#t5h

here's an example of the aforementioned fantasy elements, a battle between a shadowmancer and a storyteller. this is fairly old (there are obviously some new developments in my paz canon, heh) but i think it stands the test of time. paz versus cecile, during the end of the game. (please forgive my poor french.)

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JANUARY 1ST, 1969 BAC HA, NORTH VIETNAM

Monsoon season had been over for three months, but it didn't seem to matter. Frigid rain had been pouring down across the early morning darkness, soaking the mountains in a consistent, impenetrable mist. It pounded the rotting thatched roof of the abandoned hut, soaking through the cracks in the old, water soaked wooden walls, and pooled in the corners, raising the putrid scent of must from the already disintegrating straw on the floor.

The front room's three occupants were silent, for the most part, save for the occasional scrape of a boot sole shifting across the floor or the gentle rattle of a rifle brushing against coat buttons. Two of them wore hooded jackets of the same mottled navy color and matching trousers and boots, completely indistinguishable from each other in the dim. The third, seated across the room, was strangely gray, like all the color had been drained away, leaving only the shadow. Unlike the other two, it had no rifle across its lap.

Beneath its hood, there was a faint glow of red.

"These kinds of things don't last forever," one of the first figures said in gruff English, with an air of continuing a conversation that had already been going on too long. "That's all I'm saying."

His twin did not reply.

"I mean when you have four people in one place, and they're all geniuses at what they do but they've all got different ideas about what's going to work, you're definitely gonna get some conflict. You can't have a leader in a group like that, and if one of them thinks he's the one in charge then you're really fucked. It's all going to pull in different directions. That's what's going on. It's not going to last much longer," he concluded, peering sideways from under his hood at his companion. "You don't have any deep thoughts on that? Even a 'shut up, Jack' for me? Anything?"

"Zatknis vali otsyuda," said the other, sounding bored. Across the room the third figure made a slow, dusty sound that might have been a chuckle.

Jack grunted, and pulled the hood from his head. He ran heavily gloved fingers through his rain darkened brown hair. "You don't have to encourage him," he said to the third figure, glaring up at the ceiling and squinting as his vision adjusted to the light. It hadn't been the same since he'd lost his eye, he knew. His visual reflex time was less than it had ever been, and was only bound to get worse as he got older. He was thirty-four, now, and the first few silver hairs had started appearing on his head and in his beard, the lines across his forehead only getting deeper with each passing year. That was stress for you.

"It's better than waiting in silence," he said finally. His companion lifted his head from the bundle of dry blanket in his lap. Beneath his hood, Ivan Raikov's face was utterly colorless. Silvery strands of wet blond were still stuck to his cheeks and his mouth was twisted in a faint sneer.

"We could have noise," he said in English, "If you would enjoy that." He gestured at the bundle, which he was jiggling gently against one knee. "It would not be difficult, but I think you would be very sorry."

Jack made a face, but it was half hearted. His eyes lingered on the bundle before he looked away again. "Who knew you'd have a talent for that," he muttered.

They had been friends now for three years and had known each other even longer, ever since Raikov had attempted to kill him in a South African back alley, and he knew very well that Raikov's patience for other people was slim at best. On the other hand, he had to admit, the man had a certain talent for improvisation.

The baby in Raikov's arms went on sleeping peacefully, untouched by the outside cold.

"Did she say what his name was?" Jack went on, leaning over to peer at it thoughtfully. "I don't think she did."

"She did not."

"He looks like a Franklin to me, then," said Jack. "Was my dad's name. Major Franklin Dwight Sears."

"I am sure she will find that a good reasoning for a name," Raikov said, tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Yeah, yeah, everybody hates me, I know," Jack said, sounding more sullen than he meant to. "You know, I was serious about wanting your opinions. It's sort of related to this stupid plan of ours."

Raikov sighed.

"I think," he said, "That so long as all parties in a partnership are understanding that each party will be doing a thing in their own way, then the mature thing to do is to allow for a..." he paused, searching for the English word, "...a harmonious agreement." He looked at Jack, faint confusion written on his young face. "The problem is, ah, angliskij, ego?"

"Probably," said Jack, decidedly less evangelical now that he was receiving some attention. "Well they've all four of them got ego problems. Anybody in that profession's kind of got to." He slipped a finger beneath his eye patch and scratched the ridge of the empty socket. "Honestly I don't know how bands stick together in the first place."

"Perhaps if they lived in military fashion together," Raikov said, "And understood that as much as they must perform together, they must also live in harmony." He shrugged, careful not to jostle the baby. "A barracks does not function if one soldier thinks himself better than the others."

"It's John fucking Lennon, is what it is," Jack said darkly. "Man. I wish they'd get their shit together."

Raikov only shrugged, pulling off his own hood and brushing the wet hair off his face. "This man--"

"Heo Dang," said the shadow figure in his soft, whispery voice.

"This man, Heo Dang," Raikov continued, apparently unbothered by the correction, "You believe you can trust him?"

It was Jack's turn to shrug, but he nodded as he did so. "I told him what we were doing in Hanoi," he said. "I told him who I was, and he said, 'The Boar are always pleased to assist the children of the Blood Woman.' It was pretty obvious who he meant by that," he added, frowning.

"The Boar?"

"They call themselves that," Jack said. "That's 'heo.' Dang's the family name. They're a clan of some kind, that's all I know. And that's why we're safe over the creek border, because this is their land. All he asked in return was that we don't hunt while we're here. I get the impression it's kind of a pride thing. A lot of old clans in this part of the world are tied pretty heavily to the land. China, Korea, Vietnam, Thailand..."

"The tribes of China, very much," Raikov said.

Jack grinned a little. "That Nanai contact of yours is scary as hell. I read your papers on her. Why do they call her the Willow?"

"Her grace with knives is unparalleled." Raikov almost smiled. "She has been of great help to me in the past. How do you think I tracked you to Johannesburg?"

"They're coming back," said the shadow figure quietly, and both men turned to the crumbling stone arch doorway, alert.

The woman who came in was red-haired, unarmed, and just as soaked as everyone else was, though she seemed much less pathetic about it. She was dressed the same as they were, her hood flopping against her back. "Hey, you guys, we're back," she said, shaking the rain out of her hair. "The old man's wife says she's okay to be upright now. We can head out tomorrow. He says the piglets--" She scrunched her nose in confused distaste at Heo Dang's name for his children, "--Will keep a lookout for us if we want to get some sleep."

"Thank you, Jane," Raikov said quietly, and she beamed.

Jack stood up, his gun clutched against his shoulder. Raikov followed his movements with only a slight motion of his eyes. In the corner, the shadow figure slowly faded until it had disappeared completely from sight. No one seemed to notice.

"Eva," said Jack, and he didn't disguise the faint tremble in his voice at all.

In the doorway, the blond woman smiled faintly.

"Hello, Jack."

She was bandaged from the neck down across both shoulders and her midsection, wearing someone's old fatigues. She was thin enough that the shadowlight cast dark smudges across her cheek bones and under her eyes, and her hair had been recently cut to remove snarls and knots. Her eyes were nervous, and they wandered from him to Raikov, still sitting on the floor. The two of them exchanged a momentary look, and only then did Eva seem to relax.

"Well," she said, allowing Jane to button up her camo top for her, "I can't really say I understand why you're here, but I'm grateful you freed me--"

"I have a proposal for you," Jack said, his voice making her jump slightly. There was a weight to it she'd clearly never heard before, that the other two had only recently become acquainted with. "We all do."

Eva looked at him, her blue eyes wide and a little afraid. Her lower lip was healing from a recent split and it was clear she was not and would never be again the impetuous triple agent she'd been years ago. Jane squeezed her hand. Raikov got carefully to his feet, the baby braced against his shoulder.