The Raven
Red eyes pierced through the tree-line.
Rain pelted against trees and soil. A raven preened itself on top of a thick branch. Its eyes locked on to a hut. The dense canopy devoured the remaining moonlight. Torches framed a muddy path, the flames smothered by rain. The bird seemed untouched by the rainfall. It continued to stare at the hut, watching the fire within cast haunted shadows against wooden walls. A figure traipsed back and forth, his body making the shadows bob sporadically. The bird lurked for a moment, then twitched. Its eyes, a sinister crimson, narrowed as it let out a gravelly croak.
Rho crouched beside a pile of soaking lumber. She could feel the raindrops begin to penetrate into the knees of her trousers. Black leather, bear hide. She traced her wet fingers along the dagger sheath that nestled against her left hip bone. The metal sheaths left her sides bruised more often than not, but having them so close to her hands left no margin for error. She glanced up towards the thicket of trees. The leaves were swatting at the moonlight, consuming it in tiny mouthfuls.
She tugged at her handwraps, still bloody from the last contract, and pulled the sleeves of her coat up to her wrists. She swiveled around, and grasped at the corner of the lumber pile. The wood emitted a musty stench from her touch. Stifling a cough, she peered around the other side of the lumber pile.
A marshy path contorted itself in front of her. Torches stood intermittent alongside the trail. Most were doused by the rain, but those that remained trembled meekly, shivering. Rho's gaze traveled from the path to a paltry hut, illuminated inside by what she assumed was a firepit. She wiped her face with one hand and breathed in. The air felt heavy. She flicked her tongue across her lips. Her bottom lip was cracked and bloodied. She wiped off the excess spit from her mouth. Her thumbs danced around the pommels of her daggers as she slinked forward. A routine to keep her alert.
The hut was small, but the moonlight and impending thunderclouds gave it a cadaverous façade. A figure skulked in circles. A man. His metal boots clunked against the floorboards, overwhelming the sound of the crackling firepit.
Rho slithered up the steps, glancing over her shoulder. No one was behind her. No one was around for miles. No one except for her, and the man. The barrage of rain made her silent in the blackness. She looked for his pacing shadow, but saw no movement. He had stopped, she guessed. She slid to a halt at the top of the steps.
A violent boom of thunder sent a shiver flying up Rho's spine. She twisted her body completely, and stared out into the thickness of trees.
She could hear the vile squawk of a raven above her, but could not see where it was. The sound danced along the hairs on the back of her neck, making her impulsively grab at her daggers. She scowled up at where she thought the bird was, and turned around again. She slid one of her daggers out of its hilt, and pushed open the hut door.
A man sat hunched over a pile of parchments strewn across a wooden table. He was scribbling furiously, and mumbling curses under his breath. The fire crackled loudly, startling the man and making him jolt upright in his seat. He let out a nervous whimper and continued scribbling. He covered his hands over his writing as if he thought someone was watching him. He mumbled more words to himself, cursing the gods and the weather. Thunder clapped in the distance, making the man jolt upright again.
A blade met his throat.
The man sucked air and steadied himself, "It appears that The Nightingale doesn't think me a proper target," he spat.
Rho loosened her grip on her dagger, letting the blade caress the grooves of the man's esophagus. His words were confident, but his shivering body told her otherwise. His eyes averted the blade, and met her fiery gaze instead. She pressed the blade harder into his throat.
"It's.. a shame," he croaked through uneasy breaths, "she hasn't the brass to send her own men to kill me."
Rho reached for her other dagger and slid it out of its sheath.
"Ah..." he huffed, "Giving me the silent treatment?"
She inhaled, content in her quietness.
"So, what.. are you? A thug? Mercenary? Bard?" the man began laughing and sputtering, "An... assassin, perhaps?" He grinned, his teeth resembling old bones.
Rho wrapped her arm around his neck, the tip of her blade resting on his earlobe. The man made no attempt to move, no attempt to fight back. He must have been waiting for her.
The man took a deep, rickety breath, "Send the Inquisition my regards, girl. Maker knows they need it, sending in a no-good whore like you to do their dirty work." He growled, and spat on her boot.
"Stop it," she said. She dragged her blade across the man's neck, and twisted his head with a sickening crack. "You're making me blush."
She watched as the man toppled to the ground, lifeless. She used the toe of her boot to nudge his chin in her direction. His uninhabited eyes stared past her - through her. No man is as inelegant and vulnerable as when he lies dead, she thought. She felt no remorse, no sympathy for the man. He was but another target from another anonymous source. Another body trailing in the wake of her reputation. She had felt nothing for this man. She had felt nothing for a long time.
She kicked the chair aside and placed her bloody dagger on the writing desk. She leaned over the desk, eyeing the strewn writings and empty ink bottles. The papers seemed unorganized, as if he was looking for something. Blood spattered across several pages, like paint blotches. Rho thumbed through several piles until she grabbed a single page, hastily scribbled and covered in blood.
K,
The Inquisition has taken hold of the Hinterlands. It seems they do not suspect me. I will assume the role of Inquisition scout whilst I wait for the signal. The target remains at Skyhold, but is said to make an appearance within the week. Everything seems to be going swimmingly.
I fear the Nightingale has caught wind of our plans, however.
Regards,
The letter cut off at a half-written, illegible signature. Rho eyed the letter up and down, then began to fold it and shove it into her boot.
She swiveled on her heel, grabbing her dagger and walking over to the man. She kneeled beside him and reached into her coat pockets. Blood began soaking into the floorboards beside her. The man lay sprawled out on the floor. His head had flopped in a direction it should never have gone. He was clad in shades of green and orange. A silver emblem held his cloak pinned together. An eye with a sword through the middle. Tendrils surrounded the depiction like a sun. Inquisition?
She shrugged and pulled her own emblem pin out of her coat pocket. It depicted two clashing swords with a snake wrapping itself around and through them. Her guild's emblem. She grabbed the man and shifted his limp body into a log position. She took her emblem and enclosed it in his palms. If he were not stained red, it would have looked like he was sleeping.
Taking a deep breath, she wiped the blood from her dagger onto the man's cloak, and stood up. She looked around the room. Rain continued to patter on the rooftop, and the thunder became increasingly quieter. She glanced at the firepit. It looked pristine, as if had been continuously attended to. The flames warmed her frozen fingers, and cast a homely glow against her fair skin. Now it was she that created the dancing shadows against the walls.
The anticipation of sharing her kill with the guild made her smirk. She imagined them ritualistically sitting in a new tavern, sipping a new brew and embellishing their latest gruesome endeavor. She needn't imagine it, since she knew it was exactly what she was going to do the moment she returned to her guild. Her boys. She sympathized for the patrons who had to hear about the things her guild was doing. There was nothing the patrons could do, of course. They could not warn the authorities, because the guild had no name. They didn't need one.
She pulled at her handwraps again, adjusting them to her liking. She wiggled her thumb around her right palm. She felt the hard lump of a locket, its chains still nestled inside the cloth. She was relieved it had not broken. She did the same thing after every fight, hoping it would not break. It never did. She had had it for three years, and it had not broken, or even cracked.
Rho brushed herself off, and turned around to give the man one last stony glare before leaving. She spat on him.
As she stepped outside, the rain stopped. She stood on the porch for a moment, preparing herself for the trip back. She did up the buttons on her coat, and pulled up the black cloth that was around her neck until it covered her nose and mouth. Just as she began walking down the steps, a white flash blinded her. She staggered backwards, her body slamming against the cabin door. Lightning.
She clasped her head in her hands, rubbing her eyes. She held them closed, groaning from her tumble. As she began opening her eyes, she heard a low coo.
She opened her eyes and lifted her head. A bird stood in front of her on the top step, staring at her. It was a raven. The same that had squawked at her before, perhaps.
Rho held the birds gaze. Its eyes were red, much like the feathers on the top of its head. She swatted her hand to shoo it, but the bird would not move.
"What are -"
She noticed that the bird had something tied around its leg. Parchment. A note of some sort. She reached her hand out to the bird, expecting it to flinch.
The raven stood still, and lifted its leg to her.
Rho gracefully untied the letter from the bird's foot, admiring its talons.
She looked the parchment up and down. At the top of the note, there was an image of a cluster of birds all taking flight. It was an image that Rho had never seen before.
My Lady Penhallow,
Well done.
Nightingale.
As her eyes glazed over the last words, she shot upright. Her head jolted around in every direction. The raven had vanished into the night. All of the torches along the path had burnt out. She was alone.