And we're back! Sorry for the delay, had some real life stuff come up, but it's time to return to Wraeclast. Today we have the Duelist, dashing charmer of Oriath. You might notice he's a bit more irreverent than his compatriots. This one's a two parter, as apparently I exceeded the 50k character limit. Enjoy!



Previous stories:

Templar - https://www.pathofexile.com/forum/view-thread/1403133

Scion - https://www.pathofexile.com/forum/view-thread/1414654

Marauder - https://www.pathofexile.com/forum/view-thread/1419489







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A Singular Purpose

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“What... ohhh... what are you... ohhhhhh... your fingers... fhhhhhh... is that... ohhhhhhhhh...”



Angry pounding at the door, like a collapsing slum scaffold. Dammit. Of course her husband would show up right now. He wasn’t supposed to be back for another half a glass.



“Virtuana! I know you’re in there! Open the door, Virtuana!”



Screw it. I didn’t spend the past two weeks pretending to enjoy that blubbering little rodent’s dinner parties not to claim my prize. I twitched my wrist to a new angle.



“That’s... unghhh... that’s my... ohhhhhhhh... yes... YES... YESSSSSSSSSS...”



The door crashed open just as Lady Virtuana, unhappily married wife of Lord Impotus Puril, collapsed away from me onto the sweat-stained sheets of their master bedroom, her eyes rolled completely back into her head. Her ash blond hair spread appealingly across plump pillows embroidered with the House crest - frolicking white nymphs rampant across a field of blue and green - and her heaving breasts were, well...



Hell, I’m not a poet. I stab things. They were great. I could’ve stared at them for hours.



My weapon remained at attention and unsheathed, my bare knees on either side of her sweat-slicked legs. I smiled at Lord Impotus, mentally picturing a cat licking its whiskers of cream.



“Afternoon, my lord.”



It was worth it. Every over-ripe canape stuffed with secondhand meat, every glass of tavern swill wine bullied into forged bottles, every nasally grunted question augering into my earholes like a Templar’s hypocritical sermon - all of it, worth it, just to see the expression on his face. Reminded me a lot of that time Blackfist Arriatus shoved his hand up to the elbow in Lord Rybus’ finest hog on a dare.



(How did you think he got the name ‘Blackfist’?)



“Y- y- y- y- you!”



“Yes. Me.” I rolled off the bed and slid my trousers on, buckling a sword belt on top. “Your wife really wasn’t getting the attention she needed, my lord Impotus, and I, well, I am but a servant to those in need. Those in stiff need, you might say.” I winked at him.



He really didn’t appreciate the wink. I’d spent hours in the mirror practicing it, too, getting just the right look of superciliousness, the slightly raised lip. It was simple, once I realized the trick. It was all about not caring, about him as a husband, as a person, as anything at all. He was just an object, to be used and discarded as I saw fit.



I wonder if that’s how Father felt all the time.



“Kill him,” Lord Impotus screeched, the skittering roar of a cellar mouse, and four guards pushed past him into the room. Two carried pitted short swords, the other two stout banded clubs. All four looked like they spent more time guarding the kitchens than anything of value. I nearly groaned.



“Really? That’s the best you can muster, my lord? And here Lady Virtuana was telling me all about your prowess. In finance, not in bed, naturally.” I drew my blade, five hands of solid Oriathan steel. “It seems your inadequacies cover an entire spectrum of faults, and not just the obvious ones. Those men are about as likely to stick me as you are to stick your wife.”



He gaped, like a fish, face long past red and now into the realms of pure white. I could see veins on his forehead throbbing.



One more push ought to do it.



“Come now, my lord, you can’t pretend like you didn’t know? That every tavern from here to the Outlands doesn’t have a minstrel singing, ‘The Lord’s Magic Stick, But A Rope For His Di-’”



“I’ll kill you!” he screamed, and plucked a dagger from his belt.



Finally.



Laughing, I spun around and leapt out the second story window of their villa, carefully avoiding the frame. Glass burst around me, stinging my hands and arms, but I ignored it. I was more focused on landing in the hay pile I’d bribed a slave to shift against the far wall of the courtyard below.



Scratchy fibers tore at my skin, the packed stalks cutting me worse than the glass, and I hit the ground hard, but my legs didn’t break, and really, that’s the only thing that mattered at the moment. Behind me, I heard a muffled shout, the sounds of splintering woodwork along with panicked swearing, and then a sodden impact, like a melon meeting a hammer. I swam my way out of the hay and looked over.



Lord Impotus lay sprawled in a most unnatural pose, the majority of his brains decorating a large patch of marble tile rather than futilely struggling for attention inside his skull. I bowed to the guards staring down from the inexplicably collapsed framework of the villa window, and ran off into the streets of Oriath’s Garden Quarter.



You could have blinded the sun with my grin.



-------------------------------------------------



“I still don’t know why you didn’t just let me stab him. I could have provoked him into the Arena, mmmph...”



I paused for another bite of grilled meat (best not to ask provenance thereof), savoring the sting of the hot juices flowing down my throat, when I started choking on a particularly unyielding segment. I coughed, frantically gulping some beer to clear the gristly bits, then slammed the mug back down on the weathered wooden counter of the roadside stall, irritating the still oozing cuts on my skin. I glared at the dark-haired man behind the counter, and pointed the half-eaten skewer at him.



“What the hell piece of animal was that, its shrivelled balls? That fought back more than Lady Virtuana’s inhibitions.” He ignored me, and I refilled my mug from the pitcher. “Anyways, you know he never would’ve stood a chance. I could have dueled him blindfolded, my sword in my ass and a tit in my mouth, and still slit his belly in under a minute.”



The meat vendor kept his attention on the nasty looking knife he was honing, sliding it down the whetstone in steely rasps. A black butcher’s apron covered his front, stained white clothes (don’t ask what kind of stains, obviously they were blood stains) beneath. When he spoke, it was in a toneless voice no louder than a gnat’s fart.



“It was imperative no suspicion could arise that Lord Impotus’ death was anything but an accident.”



“Oooh, look at you with the big words,” I sneered, and took another bite. I didn’t swallow, though, due to the cold pressure on my throat. Pressure that might be applied by a short, but very sharp piece of metal held in the sociopathic hand of a member of the Guild of the Night. I caught his eyes with mine, and looked down, then back at him. Thankfully, he took the hint, and looked down as well.



Beneath the counter, my hand not holding the meat skewer was holding another tool for poking things. The edge of my sword caressed the inside of his leg, lifting his apron and resting against his femoral artery. I raised an eyebrow.



A second where it could go either way, that twisting precipice in battle that can only be found in battle, and the blood rushing through my ears was everything beautiful and terrifying about the world at once. My hand never wavered on the hilt of the blade.



It’s only on the threshold of death that we truly feel alive.



He disappeared the knife, his expression unchanging from the same blank slate I’d always seen him in. I let my sword tip drop to the ground and swallowed the now cool mouthful of mystery meat. Thankfully, this one went down far smoother. I chased it with more beer and dabbed at my cuts with a bloodstained cloth, hissing when it stuck to the tender flesh. He was silent for a moment, then spoke again, his voice dry... no, not dry. Emotionless.



“Just being civilized. My lord.”



“You know I don’t like being called that.”



“Yes. I do.”



I grinned at him. I like an honest man.



“I still don’t understand. Him dying in the Arena is just as much a natural death as his face redecorating those garish tiles. Why the trickery?”



“You know I can’t tell you that.”



“And you know you’ll tell me anyway. You can’t resist explaining your traps. I think they’re the only things you really care about.”



He sighed, and poured me another mug.



“Though it may not be initially apparent, I care about a great many things. What I don’t understand, is why you’re doing this. It’s obviously not for the gold. I haven’t paid you in three weeks.”



“Pah.” I waved a hand dismissively. “Gold, silver, gems; all of it trash. Where would I even spend what you’re offering me? I’m already fabulously wealthy, thanks to Father. No, what matters is the rush, the thrill of making something else your own, if even for the briefest instant. A lady’s virtue, a man’s life, a coward’s honor, a fool’s despair - everything is a duel, and there can be only one victor. The tougher the fight, the more exhilarating the prize.”



I downed the mug’s contents again and burped.



“For me, it’s simple. I’m all about the feasting, the fighting, and the fu... friendly relations with languishing ladies. Everything else can go hang. Luckily for you, I never lose a fight, and I’ve no love lost for spilling secrets either. Now, what’s going on?”



He looked around without seeming to, eyes and ears searching for anything out of the ordinary. A neat trick, one that all survivors in the Guild of the Night learn early on. If they don’t learn it early on, they don’t survive, obviously. The teachers at assassin school are firm believers in the pass or fail method. I helped myself to another skewer, basking in the warm sunlight of midday Oriath.



Around us, the sounds of the Market Quarter filled the air. Geese honked in cages, dogs snarled at each other over scraps, customers shouted and haggled with merchants, slave manacles clinked while work crews shambled past, their downcast eyes focused on anything other than their own lives. The cracked walls of tenement buildings stretched overhead, their looming closeness giving the feel of being in the outer dueling runs of the Grand Arena, and above it all, the bone white walls of that venerated structure vaulted into the sky like a temple to some mad deity. Which, of course, is exactly what it was.



God, I loved that place.



Satisfied that nothing appeared abnormal, he leaned in closer to me.



“Lord Impotus’ death needed to look like an accident because he was one of Dominus’ few remaining supporters among the Great Houses, and Dominus must not suspect anything more than his usual levels of paranoia. I weakened the timbers of the windowframe a week ago with wood beetle larva, carefully planted to look like a natural infestation. When the Templars investigate, as they undoubtedly are doing right now, they’ll find that, sadly, Lord Impotus died in an unfortunate fall chasing a notorious ravisher of noble ladies, oh dear, what a tragedy, instead of being suspiciously provoked into a targeted killing on the Arena sand, and life will go on. No loose ends.”



“So you killed a flaccid moneylender with no one the wiser. Why does it matter?”



“It matters, because it sets the stage for the next phase.”



“Next phase? What, are you going to murder the High Templar himself?” I laughed.



“Ultimately, yes.”



I nearly choked on another piece of meat.



“You’re serious? Not that I care about the man, but why? I can’t really picture you acting purely out of altruistic intent, a ‘noble son of Oriath’ and all that. Hell, I’m a noble son of Oriath, and I’d dance while this place burned.”



“I’m not. There is a group of people who are paying me a very large sum of gold to make this happen. It seems they are sufficiently upset at the increased troop levies and taxes supporting Dominus’ Wraeclast ambitions that they feel something needs to be done. In this case, the ‘something’ is the High Templar’s life.”



“Well. That’s certainly ambitious, I’ll give you that. Stupid, but ambitious.”



His eyes narrowed.



“Stupid? The plan will work, I assure you.”



“Oh, not the details. I’m sure you’ll be frightfully efficient as always. No, I’m talking about the strategy, the vision. Father always said that’s what the other Houses lacked, was the vision. Their inability to think past the wants of the now.” I took another bite. “Of course, he found himself minus most of his blood, his favorite organ, and several other key body parts when one of the kitchen slaves took offense to his ‘advances,’ so he might have had a bit of a blind spot of his own.”



“And what, then, is lacking in the ‘vision?’”



I waved a hand, taking in our surroundings.



“It doesn’t mean anything. Nothing changes. All of this, it’s just another interminable round in their Game, that thing the Great Houses do to pass the time here in Oriath. It’s dreadfully boring, but it’s all they know.” I finished off the skewer and stabbed it into the counter next to the first. “The people in this street, do you think they care who’s lording it over them? Do you think they care whose hand cracks the whip? To them, one tyrant’s just as good as another, so long as the fighting pits stay open and the farms continue to grow. No, mark my words, whoever replaces Dominus will be no different, and nothing here will really change. In five years time, you’ll be planning this all over again.”



“Yes. Yes, I will.”



I pounded my fist on the counter, nearly doubling over in mirth as I finally realized his scheme.



“And getting paid a large sum of money to do so, I imagine. You, my friend, might be one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. It’s a shame I’ve never learned your name.”



“I don’t have a name,” he said softly. “A shadow is only ever defined by that which casts it, and that is no true name at all.”



“To the shadows, then,” I said, saluting him with my mug, but he was already gone, vanished into the swarming streets without a trace.



Smart fellow, that shadow.



-------------------------------------------------



I spent the next several days at the family estates, healing up from my various cuts and bruises (after the adrenaline wore off, I realized I had twisted my right ankle), and generally enjoying the latest gossip winging its way around the city. My tryst with Lady Virtuana was overshadowed slightly by her husband’s unfortunate fall, but everyone knew of my victory. Several letters arrived from the lady herself, but I ignored them.



‘Familiarity breeds contempt,’ or so Father always said, and as in so many other things, he was right. He was also a wretched parent whom I loathed, and oh how I secretly wished I could have let the kitchen slave slip away after his glorious dismembering of the vile old man (seeing as how he was a Karui boy of not more than eleven summers), but more often than not Father was right, so I left the letters unopened. For now.



I didn’t throw them out, of course. I’m not a monster.



It was on the second day of my convalescence that a delegation of Templars arrived, announcing their presence with a fierce knocking on the manor’s door. I limped over to open it, using a slender cane (secretly a sword, because it amused me to carry it) to support my injured joint, though my limp was much more exaggerated than what I actually felt.



If an enemy thinks you have a weakness, it’s all too easy to turn it into a strength.



I pushed open the heavy iron-banded portal, its hinges screeching in protest (I’m not a door maintenance person either, and I had no use for slaves), and looked out on my callers. The group clustered under the front portico vines was clad in ebon armor chased with gilt, and led by a grizzled veteran of a man. His balding head shone under the clear skies, but I could not seem to focus on anything but his hideously mismatched pants.



I mean, I know not everyone in Oriath possessed my finely honed fashion sense, but pink chevrons on a bright orange field with green trim? The man must have been dressed by a blind tailor. Who was also drunk. And dead.



I turned my snort of laughter into a coughing fit, which I’m fairly certain he saw through since a red flush spread across his bearded cheeks. It was probably the only thing that matched his pants.



“Ahem... excuse me, I fear the sight of your sartorial magnificence has quite disarmed me, your grace. What do the Templars require?”



“High Templar Dominus wants you at the Grand Chapel, my lord,” he growled, hands twitching on his staff. “To answer some questions. Immediately.”



“Of course, of course,” I said soothingly, ignoring the hated honorific. Every time I heard ‘my lord,’ it reminded me of Father, and his rage when someone failed to address him properly. Vain fool. Deeds mattered, not descriptions.



I stepped out onto the porch, putting myself in easy striking distance of the group. I could have taken them all unawares right there, but to what end? I was not under arrest, and I must confess, I was curious about what Dominus wanted.



“I fear I will not move quite so quickly, though. I took a fall the other day and wrenched my ankle.”



I made a show of wincing at the weight on my right leg. The old man stared stonily at me, not fooled for an instant.



“Perhaps if you stayed in your own bed you’d avoid such injury. My lord.”



“Who can say? Injuries happen in a great many places, to a great many people, and so we must derive our pleasure where we may. Especially when sharing those pleasures with others.”



“I’m sure the late Lord Puril agreed with you.”



I smiled at him.



“Oh, I rather doubt it. He struck me as one interested in very few pleasures not his own. His wife was sorely in need of some bladework. Why, I believe she’s already requested some additional lessons of me, focusing on the more... esoteric techniques. Just some little things, inconsequentialities really... the Trarthan Double Fist, the Split of Two Sighs, Merveil’s Moan. You know. I’m sure you’re well familiar with them all. Shall we?”



I motioned to the walkway leading past the manor’s high walls to the street, and stifled another grin at the Templar commander’s stiff-backed walk as he pretended not to have heard my last few comments. Sanctimonious preachers all of them, grown old and withered before their time. Would do them good to get out in the world every now and then.



So few people want to really live.



-------------------------------------------------



The sun had grown high over the clouds when we arrived at the Grand Chapel, a stuffy old building wildly enthralled with its own importance. Stepping inside brought some relief from the heat, but my clothes were already stained with sweat from the walk, and inwardly I cursed. My usual tailor had disappeared weeks ago, no doubt caught up in some purge or another, and I was having the damnedest time finding a new one nearly as capable. Gold could buy a great many things, but was no substitute for true skill. I was going to run out of outfits before the year’s end if this kept up.



Hah. What I wouldn’t give now for even one of my closets.



My cane made loud clicks on the tiled floor, most likely because I kept striking the slabs with overt enthusiasm, trying to scuff their polished surface. The old man glared at me, but held his tongue, and several staccato raps later, I took pity on him and settled into a more sedate pace. Wouldn’t do to make him too irritated. He was the High Justicar, after all, and I had a keen sense of how far someone could be pushed before they snapped.



Another gift from Father, delivered via his usual methods. I’ll spare you the details, but it involved a wooden rod, and pain. Lots of pain.



We passed through the main nave and up a flight of stairs to an ornately carved wooden door. The old man knocked briefly and pushed it open, revealing a spartanly furnished room. The only furniture of note was a dresser of dark oak, looming against one of the side walls, and a simple desk, behind which sat the most powerful man in Oriath. At least, for as long as he remained alive.



The High Templar, Dominus.



“Thank you for your time, my lord,” he began politely, if insincerely, and I gave him my most insouciant grin. ‘Always start as you mean to continue,’ another of Father’s aphorisms, though I doubt he had this exact situation in mind when he relayed it to me.



“My pleasure, High Templar. Forgive me for not arriving sooner, but alas, my ankle is quite swollen, and I feared aggravating the injury.”



He looked at me, and rubbed his chin with one hand, the fabric of his robe gently swishing in the silent room. Suddenly, his other hand rose from beneath the desk and sent a letter opener flying at my face. Acting purely on reflex, I spun out of the way and into a duelist’s stance, the thin blade of my sword-cane halfway out of its sheath. I heard an exclamation of surprise behind me - the High Justicar’s combat reflexes kicking in as well - and the letter opener stuck quivering into the door with a low thrum.



“I can see your mobility is exceedingly hampered,” Dominus said drily, and I fought the urge to smile. Now this would be a worthy duel.



“Shall I apprehend the miscreant, my lord?”



The High Justicar’s voice, of course. Clearly a man unable to comprehend the meaning of the word ‘fun.’ Dominus shook his head.



“No. Leave us. We have matters to discuss that do not require your particular brand of zealotry, my brother.”



The old man gave me a hard look, his knuckles whitening on his staff, but made no move to strike. Slowly, with an effort that I’m sure caused him much mental anguish, he loosened his grip and stood stiffly upright.



“As you command, my lord.”



I waggled my fingers at him as he stalked out of the room, then turned my attention back to Dominus, sheathing my sword-cane and leaning on its hilt.



“What is it you wish to speak on, High Templar?”



“A dead man, and how he came to be that way, my lord.”



I feigned confusion.



“I do not know of whom you speak. Could you perhaps be more specific?”



“You were balls deep in his wife.”



Clearly I knew who he was talking about, but I’ve never been one to make life easy for others. Drove Father quite mad, and earned me more than a few of those beatings I mentioned earlier.



“That covers a great many men, High Templar, and a great many more women. My bladework is legendary.”



Dominus gazed coldly at me, and I felt a familiar rush of adrenaline. This would be a fight for my life, no question about it.



“So I’ve heard. I speak of Lord Impotus Puril, of the Great House Puril, recently deceased. You were witnessed at the scene of his death.”



“Yes, the Lady Virtuana and I had an appointment. I was teaching her some of the finer arts of swordplay.”



“Swordplay that just happened to take place in their bedroom.”



“It was spacious, and cool. The summer heat is quite vexatious this year.”



“Which no doubt explains the lack of clothing on either of you.”



“I was sweaty, and didn’t want to ruin my doublet. They are fairly expensive, you know. Trarthan silk is not cheap.”



Dominus leaned forward, sparks seeming to flash within his pupils.



“Let us cut the pretense, my lord. Lord Puril is dead. He was killed, if not by you, then by someone using you. Wood beetle larvae do not normally pupate so close together in fire-oak timbers. Tell me why you were there, on that day, at that time.”



Well, crap. I always told that shadow one day he’d be too clever for his own good.



“I have no idea what you could possibly mean, High Templar. I was merely offering the Lady Virtuana instruction.”



“Spare me the denials. You suddenly appear at Lord Puril’s events-”



“I attend a great many festivities-”



“-in the span of two weeks you’re bedding his wife-”



“-she was young, and lonely, and her ti-”



“-and at the end of it all, one of the only Great Houses willing to contribute to my vital work in Wraeclast is now without its patriarch, fallen to his death from a mysteriously collapsed windowframe, leaving fifteen different cousins to bicker over the succession.”



“-he did chase me out of it. I’m lucky I didn’t break my hips.”



We stared at each other, and I was somewhat surprised the air itself didn’t ignite from the sheer force of Dominus’ anger. My legs felt like coiled springs, ready to dodge or leap to the attack, my hand gently resting on the hilt of the sword-cane. Adrenaline poured through my veins in shuddering rushes, giving the illusion that time itself was slowing down around me.



Sure, I could have told him about the Guild of the Night, the conspiracy to weaken his power base, but Dominus reminded me too much of Father. That same expectation that the world would bend to his whim simply because he demanded it be so. Obviously, I had no choice but to deny him, him and his haughty arrogance, else I’d never be able to live with myself afterwards. He hadn’t even offered me a drink after my walk.



I waited for him to make his move.



Dominus leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together on the desk.



Not the move I was expecting, to be honest. I was anticipating something more along he lines of “Die, you dog,” and then a glorious fight, ending with him choking on my steel. When he spoke again, his voice was pleasant, though his eyes remained hard.



“I could have you killed, you know.”



I felt the anger surge through me, anger at all the times Father thought to control me, thought to bend me to his will whether I wished it or not, and the pain that invariably followed. Anger at the simpering fools who called themselves my peers, though they’d never dare sully their delicate hands with a blade in the pits. Anger at everything, at everyone who stood in my path and failed to recognize my abilities.



There was a reason I was undefeated in the Arena.



I forced my voice into a slow drawl, affecting the most aristocratic of accents.



“You could try, and if, if somehow you succeeded, riots would tear Oriath apart. The people love me, what I do in the Arena, and if you take their entertainment, blood will flow.” I took a calculated gamble, remembering my conversation with the shadow. “Especially considering how tenuous your grip on the Great Houses is at the moment.” My own eyes narrowed, the anger slipping through at last. “I would relish the challenge, though, High Templar. Call your men, and we’ll see if you live long enough to witness their arrival!”



Dominus merely smoothed down the front of his white and red robes, interlacing his fingers together in front of his stomach.



“You are a persistently single-minded individual. No doubt it explains your success as a duelist, but you should be careful, my lord. It might get you into trouble one of these days.”



“I’ve yet to find the trouble I couldn’t fight my way out of, High Templar, and I doubt I ever will. Now, if there’s nothing else?” I looked pointedly at the door.



“By all means, take your leave. I’ll see you soon, my lord.”



I walked out, not taking my eyes off him for an instant. Never turn your back on a viper, Father always said.



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