Kuro awoke immediately. Years of light sleeping and forced marching had seen that when he got up, he was up, and not laggardly stumbling about like a drunkard. Every fiber of his body ached, signs of the slowness of age catching up with him - he was no longer as strong or fast as he used to be. That was fine though. He may have needed to be strong and fast to survive when he was young, incompetent and inexperienced, but that had not been the case for years now.

Kuro rose from his bed and, in complete darkness, mechanically went through his morning routine. First he washed and scrubbed himself down, applying a certain ointment here and there to prevent the accumulation of sweat and mask his odor - it would not be any good for evading hounds, but the animals Kuro was accustomed to dealing with were not so keen-scented. Then came his clothes - the first layer of long, woolen undergarments with sewn-in leather padding, followed by his ringmail. The rings were not safe to wear without some kind of leather padding underneath them - if a ring snapped, it would gouge his flesh otherwise.

Finally came his actual clothing, which was even more dangerous. Kuro spent five minutes methodically handling, feeling, and selectively sniffing at it for powder residues and stains. Finding nothing, he put on his shirt and trousers. He then spent seven minutes putting on his various straps, pouches, buckles, belts, and bandoleer, carefully arranging them just-so. After methodically handling and sniffing at his coat, he shrugged it on as well. 

He spent a half-hour going over his equipment, cleaning and inspecting each piece individually before placing each where it belonged. Of his three knives, one went into his left boot, one was secreted away into a slip inside his right sleeve, and the last was placed somewhere unmentionable. One steel knuckle went into his right pants pocket, while the other went into a belt-pouch. One lighter went into his right boot, and the other into his left pocket - he used to keep it in a slip on the inside of his left sleeve, but it had combusted once due to powder-backdraft. Never again. The two black powder grenades were mounted on the left of his belt-loop. The billow canisters were safer, and were hooked onto clasps sewn on his shirt.

Of the six pistols he currently possessed, two were bolt-throwers, three used powder, and the last used that and steam besides. Each one had its own holster on the inside of Kuro's coat. Finally, he stashed ammunition for each in his bandoleer, and slid a number of revolver-quarrels into the thin quiver mounted at the back of his belt.

The cellar trapdoor opened, and Kuro emerged from it like a shadow, silent and soundless. The many weapons and tools he carried did not so much as clink or whisper in protest as he moved. The building Kuro's cellar was sequestered in had been condemned and abandoned, the doors and windows boarded shut - the only way in or out was by the roof. Emerging there, Kuro looked out over the city of Meduzart just as the sun broke the horizon.

Kuro's body had a tall and lean build to it, but the layers he wore and and the specially tailored modifications lent him a deceitfully muscular build. Standing as he was, his coat covered and hid his arsenal from sight, the bandoleer being the only hint of the armory's worth of equipment he carried. His face was gaunt, his features narrow and hard. His eyes were glazed and empty. His lips were set into a thin, flat line. His was the expression of a man who was bored with the entire universe and everything in it. A carefully calculated mask, he made sure it never slipped. He had trouble with the eyes though - his eyelids were smoother and ill-defined, the one vestige of his Kusagi heritage. He couldn't quite manage the low-lidded, penetrating stare some of the senior members of the Riders utilized, the kind that made you feel like a rat being crushed in a serpent's gullet. That was fine though.

He turned away from the horizon and headed over to the next rooftop, the gap between the buildings less than a foot across. He continued on to the next rooftop as well, and only when he reached the one beyond that did he finally begin to descend, emerging from a tenement slum whose drunkard of a landlord never saw Kuro coming and going. The streets were already abustle with early-dawn traffic, mostly food merchants of one ilk or another, skittering about, preparing for that day's market. Kuro turned and followed after the first wheelbarrow he saw - he avoided taking the same route twice if possible, and it was always good to follow some kind of cart in case something valuable dropped off.

The Band Headquarters for the Derecho Riders, along with those of the Errant Knights, was located within the Guild-Hall itself. However, it was also the only Band Headquarter in the Meduzart that could not be entered from the front - there _were_ entrances, but all were barred. The 'correct' entrance was at the back of the building where deliveries were made. The guards there were long-timers in the Riders - they kept an eye out for contraband moving in and out of the Guild, an ear out for interesting gossip and news from the haulers and laborers, and they always had a finger or five to lend to any unaffiliated noses.  They all pretended Kuro didn't exist, as per usual, and the door into Headquarters was unlocked when he reached it.

The halls here were filled with errantly placed ladders, stairwells, and alcoves - the purposes of which were telling by the peep-holes set into the walls. Almost all of them would be unoccupied at this time of the morning. A polite, buxom girl at a polished desk asked Kuro to sign the visitor's list. He walked right past without even glancing at it. It was always blank. The girl tended to the unfortunates who made that mistake, and the next day the list was always pristine once more.

Several walls had been knocked down to make the common-room larger, in order to discourage 'funny business,' of which there was already an inordinate amount in the Riders. A number of side-rooms and cubbies were present for private arrangements, as far as 'private' passed in a den where the walls had ears. The Band leaders had dirt on every member of the guild, and they liked to settle all disputes and affairs in-house. Fear, loathing, and greed were the glues that held the band together. 

"And he, there's one'o them bleak bastards right now!" Came a guffawing voice from the in-house bar - a number of band regulars were seated there, along with a young-faced boy Kuro didn't recognize. He was wearing outlandishly red-colored leather and wore a broadsword at his back, and immediately Kuro knew that he'd been graciously if condescendingly turned down by the Serpentines. He turned to look at Kuro with eager eyes and an enthusiastic expression.

One of the men seated at the bar, a round-faced man called Nailtooth jovially called out to him. "This boyo here, passed the tests and all that, just needs to get the blessings of a lifer. Don't s'ppose you could lend 'em your word so we can buy him a drink or two?"

"I'm hardly a lifer. I'm not even a senior member." Kuro replied coolly.

"True enough, but your word and piss is worth something around here anyway. You've got the eye, it's known." The other men nodded silently at this.

Kuro turned and had a second look at the boy. He couldn't have been older than nineteen. Well-fed, Kuro doubted he had ever had to work on an empty stomach before, and his skin was smooth as silk. A number of merchant sons and daughters occasionally made their way through the trials needed to enter the Riders, and he was probably just that - his leathers looking as though they had been tailored was telling enough - regulars like Kuro had plenty of tailored clothing, but the boy had probably never held a job before, from the enthusiastic look on his face. He knew too little of hardship and dirty business, and was too old to learn enough of it to excel in the band, but they were always in need of muscle. Perhaps he had something to offer there.

"Do you have any experience with that blade?" Kuro asked, his voice flat and bored, his gaze gently drifting to settle somewhere directly behind the youth's head.

The boy drew the broadsword from its sheath and leveled it at Kuro from across the room. There was collective intake of breath and one almost-inaudible groan from the rest of the men at the bar as he did so, and Nailtooth's jovial expression sagged into a pained wince.

"Enough. I bet I could match any other sword in the band." He said, his expression having turned from enthusiastic to smug. The men at the bar were scowling. One or two had gotten up and were walking away. The rest were gazing deeply into their drinks, hunched over and studiously ignoring the boy. Nailtooth was the only one who continued to look on.

"Please don't kill him. I know his father." He called out.

_It's a shame. He has a steady grip._ Kuro thought absently as he spoke. "Do you intend to slay me with that, boy?" A brief look of anxiety crossed the boy's face, but he recovered quickly.

"N-no! Are you daft?" He nervously lowered the sword. "I was just..."

"That is not a toy to swat your peers with. That is a deadly weapon." Kuro said flatly. "That is a weapon of war and battle, death and pain. Never draw your weapon unless you intend to use it, child."

The boy had the grace to look momentarily ashamed, but he made no move to sheath the weapon, and his face quickly flushed red with anger. "I'm no child! I'm a man grown, I'll have you know! And I know how to handle a weapon properly, not like a craven bastard like you would know anyway!" By now, the few people present in the commands who hadn't been at the bar were looking on with some interest.

"Do as you will, boy, but that blade had best be bloodied before you sheath it. One way or another." Kuro responded in a deadpan voice, casually reaching into his right-pocket as he spoke. The boy fell into a stance and charged. _He should have tried the Errant Knights. They could have used him. I wonder why he came here?_ Kuro thought, standing still and rigid, unmoving as the boy closed in.

The boy came in with a furious overhead swing. Kuro took a single short step forward, and flung out his left arm against the flat of the blade's tip, effortlessly levering the blade aside as it skidded off his concealed ringmail. His right hand emerged from his pocket, clad in steel. He didn't hit the boy too hard, mostly letting the momentum from his charge do the work. That broke his nose instantly. With the youth thrown off-balance and howling in pain, Kuro's left arm fell down to clasp onto his right shoulder and pushed back, just at the same time as Kuro stepped to the side and used a leg to knock the youth's feet out from under him. The boy slammed flat onto his back and yelped piteously as Kuro kicked him solidly in the ribs, followed by stomping on his knees, chest, and face a few times.

"Buy him a drink anyway." Kuro called to Nailtooth. "It will help with the pain. Call a doctor, leave his father with the bill." He paused momentarily to roll the bloodied boy over and take his sheath, along with the broadsword. It was quality steel, not to be wasted. He sheathed the weapon and left the commons, carrying it lightly.

He walked unhurriedly through the twisting corridors, ducking under the occasional ladder, and stopped by the Pursers where he left the sword for Tribal. He was unlikely to keep it, but the Band's resident swordmaster probably knew somebody who could make use of it. Kuro then went to a particular lounge near the back.

The door was attended by one of the Bandmaster's stewards, a man dressed in gray who knew his way around a humorless smile. "For what," The steward asked Kuro as he approached, "Is the city of Meduzart named?"

"A stolen painting." Kuro replied. He had no idea whether that was true or not - the password tended to be chosen frivolously. The steward smiled thinly as he pulled a silver bell from a pocket and rang it softly. The door shook slightly as dozens of locks, bolts, snaps, clasps, and chains were undone. The lounge beyond was dimly lit by a crackling fire, the colors of the furniture's upholstery faded with age, the air slightly stale. A number of dogs slept lazily on the floor. A few growled at Kuro as he entered, but left him unmolested.

Two men sat in high-backed chairs within - on the left was Auleas Enlil, slightly hunchbacked, with crow-like eyes and braided hair. A giant, monstrous centipede was draped across his back, its pincers twitching but otherwise unmoving as its master continuously updated the Band's accounts in his infamous black book. On the right was Chalarensis, old as death and unashamedly more final, a thin beard of silver masking his lips while a pair of rounded, pitch-black opaque glasses shielded his eyes.

The glasses were a new addition to his wardrobe of cursed rags, which hung from his body like rotten meat. Kuro gave them his very best blank stare only to have it swallowed whole. He would have to look into getting himself a set. Chalarensis was not a Guild Overseer, but he may as well have been one, having been in the Guild as long as any of them. He would likely never be asked to join their ranks. The Riders were tolerated, not respected.

"That was a very mean thing you did in the commons, child." The old man said reproachfully. Kuro said nothing. "Do you think he might one day come back, older and wiser, bent on revenge?"

"He shall then be ready for the next lesson." Kuro replied shortly. Chalarensis chortled softly before turning his head slightly to spit a globule of blood into a nearby kettle. It was already a quarter-full.

"Your report?" Auleas asked, not even looking up from his book as he scribbled away fervently.

"Immediately prior to the siege of Icarael, the guard rounded up all known and suspected criminals and executed them...Including suspected criminals who were passing through." Kuro began. "Aiden, Iikka, Alethea, and Tafari are dead."

"Tsk tsk. Iikka will be missed. He had a nice smile and a kind heart." Chalarensis chortled again. "The city itself?"

"Held while I was there. I suspect by now it has fallen. Word should reach Meduzart of the Varisie sacking it by evening."

"Bad news to spoil my dinner." Chalarensis leaned to the side and spat more blood into the kettle. Auleas looked up his book, frowning slightly. "Alethea was complicit in a...particularly longstanding business venture. Was there anything amongst her affects...?"

"A few totems made of obsidian. A few hand-mirrors. A bottle of what I must suppose was liqueur." Kuro replied carefully. Auleas' frown didn't lift, but neither did it grow. "For small miracles, I suppose some thanks are in order." He muttered. "We'll need to compensate her family. As for you, you've done us quite a service...and neatly so. Let it be known if you should have need of anything."

Kuro nodded slightly and turned to leave. "Child..." Chalarensis wheezed suddenly. Kuro stopped. "A piece of advice...Your knives. You always want to keep them sharp. But never too sharp. A good, sharp knife is always called for, but too sharp and it starts cutting you even when you use it right." His shook his head slowly.

Kuro didn't answer. He just turned and left.

Kuro went around the commons. He didn't feel like having to listen to more veiled warnings. The one had been enough. As he neared the Pursers, Tribal stepped out into the hall and spotted him.

"Hail, Kuro." Tribal had a charming appearance - a chiseled face and long, neatly combed hair tied into ponytail. He wore neatly trimmed merchant clothing, vain by nature - but then, he had little need of armor. Three swords hung from his belt - a Kusagi Katana and a Cavalry Saber on his left, and a longsword on his right. Being near Tribal set off all sorts of signs and warnings in Kuro that something extremely large and dangerous was nearby - as Nailtooth had said, Kuro 'had got the eye.' He could feel at ease with monsters like Chalarensis if only because they were never on the brink of calling down the stormwall. Tribal was _always_ on the brink of calling down the stormwall. That was half of the reason he had been kicked out of the Serpentines.

"Thanks for the present, I know just what to do with it. In return...You'd best be heading to the Drunken Bard's Pub. The word is, some serious coin is going to be rolling in soon. And just between you and me..."

"I already listened to the knife lecture. I could stand to lose some heat." Kuro admitted. "My thanks." He continued on towards the exit, and was not terribly surprised when Tribal joined him. "You really need to stop." He said flatly. Tribal just smiled charmingly and shook his head. "She has killed more people than both of us put together. She knows every single tactic in the book. She will break every bone in your body."

"It's the challenge that makes it worthwhile." Tribal replied. Kuro didn't allow his dismay to show. He never let his mask slip.

He left Tribal to inadvisably flirt with the girl at the visitor's desk, stepping back out into the now broad-daylight of the city. He stared for a few moments at the sky, thinking. Eventually, he walked around the Guild-Hall into the main plaza and headed for the Drunken Bard's pub. There was always more work to be done...even if it was just honest work.

He went in through the front. Other Bands probably liked members of the Riders coming in through the back about as much as the Riders liked anybody else coming in through the front. He scanned the room, not recognizing any of the few faces present, and tentatively deemed it safe enough to loiter around for a few hours to wait for the alleged influx of coin Tribal had promised. He mentally picked out a table in a corner to sit in once he had ordered a drink (as a formality - he didn't actually drink) and approached the bar.

"Licorice Liquor and a small cup of water." He said in a low voice to the bartender.