Prologue

The sound of running echoed down the alleyway and through the streets around. The moons were whole and shinning, but barely visible though the torrents of rain that thrashed down, and the sea of dark grey clouds that grew to fill the sky. You'd struggle to see more than 15 feet in this rain, such was its force. Puddles formed and large bins reflected the rain back up, thundering and bouncing with each rain-bullet. The sky flashed a brilliant white blue, as a fork of lightning reach down into the alleyway. Reaching, searching for something, for someone. And still the sound of running could be heard. Getting closer.

A dark figure, hooded and cloaked, concealed from the rain, and from prying eyes, moved swiftly from shadow to shadow. His foot splashed through a puddle, soaking his leg and sending more water skyward. And with that splash to cover his darkened escape, he swept into a doorway. Once more into the shadows, and into the building.

He brushed the water off, and lowered his hood, taking in his surrounding. The room was simple and familiar. A small fire starting to go out along one wall, with a square table and three chairs around it on another. Another figure stood stoic in the centre of the room. Also cloaked, and hooded. The wet man bowed slightly to the dry, and handed over a rolled sheet of parchment, bound in pale blue silk with a wax seal pressed in.

The second figure took the bundle, turned on their heal, and vanished down a trap door. Hastily moving through an underground passage. An old smuggling tunnel perhaps. She was still walking, but knew that some less than desirable company would not be far behind. Her pace quickened, into almost a run, as the cloak billowed out behind her. The air beat her face, and forced her hood down. She was an average looking girl, beautiful but stern. Thin, with shaggy hair. However, that was the only thing that was average. Her skin was blood red, and eyes to match. Hair was brown, but in the low passage light, it was as black as her eyes and cloak. Two deep red horns, grew from her head. Short, curved, and sharp, but somehow beautiful.

Her breath visible in the cold, but still she ran. Further and further away from that trap door.

It's done, the wet man thought to himself, in a few days this will all be over. He took off his robe and lay it on the floor by the fire to dry, before taking a seat at the table to rest. He could just feel his eyes closing and sleeps hold growing stronger. Peaceful at last. Yet just as he let his defences down, and the sword dropped from his grip to the floor,the cold touch of metal made itself known upon his neck,

"This is for your lies," the blade slowly cut his neck. Thinly, like a paper cut. "This is for the villages I've burnt down searching for you," a swift flurry of movement and a pale wet hand fell down to join the sword that it had held just moments ago, "and this, dear friend, is for that stunt you pulled on the bridge. It's because of that that I'm late. And because of that I need to start searching from scratch. That is unless you want to live?"

For the first time the armed figured stepped from behind the wounded man. His face was thin and gaunt. His eyes slightly sunken and dark. White hair was swept back out of his pale face. Blue lips curled up into an eerie smile anticipating the next stages of conversation, and the outcome he wanted. He too wore a cloak, wet also, but with the hood down, it became easier to see the emblem he bore. A blacksmith's anvil, being stuck by a bolt of lightning. It was a sigil all to familiar, and to haunting to face.

The first man sat, frozen in fear. Though not just fear. Frost had begun to form on his cloak. Anywhere he was wet, he was now also freezing.

The pale armed man gentle placed his hand on his victims shoulder, and with the other, drew his blade once more across the throat. This time with speed. He did not want survivors.

It was done. He wiped the dagger clean on the cloak of the dead, and let his body slump to the table, as the frost continued to spread over him. He drew out a sheet of his own, beaming the same symbol as his robe, and using a long finger nail, he struck through his victim's name, and started to read.

"Now, I wonder who you told about your little discover? No matter, whoever it was, they won't live long enough to tell anyone else." he left the room, back into the street, where the rain persisted in it's attack on the ground. He walk slowly down the alley way and began to fade into the mist, until he was gone.