Post by Mizagium on Oct 21, 2010 1:47:12 GMT -5
The clouds parted as the clock tower stuck midnight, revealing a perfectly round moon. It hung, a chandelier in the night sky, framed by thick snow clouds that paused in their pursuit of covering the world in a silent white fluff. The wind stopped and the city hung suspended in time. A single cloud passed in front of the moon, dimming the light for a moment, before continuing onward.
A werewolf moon, Ezairen thought. An old wives’ tale called a night like this a werewolf night. Overcast with a bright full moon. Thankfully, there were no werewolves in this part of the world. At least as far as Ezairen knew. After all, he had only seen a handful of cities, and spent most of his time in this one. So for all he knew, the Gray Forest could be crawling with werebeasts.
He was a fairly average looking youth, the kind that easily blended into a crowd. No scars, no strange eye color, not even a hint of a foreign ancestry. He fit snuggly in with the insular people of Fehlniw. And he looked so innocent. Most assassins had to “look” of one. Dead in the eyes, hardened façade. Not he. Ezairen was unremarkable in every possible way, which made for an extremely deadly killer.
General Alquvaret materialized out of an alley, breathing warm air into his shivering hands. He was in his mid-fifties and looked worn beyond his years. The siege had placed undue stress on him lately, graying his hair completely and deepening the wrinkles on his face. He was still dressed in his armor, so Ezairen guess he hadn’t been sleeping. The direction he had come from suggested that he had recently been a well-paying patron at one of the city’s many taverns. And why shouldn’t he, having spent the last four years defending Fehlniw, from the Xolthukein refugees. Ezairen stood in the doorway of the church, the clock towering above him.
He secured his mask, a masquerade style that looked like it had seen too many parties. It was the very antithesis of Ezairen: worn, scratched, strange, and interesting. While it obscured his face, he became a different person, emotionally and physically. As bland as it was, his face was the only defining part of him. Hiding it hid his identity, changed his identity. And that was before he applied magic to the equation.
General Alquvaret froze midstep when he saw Ezairen materialize.
The air around Ezarien shimmered as he altered his outward appearance, he was never quite sure what he looked like; the glamour affected everybody differently. What he did know, was that he was supposed to appear absolutely frightening to the victim. It worked, because with each step he took, Alquvaret took two back. Each step was a muffled crunch that echoed infinitely in the still night.
“N-No, it c-can’t be,” the drunken man stuttered. “Why have you come for me? Why now?” He was pressed against a building. “Not now.”
“No one ever thinks it is there time,” Ezairen hissed, drawing a long knife from his sheath. “Some beg. Some plead. I’ve heard other promise me their children if I would but let them live a while longer.” He spat. “Pathetic.” Drawing circles in the air, Ezairen said, “Face your death like a man.”
“I can’t go now,” Alquvaret whispered. “The city is breaking. My men should have given up long ago, but they trust me. They need me.” He stood up straighter, more determined. “You want me to fight? Then fine.” Drawing his longsword, the general faced Ezairen. “Come Death; try and claim me.”
Ezairen made a running strike, hoping to catch the inebriated man before he could react, but he was parried with surprising force, forcing him to retreat a few steps. It seems he wasn’t as drunk as I thought. Before he could move, Alquvaret charged with a shout, swinging the longsword in a downward arc. It cut the snow where the assassin had been moments before. He was sober enough to fight, but he certainly wasn’t up to full awareness. Even so, it was more than enough to give Ezairen a run for his money.
He rushed, feinted to the left, and struck at the general’s right hip, but missed completely. When Alquvaret moved to parry the feint, he threw his whole weight into it, throwing him off balance. He corrected it with a stagger that moved him out of Ezairen’s knife. The adrenaline was kicking in, Ezairen could see. Alquvaret was probably close to completely sober.
He cursed himself for forgetting his research. Alquvaret never drank enough to get past a buzz. It was unseemly for a general to be drunk, even in private, not when he was responsible for the safety of an entire city.
Damn him. And damn the moon! The clouds had fled in the wake of their battle, leaving the two of them dueling in brightly reflected moonlight. Anyone who happened to be awake at this hour would have no trouble identifying General Alquvaret. Or him. His true identity might be a secret, but his glamour was only tailored to his target, not anyone else. It took time to Weave a proper glamour. Were someone to stumble upon this botched assassination, he or she would see him as a strange masked man. It wouldn’t completely ruin his game in the city, but it would hinder it. So far he’d been surviving on complete anonymity, a faceless killer. He wanted to keep it that way, and any sighting would go towards destroying that.
That was why Alquvaret had to die here and now.
Keeping his distance, Ezarien fished a handful of Woven flames from a pouch tied to his belt. He warmed them in his hand until they started to burn and then he flung them in a wide arc, creating a firewall between the two of them. What a waste. So many flames, so many hours of work. Don’t think about that. You can always make more. He cannot be allowed to live.
The fires melted the snow around them both, turning the area to a wet slush. Ezarien slipped backward as he ran, falling into the waist-high snow, and couldn’t get up. As light as the snow was, it was impossible to find proper grip to push himself up. When he finally carved a hollow out of the snow and got to his feet, the fires had ceased to burn. And Alquvaret was gone. There were no footprints in the immediate area because the fires had turned it to mush.
But before he could decide what to do next, he felt cold steel on his neck.
“You’re not Death,” Alquvaret hissed, sending warm breath down Ezairen’s neck. “Death is not a bumbling fool who resorts to cheap tricks. Trust me, I’ve seen Death on the battlefield, and he is no coward. He walks right up to you and takes you. He’s not polite, but he’s not rude. He simply is. I take offense that you would wear the mask of Death. You shame him with your parlor tricks.” He moved closer, so that he was speaking into his ear. “Now tell me, who the fuck are you?”
“If I told you,” Ezarien said cooly, “I’d have to kill you.”
“I don’t like you; you’re a smartass. You won’t fight me straight, you won’t answer me straight. A crooked man you are, although I should have guessed, since you tried to kill me. Straight men don’t do that.” He pressed the blade harder. Ezairen guess it was a knife, since it was too short to be his longsword. As if reading his mind, Alquvaret brought his longsword round and laid it across his chest.
“Sometimes straight men have no other recourse,” Ezairen retorted. “When your opponent outmatches you in open combat, you have to find another way of winning. Sometimes slitting his throat is the only way.”
“That’s bullshit. Victory isn’t the only concern in war. There is such a thing as honor. Facing your foe alone, sword to sword, man to man. That’s how wars should be fought, not with armies, but with two men, two swords. One leaves, having fought with dignity and honor. And every man would respect him for that.”
“You’re a hopeless romantic, General. This isn’t about honor anymore. This is about people dying because of your stubborn king. Thousands dying at the gates, while you sit here and laugh at them. Tell me: where is the honor in that?”
Both swords pressed harder. “Don’t try to speak to me on the same level, assassin. You don’t understand shit about the world.”
“Enlighten me,” he teased.
“I don’t waste my breath on dead men.”
“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
“I told you, I don’t like smartasses.”
“Then kill me.”
Alquvaret sighed. “You might not believe in honor, but I do, and I will not kill a man when his back is turned.” Slowly, the general withdrew his weapons. Ezarien heard them slide back into their sheaths. “Go. Get out of here. I’ll forget I saw you. This isn’t the time for the city to start fighting amongst itself.” He shoved his roughly forward. “Get out.”
Ezairen turned and watched Alquvaret leave; he didn’t look back. His fingers tightened on his long knife.
“I’m sorry to tell you, General, but I don’t live in your fantasy world of honor. I live in the world of reality, and in that world, you survive through any means necessary.”
“Then there is no hope for the world.”
Ezairen rushed at the retreating general with a shout, driving his knife through his neck. The man gurgled on his own blood. The assassin slid the knife out and Alquvaret dropped to his knees, and then face forward into snow that hadn’t been melted by the Woven fire. It quickly stained red. Ezairen regarded the corpse for a moment, contemplating what sort of man he had been. But it didn’t matter, he was dead, and a body lay in his place. With a snort of discontent, he turned and walked away.
Somewhere, a shrill cry split the night.
A werewolf moon, Ezairen thought. An old wives’ tale called a night like this a werewolf night. Overcast with a bright full moon. Thankfully, there were no werewolves in this part of the world. At least as far as Ezairen knew. After all, he had only seen a handful of cities, and spent most of his time in this one. So for all he knew, the Gray Forest could be crawling with werebeasts.
He was a fairly average looking youth, the kind that easily blended into a crowd. No scars, no strange eye color, not even a hint of a foreign ancestry. He fit snuggly in with the insular people of Fehlniw. And he looked so innocent. Most assassins had to “look” of one. Dead in the eyes, hardened façade. Not he. Ezairen was unremarkable in every possible way, which made for an extremely deadly killer.
General Alquvaret materialized out of an alley, breathing warm air into his shivering hands. He was in his mid-fifties and looked worn beyond his years. The siege had placed undue stress on him lately, graying his hair completely and deepening the wrinkles on his face. He was still dressed in his armor, so Ezairen guess he hadn’t been sleeping. The direction he had come from suggested that he had recently been a well-paying patron at one of the city’s many taverns. And why shouldn’t he, having spent the last four years defending Fehlniw, from the Xolthukein refugees. Ezairen stood in the doorway of the church, the clock towering above him.
He secured his mask, a masquerade style that looked like it had seen too many parties. It was the very antithesis of Ezairen: worn, scratched, strange, and interesting. While it obscured his face, he became a different person, emotionally and physically. As bland as it was, his face was the only defining part of him. Hiding it hid his identity, changed his identity. And that was before he applied magic to the equation.
General Alquvaret froze midstep when he saw Ezairen materialize.
The air around Ezarien shimmered as he altered his outward appearance, he was never quite sure what he looked like; the glamour affected everybody differently. What he did know, was that he was supposed to appear absolutely frightening to the victim. It worked, because with each step he took, Alquvaret took two back. Each step was a muffled crunch that echoed infinitely in the still night.
“N-No, it c-can’t be,” the drunken man stuttered. “Why have you come for me? Why now?” He was pressed against a building. “Not now.”
“No one ever thinks it is there time,” Ezairen hissed, drawing a long knife from his sheath. “Some beg. Some plead. I’ve heard other promise me their children if I would but let them live a while longer.” He spat. “Pathetic.” Drawing circles in the air, Ezairen said, “Face your death like a man.”
“I can’t go now,” Alquvaret whispered. “The city is breaking. My men should have given up long ago, but they trust me. They need me.” He stood up straighter, more determined. “You want me to fight? Then fine.” Drawing his longsword, the general faced Ezairen. “Come Death; try and claim me.”
Ezairen made a running strike, hoping to catch the inebriated man before he could react, but he was parried with surprising force, forcing him to retreat a few steps. It seems he wasn’t as drunk as I thought. Before he could move, Alquvaret charged with a shout, swinging the longsword in a downward arc. It cut the snow where the assassin had been moments before. He was sober enough to fight, but he certainly wasn’t up to full awareness. Even so, it was more than enough to give Ezairen a run for his money.
He rushed, feinted to the left, and struck at the general’s right hip, but missed completely. When Alquvaret moved to parry the feint, he threw his whole weight into it, throwing him off balance. He corrected it with a stagger that moved him out of Ezairen’s knife. The adrenaline was kicking in, Ezairen could see. Alquvaret was probably close to completely sober.
He cursed himself for forgetting his research. Alquvaret never drank enough to get past a buzz. It was unseemly for a general to be drunk, even in private, not when he was responsible for the safety of an entire city.
Damn him. And damn the moon! The clouds had fled in the wake of their battle, leaving the two of them dueling in brightly reflected moonlight. Anyone who happened to be awake at this hour would have no trouble identifying General Alquvaret. Or him. His true identity might be a secret, but his glamour was only tailored to his target, not anyone else. It took time to Weave a proper glamour. Were someone to stumble upon this botched assassination, he or she would see him as a strange masked man. It wouldn’t completely ruin his game in the city, but it would hinder it. So far he’d been surviving on complete anonymity, a faceless killer. He wanted to keep it that way, and any sighting would go towards destroying that.
That was why Alquvaret had to die here and now.
Keeping his distance, Ezarien fished a handful of Woven flames from a pouch tied to his belt. He warmed them in his hand until they started to burn and then he flung them in a wide arc, creating a firewall between the two of them. What a waste. So many flames, so many hours of work. Don’t think about that. You can always make more. He cannot be allowed to live.
The fires melted the snow around them both, turning the area to a wet slush. Ezarien slipped backward as he ran, falling into the waist-high snow, and couldn’t get up. As light as the snow was, it was impossible to find proper grip to push himself up. When he finally carved a hollow out of the snow and got to his feet, the fires had ceased to burn. And Alquvaret was gone. There were no footprints in the immediate area because the fires had turned it to mush.
But before he could decide what to do next, he felt cold steel on his neck.
“You’re not Death,” Alquvaret hissed, sending warm breath down Ezairen’s neck. “Death is not a bumbling fool who resorts to cheap tricks. Trust me, I’ve seen Death on the battlefield, and he is no coward. He walks right up to you and takes you. He’s not polite, but he’s not rude. He simply is. I take offense that you would wear the mask of Death. You shame him with your parlor tricks.” He moved closer, so that he was speaking into his ear. “Now tell me, who the fuck are you?”
“If I told you,” Ezarien said cooly, “I’d have to kill you.”
“I don’t like you; you’re a smartass. You won’t fight me straight, you won’t answer me straight. A crooked man you are, although I should have guessed, since you tried to kill me. Straight men don’t do that.” He pressed the blade harder. Ezairen guess it was a knife, since it was too short to be his longsword. As if reading his mind, Alquvaret brought his longsword round and laid it across his chest.
“Sometimes straight men have no other recourse,” Ezairen retorted. “When your opponent outmatches you in open combat, you have to find another way of winning. Sometimes slitting his throat is the only way.”
“That’s bullshit. Victory isn’t the only concern in war. There is such a thing as honor. Facing your foe alone, sword to sword, man to man. That’s how wars should be fought, not with armies, but with two men, two swords. One leaves, having fought with dignity and honor. And every man would respect him for that.”
“You’re a hopeless romantic, General. This isn’t about honor anymore. This is about people dying because of your stubborn king. Thousands dying at the gates, while you sit here and laugh at them. Tell me: where is the honor in that?”
Both swords pressed harder. “Don’t try to speak to me on the same level, assassin. You don’t understand shit about the world.”
“Enlighten me,” he teased.
“I don’t waste my breath on dead men.”
“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
“I told you, I don’t like smartasses.”
“Then kill me.”
Alquvaret sighed. “You might not believe in honor, but I do, and I will not kill a man when his back is turned.” Slowly, the general withdrew his weapons. Ezarien heard them slide back into their sheaths. “Go. Get out of here. I’ll forget I saw you. This isn’t the time for the city to start fighting amongst itself.” He shoved his roughly forward. “Get out.”
Ezairen turned and watched Alquvaret leave; he didn’t look back. His fingers tightened on his long knife.
“I’m sorry to tell you, General, but I don’t live in your fantasy world of honor. I live in the world of reality, and in that world, you survive through any means necessary.”
“Then there is no hope for the world.”
Ezairen rushed at the retreating general with a shout, driving his knife through his neck. The man gurgled on his own blood. The assassin slid the knife out and Alquvaret dropped to his knees, and then face forward into snow that hadn’t been melted by the Woven fire. It quickly stained red. Ezairen regarded the corpse for a moment, contemplating what sort of man he had been. But it didn’t matter, he was dead, and a body lay in his place. With a snort of discontent, he turned and walked away.
Somewhere, a shrill cry split the night.