Ragnarok Online does not belong to me.
The Melody of Death
It was a normal, hot day in Morroc town. Vendors hide in the shade of their tents while the heavy afternoon sun beats down on the desert city, travelers rest under the few available desert palms to hide from the intense heat. In the middle of town a group of children gathered, cheering and laughing as a young minstrel strummed his guitar and sang his songs. Ignoring the oven-like temperature, the children shouted the names of their favorite songs, and the musician played for them. Morrocian ladies out for groceries stopped to listen to the music that flooded the morroc town square.
The commoners of Morroc would not know, but the man with the guitar is the guildleader of one of the bigger guilds under the approval of King Tristan himself. Being a clown of a guildleader, the minstrel had several guilds that were definitely not on good terms with his, due to the multiple conflicts that occurred when insults had been thrown.
A short distance away from the crowd, a pair of forest green eyes watched the minstrel silently. The assassincross stayed in the shadows of the worn buildings of the small town, leaning against the wall. A mask covered his face; hiding his expressions. The minstrel continued to sing, unaware of his new and unseen audience.
He left the Morrocian town square when the sun began to set, dragging his heavy instruments behind him. Shadows trailed his path, as the envoys of death followed the minstrel to his room at the Morroc inn, where he would be spending the night. He had left his people behind in the capital city of Prontera, leaving for Comodo. Alone, and surrounded by the many assassins dispatched from his antagonist guilds.
Blood will be spilled tonight.
The minstrel paid no heed to any possible source of danger; windows open, doors unlocked. Complacency shall be his downfall, complacency which had sent many leaders to their doom. He left his instruments on the floor, he himself asleep on the bed. Darkness engulfed the desert as the hot sun made way for the freezing desert winds, citizens of Morroc returned to their homes and bolted their doors. It is the time where the night dwellers roam.
The sound of blade on blade fought for dominance with the loud howling of the wind. Right outside his window, sparks flew as the sharp edges of katars screeched against each other. The minstrel remained deep in slumber, unmoved. Unknowing of the blood spilled or of the lives lost.
Oblivious of his unseen protector.
He left the inn in the morning, walking out of town as he waved goodbye to the children. Another long trek across the desert; shabby tent, tasteless food. He groans, hating the harsh route.
The night he slept in his warm tent, sheltered from the sand and the wind. Not far from him, behind a sand dune, an assassincross sat; katars in hand, a single canteen of water, silent as he watched the shadows dancing across the desert.
They said, complacency will be his downfall and his death.
I questioned, why would he fall, if no one but the angel of death is guarding his every step?
-end-