Daven clutched the package tight to his chest and dashed down the alley. He only had a few moments before they discovered the hilt was gone. The true owner was long forgotten, and the “right authorities” far from being notified, but one thing was certain: the hilt could not remain in the hands of its current possessor. Daven would either succeed, or die trying–dying looking like a higher probability than Daven cared to calculate.
Moon blades were thought fantasy until recently, but a sudden reappearance had peaked collectors’ and historians’ interests beyond imagination. More than these, weapons manufacturers had also seen the potential. The mystical blades were somehow linked to the cycles of the moon. People theorized that the gravitational field of the moon “pulled” the blades into existence, much like the ocean and its tides. It was more than theory now: Daven and his team of researchers and artifact-hunters had actually discovered one. With incredible misfortune one of their party had lost a hand the first night after discovering the hilt; the blades, they found, appeared quickly and cut even faster. It had been buried in a cave, high in the Abrildite Mountains, in what was once called the Wild Lands. Now it was mostly national parks, but legends and stories led them into the cedar and fir-tree covered hills, looking for the origins of a western legend dating back to antiquity, and the days of the Order of the Sacred Flame. Surprisingly they hadn’t lacked much for funding: the black market hadn’t missed the chance to bid on the precious artifact-that-would-be-wholesaled. They knew that now. Before it had just been a “collector” looking for the moon blade of the legendary Cougar Warrior of the Wild Lands. Now things were different. And Daven was trying very hard to keep the blade from falling into the wrong hands.
He arrived at the street behind the Callister Building, and looked around wildly. No cabs. Not many people at all. Cursed back streets! He ran the length of the block, and realized he would have to head back to Main Street if he wanted sufficient traffic to get himself a ride. Gritting his teeth he ran up the block and immediately found enough cars to please his traffic cravings. Waving down an approaching cab he breathlessly hopped in the back, just as the driver flicked on his lights in the gathering dusk.
“Uh, just drive! I’ll—I’m trying to remember the address.” Daven stalled.
The cabby put the car in gear and pulled forward. Daven realized they were going straight back towards the Callister Building. He slumped back in his seat, gritting his teeth.
“Where’m I goin’, buddy?” insisted the cabby.
“Uh, Metro Station.” That’ll buy me some time to think.