The Assassin woke up halfway through the day. With a headache. Silver eyes squinted painfully at the winter morning sun, piercing through the Inn room’s single window, and her tawny, scar-dusted arm swung across them. The woman lay motionless for several moments, falling back into the clutches of sleep until a floorboard down the hallway creaked. Immediately her sleep-softened body tensed, focus dedicated to listening. She heard four sets of boots. Three large, one small.
Sniffing the air quietly she smelled whisky breath, clay on boots, a very slight twinge of a tang she’d come to recognize as soldier-scent, and the unmistakable musk of human males. There were a few quiet hisses and the twang of iron cut through the other scents.
Weapons.
Quiet as a cat, the woman uncurled from her wraps and flipped her hip-length, red-brown braid over her shoulder. It shone like blood in the morning light as she flashed past the window. The men quietly approached her door, unaware the assassin’s heightened senses had already alerted her.
Two small feet slipped silently into brown leather boots, worn out and soleless to avoid alerting even senses like hers. She tasted the air again. All male.
Silent as a shadow she flitted across the room, grabbing her twin crescent blades from her pack. She shifted the bag away from the door to allow the men easier access to the room, lessening their suspicion. She grabbed at the door frame and studied the rafters of the inn room. Picking her way up the door frame like a spider, she braced herself between rafters, waiting for the flies to enter her web.
The latch to the door flicked open easily and the woman’s lips pursed in displeasure. Evidently the innkeeper had given them the key and the room number. The first soldier crept in, eyeing the pillow curled up under the blankets. He waved the other men in. One stayed outside to stand watch.
The first soldier, a blonde man in his late thirties, motioned for the smaller one to shut the door. Keep the killing quiet. As the door clicked shut, they all moved forward to advance on the bed. She dropped down soundlessly behind them, choosing exactly which boards to land on before she descended. There was no thud or whisper of air brushing her frame as she dropped. No sound that human ears could detect.
The men crept over to the bed. The woman stalked behind the men.
One of them, she would let live for a few minutes. To interrogate.
She pounced on the largest man first, feet curling into his shoulder blades. One hand gripped his shirt and the other sliced a red smile across his throat. The smallest soldier spun around as he heard his comrade choke and drown, clutching at his gaping throat.
The shorter soldier opened his mouth to let out a cry. A quick swipe of a crescent silenced it, red dying the silver shade of the moon-blade.
She slowed down her reaction time enough to let the blonde soldier tackle her. Two large hands gripped her wrists, slamming her hard against the inn wall. She let the blades clatter to the floor with a cry of pain.
Her knee came up hard at the man's groin, but he caught it and threw her to the ground. She twisted and wriggled to get free but he pressed her harder into the unforgiving wood. She painted a pitiful whimper and let it bloom from her throat. The man grinned, malicious delight lighting up his face. It was a well-designed whimper.
“Well,” he growled. “They didn’t tell me you were such a pretty little thing.”
She froze in her compromised position, trembling and letting tears well in her silver eyes.
“Who sent you?” She glanced around the room as though looking for something that might help her escape the man’s pin.
“Someone who admires your work,” the blonde soldier grinned. He moved to straddle her, still pinning her wrists on either side of her head, eyeing her up and down like he couldn’t decide where to start with her. She grit her teeth and writhed beneath him, as though trying to free herself from his grasp. His smile darkened and he leaned down further to nuzzle into her neck.
She gave him another whimper. He accepted it without question, offering a rabid smirk into the soft skin of her throat. The stiffening against him was not forced or faked, neither was the hair that rose up along her spine.
“W-w-why?” she stuttered, bottom lip quivering, tears slipping rebelliously down her brown cheeks.
“To test you,” was the answer, whispered against her pulse-point. “Taste you…” She shuddered as a warm tongue flicked at her throat. “To see to what you’re made of.”
“W-why?” she repeated, choking on a sob.
“He says he knows what you are. Who you are.” He bit her ear.
“I-I don’t understand!” She jerked her head away from his mouth. “Who does he think I am?”
“Not too many questions, pretty little thing. It doesn’t matter anymore. I won, and after I’m finished with you, I’ll kill you for him.” The man lifted his head from her neck and gave her another one of those nasty smiles.
She hissed. That was enough.
Her trembling stopped instantly. The tears stopped too. Caution suddenly flared in the soldier’s eyes. Too late.
Her canines snapped down an inch and she gave him a fanged smile. Two on top and two on bottom. The soldier swore. He tried to pull away and her head snapped forward to tear his throat open. Iron and rust burst in her mouth and the man’s entire frame shuddered violently. She pushed him off her and clambered to her feet. Spitting his blood from her mouth she tore a rag of sheet off the bed and wiped her face clean. She spat again.
She hated the taste of humans.
Slipping her jacket and pack over her shoulders she stalked over to the wall to snatch her crescents off the floor. She threw the door open and efficiently decapitated the last soldier waiting outside for his comrades to return. As his head thunked to the ground next to the door, his body followed. A small whimper snapped her head to her left where the innkeeper stood down the hallway with a sheet-white face. She bared her fangs at him and hissed.
He fainted.
Eh, good enough. She retracted her fangs. She had killed enough for one morning. She cursed the worlds, living and dead, under her breath and stalked down the hallway, descending the stairs quickly and growling out into the daylight.
She immediately began her hunt. Having a squadron already sent to dispatch her was not a good sign and she never had been one to take her time on a job. Time gave her opportunity to think, and she only permitted herself two roots of thought while hunting: of the hunt itself and the reward. All other thoughts were necessarily pruned from her mind. It was for this same reason she always began hunting the day after a job was given. Her master always warned her against her impulsivity, the way she took the hunt with bounds and leaps, hurdling obstacles so she could reach the end without thinking. He called her foolish. Dangerous.
By his reasoning, a killer should plot his plan several months in advance and spend the rest of the time following and studying the victim. Then one ought to take the time to perfect the plan so that it may be carried out as quietly and efficiently as possible. He claimed that the woman was too naive. Had too much heart.
Her long and industrious career would suggest otherwise.
Shouldering through the capital crowds of Keshdunn, she shoved her way towards the gate to begin the two-week-long trek to the Triune Cities of Junturas.
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