Execution, Part 3

Mist clung in the air in tight little beads, teeming with kinetic life. A notable absence of a breeze committed the night’s temperance to a held breath. Lungs full, eagerly anticipating the next moment. The dew drop shroud only illuminated the feeling of transition; a hypnotic effect of cleansing change washed over Aesop. Street lamps of brushed-brass speared lances of light into the sprinkling mist, fracturing the golden torchlight into a wondrous show.

Aesop co-opted every moment, every step, and tucked it into the folds of his brain. His synapses fired with every sensory gulp he imbibed. He was reminded of his days of drinking fine vintages with his adopted family, the Dayanara Troupe. It is custom for anyone hosting the Dayanara, or any traveling band of performers, a bottle of your finest available vintage. Master Kalin used to snicker and speculate on the actual quality of each wine--as opposed to the indicated value--while swishing it in his mouth.

“Rubbery tannins. Oversaturated and syrupy berry notes. If this bottle is worth more than 10 marks, I’ll sell my hound to the nearest butcher.” Kalin would pat his trusty dog on the snout at this. “No risk there Ofus, this one’s a pretender.”

Aesop could tell this night was no pretender. At times, as his footsteps echoed on the granite sidewalk, he almost felt toppled by the sheer beauty of the evening. Of the inherent menace that clung to his skin like the beads of cold water that he moved through.

But his outward demeanor revealed none of that. Bishop Prescott was walking with determined haste. He bore a scowl of brooding seriousness. This version of Mr. Prescott was an official of the Mayoral Office, and he had the paper to prove it clutched in his hand. After Bill had vanished from 'William’s Wonders', Aesop had set to work forging the document and preparing his uniform. He had moved past the first security checkpoint, into High Ripple itself, without issue. The familiar border of green and gold on the parchment seemed to be enough for the surly guard, who communicated so with a grunt and a nod.

In the corner of Aesop’s vision there was a quick glint of movement that he instantly recognized as Tilum’s large mass. He reckognized the custodial cart that he pushed, the broom handle that stuck out of the back. Tilum moved into a dark alley, silently. In a few steps time, Aesop heard the gentle scrapings of metal on rock in the distance. Tilum was moving an iron grate to gain access into the sewer system beneath the city. And again, Bishop Prescott paid no mind. He had important matters to attend to, very official business indeed.

After a quarter hour of walking at a brisk pace, Aesop arrived at the steps to the tower—unmolested by the few guards who were making their rounds. Bishop brushed off any interaction by keeping his eyes fixed on the lofty structure before him. The target.

Ripple Hightower was the lifeblood of “order” here in Ripple. It’s stoney spindle was thrust violently towards the heavens, eclipsed in size only by the hulking mountain peak behind it. Guards milled about on the fortress walls that emerged from it’s base, extending in either direction. The vision prickled Aesop’s blood with anger. A relic of systemic oppression.

Bishop took the steps leading to the entrance two at a time, and arrived at the great threshold to the awaiting gaze of a pair of men in uniforms. They looked at him inquisitively as Aesop stopped before them, perhaps expecting him to be out of breath. The ginger man, shorter in stature, spoke.

“State your business here, friend.”

“Bishop Prescott. Step aside. I am here to attend to some prisoners behind these walls, by order of Mayor Burgess.”

Aesop thrust the credentials towards them. After a brief pause, the half elven guard took it, & held the parchment up in the torchlight, looking it over.

When he was done he returned his eyes to Aesop, and slowly handed the false order back to him.

“Seems right. I do find it strange that you didn’t come with the rest of your guys the first time. This whole thing has been a little out of the ordinary.”

Aesop remained calm. Bishop Prescott grew impatient swiftly.

“You find it…strange? I see. Well, I find you insubordinate. I may just return to the mayor with the news of your inaction, then you may find things less strange. More simple.”

The half Elf looked surprised. He struggled to find words with his mouth open. The ginger guard answered first.

“Not at all, sir. uh… Mr...?"

“Prescott.”

“Right. It’s just, a bunch of the mayors boys, dressed in black like you, dropped the prisoners off. They left strict instructions not to let anyone but Specialist Renfield in to see them. It’s our protocol to… Well, we will need to run this by someone a little up the ladder. So to speak.”

Bishop did his best to stare holes into the man’s skull.

“I’m in quite a hurry. Is this necessary?”

The half elf regained his composure.

“I’m afraid so, sorry. I’ll just grab the high ranking officer on duty to sign off on this. Which would be…”

He looked at his partner for help.

“I don’t know, really. Sergeant Holgate is out. Is it Lieutenant tonight? No. He’s in the country for the week.”

Bishop felt his jaw tense with frustration, he glowered further at them.

Ginger laughed nervously.

“Well, I’ll figure it out. I’ll find someone with some clout and get their approval. Wait right here.”

The Half Elf looked at Ginger with an expression of ‘please don’t go’; Ginger shrugged and left them alone outside on the step.

Bishop kept his eyes stuck on the man.

The poor guard attempted a smile.

“Nice night we’re having.”