Yardie (prime)/Vignette: Shadowy Business II - The Ghosts of Pashtal
Yardie spat a curse into the alpine air and wished for a warmer location to meet his contact, shivering as his moccasins crunched against the thick white snow. He clutched the spider-emblemed longcloak, which shielded his appearance, but the leather provided little insulation from the harsh elements. Fluctuating temperatures and snow flurries stung the rogue’s face with sharp icicles and unforgiving snow, clinging against the brim of his asymmetrical hat. Clouds of vapor escaped his nose and mouth as the impatient tapping of his foot prevented him from becoming a frozen Faendryl.
That was the point. Between the trail and the animal tracks of dangerous wildlife, unwanted attention would not dare venture or stumble upon this area. They would not idle outside for hours, greeted by growls from rabid squirrels and wolverines on either side of the tall trees. Therefore, Yardie’s talents for concealment were unnecessary; thus, he waited patiently, confiding in Lynaera’s connections.
Yardie lacked the affinity and awareness for nature that his brothers possessed, but he engaged in many sneak attacks to recognize the looming presence of another threat. It started with a sudden chill in the air, as if a pall of death paid a visit, stunning the fauna and even bringing the winds to respectful silence. A fog clouded his vision as it thickened like foam and grew in density. A masked image came into view, blurred and distorted like a distant memory until the rogue’s eyes surrendered to the wispy world of white.
Much like Lynaera, this contact operated through intimidation in a flashier, more theatrical manner. The rogue avoided peering into the fog, dreading who or what awaited him. Had the Faendryl been a mark, the cloud would be the last thing he saw as his coppery blood spewed from his lacerated throat. The change in elements was a calling card, an effective way to infect a hapless victim with dread.
The chilling voice crackled like a snake’s rattle in an inviting yet cautionary tone that carried around the Faendryl. The torrential winds now hushed in deference to the speaker. “Hello.. Phantom.”
Yardie swallowed. “Hello, Wraith.” When the voice didn’t respond, he pressed on in his inquiry. “I have word that my contact proved successful?”
Silence. The Wraith’s blend eluded the unaware, but for Yardie, he stared into the abyss with violet eyes, the deer aware of the wolf’s presence. The air grew colder, and the chill worsened, forcing Yardie to bundle tighter for warmth. “This will benefit the Isle of Four Winds.”
The air around him stilled, the winds waiting with bated breath. “Why.. should I.. care?” asked the Wraith.
“You shouldn’t,” Yardie answered truthfully, his thumb flicking the hexagonal mithglin ring on his left hand. Frankly, he considered walking away, especially after many of the controversial decisions. Mentalism. Capitulation. Manipulation. Infighting. But he thought of the victims. He thought of Penre, of Medijine, of the children. “You know about Spinnerette and the other children.” Unable to hide his frustrations, Yardie sucked his teeth, balling his granite fists. “I need to work through my methods–through *our* professional methods. It’s the most I can give. I can’t do this without your aid.”
The burnt black mask wavered out of the mist just in front of Yardie as he spoke, the nervous ticking in his voice catching the predator’s attention briefly. As it settled into the icy surroundings, the mists slowly pulled away to leave some of the natural world around him bare of more than just life - the creature remaining within the chilling concealment as they spoke. “So.. what is it.. you wish to know? That place.. has bad air.. Full of deception..”
Yardie nodded in agreement. Even with Pashtal gone, the island held an aura of malice. The rogue hypothesized something on the island caused the Sheruvian’s fanaticism and guided his hand. “There’s always an influence.” With a sudden pause, he took in the rigid trees anchored to their foundation, sturdy and unmoving, no different from the wills of the two ghosts that stood in the snow. “But unless I miss my guess, you already know that.” He pressed his hands together and touched the bridge of his nose with his index fingers. “The contents of the dead drop, Wraith,” Yardie demanded before softening his tone. “Please.”
A low hiss was the only response before the mists expanded and chilled the air around the Faendryl to an uncomfortably frigid temperature.
An icy fingernail kissed the back of Yardie’s neck, plucking each vertebra like a harpsichord before it vanished along with the mists. Yardie closed his eyes, and despite the nervousness, the corners of his mouth drifted slightly upwards before the sound of fluttering parchment caught his attention. On the snow in front of him was a thin sheet stained in places from ink or moisture; two separate scripts denoting the same information: one in Elven and smooth, the other in Dark Elven with a slightly jagged cant to the left.
Yardie opened his eyes, looked left, right, and then crouched to retrieve the contents. Where Elven frustration reared its head due to his reading limitations, the translation in Dark Elven relaxed his muscles and froze his worries. His full lips stretch to a toothy grin, followed by a hearty laugh. “Thank you, Wraith,” he announced to his surroundings before disappearing into the frigid forest.
But his gratitude remained unanswered as if the life of the wild and the spirits of nature had suddenly grown silent, departing as silently as the mysterious entity.
((Shoutouts to Quilic for the editing and the insight on Pashtal, Lynaera for her part in this, and the Wraith...you know who you are...))