THE HUNTSMAN

9th of Johannar, 1197 SA

Hranost, Northernmost Outpost in the Borleynsdal Frontier

Snowfall coated all here, in this wretched place far north of any land of worth. This was not the cold cotton of desert dreams. It was nature telling man that she could be cruel in the most personal of ways. The dead trees betrayed by her. The howling winds weaponized by her. The frost, committing upon her a numbing suicide. And yet, in this wretched place stood a monument to man's uncaring for nature's displeasure: Hranost, the northernmost outpost of the Borleynsdal Frontier.

For much of history, this place lay outside the jurisdiction of Halrin's myriad nations. Instead, it was sustained by those who had nowhere else to go. They built ramshackle structures of Borleyni pinewood, warmed with Borleyni coal. The soot-faced souls who inhabited them laboured harder than any others in the world, but they laboured for themselves. They were free.

The advent of scientific reasoning brought more to the north, those interested in discovering what lay beyond nature's imposed boundaries. Many lacked the fortitude to stay for long, though it was long enough to establish a port and shipping routes. Hranost was advantageous in that regard, being pressed against the Daskolgi Alps and the North Erisian Sea. Ice floes made travel difficult enough to keep the place hidden, but sea access was now an option. One only needed a powerful enough vessel.

Progress did as it does, and such vessels grew in number. But the appetite of industry grew in tandem, causing eyes to shift to those places of untapped potential. Suddenly, what was once a sanctuary for the few willing to sacrifice everything for freedom became overrun. Company men came in their ships, bringing the infrastructure needed to allow weaker spirits to endure the cold.

In just a decade, the old town became encircled by dense concrete compounds. Windowless grey strongholds of this new corporate occupation webbed in and around each other, occasionally parting to allow new railways to snake through. Not ever before had those soot-faced souls felt so aligned with nature's detest, the corruption of man now startlingly clear.

It had been thirty-odd years now since the coming of industry to Hranost. Many who enjoyed the prior freedom came to accept the comforts of concrete. For the price of their labour, these men were allowed into the fold. They had proven helpful too, holding a deeper understanding of the land than those who employed them. But some remained in their shacks of Borleyni pine, warmed with Borleyni coal. It was a hard living made harder, but the cold was thawed by the fire of their disdain. Fire, upon which two pairs of near-identical eyes now gazed.

"I'm angry, folks," spoke a bellowing voice, roughened by decades of inhaling ash and smoke. His proclamation received nods of agreement, grunts of approval.

The audience was small, only twenty or so. They sat in rows, occupying the main space of what was usually a modest tavern. Tables lay stacked in the far corner to make space for this town meeting of sorts, commandeered by a large man bundled in a thick navy sweater.

"I'm angry and I'm tired. Damned tired," he continued. "But today, after a long while, we have some cause to celebrate. Let's give a round of applause for Filip!"

The man pulled to his side a boy half his size and many times more nervous. He was tall for his age but tremendously gaunt, barely occupying the coat draped over his shoulders.

"Filip, tell the good people of Olde what you did."

The two pairs of eyes looked on curiously. They expected no surprises but invited the possibility.

"I- I charged one," he whispered under his breath.

"Louder," the larger man urged.

"I charged one of Company's men... when he tried to pass through West Gate. Took six tanne off of him," Filip grinned weakly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out six small coins.

The eyes stayed still, squarely unsurprised.

"Another hand for Filip!" the larger man called, receiving heightened applause from a much more enthused crowd. "This is what I mean, folks. These small acts, they add up! And certainly, if Filip here can do it..." he grabbed one of the boy's thin arms and shook it, "...then any one of you can. Little rebellions make Company's lives harder, add friction. But remember, never too much! We cannot be their enemy, only an inconvenience. Enemies are destroyed, whereas we live on to fight. Yes?"

Again, came those nods of agreement and grunts of approval, all alit in some bizarre blaze of passion and complacency.

"Now, it has come to my attention that some find this line between inconvenience and violence difficult to understand. As such, I have taken it upon myself to find some outside help."

He beckoned to a shaded area behind the tavern's bar, from which appeared a black-clad gentleman.

A beard and wide-brimmed hat of similar dark hues covered his face, as did the tall collar of his thick overcoat. It seemed a very purposeful appearance, one constructed to elicit a precise reaction. And that it did, his entrance causing the room to fill with whispered conversation.

Behind the audience, the pair of eyes remained still, watching the newcomer closely.

"I begin with a simple question," he uttered, his voice filled with a precise charisma. "What does it mean to revolt? To say 'no' beyond words? Revolution is a complex thing, after all. Standing up for yourself is a quaint sentiment, but standing down the beast of your oppressor is a different game entirely. Different, too, are the forms they take. A beast may choose to trample you with brute force, while another might play a much more insidious game. The smartest among them often do both, pushing you into a corner of their own making... I see among you looks of recognition; well-travelled folk who recognise my dialect. You know the beast I speak of, the beast against which my countrymen have fought for centuries."

Again, the whispers rose, as those who knew informed those who did not.

"Do you know what that makes me, good people of Olde Hranost?" he grinned, slowly raising his voice as he continued. "I am the man who knows the mind of the beast, who knows the tools it uses. I am the man who knows what defences those tools cannot pierce, and the underbelly that leaves it vulnerable. If oppression is the tyrannical beast," he paused, "I am the Huntsman."

The room erupted. Those in the front row rushed to him, hands outstretched to greet their seeming salvation. He took it in stride, smiling brightly and shaking the hands of all who offered.

"Quiet now, friends," he eventually said. The people followed suit. "I do not wish to rob or swindle, and so will not ask for payment of any kind. I would feel deceitful if I did, for the advice I am about to give you is surprisingly short and simple. Are you ready to hear it?" Nods of agreement, grunts of approval.

"Small friction is good, but its placement is even more important. Here you stay in your cold homes, surviving off your pride. But pride is not as powerful a weapon as you think it is. I can ignore your pride with ease by simply walking out the door. What good does it do you then? Your acts of friction stay confined to your lives, which you've decided to separate from your despotic Company. Every so often, the two will cross, and a brave soul like Filip will apply that friction. But in the grand scheme of your oppressor, it is an inconsequential friction. From my perspective, it is a foolish one." He reached into his overcoat and pulled out a sealed envelope. "Whom among you have received this?"

Every hand in the room went up.

"Then you are fools."

The whispers predictably darkened again. A few even threatened to leave before being calmed by the cooler heads around them.

"This letter, which you've all spurned, is an invitation to wreak havoc, my friends. This is the key to the door keeping you from Company's vulnerable insides. Why stab at their concrete walls when you can simply walk in? Your past comrades, those who 'sold themselves' by accepting employment. They are the true rebels. Now, it is time for you to join them."

Gasps of revelation spread through the audience as the Huntsman's logic reached them. It was brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

The large man appeared again next to him and began to applaud, prompting the rest to join in. The Huntsman bowed in gratitude before opening his overcoat to the room, revealing a wall of letters adhered to the inner fabric.

"To those who destroyed all that the Company sent them, I've taken the liberty of sourcing new employment applications for you to fill out. Come and claim your key to rebellion!"

With that, every member of the audience stood and flooded towards him. As they did, two pairs of eyes looked to the front door and slipped out.

- \\//\\//\\// -

"He was good, certainly better than I thought he'd be," spoke a voice as perplexingly dark as it was young.

"You're blushing, Lydia," replied another voice, higher and more sarcastic than the first.

"It's the cold, Marie..."

"You would be cold if your heart wasn't beating so fast," Marie poked again, her words coated in dry wit. "I understand. I've never heard someone make your words sing like that."

"I said he was good, didn't I?" Lydia's face reddened slightly. "It's the pauses. They rarely get the pauses right. He got the pauses right. And the antagonization. There's a way to do it, you know? To rile them up and then strike at their hearts."

Marie watched as Lydia finished her sentence with a stabbing motion, to which she raised an eye.

"'Strike at their hearts?'" she asked. "Bit violent, no?"

"Words can hurt, sister," Lydia replied. Marie considered the truth of the statement before yielding.

"Don't we know it...," she said, feigning a yawn as she did.

The two waited impatiently, leaning on the outside wall of the tavern as the Huntsman finished inside. With their heads next to each other, it was easy to see the resemblance. Both tangled their brunette hair into the same style of messy bun; both regularly blew that hair out of the way of their identical amber eyes. These were twins in the clearest sense, though not exactly identical. Marie stood a half-centimetre shorter than Lydia and was younger by a very infuriating two minutes. Her features were rounder, kinder than her older sister's more sharpened face, though the implied innocence was a misdirect. That said, it took only a few minutes of observing the two to sort out the truth of that matter. Even at this moment, Marie somehow found a way to twist her natural charm into a deep scowl.

She pulled her cloak tighter, shivering violently. "We couldn't have waited inside?" she grumbled.

Lydia slinked down the wall into a crouch, pulling her own cloak tighter as well. "You know we can't," she replied. "The longer we're there, the higher the chance we're noticed. I don't need them asking you any questions you're not prepared to answer."

Marie, still standing, lightly kicked Lydia in the arm. "I'm plenty prepared," she said under her breath.

"It was just a joke, dear sister."

"Well, it wasn't funny," Marie shot back.

"Yes, alright. I'm sorry," Lydia said, rolling her eyes.

"You know," Marie replied slowly, "'pride is not as powerful a weapon as you feel it is. I can ignore your pride with ease by simply walking out the door.'" She chuckled as she finished, before wincing at a sharp pain in her leg. Looking down, she saw Lydia's elbow pointed at her knee.

Before Marie could argue, the front door of the tavern flung open. The two were already around the corner from the front wall but took extra care to slink behind a stack of crates. A peek at the street revealed a mob of revelry, all with a letter in hand. The sisters stayed quiet, waiting for them to disperse.

The time eventually came, as did a final swing of the door. No footsteps sounded in the snow, just silence. Then came a soft whistle, barely perceptible over the howling of the wind. Lydia whistled back before standing, reaching out of Marie's view to fix her hair. She stepped out from behind the crates, locking eyes with the Huntsman as he rounded the corner. Of course, the name was meaningless now, the character having achieved his goal.

"How do you feel, Tom?" Lydia asked.

"I feel like I wasn't built for this bloody cold!" Tom shivered, running towards the sisters as he retreated into his overcoat. "Could we get back inside, please?!" Gone was the elusive accent, which he'd taken from the infamously totalitarian Kingdom of Lourette in Northwestern Kharne. In its stead was the common brogue of Ròst-O'-Eòghain in the Federated Kingdoms of Rendain, where he was actually from.

Marie's eyes darted to Lydia's face, which slumped imperceptibly at the change. She noted the shift before turning and leading the three away from Olde Hranost.

Marie's eyes darted to Lydia's face, which slumped imperceptibly. She noted the change before turning and leading the three away from Olde Hranost.

- \\//\\//\\// -

"They were completely entranced! I knew you could write, but that was incredible! I've read plenty of great scripts, and I- I perform them well... but this was different. You gave me room, room to improvise! Did you see it!? How I added Filip into the script?" Tom, now in the comfort of a heated hallway, turned to face the twins as he walked.

With the Huntsman gone, Tom's bright demeanour was made apparent. Mid-length, dirty-blonde curls knotted themselves around his scalp, having long been pressed underneath a heavy wig cap. A wealth of freckles covered most of his face, bending upwards across his rosy cheeks as he grinned wildly. The expression, paired with the dishevelled hair and his piercing blue eyes, made it seem as if he was in the throes of mania.

"She's quite impressed with you, Tom," Marie said with a smile. "She told me you got the pauses just right, and the 'antagonization.' Whatever that means."

Lydia turned to glare at Marie before being interrupted by Tom.

"Well, given who we're working for, I had to put in some extra effort. And speaking of our employer, how much are they paying us exactly?" Tom turned towards the front of the group, led by a member of compound security. Her sleek uniform was patterned in white camouflage and emblazoned with the crisp black logo of the Senheisen Arms Corporation; the 'Company' referred to by the locals of Olde.

Tom reached to tap her shoulder but was stopped swiftly by Lydia, who shook her head in warning.

"The full-service fee is 12,500 halia, which we'll divide between us later," she answered curtly. Tom's eyes grew frenetic upon hearing the number. This was no small sum for a man in his profession. As the group reached the end of the hall, a satisfied grin grew across his face.

- \\//\\//\\// -

"You should expect them to enrol en masse starting tomorrow. I wouldn't be surprised if you've received some mail already."

Lydia stood staunchly, flanked by Tom and Marie. In front of her was a desk as massive as it was empty. So too were the concrete walls of the room the group now found themselves in.

Bookshelves lined the back wall, though they held nothing but a handful of tomes. There was no furniture, save for a brutalist fireplace and the desk, as well as the large seat of the man gazing at her: Antonin Ulmer - Chief Operating Officer, Borleyni Division.

Ulmer was distinctly large, but not like the large man from the tavern. This was the fat of the rich, not the protective bulk of the labouring poor. It was the kind of fat ego that would not come to such a place unless they'd been forced to. Lydia had understood that immediately. It was why she'd comfortably lifted the price of her services up as far as she had. Men like Ulmer would spend anything when put in such an uncomfortable position, anything that would lessen their burden. With the promise of Olde Hranost being taken care of, he was ready, nay eager, to spend as much as he had.

"Then it is done?" he asked, the bass of his voice shaking the room. "What of this tactic you used? Should I not expect dissent?"

"You may experience minor trouble to begin with. But these are a downtrodden people, sir. Though at first they will try to rebel, the comforts of this compound will turn them. They will become endeared to your company men. In time, the fire of their pride will completely subside. That, I guarantee you." Lydia kept her eyes trained on Ulmer, looking for any hint of doubt. Behind her, Marie stifled a look of her own pride. Her sister certainly had a way with words.

After a pause, Ulmer nodded his head.

"You will sleep here tonight. Come sunrise, a ship will take you back to Eisehafen, along with a written letter from myself. Deliver it to Senheisen's compound there to receive your payment." Ulmer opened a desk drawer and pulled out a piece of paper, signing the bottom before handing it to Lydia.

"Thank you, sir. We'll be off." With a practised turn, she led Marie and Tom out of the room. As she closed the door behind her, the security officer from before reclaimed the group and began leading them to their quarters for the night. Now, finally, Lydia allowed herself to smile. Though Tom's speech had only lasted a few minutes, its preparation had taken nearly a month. She'd had to research the town, the people. She'd had to find Tom and craft his persona, then ingratiate him with the leader of the townsfolk. So many small steps, so many chances for failure. Now she walked, letter in hand. The paper felt good between her fingers. It all felt good between her fingers. Controlled, calculated. Save for the pain, it all felt good.