The Assassin1019Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfcyHcKJDUK
The full moon hovered in glowing triumph and contrasted blissfully against the empty dark sky that surrounded it. Its light, shimmering ever so gently over the village town of Riftsire, offered for Arlandra Knight the perfect visibility in which to hunt his newest target. Arlandra had accepted many assassin contacts of the people of Riftsire before, and though the small town did not have as many tight alleys and tall buildings as the great city of Taelliwey – landmarks that the assassin much preferred – it did possess a great number of easy victims for him to collect his next pay.
Surians, or the reapers of Noveria, as some would call them, were a very productive group of people when it came to business. The Surians possessed mining camps along the Northern Peaks where they collected powerful Benezian Crystals. They also had access to the Eldar Forest in the East, from which they collected wood and other valuables.
Surians are powerful with a bag of gold coins at their feet, Arlandra thought, and the man he was watching moved steadily across the empty street, but when they’re under the edge of my knife they are helpless.
Arlandra was holding a red blood-poppy in his hands. He put it gently in his pocket and calmly flicked the hood of his dark cloak over his head before pulling his soft fabric mask back over his nose so that only his shimmering green eyes were visible. Slowly, he began to walk forward. Droplets of rain drizzled over them and little round puddles began to form in the dirt. Arlandra increased his pace as his target rounded the general store and made for the river on the edge of the town. His black boots sank deep into the thick grasping mud.
Arlandra came around the same corner and his target turned and went pale – clearly having spotted the shadow that was haunting him. In that instance the assassin broke into a sprint, swiftly gaining on the target, who was now running so hard that every footstep could be heard from a distance, and over the heavy patter of falling raindrops as well. The clouds pushed over the moon and darkness consumed them. Darkness; an assassin’s greatest ally.
Arlandra began to hear the rushing sound of the stream nearby. He was near the mill, for the creaking of the giant wheel turning was dominant over his surroundings. He pushed forward, and was ready to strike as fear very quickly overwhelmed the target. Fear; an assassin’s second greatest ally.
Before each kill, Arlandra would ritualistically run through everything he knew about his targets. The target. A middle-aged trader by the name of Arlen. His life was worth a hundred gold coins to the client, a local tradesman. Dangerous? Perhaps, can’t be too careful. Lead him to the mill. Take him out fast.
Arlandra circled around towards the sound of the stream and slowed his pace as he followed Arlen into the mill. The night was silent, and on the edge of town, no one dared venture into the endless dark. Silence; an assassin’s third greatest ally.
Again the moon broke out and the night became visible once again. Arlandra caught a glimpse of the target stumbling desperately up the stairs to the mill. He reached into his belt and placed a firm hand over the hilt of his dagger.
The inside of the mill was dark and quiet, and it carried the aroma of mould and old wood. Arlandra tried not to cough as dust invaded his lungs and caused him to choke. Swiftly, he pushed on, and made his way up the stairs to the top. Here, Arlen would die. It’s a very long way down, maybe I could make it look like an accident, or a suicide.
The room up top was just like the ground floor, dark and mouldy. The pale moonlight stretched through the single window, pulsing in rhythm to the turning wheels of the mill as they flew by. Within the luminescence was the silhouette of Arlen, the target. His back faced Arlandra.
“I did what I had to do,” Arlen pleaded, without turning around. “You have to understand.”
Ah, the begging stage, Arlandra thought, he had seen this many times before. It was a reflex action of those marked for death; a final desperate plead to win back their lives, but knowing deep down that there was no hope. There was no hope, and these words bounced off Arlandra like arrows off steel.
“That isn’t for me to decide.” Arlandra said blandly. His tone was steady as he took hold of his dagger and stepped forward, the wooden floor creaked loudly under his weight.
The target was now within lunging distance. Arlandra raised his dagger, but then, like a scared cornered animal, the target turned and pulled from his jacket a flintlock pistol. Arlandra’s mind rushed. The weapon looked new, the wood polished and artistically engraved, and, by the way the chamber pulsed with blue light, the muzzle was infused with Benezian energy. But why was he using a flintlock? Arlandra wasn’t really one for guns but he still carried a perfectly good revolver at his side.
He was quick to act. He swiped the weapon away just before it fired its blue-burning shot, but the purple muzzle flash and the weapon’s thunder was enough to make his ears ring and his eyes hurt. Arlandra pressed his forearm hard against Alan’s chest and pushed all of his weight and might upon it, forcing the man back against the window. He looked down. The drop was definitely enough to kill, or at the least, seriously injure a man.
But Arlen began to fight back. He drove his knee hard into Arlandra’s lower body and caused him to gasp. The target was a fighter, Arlandra decided, surprising. Adjust tactics.
He had to take this man down fast. As they struggled against the window, Arlandra noticed the rope attached and hanging from one of the spinning wheels. Without hesitation he took it as it swirled by and wrapped it tight around Arlen’s neck, tying it firmly. He quickly took the blood-poppy from his pocket and pinned it to Arlen’s shirt. This was his calling card. He then stepped back. Arlen paused for a moment, and gave one last cry before he was kicked backwards, and out of the high window.
The rope snaked down after the man, and as Arlen fell, the rope snapped tight. His neck had been broken. The target was dead, and his body swayed back and forth in the night as the wheel slowly turned.ns 184.108.40.206da2