1-6-2016
What he never told anyone--not even the Crew--was the disk he had in place of his eye, wasn’t a disk. Rather, it was the flat end of a steel spike. A very long steel spike that extended halfway into his brain. By all rights, it should have killed him as soon as his enemy had violently shoved it in there during that last fight. That it hadn't killed him spoke to something very powerful and very evil. Sometimes, the damn spike seemed to “squirm” inside his skull, like one of those six-foot eels he'd heard about in the wild islands off the coast of the Southern Dominance. And then there were the dreams he so often had, full of whispers and images of a screaming young girl centuries past who was killed when the very same spike was driven into her heart.
Other Equipment:
Mistborn Introduction
Hannibalis Polemos pulled his black tri-corn hat down over his face and eased himself back into the shadows. The two guards, both in Molu Sweers' pompous livery, ambled lazily past him on their nightly rounds. One turned in Hannibalis' direction, so to be safe, the big man slumped slowly downward, and emitted a light snore.
"Just some ash-damned drunk," the overly attentive guard mumbled to his companion.
The other guard waved a hand dismissively, seeming irritated at being interrupted during the salacious story he was trying to share. "Well, anyway, I'm tellin' you, this buxom beauty I was finally persuadin' to share my lap had these perfect hips. I'm talkin' the kind of hips you can really grip for leverage when...you know..."
By this point, they'd passed into the night, disappearing from view. But from the way the listener started laughing raucously, Hannibalis figured the storyteller had switched to a pantomime gesture that wasn't hard to imagine. Unfortunately. He stood, rolling his one eye, and put the two glorified goons out of his mind.
He had spy's work to do tonight.
Fortunately, he'd been all around the structure before him already, determining that this area was the least illuminated by the ambient moonlight. The brick tower was guarded, but only with the lackluster motley of dimwits like the amorous ones he'd just avoided. Hannibalis smiled coldly to himself, though there was no humor in the unseen expression. He'd seen the same two weaknesses many times among petty crime lords. Molu Sweers was no different. They always showed arrogance and greed. Arrogance, manifested in a belief that their power over their chosen territories was so absolute, no one would even attempt to threaten them. And greed that made them too stingy to invest more in hiring quality guards and beefing up their architectural safeguards. Out here in the Far Dominance, isolated from the noble politics of Luthadel and out of sight of the Lord Ruler's Steel Ministry, such warlords proliferated. All styled themselves rulers on equal footing with the nobility, but in his experience, none ever rose in intelligence or acumen beyond their thuggish origins.
Lucky for Hannibalis that they did suffer such weaknesses. It meant they didn't employ hazekillers like himself. It meant they didn't employ hazekillers for himself.
He moved as quietly as possible to the base of the tower, angling his head so his left eye could catch sight of the silhouette of a structure three stories up. He knew from a daytime examination yesterday that it was a stone buttress of some kind, an affectation on which Molu Sweers had ordered mounted a metal bust of himself. Hannibalis had also taken note that two of Sweers' skaa slave girls had been sweating in the heat, bare-chested, wearing only loincloths.They had struggled to polish the bust to the high gloss that reflected the red sunlight and boasted of the power of the man it represented. The unfortunate skaa girls’ combined weight on the buttress told him this would be a safe point of egress for him.
Hannibalis had also seared into his memory how the two young women, nubile but miserable, had used thumbless hands to awkwardly hold the buffing rags and astringent polishes. If rumor was correct, Sweers ordered the thumbs of his bed slaves or house slaves be removed, so they could never properly hold a weapon to threaten him. Or easily arrange an escape from his clutches.
If rumor was correct. That was what Hannibalis Polemos was here tonight to ascertain. In his heart, he believed it the truth. But he'd been sure in his heart once before about a cruel man. That misjudgement had left him missing his right eye, and stuck with something monstrous in its place. It was why he abided by the Rule now. The Rule meant verifying beyond a shadow of a doubt. And then calling for a vote among the crew if the rumor was true.
Hannibalis sighed. He hated this part. More accurately, he anticipated loving this part, but he hated himself for loving it. He undid the drawstring of the pouch dangling from his belt and removed a small metal bead.
It was made of cold iron and weighed heavy in his hand for its size. In the presence of light, it would have appeared grayish in color, with pits of rust dotting it like freckles of brown on an overripe fruit. He stuck it into his mouth, intending to dry-swallow it. He knew other members of the Crew usually aided this process by mixing their metals with wine or whiskey. But Hannibalis wanted always to remind himself that what he was about to do was only possible because of something stolen from someone else. Something forced on him by a man he eventually killed with his bare hands.
It was made of cold iron and weighed heavy in his hand for its size. In the presence of light, it would have appeared grayish in color, with pits of rust dotting it like freckles of brown on an overripe fruit. He stuck it into his mouth, intending to dry-swallow it. He knew other members of the Crew usually aided this process by mixing their metals with wine or whiskey. But Hannibalis wanted always to remind himself that what he was about to do was only possible because of something stolen from someone else. Something forced on him by a man he eventually killed with his bare hands.
His mouth filled with saliva, trying to ease down the metal, and he at last pushed it into his gullet with a strong swallow. Momentarily, he thought his gag reflex would force it back out past his teeth, but it eventually settled on going downward, hitting his gut with an unpleasant fluttering sensation.
Then he "burned" it.
At least that's what practitioners of the Allomantic arts called it when a user willed the metal in his belly to fuel his abilities. Hannibalis closed his left eye with that same sort of resigned love/hate ambivalence that emerged every time he tapped this undeserved and unfairly won power. His right eye socket itched, as it often did when he burned iron. He reached under the eyepatch, and tried unsuccessfully to massage away the unpleasant sensation. His fingers moved around the coin-shaped steel disk of metal that sat in the space where his eyeball had once rested. It was a common entertainment among the Crew to watch and see what story Hannibalis would tell next to explain how his eye came to be replaced with a metal disk. The retired hazekiller liked to change the account with each new telling, sometimes seeing how outrageous a reason he could give and yet be so persuasive that common listeners still believed him.
He shook off his ruminations and filled his mind instead with the next step of the plan. One benefit of burning his iron was that he gained back a measure of his long-missed binocular vision. Both “eyes” could now see blue lines converging from numerous locations to a point on his own body slightly beneath his sternum. They represented sources of metal all around him. Looking up, he confirmed that the line extending downward from the bronze bust overhead was one of the widest and brightest beams. Perfect.
Holding a hand over his head, he Pulled at the bust. His stolen Allomantic power of iron-burning allowed him to exert a force on all metals, causing them to move his direction. Unless, as with the bust, the metals were so securely moored that they functionally outweighed him. In which case, he instead accomplished exactly what he'd planned; his body began to rise steadily upward toward the bust, as though he was being lifted there by a silent, invisible winch. To anyone watching--and he hoped there wasn't anyone or this would be the shortest incursion ever--they would have seen him bubbling steadily upward, as though he was flying. It was a heady experience, being able to Pull his way up to forbidden locals without need of rope, grappling hook or the risk of noise.
Once he found himself within arm's reach of the buttress, he grabbed it and physically hoisted himself the rest of the way atop it. Then he lay flat on his stomach for a moment, watching the blue iron lines below him to see if any of them had changed. Off in the distance, he noted two fainter ones, representing some assortment of metals on the guards he'd avoided. Luckily, they were moving along at the same pace as before, clearly undisturbed. Good. No one had seen him. He turned and approached the window he'd marked the day before. He'd expected it to be more secure, and indeed it was. His iron sight could make out a bolt lock thrown across it. He Pulled gently on it through the glass, and with a "clack" that still made him wince, the bolt moved toward him, unlatching the lock. He gently swung the large panes outward so he could move inside.
A big man, Hannibalis was more accustomed to using brawn than stealth. But with both panes open, the window was thankfully wide, and forgiving of his heavy frame. He contorted himself through the opening, pushed aside the heavy curtains, and gazed around. To his surprise, he found himself in a candlelit bedroom.
Lord Ruler, he swore silently to himself. That meant the room was intended to be occupied--
“Hello,” a throaty voice spoke from across the room. “My, aren’t you an imposing one?”
Hannibalis turned sharply to look in the opposite corner of the room. A woman--perhaps in her 30s--stood in strange nightwear and jewelry. She had a tinderbox in hand, obviously lighting the last of the candles in the room. She was holding the box clumsily against her ribcage, as her hand was missing a thumb.
“Shut the window, hero,” she said with a coy smile. “Or you’ll be awfully cold here in a few minutes when we get those clothes off you.”
Struck momentarily dumb, the ex-hazekiller awkwardly complied with her request, pulling the panes back inward. He had to avoid alarming her if at all possible. But he had the wherewithal not to lock the bolt back in place.
Meanwhile, the woman moved across the room to a small end table, where a bottle of wine rested next to two gem-encrusted goblets. She awkwardly lifted the bottle in both thumbless hands, tipping it so she could slop the blood-colored liquid into the awaiting vessels.
Hannibalis was still confused by her apparent lack of distress at seeing someone creeping through her window at night. What’s more, he was suddenly very aware of her femaleness, of the curves of her body beneath the strategically provocative outfit she wore. It had been more than a year since he’d shared company with a woman. To his horror, he found his body beginning to respond to her seductive movements. A ripe perfume, obviously an expensive one, rolled off her musky skin and filled the small room with her scent.
“What’s got your tongue?” she asked. “Weren’t you out to surprise me?” Showing impressive grace for someone with only eight digits, she handed one of the goblets to him. He took it dumbly, a sweat breaking out over his face as he watched her full lips moisten on the lip of her own goblet of wine, and then her tongue lazily lick away the excess wine. She set her goblet down, and reached out to run her fingers over his chest, as his breathing became more rapid. “I have to admit, Molu has never given me to someone who could climb walls before. And that eyepatch. It makes you seem dashing, dangerous, and a bit...exciting!”
“Your hands!” Hannibalis finally pushed out past his nervous tongue. “How…?”
“My hands?” the woman replied, her tone suddenly a bit chillier. “What about them?” Despite her defensiveness, she withdrew them and hid them in the folds of her clothing. “I have better parts to offer you tonight than my hands. Come, are you ready to enjoy Molu’s gifts for his guests?”
“How can you so calmly let him dole you out like this, when he...he mutilates you?” Hannibalis stated, grabbing her right hand, and pulling it out into the candlelight again. The flood of desire he felt for her had ebbed somewhat, and his original focus was returning. “I’m...here to help you if I can!”
“Why would I need help?” the woman answered. A definite edge of suspicion had entered her voice. “This is the life I’ve always dreamed! Molu asks all of us for a sacrifice to show our commitment before he lets us be part of his household. I’d do it a thousand times over for this!” She waved a hand, encompassing the room.
She reached out and put the palms of both hands on Hannibalis’ cheeks. “Now, let’s get you into nothing more comfortable, and show you the hospitality of House Sweers.”
Like a thrown lever--an apt metaphor in this case--his intense desire returned, roaring in his ears, pulsing in his throat. He just wanted to take her, rip off that dress, throw her to the bed, force open her--
Wait a minute….
She made a small cry as he suddenly pushed her away from him. “You’re affecting my emotions, aren’t you?” he bellowed. “You’re an Allomancer!”
“Of course, that’s part of what--eek!!” She shrieked as Hannibalis began rifling around her outfit, reaching toward her hips. “If you’ll be patient, I can give you this more--” Sure enough, his hand came out of the folded clothing with a vial of liquid, in which metal flakes glinted.
He held it up in front of her face, accusingly. “So what are you, a Soother?”
Her face took on an expression of disgust, looking ugly for the first time. “Did you feel numb down there? Or did you feel like a man?”
A Rioter then. She’d been feeding his natural desires with her Allomancy, exploiting his loneliness and craving for human contact. He threw the vial of what had to be Zinc particles on the bed. “You’ve told me what I needed to know. My thanks for that. Now I’ll take my leave of you.”
She seemed confused. “But we haven’t...you need to…” Finally her eyes squinted in anger. “You’re not Molu’s guest at all! You’re an intruder! Help! Help me!!”
Almost immediately, heavy running footsteps sounded outside the room. The door flew open and one of the silly-liveried guards stepped tentatively into the doorway. “What in the name of the Lord Ruler--”
Hannibalis, Pulled on the metal door handle, and the door itself yanked back inward with a blur, pinning the guard so hard against the door frame that he slumped stunned. The ex-hazekiller turned back toward the woman, only to find himself blinded as she splashed the remainder of her wine in his face. He tried to back away, but she began clawing at him with her fingernails, screaming all the while for aid she didn’t seem to really need. His one eye shut against the sting of the liquid, he flared his iron, momentarily, using his Allomantic senses to seize upon one of the tall metal candle holders behind her. He Pulled on it and it zipped toward him, smashing the previously seductive woman in the back of the head on the way. Her eyes rolled back and he caught her before she fell hard on the floor. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, hoping he hadn’t done her any permanent damage.
Unfortunately, she’d slowed him enough that another guard had pushed the insensate one out of the way and was moving to engage him. It was definitely time to make a heroic exit. He bolted for the large window, Pulling on the metal lock as he ran, preparing to leap back out onto the buttress when the windows swung open.
And then he cracked his head against the thick, unmoving glass so hard that he swore he felt the spike in his brain wobble up and touch the inner side of his skull.
Dammit!
He’d forgotten, the window panes only swung outward. They didn’t work in the direction favorable to an iron-burner. That lapse had cost him precious seconds. Blinking the stars out of his eye, he turned just in time to Pull the knife thrust of the approaching guard off target. The fool should have known better than to use a metal weapon in a world where anyone might be an Allomancer. He backhanded the man with one of his hammer-sized fists. The man was stupid and foolish to work for someone like Molu Sweers, but he didn’t deserve to die for that. Hannibalis hoped to just stun him long enough to make his escape.
He heard more shouting from down the hall as he manually pushed the window panes open and leapt onto the buttress. This next act was not one he liked to do often. But he swallowed the innate fear of falling that exists in everyone, leaned over the side of the buttress and gave himself to the open mists. For one crazy moment, he just tumbled in empty space, air whooshing by his head in a roar. Then the discipline that had once let him be a hazekiller professional reasserted itself. He Pulled on the bust again, using it to slow his fall this time like a rappelling mountain climber.
Still, Hannibalis came down hard on the ground. He heard a nauseating “crack” sound, and waited for the flush of white agony that would tell him which bone he’d broken. But when he stood, he found the casualty to be his latest wooden dueling cane, still strapped to his back. He picked up the piece that had snapped off, mainly to avoid leaving evidence that might tell Molu Sweers who was stalking him.
Hannibalis Polemos bolted off into the mists as the household came to life in an attempt to track him. He’d need to get back to the Crew as quickly as possible and let them know what he’d learned. The skaa house slaves weren’t slaves, they were complicit with Sweers as some kind of perverse cult following. It rankled leaving such desperate people to that fate, but they’d made their choice. The Rule allowed the Crew to sanction Molu Sweers for his petty cruelties, but until they had other evidence, they couldn’t assassinate him.
Lord Ruler, that was disappointing….
Hannibalis Polemos:
Height: 5’9”
Weight: 265 lbs
Concept: Ex-Hazekiller from the Farmost Dominance
Crew Name: TBA
Cause: To teach humility to the powerful
Target: Bullies and Crime Bosses (non-Nobility)
Method: The Rule
Attributes: Standing: Resilience:
Physique: 6 Resources: 2 Health: 8
Charm: 3 Influence: 4 Reputation: 7
Wits: 4 Spirit: 3 Willpower: 7
Traits & Burdens:
Drive: To restore dignity and determination in the oppressed
Profession: Hazekiller Veteran
Specialty: Inspirational Speaker
Feature: Right eye pierced by Hemalurgic spike (covered with eyepatch)
Personality: Blithely idealistic; never takes money for tasks and relies on favor-for-a-favor
Tragedy:
Slew a cruel crime boss, then learned that nemesis was never truly evil, only mentally compromised. The boss’ last action was to yank a Hemalurgic spike from his own body and ram into Hannibalis’ eye.
Powers:
Iron Misting, Rating 5
- Multiple Targets Stunt (5)
Props:
Dueling Cane
Vial of Iron (3 charges)
Other Equipment:
