Laser dot trembles on his skull. One-finger twitch, he dies...
A drell of lanky stature stood obliviously at the mercy of an assassin's scope. Thane only felt the biting chill of the breeze gaining speed, coupled with his drumming heart. To perfect the art of assassinating, he remembered, you must first perfect the art of sensing. He inhaled a gust of air, the smell of charcoal and stone filling his nostrils.
There were only a few bystanders unlucky enough to eventually see the horror that was to come. Thane deemed them lucky. They weren't the ones who had to inflict the horror and live with the consequences. He couldn't let the thought of the guilt he'd feel later stop him now, though. His webbed finger applied the slightest of pressure to the trigger of his sniper.
Then, the smell of spice on the spring wind. Sunset-colored eyes defiant in the scope.
The laser danced away.