A Whisper

The high noon sun would reign above the silver city below, Sanctuary oddly quiet and empty for such a bright time in the day. Even odder still, a figure cloaked in dark cloth would stroll up the side of the hill opposite to the Izalith manor, twirling a lock pick between their fingers. They would pause in front of the grand manor, looking around the sub-sections of the 'estate', before shrugging nonchalantly. They would walk along the elevated dirt against the manor, moving across the bridge joining the first and second building. And as if by magic, with a faint click and creek, the door to the second building would be pushed open. Inside the house, an old man would be asleep, not realising an intruder was inside. The intruder's eyes would scan around the home, to the man- and then around the home again. Turning on the spot, the masked figure would move other to the first building, unlocking the door with seamless fluidity, shoving the door open, the harsh 'smack' of wood against stone echoing out. Before the smack finishes echoing out, animalistic smashing and crashing would roar out from inside the building, torn cloth splattering across the floor as the bed's broken frame would weep in pain, creaking in agony. The crafting table would also receive it's fair share of punishment, left in splinters after the hacking from an axe. The third building, much larger than the other two, would have its door broken, and although the chests had been looked through (when they were unlocked), nothing had been taken or smashed. After the attack had finally concluded, a note would be left on the small bridge connecting the buildings. Much like the other two attacks, it would be rough and seemingly made on the spot. It reads- "The Order of Magi is full of heathens and those who take advantage of the ill and physically unable. They extort those who are in need, only to further their own economic aims. This is much less an 'order' then it is a whorehouse, who, instead of peddling skin, seek to peddle disgusting plots and hideous magical 'talents'. Either the guild-hall is moved outside of the city, or it too shall be attacked. I am unable to sleep at night while this guild stays within the city. Perhaps, without a bed, you too will be unable to sleep? This is your only warning- just like the only warning I gave to The Morning Star ranch."

The flies swarm the corpse of the dead, majestic stallion, blood trickling out onto the grass below. It's body has been slashed across savage, rib-cage visible.

As night would (rather ironically) rise about the Morning Star ranch, faint footsteps would be heard- the horses, pigs and ewes, all locked in their tiny pens and their tiny barns, would look up. A dark figure would walk along the path, up the stairs to the ranch house, and to the door. Crack. The front door would swing open wide, hitting against the oak door-frame. The sound of slamming echoing through the house as belongings are ripped from chests and tables, and bottles rattling as they're taken from an alchemist's rack. As the figure leaves the ranch house, it enters the barn, leaving behind a broken lockpick and a broken lock, the two resting as a couple on the grass below. Coal would be stolen from the furnaces, along with a fine chainmail tunic. Just as the person leaves the barn, they turn towards a fine, brown stallion, feeding against the grass. A loud rasp of cold-steel against leather would be heard, before wild sounds of pain and resistance roar out from the pen. Until silence strikes the air. Blood drips along the pen gate and grass, following out as a trail towards the river, until it stops, the blade dropped in the river. And thus, the attack had ended, just as it had begun- with the morning star. A note had been left behind, just like the other attack on Fi'Ceru, scrawled out hastily- "Beasts like these should not be tormented in tiny pens and barns. They need air to breathe, and room to move. If they are not given such necessities, then just like the dead stallion before you, they die. Either by force, or by nature. If this continues, they will all die."

A short crack against oak would ring out throughout Fi'Ceru in the early hours of the morn, iron-rings visible through dust coated windows and moth-devoured curtains. Quiet footsteps and faint clicking heard, only to be silenced by the violent, wild crashing and breaking of pots, chairs, beds and bookshelves. And just as quick as the figure had been spotted, it quickly had vanished into the night, faint rowing coming from the sea that encompassed the island. In the morning, mali'aheral men and women would be left with a shocking sight. Three buildings had been invaded, goods and crafts stolen by expert hands, tables and beds laid out in splinters and torn cloth- a window would be smeared with black ink, leaving an odd splotches of nothingness against pure white. With closer inspection, notes would be found, written hastily but with a somewhat planned tone. Each would carry a message to the owner of the home. To the Seregons, a note reading 'filthy beast' would be left. For the Orvirs; 'disgusting parasites'. And for the owner of the tavern, a most enlightening statement would be left under the broken bookshelf- 'cannibal freak'. Someone, somewhere seemed to have thought through the attacks carefully and with delicate malice, not being spotted by a single breathing soul. And yet, without being seen, had laid clues for each family to quarrel over. Why had this person attacked them? Why were they a target? What could this fiend even know possible know? A whisper would echo through Fi'Ceru- "Enough."