The Mask of Shadows

The sight of his own wanted poster, crude as it was, had shaken Kaelan to his core. Twenty-five Gold Coins. A king's ransom to a commoner, a tempting prize for any sellsword or bounty hunter worth their salt. Riverbend, with its teeming crowds and watchful eyes, suddenly felt like a gilded cage closing in. He spent the rest of that day moving like a ghost through the less populated alleyways and backstreets, his senses screaming with heightened awareness, every cough, every laugh, every shout potentially directed at him. The "unusual quickness" mentioned on the poster was a chillingly accurate, if understated, descriptor. He couldn't afford to use his [Fleeting Steps] openly, not even a single stack, lest he draw the very attention he was desperate to avoid.

His mind raced, cataloging options, discarding them just as quickly. Leaving Riverbend immediately was tempting, but where would he go? Back into the wilderness, alone and hunted? That felt like a slow death sentence. The Adventurer's Guild was still his best bet – a place where anonymity might be bought, where strength was valued, and where he could potentially earn enough to either disappear more effectively or become too formidable a target for casual bounty hunters.

As he skulked through the shadows, observing the flow of people, a detail he’d subconsciously registered earlier now jumped to the forefront of his mind. Many of the armed individuals he’d seen – the caravan guards, the town watch, the wandering mercenaries – wore more than just armor. Helmets were common, often obscuring the upper face. Some wore gorgets that covered the neck and lower jaw. And then there were the masks. He’d seen a few individuals, usually those with a more roguish or mysterious air, wearing half-masks, full-face coverings of leather or even metal, some plain, some stylized. It was a practical measure in a world of dust, grime, and sudden violence, but also a way to obscure one's identity.

A spark of an idea ignited. A mask. If he could find or fashion something to cover his face, combined with his cloak’s hood, he could significantly alter his appearance, make that crude sketch on the wanted poster even less reliable. It wouldn’t make him invisible, but it might buy him precious time, precious anonymity.

He still had his two gold coins, plus the silver and copper. It wasn't enough for a suit of gleaming plate, but perhaps it was enough for some decent, inconspicuous armor and a functional mask. His current attire – the worn Quik-Stop polo (now mostly hidden under his cloak but still a shameful reminder), the patched trousers, the sturdy but plain boots, and his new woolen cloak – screamed "vagabond" or "struggling novice." He needed to look less like a runaway and more like someone who belonged in the rough-and-tumble world of adventurers and mercenaries.

With a new, albeit nervous, resolve, Kaelan ventured back towards the mercantile district, his eyes scanning for shops that catered to the less affluent but still practical warrior. He avoided the high-end armorers with their dazzling displays and prohibitive prices, instead seeking out smaller, cluttered establishments tucked away on side streets.

He found one such place, its sign depicting a battered shield and a crossed dagger, with the unpretentious name "Grom's Discount Defenses." Inside, the air was thick with the smell of oiled leather, metal polish, and old sweat. The shop was crammed with mismatched pieces of armor – dented breastplates, scuffed greaves, helmets of varying designs and states of repair. It was a far cry from the gleaming showrooms, but the prices, scrawled on chalkboards, were more within his reach.

A grizzled, one-eyed dwarf with a braided beard that reached his belt grunted at Kaelan from behind a cluttered counter. "Lookin' for somethin', lad? Or just trackin' mud in?"

"Looking for some… protective gear," Kaelan said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "Leather, preferably. Something light, that allows for movement." And, he added mentally, something that could be worn under his cloak without too much bulk.

The dwarf, Grom, eyed him critically. "Speedy type, are ye? Got a few pieces might suit. Can't promise they'll stop a troll's charge, but they'll turn a stray arrow or a bandit's shiv, maybe."

Grom rummaged through a pile of assorted leather goods, eventually pulling out a dark, almost black leather jerkin. It was made of thick, boiled leather, reinforced with strategically placed metal studs. It was clearly used, with a few scuffs and scratches, but the leather was supple and well-maintained. "This here's sturdy. Goblin-hide, reinforced. Good flexibility. Five silver."

Kaelan examined it. It was better than nothing. Significantly better. "And perhaps… a mask?" he asked, trying to sound casual. "Something simple, to keep the dust out of my face."

Grom snorted. "Dust, eh? More like keepin' your face out of the town watch's memory, I reckon. Got a few." He produced a small box containing an assortment of leather masks. Most were simple half-masks, covering the nose and lower face. But one caught Kaelan’s eye. It was a full-face mask, also made of dark, treated leather, but designed with a slightly more stylized, almost predatory look. It covered his entire face from hairline to jaw, with narrow eye slits and small, almost imperceptible breathing holes. The forehead section was slightly raised and shaped, and the cheek and jawline were subtly defined, giving it an angular, almost intimidating appearance. It was surprisingly light. "This one… call it the 'Night Runner's Veil.' Popular with folks who prefer the shadows. Three silver."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Kaelan tried it on. The leather was surprisingly comfortable against his skin. The eye slits provided a decent field of vision, though narrower than he was used to. Combined with his cloak's hood pulled up, his face would be almost completely obscured, his identity reduced to a shadowy silhouette. It felt… transformative. And slightly ridiculous.

"I'll take the jerkin and the mask," Kaelan said, counting out eight silver coins. He now had 2 Gold, 27 Silver, and his coppers. A significant chunk of his savings, but a necessary investment.

Next, he considered his weapon. The goblin club had served him surprisingly well, its brutal simplicity effective when backed by his speed and strength. But it wasn't exactly an adventurer's weapon. He needed something that complemented his high-dexterity, speed-focused build. Swords were expensive, and he had no training with them. Daggers felt too… assassin-like, and perhaps not suited for prolonged combat against multiple opponents.

He found what he was looking for in another small, dusty shop that specialized in "Exotic & Reclaimed Weaponry." Tucked away amongst rusty scimitars and chipped halberds was a pair of what the shopkeeper, a wiry old human with shifty eyes, called "Wind Blades." They were essentially reinforced gauntlets, made of dark, hardened leather and extending almost to the elbow, but with three curved, razor-sharp blades, each about six inches long, protruding from the knuckles and along the outer forearm. They looked like something a fantasy assassin or a comic book character might wield.

"Imported from the Eastern Deserts, they say," the shopkeeper wheezed. "Designed for fighters who rely on speed and precision. Slice and dice before your opponent even knows what hit 'em. Ten silver for the pair. Good steel in those blades, hold an edge."

Kaelan examined them. They felt surprisingly balanced. With his Fleeting Steps, he could deliver a flurry of devastating cuts in the blink of an eye. They were certainly more intimidating than his club, and perhaps more versatile. They also had the advantage of leaving his hands free if he needed to manipulate something.

"I'll take them," he said, parting with another ten silver. He was down to 2 Gold, 17 Silver.

Back in the relative anonymity of his cheap inn room (he’d found a grimy but secure place called "The Rusty Mug" near the tanneries, far from the main thoroughfares), Kaelan surveyed his purchases. He donned the studded leather jerkin. It fit snugly, offering a reassuring sense of protection without overly restricting his movement. Then, he pulled on the "Wind Blade" gauntlets. The sharpened blades glinted menacingly in the dim light. Finally, he pulled the "Night Runner's Veil" over his face and raised the hood of his cloak.

He caught his reflection in a cracked, grime-streaked piece of polished metal that served as a mirror.

He almost laughed out loud.

He looked… utterly absurd. The dark, angular mask combined with the hooded cloak gave him a distinctly bat-like silhouette, albeit a scrawny, budget version. The bladed gauntlets protruding from his sleeves only added to the over-the-top, edgy aesthetic. He looked like a low-budget crossover between that dark, brooding vigilante from the comic books he used to read and that incredibly fast, red-suited hero. A "Temu version," as kids on Earth might have snidely called it, cobbled together from discount parts and desperate hopes.

A wave of self-consciousness washed over him. This was ridiculous. He was trying to be inconspicuous, not look like some wannabe dark avenger. But then, he considered the alternative. His own unremarkable, now wanted, face. This getup, however theatrical, was undeniably anonymous. No one would connect this shadowy, blade-wielding figure with the vague description of "Kaelan, the escaped Crown servant."

He practiced moving in the new gear. The jerkin was a little stiff, but he could feel it already starting to conform to his body. The mask, while limiting his peripheral vision slightly, was surprisingly breathable. The bladed gauntlets felt like natural extensions of his arms, though he’d need to be careful not to accidentally slice himself or anything else. He threw a few practice punches, the blades whistling through the air. With Fleeting Steps active, he could imagine the devastating effect.

Pathetic or not, he thought, his reflection staring back at him with shadowed, unreadable eyes, this is my new skin. This was the disguise that might allow him to walk the streets of Riverbend without constantly looking over his shoulder. This was the armor, however meager, that would protect him in the fights to come. This was the visage of the F-Rank Anomaly, stepping out of the shadows of his past and into the uncertain glare of his future.

He took a deep breath. Tomorrow, he would visit the Adventurer's Guild. Masked, armored, and armed with his new, ridiculous-looking weapons, Kaelan "the Quick" was about to make his debut in the wider, more dangerous world of Aethel. He just hoped he didn’t trip over his own edgy persona.