Indoril closed his eyes, before opening the right one slightly; a pinprick of glinting emerald in the otherwise inky blackness that rose above the skyline of the city at night. A chill wind to freeze the weak and permeate the bones of the strong swept off the Sea of Chill, causing rimes of ice to form on the metal of his gauntlets. The elf shivered, before closing his eyes again and taking a deep breath. He once again opened his right eye and looked down the iron sight of his crossbow. The target, a corsair captain, was following the stream of human slaves down the wide road, towards the slave markets. A smile crept over the murderers face;
‘The fool doesn’t even wear a helmet. How has he lasted long enough for this job to be mine?’ Placing the weapon down on the slate roof of the building he was clinging to, he drew a single, wickedly barbed bolt from the quiver that hung at his waist. Inspecting the tip, he ensured that it was sharp. A satisfied nod, and he placed it gently next to the crossbow. Next, he reached into a pouch, hanging from his waist, and withdrew a vial of viscous, black liquid. With extreme care not to touch any of the foul-smelling concoction, he pulled out the stopper. Beneath the half-mask, he grimaced, face screwed up in disgust.
‘If anything will kill him, it’ll be this,’ he told himself, before picking up the bolt once more and dipping the tip into the poison. Neatly, efficiently, he loaded the quarrel and stoppered the vial once more. He then resumed the position, kneeling with his right arm rested on his knee. Looking down the sight, he found his target again, the tall, pale captain.
‘Breath. In, out. In, out.’ Indoril tracked the movements, allowing for the wind, which was starting to pick up and whistle through the streets and over the rooftops. Virtually unprotected, he was grateful for his precautions; extra layers under his robes and thick, skin-lined gloves. Shivers now could ruin over a months hard work. He finally reached the point where it as now-or-never. His finger squeezed the trigger firmly, and the bolt whistled away into the darkness. His gaze never left his marks face, and five seconds after it flew off, it reappeared, buried into the targets shoulder. From his vantage point, Indoril couldn’t hear anything over the roar of the crowd, but he saw weapons being drawn. He also saw the wounded captain choke, and then grasp his throat, before falling to his knees. With consummate ease, he slung the crossbow over his shoulders and got to his feet, spinning as he did so. Facing away from the commotion, he sprinted away and leapt from roof to roof, a shadow slipping away through the night.
He ended up on the cobbled floor of a nondescript alley. He ensured his hood was up, and mask still in place, before striding confidently into an arterial thoroughfare, which flowed from the Tower of Despair itself down to the slaver’s docks. Half way along this road, lined with buildings from which all types of business - from the legitimate to the borderline treasonous - were done, was the specific den of iniquity that Indoril was making for. It was almost like home to him since he’d been driven from House Nerefteen. Ducking into another alley way, taking him down the side of The Iced Knife, he made sure he was unobserved before following his regular path up the side of the building, hands and feet finding holds almost instinctively in the blackness. A shuffling sound above him caused him to freeze, the side of his face pressed against the cool stone. When nothing more reached him, he scaled the rest of the wall like a Asrai did a tree, before flipping up onto the roof like a gymnast, landing low and crouched; one hand pressed against the cool surface of the roof and the other grasping a knife, covered in a slick, shimmering poison that near-instantly necrotised flesh. He saw nothing, but the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, almost pulling out his pale skin. Squinting to try and see further, he shook his head.
‘Jumping at shadows,’ he thought, but kept the knife clasped firmly in his right hand. A sigh. A breath. Two. Nothing.
He relaxed slightly, and crept over the roof, careful not to disturb any tiles, and, three-quarters of the way along, he made his way to the edge. Looking over, he saw the soft glow of light emanating from the window; the curtains open as they were. He slithered over the top, and hooked his fingers around the upper frame of the window. Pushing himself off further, he swung around so he was facing the window, hanging on with his fingertips, and then dropped.
The elf caught himself easily on the bottom of the frame, and dragged himself in, ‘walking’ himself up the back of the building. Finally in the room, he pulled the window closed and drew the thick curtains closed, to try and retain some of the heat that the roaring fire in the corner gave off. He peeled off his gloves, sighing gently through his mask as the slightly warmer air hit them. He removed his crossbow and placed it gently in a cushioned chest at the foot of his bed, before taking the hand bow he had there and hooking it onto his belt. Ready, he stood straight and made his way to the door, unbarring it and slipping out quickly, before pulling it closed and locking it, the key turning and tumblers thudding only a facade of security - he knew it anyone really wanted to get into his room, they would.
Confidently, he walked down the corridor and swept down the stairs, the purple cloak flowing behind him. Downstairs, the light was dim, the shadows cast in shadow. He made his way to one of these; the one his customer always sat at, and made himself comfortable. Less than five minutes later, the other elf walked in, clearly uncomfortable.
‘How did this weakling fop ever manage to retain a position of import?’ he asked himself in astonishment. It was almost as if he was worried about his part of the murder being found out. Sighing, he remained otherwise still, like a statue of insurmountable detail. The other elf sat down, looking around self-consciously.
“Is it done?” he murmured, eyes flitting around.
“Of course it is. Now, payment.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Here you go, take it!” With jerky movements, he pulled a pouch from his belt, almost throwing it at Indoril. He caught up in one hand, the movement so fast his client missed it, and tipped the contents into another leather pouch.
“This had better be the complete fee. Otherwise, you’ll regret it. You know you will.” The threat, unveiled as it was, caused the other elf’s eyes to bulge, before nodding vociferously.
‘He’s protected ... But by who?’ The thought flitted through his mind, before he realised he didn’t care. He’d dealt with him. He had to die. Standing to leave, he unobtrusively unsheathed his second knife - this one coated with a slow-acting poison that killed in an agonising process that started with paralysing him and locking him in his own body, before sending agony the likes of which he will never have felt before coursing through his veins - and with a practiced ease punctured the clients skin with the end. The knife was so sharp he didn’t even realise.
‘He should know never to deal with those who have no honour left to lose,’ Indoril told himself, even though he needed no such meaningless platitudes to console himself; he felt no guilt over it.
------------------------------------
Half an hour later, he was in his room once more, dining upon a hot meal which was struggling to take the omnipresent chill from his bones. “Damned city,” he muttered, shaking his head. He continued cursing anything and everything from his father to the captain of his former ship to the slaves who’d died on the voyage back from the Old World, until a knock interrupted his thoughts. Instantly, a knife flashed into his left hand and his repeater handbow the other, he stealthily approached the door. Another knock sounded, insistent and ... Hesitant?
‘Not Illas, then,’ he told himself. The innkeeper seemed incapable of hesitancy, despite knowing what his paying guests were capable of individually. He unbarred the door slowly, before opening it a crack. The sight that greeted him was pathetic. A whimpering slave, cowed by his servitude, and touches of what looked like frostbite licking around his bare feet. Mutely, the messenger passed the note to Indoril, who took it suspiciously, keeping his eyes on the face of this stranger. He saw what was written upon it and his eyes, the only visible part of his face, widened slightly, before he ushered the slave into his room. Closing the door firmly, he span on the spot and grabbed the withered man by the throat and bore him across the room.
“How did you find me?” The question was growled, and the knife in his hand was pressing between two ribs. A bead of blood trickled down the slaves body. More whimpering. “I asked you how you found me,” he muttered, his masked mouth now next to the messengers ear. A strange trickling sound started, and it took him a few seconds to figure out what is was, ears twitching as he tried to identify it. He pushed the man against the wall, bruising brittle bones, and stepped back in disgust. The slave had pissed himself, sheer terror making him lose control of his bladder. A second later, Indoril found the man’s body at his feet, blood seeping from a wound between his ribs and dripping from the blade held in his hand, trickling over the intricate cross-guard and between his fingers. “Filthy beast,” he spat, before turning away and re-reading the delivered note, the blood on his fingers staining the parchment.