Tales of Mystics and Kings

The Hand of Volos

1878 Third Age

'Of all the nights to have a mission, why did it have to be this one?'

This question kept running itself through Shura's head as he leapt across the rooftops of Petersburg.

In the streets below, Yuletide, the festival of Rod, god of family, is taking place. Children played in the snow piles that had built up in the streets, singers and dancers entertained the crowds within the squares that peppered the city. The occasional magic-folk entranced onlookers with displays of vibrant streaks of color and wisps of arcane energy dancing.

Yet, there he was. Racing across the rooftops, away from the festivities, the lights, and the cheery people heading to the one part of the city where there wasn't any celebration, the shipyard.

Usually the busiest part of the city, it's the beating heart of Petersburg's massive trade economy. Yet, whenever festivals or holidays were held, all work was halted for the workers to join their families in the celebrations. That's why the current congregation of people in and around one of the warehouses was enough to warrant investigation.

Perching himself onto a Rusalka shrine just inside the shipyard, Shura spied on the group, hoping to get a better idea of what was going on.

Lights were on inside the building. Six people outside. Four of them had Berdan rifles, one rather large thug had a club, and the last of the group had a crooked wand.

Unslinging his bow, Shura thought over the situation.

The big one and the mage he could deal with, but the guns. It would be better if they didn't get a chance to shoot. Padded leather and a cloak are better for stealth than taking bullets.

Nocking an arrow on the silver bowstring, Shura readied his aim. Drew back the string. Runes along the bow's ivory limbs begun to glow with the tension. Then he let the arrow sing.

The arrow soared through the air. At its apex, it glowed a slight orange and then split into four bolts. Each bolt found its target in the chest of each of the gun men. As Shura slunk his way to the side of the warehouse, he could hear a sharp cry at the sight of their comrades falling dead to the ground. Audibly stumbling past his larger partner to enter the warehouse in a rush to inform their boss.

Peering around the corner, Shura could see the large thug alone, still visibly shaken from the sudden deaths of his partners, poking their bodies with his club to check if they were alive. He then grabbed a handful of snow off the ground. Compressing it in his hand, he nocked his fingers on his bowstring. As his hands glowed a soft silver, the snow crept from his hand, forming an arrow made of ice. Taking a deep breath, Shura spun around the corner and let loose the arrow. Before the thug could react to his assailant, the arrow hit him square between the eyes. The ice shattered on impact, creating a ripple of frost that encased the thug. Freezing him in his moment of shock.

Shura slinked through the small opening of the door, looking at the thug with a slight grin on his face.

"Quite generous of you to keep the door open."

Sneaking past the door and up a large stack of freight boxes, Shura got a full view of the warehouse. Crates and boxes, filled with various trade goods, were stacked high all ready to be shipped out come morning. And in the middle of the place, next to crates that were broken open, there were three individuals. The mage from outside was there still trembling, and next to him was a short stout man holding a crowbar. The last of the three was a tall lanky fellow, with a patched-up blunderbuss in his hand.

"They all just fell like rocks, boss. It's gotta be the Hand, he's here." The mage said with worry latent in his voice. "We need to go no-"

"Shut it," the lanky man retorted, backhanding the mage. "The Hand of Volos is a myth. It's just a story to scare children."