Post by Badgerlord on Aug 1, 2009 23:01:50 GMT -5
The City of Aksum. A large metropolis at the center of the Aksumite desert, the sole bastion of civilization in that land. It was a relative rarity, a city-state independent of the Firestarters, Somnambulists, Court, and Silent Rose. Aksum was famous for its commerce, and people from all around the world flocked to it for this reason...if they could make it across the desert.
The weather was fair, and the night was merely warm, pleasantly so. A subdued chatter filled the city from those who still had enough energy to walk the streets after the draining heat of the day. Aksum was always busy. That was something that could be relied upon.
The starlight cast many shadows on the night of the new moon. Tonight. It was a time typically associated with silence and stealth, hidden truths, thievery, and deception.
And assassination.
In the alley between two buildings, a midnight black shadow moved, silently. But it was not just a shadow. It was the Shadow, or so he liked to call himself. A pretentious name, perhaps, but one that any would say fit him, after they had observed him for a time. He was not his own person; he never had been, and he probably never would be. He had a name; but he had cast it aside long ago, along with his humanity. Now it was simply a thought, a pipe dream that he could perhaps be real. One day.
The Shadow made not a single sound, not even the gentle grinding of sand beneath his clockwork feet. He hated sand. It was hard to move quietly on. He was hindered not at all by his prosthetics; each had been designed with stealth and agility in mind, and the Shadow had oiled each individual gear and joint before he had left his quarters.
Up ahead, a figure turns and enters the alley. The Shadow moves slowly to the side. The echo vision imparted by his helmet is imperfect, and he can only vaguely see the figure. Gender is impossible to determine, but it doesn't matter. There can only be one answer to their presence. They were a liability, an increase in the possibility of failure, by even the slightest degree.
The figure passes the Shadow, never knowing that it was an inch from death. The Shadow twitches, and a simple, well made dagger appears in his left hand. He moves suddenly, leaping up and sliding the dirk into the back of the sillouette's head. The body doesn't even twitch. The Shadow feels no blood on his hand. Good. A clean cut. He leaves the body; it would take too long to hide it, and it won't be found until morning.
By morning he won't be in Aksum any more.
The Shadow looks up. He pushes a hidden cache on his arm, and grips the small lever that springs outward from it. Aiming his hand upwards, the Shadow pulls back on the lever. His hand shoots upwards, the cable in his arm uncoiling rapidly as the makeshift grappling hook sails on to the roof of the adjacent building. He grips, and feels purchase underneath his fingers, magic simulating sensation. Pushing the lever forward, he feels the mechanisms in his arm start reeling him upwards.
He reaches the roof. The night sky is beautiful and full, the cradle of stars shining down benevolently. The Shadow can see none of it, and wouldn't care if he did. He turns three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in his surroundings fully. No one in sight. He is exactly where he needs to be.
He stalks forward. The target is three buildings over, in a well guarded complex. The Shadow has a ways to go. Reaching the edge of the roof, he mentally triggers the jets in his feet, launching himself forward to the next roof. He lands smoothly and silently, despite the volatile nature of his propulsion. He continues, repeating the process twice more.
He lands on the target's roof. According the information he had received, he was directly above the target's room. He lowers himself over the edge with his arm, landing on a large balcony. Ahead of him two large glass doors bar entrance. He silently puts a knife through the lock and opens one. It moves on well oiled hinges. The Shadow likes vain targets.
Al-ek Darmasha is a prosperous arms merchant, leading a powerful trade empire. He is also a famous supplier of the Somnambulists. What is less well known is that his second in command, Darius Shara, is a secret supporter of the Firestarters. Soon the world will know.
The target is sprawled on his bed, asleep. The Shadow slides up his visor, revealing a young, handsome face. He require visual confirmation of the target. It's the right one. Sliding his visor back in place, the Shadow withdrew a long stilletto made of a strange metal. It's creator had fancied himself a jokester and named it compassion. The Shadow didn't care; it did it's job.
Al-ek feels nothing as the dagger is plunged into his heart. The body jerks twice, and a spray of blood covers the Shadow's arm, but it is quiet, quick, and easy. All was well. The Shadow escapes much the way he came, climbing back to the roof and leaping off into the night.
The next day, a black dressed man left the city of Aksum through the main gate. The guards don't spare him a second glance. He disappears into the desert, walking briskly but still dignified, seemingly unbothered by the heat.
In the city itself, a cry is raised as a prominent weapons merchant is found dead in his home. Local authorities are baffled by the strange murder, as no evidence is found pointing to a murderer. Eventually, a servant unable to account for his location that night is convicted of the crime and hung, but some still question this, especially after the mercantile empire run by the deceased is turned to support the Firestarters.
In the end, though, it was all the same.
The weather was fair, and the night was merely warm, pleasantly so. A subdued chatter filled the city from those who still had enough energy to walk the streets after the draining heat of the day. Aksum was always busy. That was something that could be relied upon.
The starlight cast many shadows on the night of the new moon. Tonight. It was a time typically associated with silence and stealth, hidden truths, thievery, and deception.
And assassination.
In the alley between two buildings, a midnight black shadow moved, silently. But it was not just a shadow. It was the Shadow, or so he liked to call himself. A pretentious name, perhaps, but one that any would say fit him, after they had observed him for a time. He was not his own person; he never had been, and he probably never would be. He had a name; but he had cast it aside long ago, along with his humanity. Now it was simply a thought, a pipe dream that he could perhaps be real. One day.
The Shadow made not a single sound, not even the gentle grinding of sand beneath his clockwork feet. He hated sand. It was hard to move quietly on. He was hindered not at all by his prosthetics; each had been designed with stealth and agility in mind, and the Shadow had oiled each individual gear and joint before he had left his quarters.
Up ahead, a figure turns and enters the alley. The Shadow moves slowly to the side. The echo vision imparted by his helmet is imperfect, and he can only vaguely see the figure. Gender is impossible to determine, but it doesn't matter. There can only be one answer to their presence. They were a liability, an increase in the possibility of failure, by even the slightest degree.
The figure passes the Shadow, never knowing that it was an inch from death. The Shadow twitches, and a simple, well made dagger appears in his left hand. He moves suddenly, leaping up and sliding the dirk into the back of the sillouette's head. The body doesn't even twitch. The Shadow feels no blood on his hand. Good. A clean cut. He leaves the body; it would take too long to hide it, and it won't be found until morning.
By morning he won't be in Aksum any more.
The Shadow looks up. He pushes a hidden cache on his arm, and grips the small lever that springs outward from it. Aiming his hand upwards, the Shadow pulls back on the lever. His hand shoots upwards, the cable in his arm uncoiling rapidly as the makeshift grappling hook sails on to the roof of the adjacent building. He grips, and feels purchase underneath his fingers, magic simulating sensation. Pushing the lever forward, he feels the mechanisms in his arm start reeling him upwards.
He reaches the roof. The night sky is beautiful and full, the cradle of stars shining down benevolently. The Shadow can see none of it, and wouldn't care if he did. He turns three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in his surroundings fully. No one in sight. He is exactly where he needs to be.
He stalks forward. The target is three buildings over, in a well guarded complex. The Shadow has a ways to go. Reaching the edge of the roof, he mentally triggers the jets in his feet, launching himself forward to the next roof. He lands smoothly and silently, despite the volatile nature of his propulsion. He continues, repeating the process twice more.
He lands on the target's roof. According the information he had received, he was directly above the target's room. He lowers himself over the edge with his arm, landing on a large balcony. Ahead of him two large glass doors bar entrance. He silently puts a knife through the lock and opens one. It moves on well oiled hinges. The Shadow likes vain targets.
Al-ek Darmasha is a prosperous arms merchant, leading a powerful trade empire. He is also a famous supplier of the Somnambulists. What is less well known is that his second in command, Darius Shara, is a secret supporter of the Firestarters. Soon the world will know.
The target is sprawled on his bed, asleep. The Shadow slides up his visor, revealing a young, handsome face. He require visual confirmation of the target. It's the right one. Sliding his visor back in place, the Shadow withdrew a long stilletto made of a strange metal. It's creator had fancied himself a jokester and named it compassion. The Shadow didn't care; it did it's job.
Al-ek feels nothing as the dagger is plunged into his heart. The body jerks twice, and a spray of blood covers the Shadow's arm, but it is quiet, quick, and easy. All was well. The Shadow escapes much the way he came, climbing back to the roof and leaping off into the night.
The next day, a black dressed man left the city of Aksum through the main gate. The guards don't spare him a second glance. He disappears into the desert, walking briskly but still dignified, seemingly unbothered by the heat.
In the city itself, a cry is raised as a prominent weapons merchant is found dead in his home. Local authorities are baffled by the strange murder, as no evidence is found pointing to a murderer. Eventually, a servant unable to account for his location that night is convicted of the crime and hung, but some still question this, especially after the mercantile empire run by the deceased is turned to support the Firestarters.
In the end, though, it was all the same.