Oxaniae/Spy Games
Oxaniae, the Faendryl spy under the employ of Wrendiel and the Umbral Syndicate, peered into the distance, blanketed by the shadows, watching the two Faendryl argue as the tides shifted, their silvery foam matching the moon’s glow. For the taller woman, green eyes lit with wisps of disappointment, emotions straining against any attempts at stoicism, for the shorter rogue who hugged his knees as he sat on the soft sands, amethyst eyes twinking in the night sky. Oxaniae detected, at worst, an argument between two individuals: once aligned, then separated, then aligned again, and now fractured by something of great import.
She could not read lips, so her eventual report to Wrendiel would lack definitive substance. But the profession provided enough tools for surveillance. Distance also aided her endeavor. And she had played the spy game long enough, her daggers operating as sharp as her wit and her cunning. So she had the utmost confidence in the rift between the Mystiq, one of the Matriarchs of the Ta’Mori, and Yardie, the Twice-Traitor-turned Blade who gave her the cold shoulder.
Within minutes, Oxaniae saw Mystiq shake her head and disappear, a display of power from the Empath. Yardie, however, sat on the beach, staring off into the dark horizon, visage hard as stone, but with slight tremors of some disturbance. Whatever it was, he had been rocked by some news, lost in her pensive thoughts. Slowly approaching, Oxaniae rested a hand on her dagger, thinking about the many ways she could filet Wrendiel’s quarry. As another professional of the blade, she salivated at the idea of facing the Blade, the rumored pup she saw little value in or interest in. “What makes him so special?” she asked herself, befuddled by Wrendiel’s fascination with the one they called the Panicky Phantom. She inched closer, letting the darkness veil her presence.
Suddenly, the rogue turned his head ever so slightly, his eyes staring into the vicinity where she hid, his gaze granite. With a shrug, he retreated through the open burnt-orange door of the adjacent bungalow. He never closed the door; the home welcomed the destitute, or perhaps the brave and foolish.
Oxaniae waited several minutes before sneaking her way into the home. Not wanting to take the obvious route, she slipped her head to peer through the window. But the house was empty; the Panicky Phantom's presence seemed to have disappeared. Shocked, she hurried to the front door, but she was nothing; his kitchen and living quarters were undisturbed. She hurried up to the loft, climbing the vined ladder, but again, nothing. “How did he…?” She did not dare finish the sentence. Quickly, she escaped the abode, eager to report her findings to Wrendiel.
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“The allegiance between Mystiq and the Skunk is forfeit,” Oxaniae announced before the occupied leader of the Umbral Syndicate, Wrendiel.
Wrendiel raised his head ever so slightly, blazing red eyes almost peering through her. “Are you certain?”
She snorted. “Quite.”
Wrendiel shook his head. “Once again, the Ta’Mori pride clouded our mutual interests. I do not know the connection between the two, but it was vast enough for her to rebuff my pleas. Now, the target of her protection returns the favor to her and us in kind.”
“We cannot trust the Ta’Mori anymore,” Oxaniae sneered.
Wrendiel nodded. “Quite right. Vumaie’s disappearance is proof enough.” Regretfully, he sighed at the prospect of equal-minded visionaries once united, now tarnished by one woman’s impulse. “They know too much.” He returned to his document, scribbling fiercely with his sharpened quill. “Now we will bring down the Ta’Mori for their folly. We will rain down upon them.”
Oxaniae smiled deviously. “And Mystiq?” Pointy fangs peeked from thin lips in anticipation.
Wrendiel nodded knowingly. “I leave her to you.”
And with that, she was gone, shifted in the shadows. Only her sinister laugh hung as a remnant of her presence.