a knife shot out, gleaming for just an instant as it caught the light of the finally emerging sun over the city wall.
Tybolt deflected the blade deftly but almost too late, catching it close to his body. He cursed himself in the heartbeat before the elf was upon him, another, larger knife in hand. The elf was inside his reach – the advantage of great-sword over a smaller blade was now reversed. The elfin man thrust his blade to Tybolt's flank but was once again deflected by a close-held sword blade.
Using the pommel of his sword as a club, Tybolt connected swings expertly first to jaw then dagger hand. The cutter clattered harmlessly to the cobbles. The assailant locked hands with Tybolt's, causing him to drop his sword. The elf kicked the weapon to the gutter, showering a handful of sparks as metal grated against the stone. Locked still hand in hand, the two shoved and pulled each other in turns, neither seeming to gain the upper hand. Without warning, the back of Tybolt's head came into contact with the brick side of a building with a resounding crack. The world spun before him and his eyes showed only bright stars. His grip slacked, the elfin man was able to pull away but was back on him instantly. A deep sense of dread seeped through Tybolt's brick-addled mind. Suddenly, a pain shot through his side as another dagger, this time with true aim, was only only partially deflected by his chain shirt. Ringlets ripped and clinked to the ground as the blade sliced his flank.
There was a muffled crack as he wrenched the weapon both from his person and his attacker's hand. The elf cried out in sudden pain and began to back away. Unsteady as he was, Tybolt kicked in front of him, making contact with the elf's chest. They both fell to the ground in unison, Tybolt on his rump against the brick wall behind him and the brigand on his side. Both sit or lie for a full ten heartbeats before the elf unsteadily rose to his feet, clutching his right arm to his chest. It was then that the full light of morning caught his face and Tybolt soured with recognition. Before he could speak, the elf was running in the opposite direction, just as silent as the dissipating fog.
Tybolt peered down at the weapon in his hand, then back at the fleeting figure. He pushed himself up with a grunt, rubbing the back of his head. His hand came back crimson with blood. Superficial, he told himself, as he hoped the wound in his side was. Bending to retrieve his great-sword, he began the trek back to the Lamb and cursed his luck.
