Post by camia on Jan 14, 2008 15:31:04 GMT -5
Don't get the wrong idea. She isn't doing anyone any favors. This isn't community service or some application of some higher ideals.
This is about turf, about power, about fear. Preservation
She sat motionless in the dark recesses of the empty stable stall.
The half-hearted attempt at a roof kept most of the rain from drenching her, but enough still managed to find its way to her, matting down her hair, soaking her clothing, and running in dirty rivulets down her arms. The only thing that had stayed dry was the stained and worn leather bindings of her blades and only then because she kept them tight in her calloused palms.
It was arguably still day time, but the murky clouds and the smoke that filled the air colored the sky a deep gray. What little light that struggled through was enough to diffuse the slight green aura of her eyes, but not enough to expose her. She was at home in the darkness, a friend to solitude. She wore the deepening darkness, like a noble woman wears a bejeweled gown
The smell of wet hay and damp wood brought back long neglected memories. Her family was but vague dreams and half remembered faces and voices from a childhood best left forgotten. They had given her a life, but not much else. She didn't need them. She needed only her work. Loved ones were a liability.
Splashing footsteps broke her from her reverie. She plotted the sound's origin and watched through the gaps in the warped wooden walls as a man rounded the corner. It was him. The one she had been waiting for. The stupid fool never varied much in his routine, and in this business, that was a fatal mistake.
Moving silently to the open front doors of the stable, each step measured and pre-planned, she made ready her blade. The man was short and pudgy, and a shock of blond hair lay in wet clumps across his brow.
His clothes, while wrinkled and wet, were still obviously finely made and perfectly fitted. Even through the earthy smells of the stable she could detect the strong perfumes he wore, unsuccessfully trying to cover his own goatish odor.
As He walked passed the shadowy doorway, she slipped quietly behind him, her feet moving in exaggerated steps and she dodged around the puddles and mud. She stepped forward then, placing her knee against the back of his. Her left arm came up and around him, fingers digging into his cheeks and she pulled his head back.
She swung her other hand around him, this one holding her blade, and drew it across his throat. The blade cut deep, severing muscle, tendon, and artery. She felt the hot flowing wetness of blood, so distinct from the chill rain, pour across her hand. Surely this wound would kill him soon, but its true purpose was to ensure his silence, and reduce his ability to fight back.
The shear fluidity and violence of the maneuver, coupled with her knees against the back of his caused him to lose his balance completely and fall backward. As she had predicted his hands went to his ruined throat and presented no threat to her. She deftly moved to the side and allowed his bulk to hit the ground. She saw the blood bubbling between his fingers and the fear and shock in his eyes.
She took no pleasure in this. But neither was she sickened by it.
This was work, and these "Guildsmen" had threatened her. "Join with us and give us our cut or you'll be dead bitch" they had said.
She was no petty thief. Their threat was join or die, and she chose death – theirs. She didn't need anyone's help. This was her calling, her business, and she was a natural at her chosen profession.
With the speed of a viper, she drew back her bloodstained dagger then slid it underneath his ribcage, near the center of his chest. The fool stiffened as the blade tore at his heart, and the bubbling of the blood between his fingers stopped. Sheathing the blade she walked around the still warm corpse and drug him into the stable.
She had disposed of the others already. He was the last.
Transaction concluded.
This is about turf, about power, about fear. Preservation
She sat motionless in the dark recesses of the empty stable stall.
The half-hearted attempt at a roof kept most of the rain from drenching her, but enough still managed to find its way to her, matting down her hair, soaking her clothing, and running in dirty rivulets down her arms. The only thing that had stayed dry was the stained and worn leather bindings of her blades and only then because she kept them tight in her calloused palms.
It was arguably still day time, but the murky clouds and the smoke that filled the air colored the sky a deep gray. What little light that struggled through was enough to diffuse the slight green aura of her eyes, but not enough to expose her. She was at home in the darkness, a friend to solitude. She wore the deepening darkness, like a noble woman wears a bejeweled gown
The smell of wet hay and damp wood brought back long neglected memories. Her family was but vague dreams and half remembered faces and voices from a childhood best left forgotten. They had given her a life, but not much else. She didn't need them. She needed only her work. Loved ones were a liability.
Splashing footsteps broke her from her reverie. She plotted the sound's origin and watched through the gaps in the warped wooden walls as a man rounded the corner. It was him. The one she had been waiting for. The stupid fool never varied much in his routine, and in this business, that was a fatal mistake.
Moving silently to the open front doors of the stable, each step measured and pre-planned, she made ready her blade. The man was short and pudgy, and a shock of blond hair lay in wet clumps across his brow.
His clothes, while wrinkled and wet, were still obviously finely made and perfectly fitted. Even through the earthy smells of the stable she could detect the strong perfumes he wore, unsuccessfully trying to cover his own goatish odor.
As He walked passed the shadowy doorway, she slipped quietly behind him, her feet moving in exaggerated steps and she dodged around the puddles and mud. She stepped forward then, placing her knee against the back of his. Her left arm came up and around him, fingers digging into his cheeks and she pulled his head back.
She swung her other hand around him, this one holding her blade, and drew it across his throat. The blade cut deep, severing muscle, tendon, and artery. She felt the hot flowing wetness of blood, so distinct from the chill rain, pour across her hand. Surely this wound would kill him soon, but its true purpose was to ensure his silence, and reduce his ability to fight back.
The shear fluidity and violence of the maneuver, coupled with her knees against the back of his caused him to lose his balance completely and fall backward. As she had predicted his hands went to his ruined throat and presented no threat to her. She deftly moved to the side and allowed his bulk to hit the ground. She saw the blood bubbling between his fingers and the fear and shock in his eyes.
She took no pleasure in this. But neither was she sickened by it.
This was work, and these "Guildsmen" had threatened her. "Join with us and give us our cut or you'll be dead bitch" they had said.
She was no petty thief. Their threat was join or die, and she chose death – theirs. She didn't need anyone's help. This was her calling, her business, and she was a natural at her chosen profession.
With the speed of a viper, she drew back her bloodstained dagger then slid it underneath his ribcage, near the center of his chest. The fool stiffened as the blade tore at his heart, and the bubbling of the blood between his fingers stopped. Sheathing the blade she walked around the still warm corpse and drug him into the stable.
She had disposed of the others already. He was the last.
Transaction concluded.
