October 19th, 2014

Deep in the recesses of Troms , Norway, a hunter chased his prey. An aurora lit up the sky, illuminating the path for the hunter. Not that he needed the extra light, of course.

The prey, a man named Masaf Pzenskci, stumbled through the bramble, almost ready to cheer as he glimpsed back to find that his assailant had lost the trail. Making sure that nobody was watching him, Masaf leapt into a bush, attempting to slow his heart to a more comfortable rate to ensure that he'd be almost impossible to find. Masaf might be called many things, but he was also smart. Unluckily for him, his hunter was smarter.

The said hunter leapt agilely from tree to tree, making sure to make as little noise as possible. Even an expert such as he could make a mistake and give himself away. Seemingly unaffected by the branches pounding his body from every angle like vicious lashes of a whip, the hunter sped his chase, spotting his prey but a few meters from his position. He flicked a throwing knife into his hand and readied himself to throw, several hundred years of throwing practice behind him. He aimed, quickly yet deliberately, imagining only that he would hit Masaf, knowing that even thinking aout failure could compromise his unseen position.

Leading his target by a few meters, the hunter's keen eyes developed use for his prey's strange, stumbling sort of lope, caused most likely by the arrowhead lodged in his calf. The hunter laughed mentally, remembering that moment merely a few hours before. He shook himself slightly. No time for day-dreaming, he told himself, readying his throwing knife once more. As he aimed, the target... stopped running?

Almost confused, the hunter lowered his throwing knife, though still keeping it ready. He observed Masaf as he threw himself into a bush, making at least enough noise to wake a bear.

The hunter cringed at the sound, lowering himself from the tree he was perched in to further observe his prey.

Making almost no noise whatsoever, the assassin crept towards his target, intent on ridding the Titans of yet another weapon dealer. This man, the hunter had been briefed earlier, had supplied the Titan army with the necessary weapons and armor to win a recent skirmish with the Romans, though the shipment had been intercepted by the assassin's men, who dealt the weapons out to the Romans. Had it not been for them, the Romans likely would have lost New Rome that day. The hunter, in fact, had single-handedly assassinated the Titan's demigod leader that day, near-crippling the army. The Titans had chosen another demigod leader, he knew, but this was no time for the past. He steadily approached the bush that Masaf had found shelter in, noticing that the weapon dealer was facing the complete opposite direction.

His hand strayed to his tomahawk, but he decided to savor the kill. He picked up Masaf with little effort and bashed the Mercury-legacy into a tree.

Masaf's eyes bulged as his assailant's dagger found his neck, though only enough to draw blood. Sweat poured down his forehead, mixing with the blood on his face from tripping more times than once during the intense chase.

He gulped shakily. "P-please," he begged, "Spare me, please". He noticed that the assassin, despite Troms 's cold climate, didn't even shiver. He had broad shoulders and muscular arms and legs. Masaf estimated he couldn't be less than 6"3. He wore an unbuttoned soft leather coat over a buttoned white shirt, a red sash on his belt, and knee-high boots over woolen breeches. A hood encompassed almost his entire face, only showing his tanned nose and mouth. His hands were gloved, and two odd-looking gauntlets were on his wrists.
He was also, Masaf noted uneasily, armed to the teeth. A bow and quiver hung on his back, obviously ready for use. Two miniature anti-material pistols lie in holsters on his sides, ready for use always. Besides the dagger in his hand and at Masaf's throat, he also had a short sword in a sheath on his side and what appeared to be a long hatchet on his leg. He didn't have to be told twice what it was used for. Despite the hood covering his assailant's face, he sensed that he was raising an eyebrow.

"Spare you? Why should I spare a pitiful scumbag like you? You almost single-handedly wiped out a civilization of your fellow demigods, had it not been for my men. Why should I spare you?"

Masaf realized that this was the man that had made his plans fail. His eyebrows raised in recognition.

He knew that he had to think fast. There was a dagger in his boot, and though he wasn't the quickest fighter...

The assassin, almost sensing his thoughts, slammed him harder into the tree and threw him to the ground, readying his tomahawk. His mouth twisted into a very slight smile, and it was at this moment that Masaf realized that there would be no pity, no mercy for him.

And deep down, he realized that he deserved it.

The hunter stood completely still as Masaf drew his dagger and charged. He almost seemed to smile wider.

Right as Masaf's blade would have pierced his stomach, the hunter twisted out of the way, hooking his dagger with his tomahawk and throwing it to the ground. Even with his prey unarmed right in front of him, he beckoned towards the dagger and Masaf retrieved it, sensing that this man would force him to fight until he was too tired to fight back.

Almost a half-hour was spent on this, the assassin's smile widening every time, but never in happiness, only in amusement.

At the end of the half-hour, Masaf collapsed to the ground, breathing hard, yet with no visible scratches on his body. The assassin stepped up to his unmoving body and flexed his wrist, smiling mentally when his hidden blade emerged from its gauntlet.

He crouched and whispered to Masaf, "While I admire your determination, I'm afraid that you must die, my friend." He didn't sound in the least regretful or pitying. Masaf laid back and relaxed in acceptance. Moments later, he felt a blade meet his jugular, and he was no more, dying almost immediately.

Before his life force faded completely, the assassin felt the slightest bit of compassion, though he hated it.

"My name is Theron. Rest in peace, my friend."

Grateful for yet another mission complete, Theron returned to his master, Chaos, ruler of the Void. Bowing in front of him, as was tradition, Theron awaited his master's appraisal.

"You have done well, my son." Chaos, in his human form, was a thick, heavyset man, who spoke more in your head than out loud, much as Lupa did. He was adorned in a black tuxedo, and his face, and any other skin he showed, were simply diagrams of the galaxy and the constellations solidified into eyes, a nose, a mouth, and an overall ageless face. Though he wasn't easily pleased, he seemed to smile at Theron's kneeling appearance. "You have done as I told you to, and that deserves commendation."

Theron's eyes lit up. "However," Chaos spoke, "I'm afraid I have yet more work for you. My scouts have found a possible uprising of the remaining Titans and monsters on Earth. Specifically, at Camp Half-blood and New Rome."

Theron, though he didn't show it, pulsed with rage, and Chaos sensed this, his face softening, if only the tiniest bit. "I do this, Theron, because you are my second-in-command, and I trust your abilities, and my soldiers are required somewhere else. I will grant you leave with your men, and, if you need them, C Company. I will give you another day, but you must leave by noon tomorrow. Rest well, Theron."

Theron collapsed onto his bed, though he wasn't tired, and couldn't pretend to be. He fingered his tomahawk, and its extremely-fine alloy of Celestial bronze, silver, and mortal steel, along with all of his other blades and arrowheads, could put a notch in a tank. He took pride in helping create it along with Chaos's skilled blacksmiths, including Charles Beckendorf, who he had taken from Elysium.

Beckendorf reminded him of his past at Camp Half-blood, and it was then that solace took him.