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FalconsHonour
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The Illusion of Sunlight
Duly disclaimed: Not mine, never will be mine. Not for profit; purely for fun.
Other notes: I'm using essentially my girlfriend's Sparrow here, because he's more fun than my morally good little angel. This one inhabits a grey area, shading very much towards evil depending on her (the girlfriend -- or his; Sparrow's) mood on the day, and, for reference, is dressed in blue-dyed nobleman's wear. Bit scarred, since she's not so hot on not dying mid-battle, but I'm cheerfully ignoring that on the base principle of "Hey, All Heroes Must Be At Least A Bit Cute, Right?" Oh, and since she favours Will, I imagine his Will lines are fairly prominent, though of course, good old Garth does get to be the hero of that particular skill. (I did draw 'my' interpretation of her Hero; I might post the picture at some point, too).
Fable III will no doubt blow this entire plotline completely out of the water, but until PM brings that out for us to enjoy, I can have fun playing about in his world, right? Umm... right?
Anyway, your comments and constructive crits are more than welcome, and I hope you enjoy.
The world is yours to enjoy, but the Spire is mine.
So she had said, all those years ago, and still it holds true. The Spire rises from the water like a great black needle, its surface polished and smooth, its point now perfect. No-one knows what goes on there. It's so much part of the landscape that it is ignored.
But on a clear day, when the sun shines so brightly that one could be forgiven for thinking it was just a reflection causing the illusion, the Spire glows. It glows brighter than a lamp, brighter than a burning flame, cutting a sharp gash of light across the rippling water, and it pulses. Like a heartbeat.
And the Fourth Hero knows that it is no illusion.
Some things never change. Bloodstone, for better or worse, was definitely one of those things.
Oh, it was cleaner than the first time Sparrow had been there, there was no doubt about that. And, admittedly, there weren't quite as many bandits and assassins prowling the streets at night; and the harbour was a bit tidier and considerably more organised, albeit still very much crooked. There was no doubt whatsoever that Reaver, wherever he might be, could run a smuggling operation from afar. Or perhaps it ran itself by now. Sparrow didn't really care enough to check. And it was hardly as if Reaver ever wrote. Garth and Hammer kept in touch -- sporadically, but still -- but from Reaver, not a peep. Not even a sickly pigeon.
Considering Sparrow had adopted his old house, and was keeping the place in quite decent nick, thank you kindly, a note now and then would have been nice. Granted, he wasn't trying all that hard to get in touch; in all the years that had followed since defeating Lucien, he had sent Reaver a single note, to which the reply had been a very pointed silence. If that's the way you want it, Sparrow had thought, and left him to whatever earthly delights he might have found in Samarkand with only the occasional passing thought in his favour.
Hammer was doing well, from the sounds of her letters. She had channelled her warrior spirit and strength into the work of the northern fighting monks, and sounded much more at peace. Garth had been glad to return to his homeland, and sounded happy there. Reaver was... presumably being himself, somewhere, and most likely enjoying every moment of it. And that left Sparrow, the fourth, who had bought the house in Bloodstone and kept everything ticking over nicely, in the sort of way that meant buying up most of Albion's economy and making damned sure it kept ticking.
Life had been quiet for too long. It was time to travel again.
And so, on a quiet sunny day, with the Spire glittering over the water hundreds of miles away and his faithful black dog running at his heels, Sparrow set out for Bowerstone once again.
Reaver.
The voice drifted through his dreams, more like a polite knock than a thundering shout. There was enough shouting in this dream anyway, damn and blast it all. Nightmare may well be a more appropriate term.
Reaver. Wake up.
And again. Quiet, but insistent. Reaver stirred reluctantly, blinking in the morning light. Was it morning? Couldn't be; he'd only gone to bed an hour or two before, surely. So much for morning light. Light of the half-dozen lamps around the room, more like. Fewer shadows that way.
Reaver. You do sleep like the dead, don't you?
I know that voice, he thought sleepily. And I rather hoped I would never hear it again .
I heard that. The voice sounded more dryly amused than insulted. The feeling is mutual, but circumstances are such that I felt obliged to contact you.
"Did you really have to do it at such an inconvenient hour of the day?" Reaver muttered aloud, stirring a little more resolutely and shoving the blankets aside. He was, at least, alone; not really a small mercy in and of itself, but this could all have been rather awkward otherwise. After all this time, he took his blessings where he could get them.
I have only just tracked you down. And presently, I am outside your door and it isn't all that warm at this time of night. May I come in?
"In a blasted minute." He rose, reluctantly, located trousers and a suitably impressive shirt, washed quickly, and padded down the endless stairs to the entrance hall. It wasn't much of a surprise to find Garth standing on the other side of his front door, hardly changed a bit. His Will lines were a little brighter -- and his wrinkles a little deeper, such a pity -- but everything else was identical. Right down to the cold look in his eye and the dry twist of a not-terribly-amused smile.
"Good morning," he said coolly, stepping over the threshold uninvited.
"Hardly morning," Reaver said stiffly, "and if you're here, I sincerely doubt it's going to be any good."
Garth shrugged slightly, apparently unperturbed by Reaver's attitude. "I believe we should return to the mainland."
"'We'?" Reaver enquired archly, leading the way through to the lounge and settling carefully across an armchair. "There was never any 'we', Garth, I assure you."
"You and I," Garth said evenly, "and Hammer and the Fourth, were a group, regardless of the circumstances that brought us together. That night in Lucien's Spire bound us to one another whether we like it or not. And now there is cause to return."
"What, to the Spire? Oh, surely not. Such an awful place. I doubt even a few good interior designers could help the Spire all that much."
"Nevertheless--"
"And in any case," Reaver pressed on, as if uninterrupted; "I distinctly remember you telling me to stay out of your way. Hardly my fault you've decided to renege on that. I was entirely happy staying well out of yours."
"Are you quite finished?"
Reaver sniffed, somewhat sulkily. "For now."
Garth nodded. "Very well. As I was saying: we must return to the Spire. I have already contacted Hammer and sent a letter to the Fourth. They will be waiting for us in Barrowstone."
"And how are you proposing to get there?"
"I had assumed, given your nautical leanings, that you might have acquired a ship."
Acquired, true, and got some good usage out of it, too -- there was the Shadow Court to consider, and they weren't really the types to traipse across half the planet to visit their little patron out here every third year -- but damn it, did Garth really have to know everything? Reaver sighed. "I have. I suppose, if you insist, you can have passage on it. I might even offer you cut rates."
Garth frowned; he had apparently been expecting to hop aboard for free. There would be less of that, thank you kindly. "Very well," he said after a moment. "Since I imagine you will insist."
"I do." Reaver stood up elegantly, intending the gesture very much as a dismissal. "And if that was all..."
Garth hesitated. "We ought to set off soon."
"By which I imagine you mean now?"
"Yes. I do."
"Well, I can't possibly. I have business to sort out here, and most of it requires the commencement of normal working hours." Most. Not all.
And Garth noticed the 'most', damn him. "Then I suggest you sort out that which does not require normal working hours now, and the rest first thing come morning. We sail with the morning tide."
"Did you just tell me when my ship is sailing?"
"Yes." Garth smiled; Reaver didn't quite like it when Garth smiled. "It is already arranged."
The letter had been short, urgent and to-the-point. A new danger appears to be rising in the Spire. We must investigate. Meet me in Bowerstone. Hammer will be waiting there. And, well, it beat waiting for Bloodstone to get its behind out of several centuries ago.
Hammer had indeed been waiting, standing by the bar, exactly as Sparrow had somehow quietly expected. Her greeting was enthusiastic, to say the least; he hadn't been lifted clean off the floor by a woman before.
"Garth should be here soon," she informed him brightly. "The ship should have docked in a few hours ago, so I imagine he'll be up soon enough."
"The ship?" Sparrow frowned; he had assumed if Garth was going to travel at all, he would do it in a more direct fashion.
Hammer nodded, unperturbed. "Yes. Reaver's ship."
"Reaver? Reaver's coming too?"
She laughed at that. "I know -- I was surprised, as well. I didn't think this was his sort of thing, to be honest. But no, as it turns out, Reaver's coming too. Lucky us, eh?"
"I'll say." Sparrow sighed. Another complication in an already complicated life. "Here soon, you said?"
"Soon enough. Want a drink, while we're waiting?"
"Why not. Whatever you're having will do."
As it turned out, Sparrow had barely got a tankard in hand before the tavern doors opened and the other half of their miniature Guild appeared. Garth looked weary -- probably from being stuck on a ship with Reaver for however long it had been, Sparrow thought uncharitably; Reaver, of course, was dashing, charming and disgustingly well-dressed, complete with ruffles.
Sparrow heard him before he saw him: "Why, hello, there!" and then, "Good gracious, you do look a bit worse for wear." Thanks, he thought darkly. Goodness knows you haven't changed a bit.
"I could say the same for you," he replied; a complete lie, but it was worth it for the brief, quickly-hidden flash of panic he saw in Reaver's eyes. Garth split them up coolly, before the bickering got too involved.
"Hammer, it's good to see you. You two, please, be quiet."
Sparrow shrugged slightly and offered a friendly grin in Garth's direction; Reaver positively sulked. At least he had the good grace to do it quietly. Garth took a moment to think before he spoke again, so quietly that all three of them instinctively leaned in to listen.
"As you have no doubt noticed, the Spire is unquiet once more. I believe we should investigate, before the situation gets beyond our control."
"Oh, come on," Reaver sighed. "I have had quite enough of your obsession with the Spire being 'unquiet once more'. Honestly, I've heard nothing else the entire journey over here, and it's really getting terribly tiresome. Theresa is presumably still there, doing whatever it is one does in Spires, and I don't see how it's any of our business to storm in there and stop it."
"I have been deceived before, by those who would use the Spire to their own ends," Garth replied, "as you should well know, Reaver. I do not intend to allow it to happen again."
"The world is saved, blah blah blah, hallelujah and much rejoicing," Reaver snapped. "Did we really have to come all the way out here to discuss whether or not we're going to go knocking on Theresa's door?"
Garth nodded. "I believe it may be important."
"Hang on," Hammer cut in. "I hate to admit it, but maybe Reaver's got a point. Who are we to say the Spire's being used for anything evil this time?"
"I would rather know for sure," Garth said. "If my fears are unfounded, then I apologise."
Sparrow frowned. "She said to me, after you had gone, that the Spire was hers. And she sounded fairly certain about it."
"It will do no harm to check," Garth replied evenly. "We can but hope Theresa won't mind visitors."
Reaver snorted. "Well, do have fun. You certainly needn't think I'm getting involved."
"If we go, we go together. The way may be dangerous," Garth said. "There are still bandits on the roads. Furthermore, we will need to sail to the Spire."
"Not in my ship," Reaver snapped. "Get your own blasted ship, Garth, honestly. Anyway," he added, "I have business of my own to attend, and I'm really far too busy to go chasing all over Albion on the merest off-chance that someone, somewhere, may be up to no good."
"Yeah, I'll bet," Hammer muttered. "That someone's usually you, Reaver."
"You wound me," Reaver told her.
Hammer shrugged. "Not half as much as I would if I chucked you across the room, mate. We'll be fine without you, believe you me."
Sparrow shot Hammer a grateful glance. "I agree. You've stabbed us all in the back enough times already, Reaver."
"Oh, I've never drawn blood," Reaver said mildly, apparently entirely happy to extend the metaphor. "Anyhow, it's been suitably sickening seeing you all again, but I really must be off. Things to do, you know how it is. Toodle-pip--"
"Wait," Garth said sharply, cutting him off cold. "If I thought any one of us could do this alone, I would not have brought us together. Your other business can no doubt wait."
"I'm rather afraid it really can't," Reaver replied. "Somewhat urgent, I fear."
Garth folded his arms, glaring him down. "It can wait."
"No, it really can't. Must be off, it's been lovely, for a very limited value of 'lovely'; now if you'll excuse me..."
"Let him go," Hammer said. "We'll manage."
"Thank you," Reaver said, with a sigh that sounded almost relieved. "Toodle-oo, gentlemen and, ah, lady." And so saying, he was gone, sashaying off through the throng of people in the bar without a backward glance.
Garth turned to Sparrow. "I meant it, unfortunately for us, about not being able to do this alone. Go after him."
Sparrow considered arguing, but decided it was pointless. Something of a return to the old days, apparently -- go here, do this, kill these people, save that child; as much as it was annoying, it was also strangely refreshing to have some sort of direction again. "I'll find you later," he said, already heading for the door. The dog trotted alongside, wagging his tail happily. Nice that someone's entirely unaffected by all of this, Sparrow thought.
"We're fairly unmissable!" Hammer called after him cheerfully. He had to agree with that, at least.
(Chapter Two is in the works, and hopefully might be posted fairly soon. For now -- go on, scoot, shoo. Toodle-pip! ;])
Duly disclaimed: Not mine, never will be mine. Not for profit; purely for fun.
Other notes: I'm using essentially my girlfriend's Sparrow here, because he's more fun than my morally good little angel. This one inhabits a grey area, shading very much towards evil depending on her (the girlfriend -- or his; Sparrow's) mood on the day, and, for reference, is dressed in blue-dyed nobleman's wear. Bit scarred, since she's not so hot on not dying mid-battle, but I'm cheerfully ignoring that on the base principle of "Hey, All Heroes Must Be At Least A Bit Cute, Right?" Oh, and since she favours Will, I imagine his Will lines are fairly prominent, though of course, good old Garth does get to be the hero of that particular skill. (I did draw 'my' interpretation of her Hero; I might post the picture at some point, too).
Fable III will no doubt blow this entire plotline completely out of the water, but until PM brings that out for us to enjoy, I can have fun playing about in his world, right? Umm... right?
Anyway, your comments and constructive crits are more than welcome, and I hope you enjoy.
**
The Illusion of Sunlight
**
Prologue
The Illusion of Sunlight
**
Prologue
The world is yours to enjoy, but the Spire is mine.
So she had said, all those years ago, and still it holds true. The Spire rises from the water like a great black needle, its surface polished and smooth, its point now perfect. No-one knows what goes on there. It's so much part of the landscape that it is ignored.
But on a clear day, when the sun shines so brightly that one could be forgiven for thinking it was just a reflection causing the illusion, the Spire glows. It glows brighter than a lamp, brighter than a burning flame, cutting a sharp gash of light across the rippling water, and it pulses. Like a heartbeat.
And the Fourth Hero knows that it is no illusion.
Chapter One
{Reunions Bite. Every Time.}
{Reunions Bite. Every Time.}
Some things never change. Bloodstone, for better or worse, was definitely one of those things.
Oh, it was cleaner than the first time Sparrow had been there, there was no doubt about that. And, admittedly, there weren't quite as many bandits and assassins prowling the streets at night; and the harbour was a bit tidier and considerably more organised, albeit still very much crooked. There was no doubt whatsoever that Reaver, wherever he might be, could run a smuggling operation from afar. Or perhaps it ran itself by now. Sparrow didn't really care enough to check. And it was hardly as if Reaver ever wrote. Garth and Hammer kept in touch -- sporadically, but still -- but from Reaver, not a peep. Not even a sickly pigeon.
Considering Sparrow had adopted his old house, and was keeping the place in quite decent nick, thank you kindly, a note now and then would have been nice. Granted, he wasn't trying all that hard to get in touch; in all the years that had followed since defeating Lucien, he had sent Reaver a single note, to which the reply had been a very pointed silence. If that's the way you want it, Sparrow had thought, and left him to whatever earthly delights he might have found in Samarkand with only the occasional passing thought in his favour.
Hammer was doing well, from the sounds of her letters. She had channelled her warrior spirit and strength into the work of the northern fighting monks, and sounded much more at peace. Garth had been glad to return to his homeland, and sounded happy there. Reaver was... presumably being himself, somewhere, and most likely enjoying every moment of it. And that left Sparrow, the fourth, who had bought the house in Bloodstone and kept everything ticking over nicely, in the sort of way that meant buying up most of Albion's economy and making damned sure it kept ticking.
Life had been quiet for too long. It was time to travel again.
And so, on a quiet sunny day, with the Spire glittering over the water hundreds of miles away and his faithful black dog running at his heels, Sparrow set out for Bowerstone once again.
**
Reaver.
The voice drifted through his dreams, more like a polite knock than a thundering shout. There was enough shouting in this dream anyway, damn and blast it all. Nightmare may well be a more appropriate term.
Reaver. Wake up.
And again. Quiet, but insistent. Reaver stirred reluctantly, blinking in the morning light. Was it morning? Couldn't be; he'd only gone to bed an hour or two before, surely. So much for morning light. Light of the half-dozen lamps around the room, more like. Fewer shadows that way.
Reaver. You do sleep like the dead, don't you?
I know that voice, he thought sleepily. And I rather hoped I would never hear it again .
I heard that. The voice sounded more dryly amused than insulted. The feeling is mutual, but circumstances are such that I felt obliged to contact you.
"Did you really have to do it at such an inconvenient hour of the day?" Reaver muttered aloud, stirring a little more resolutely and shoving the blankets aside. He was, at least, alone; not really a small mercy in and of itself, but this could all have been rather awkward otherwise. After all this time, he took his blessings where he could get them.
I have only just tracked you down. And presently, I am outside your door and it isn't all that warm at this time of night. May I come in?
"In a blasted minute." He rose, reluctantly, located trousers and a suitably impressive shirt, washed quickly, and padded down the endless stairs to the entrance hall. It wasn't much of a surprise to find Garth standing on the other side of his front door, hardly changed a bit. His Will lines were a little brighter -- and his wrinkles a little deeper, such a pity -- but everything else was identical. Right down to the cold look in his eye and the dry twist of a not-terribly-amused smile.
"Good morning," he said coolly, stepping over the threshold uninvited.
"Hardly morning," Reaver said stiffly, "and if you're here, I sincerely doubt it's going to be any good."
Garth shrugged slightly, apparently unperturbed by Reaver's attitude. "I believe we should return to the mainland."
"'We'?" Reaver enquired archly, leading the way through to the lounge and settling carefully across an armchair. "There was never any 'we', Garth, I assure you."
"You and I," Garth said evenly, "and Hammer and the Fourth, were a group, regardless of the circumstances that brought us together. That night in Lucien's Spire bound us to one another whether we like it or not. And now there is cause to return."
"What, to the Spire? Oh, surely not. Such an awful place. I doubt even a few good interior designers could help the Spire all that much."
"Nevertheless--"
"And in any case," Reaver pressed on, as if uninterrupted; "I distinctly remember you telling me to stay out of your way. Hardly my fault you've decided to renege on that. I was entirely happy staying well out of yours."
"Are you quite finished?"
Reaver sniffed, somewhat sulkily. "For now."
Garth nodded. "Very well. As I was saying: we must return to the Spire. I have already contacted Hammer and sent a letter to the Fourth. They will be waiting for us in Barrowstone."
"And how are you proposing to get there?"
"I had assumed, given your nautical leanings, that you might have acquired a ship."
Acquired, true, and got some good usage out of it, too -- there was the Shadow Court to consider, and they weren't really the types to traipse across half the planet to visit their little patron out here every third year -- but damn it, did Garth really have to know everything? Reaver sighed. "I have. I suppose, if you insist, you can have passage on it. I might even offer you cut rates."
Garth frowned; he had apparently been expecting to hop aboard for free. There would be less of that, thank you kindly. "Very well," he said after a moment. "Since I imagine you will insist."
"I do." Reaver stood up elegantly, intending the gesture very much as a dismissal. "And if that was all..."
Garth hesitated. "We ought to set off soon."
"By which I imagine you mean now?"
"Yes. I do."
"Well, I can't possibly. I have business to sort out here, and most of it requires the commencement of normal working hours." Most. Not all.
And Garth noticed the 'most', damn him. "Then I suggest you sort out that which does not require normal working hours now, and the rest first thing come morning. We sail with the morning tide."
"Did you just tell me when my ship is sailing?"
"Yes." Garth smiled; Reaver didn't quite like it when Garth smiled. "It is already arranged."
**
The letter had been short, urgent and to-the-point. A new danger appears to be rising in the Spire. We must investigate. Meet me in Bowerstone. Hammer will be waiting there. And, well, it beat waiting for Bloodstone to get its behind out of several centuries ago.
Hammer had indeed been waiting, standing by the bar, exactly as Sparrow had somehow quietly expected. Her greeting was enthusiastic, to say the least; he hadn't been lifted clean off the floor by a woman before.
"Garth should be here soon," she informed him brightly. "The ship should have docked in a few hours ago, so I imagine he'll be up soon enough."
"The ship?" Sparrow frowned; he had assumed if Garth was going to travel at all, he would do it in a more direct fashion.
Hammer nodded, unperturbed. "Yes. Reaver's ship."
"Reaver? Reaver's coming too?"
She laughed at that. "I know -- I was surprised, as well. I didn't think this was his sort of thing, to be honest. But no, as it turns out, Reaver's coming too. Lucky us, eh?"
"I'll say." Sparrow sighed. Another complication in an already complicated life. "Here soon, you said?"
"Soon enough. Want a drink, while we're waiting?"
"Why not. Whatever you're having will do."
As it turned out, Sparrow had barely got a tankard in hand before the tavern doors opened and the other half of their miniature Guild appeared. Garth looked weary -- probably from being stuck on a ship with Reaver for however long it had been, Sparrow thought uncharitably; Reaver, of course, was dashing, charming and disgustingly well-dressed, complete with ruffles.
Sparrow heard him before he saw him: "Why, hello, there!" and then, "Good gracious, you do look a bit worse for wear." Thanks, he thought darkly. Goodness knows you haven't changed a bit.
"I could say the same for you," he replied; a complete lie, but it was worth it for the brief, quickly-hidden flash of panic he saw in Reaver's eyes. Garth split them up coolly, before the bickering got too involved.
"Hammer, it's good to see you. You two, please, be quiet."
Sparrow shrugged slightly and offered a friendly grin in Garth's direction; Reaver positively sulked. At least he had the good grace to do it quietly. Garth took a moment to think before he spoke again, so quietly that all three of them instinctively leaned in to listen.
"As you have no doubt noticed, the Spire is unquiet once more. I believe we should investigate, before the situation gets beyond our control."
"Oh, come on," Reaver sighed. "I have had quite enough of your obsession with the Spire being 'unquiet once more'. Honestly, I've heard nothing else the entire journey over here, and it's really getting terribly tiresome. Theresa is presumably still there, doing whatever it is one does in Spires, and I don't see how it's any of our business to storm in there and stop it."
"I have been deceived before, by those who would use the Spire to their own ends," Garth replied, "as you should well know, Reaver. I do not intend to allow it to happen again."
"The world is saved, blah blah blah, hallelujah and much rejoicing," Reaver snapped. "Did we really have to come all the way out here to discuss whether or not we're going to go knocking on Theresa's door?"
Garth nodded. "I believe it may be important."
"Hang on," Hammer cut in. "I hate to admit it, but maybe Reaver's got a point. Who are we to say the Spire's being used for anything evil this time?"
"I would rather know for sure," Garth said. "If my fears are unfounded, then I apologise."
Sparrow frowned. "She said to me, after you had gone, that the Spire was hers. And she sounded fairly certain about it."
"It will do no harm to check," Garth replied evenly. "We can but hope Theresa won't mind visitors."
Reaver snorted. "Well, do have fun. You certainly needn't think I'm getting involved."
"If we go, we go together. The way may be dangerous," Garth said. "There are still bandits on the roads. Furthermore, we will need to sail to the Spire."
"Not in my ship," Reaver snapped. "Get your own blasted ship, Garth, honestly. Anyway," he added, "I have business of my own to attend, and I'm really far too busy to go chasing all over Albion on the merest off-chance that someone, somewhere, may be up to no good."
"Yeah, I'll bet," Hammer muttered. "That someone's usually you, Reaver."
"You wound me," Reaver told her.
Hammer shrugged. "Not half as much as I would if I chucked you across the room, mate. We'll be fine without you, believe you me."
Sparrow shot Hammer a grateful glance. "I agree. You've stabbed us all in the back enough times already, Reaver."
"Oh, I've never drawn blood," Reaver said mildly, apparently entirely happy to extend the metaphor. "Anyhow, it's been suitably sickening seeing you all again, but I really must be off. Things to do, you know how it is. Toodle-pip--"
"Wait," Garth said sharply, cutting him off cold. "If I thought any one of us could do this alone, I would not have brought us together. Your other business can no doubt wait."
"I'm rather afraid it really can't," Reaver replied. "Somewhat urgent, I fear."
Garth folded his arms, glaring him down. "It can wait."
"No, it really can't. Must be off, it's been lovely, for a very limited value of 'lovely'; now if you'll excuse me..."
"Let him go," Hammer said. "We'll manage."
"Thank you," Reaver said, with a sigh that sounded almost relieved. "Toodle-oo, gentlemen and, ah, lady." And so saying, he was gone, sashaying off through the throng of people in the bar without a backward glance.
Garth turned to Sparrow. "I meant it, unfortunately for us, about not being able to do this alone. Go after him."
Sparrow considered arguing, but decided it was pointless. Something of a return to the old days, apparently -- go here, do this, kill these people, save that child; as much as it was annoying, it was also strangely refreshing to have some sort of direction again. "I'll find you later," he said, already heading for the door. The dog trotted alongside, wagging his tail happily. Nice that someone's entirely unaffected by all of this, Sparrow thought.
"We're fairly unmissable!" Hammer called after him cheerfully. He had to agree with that, at least.
**
(Chapter Two is in the works, and hopefully might be posted fairly soon. For now -- go on, scoot, shoo. Toodle-pip! ;])
If you have another account on anothher side that you upload chapters frequently, please, do tell. 
