From chains to freedom, as quick as the splash of blood of his captor. All night he had feared the unscrupulous lord's decree, that his execution was nigh, ignoring all the others to come to grips with his fate. He would do anything to escape that fate so that he may pursue his plot, to finalize that impossibly ambitious idea. Oh, how wondrous it was to hear that vulture man's words, that they'd be spared if they would just do one little favor on behalf of a patron. The fear subsided.

Until, that is, the splash of blood.

Finch reeled - the spitting, the spurting, and the gushing! It bubbled between his lips, the sanguine ooze. It prompted a retching feeling in his gut and chest, but he contained it. Now he just had to control the dizzying head rush - keep himself conscious and about his wits.

Why? Why was there a raid? Why now? He just wanted this chapter over with, and at every turn, death seemed to be awaiting him. Is this the punishment of the gods? A test? He was about to walk down a corridor of darkness and blood, was this a warning of what it entailed? Was he ready? Worthy? Who was he to spill blood; he who would recoil at its sight?

Finch, once squeezing his eyes shut, opened them, layed them on the dying vulture man. Bore them into him. To take in every detail, analyze every bubble in its growing pool.

[i]'Take a nice, long look, Pharasius. This is what's waiting for me. This is what I've chosen. Lay in the bed you've made. Do you think there's room for weaklings there?'[/i]

Finch shuddered as blood was shed all around him. This innocent little hamlet, being slaughtered, in the name of what? They weren't even given the opportunity to surrender or give themselves in. It was senseless. Callous. Is this what it took to be an assassin? Or was there something more, something that made these brutes to be but murderers? Finch thought that, at least, he would acknowledge the value of life, and of the lives he'd take. Or is that a foolish, naive thought?

Their new captor showed himself, a Rivenspire noble. This was his orchestra, this mayhem its chorus. As he would have it, no witnesses, not even this hamlet's count. He would also have these prisoners be his pit dogs, and break his brother from prison. Finch could do it. Easily, and he would - at least for the count, but not for this man. The others saw no other choice it seemed, neither did Finch, but Finch was looking in a different direction entirely. He waited for their new master to leave.

[color=crimson]"If he would massacre all these innocents,"[/color]Finch began thoughtfully to argue the Breton, but did so in hesitation, for the Reachman had made a reputation for his aggression, [color=crimson]"and the count too, just to tie loose ends... why should we think he'd treat us any differently? Because we save his brother? Because so did the count he killed. He delivered us to him."[/color]

A shrill scream made Finch's head snap away, looking to where it came. An axe had gutted a woman, and her insides were spilling over her killer's boots. Finch immediately looked away and shut his eyes.

[color=crimson]"We'll do our part like how the count did his, a-and then this'll be us!"[/color]

The young beggar would have no part of this. Despite the man man's claims, there would be no one to trace Finch back to. He wasn't going back to Daggerfall. He'd press forward, maybe to Northpoint. Who would recognize an urchin like him? But he had to get something first: the book. It was the key. He mustn't let anyone here find out he has it, or let them know what it is.

He sprung to his feet and made a wild dash for the barracks. His stuff was buried just behind. Maybe after he can go in and take some of the off duty clothes the guards wear. After all, many of them weren't going to be needing it anymore. These rags smelled offensive, even to him.