"I'm a thief... issimple as that, y'knoooooow? Pick'n some bastard's pocket an' th' onnnnnly thing ya need ter know issss... wassat thing ye need ter knooow?"

The inn was almost deserted at this time of night. Every thief, every assassin, every off-duty knight had either gone thieving, gone assassinating or gone back on duty. All the people that remained were the whiskey maker, the bartender, an old woman, a run-down looking heggler, and Jericho the thief. Well, nearly a thief. Suffice to say he was a step or two below thievery. Maybe pickpocket is the closest term we can use here without raising him too high up on the pecking order. So Jericho was a pickpocket, and right then he was trying to brag to the barman, through his drunk stupor about how amazing he was at thieving from "the verr' rich" and "royerltyyy".

"Stolen th' jewels offfffff the prince of Verrrrrrity jus' a few daysh ago," he continued, as the bartender scrubbed at a stubbornly dirty glass. "Stupid arse nevvvv' knew wot hit 'im. Too bad. I made a-suuure 'e knew t'at was my bowie knife. And lookit 'im. Ungratefull li'l sod..."

"You're drunk, Jericho," said the bartender, who was still having troubles. "Time you should lay off the ale, son."

Jericho began to sing, slurring his words. The bartender walked carefully to Jericho's side of the bar, picked him up from his seat, and escorted him to the lodge entrance, the pickpocket's head lolling against his shoulder.

"'Ere, now go home and have a nice rest," the bartender advised. He smiled, gave him a little pat on the back, and went back into the bar to serve the old lady, who was screaming for her sherry from a table in the corner.

Jericho began to stagger up the stairs and down the corridor. He ran his hand along the plaster and clay walls happily. The sensation was a little blurred and uncertain, but familiar.

Suddenly in front of him a dark shape ran through a door and up the wall. Pradd was uncertain of what it was, but judging by the abundance of spiky things on the upper arms and ankles he would have guessed it was an assassin. The assassin was now hanging from the ceiling. Pradd walked forward still, unaware of the assassin's hands drawing a small blade. He became aware a few moments later as the dagger slammed up to the of the hilt into his heart.

Pradd sheathed the knife and sighed. Done. He'd killed that idiot pickpocket who'd stolen his brass knuckles and left him for dead two days ago. What a noob, he thought, as he entered the air ducts. Stupid arse never knew what hit him.

-o-

Pradd woke up the next morning in His Majesty's finest prison. He groaned and sat up in his hard, flat bed nailed to one wall.

Here, there must be a general description of what exactly Pradd looked like, or else the story would never reach any kind of depth, or for that matter continuity between chapters. He stood a little over five blox nine inches, and was thin and fit. As an assassin, it was kind of a ground rule that for every piece of cake you eat, it's an hour on the ox-treadmill. His face was thin, and his nose was of a normal size, although on Pradd's face it looked slightly larger than the average. His (shiny) blond hair, cut shoulder-length, always hung carelessly down, somewhat covering the right eye. Pradd never knew why, despite being in cramped environments on most of his jobs, as well as being up on roofs and fighting the occasional goblin, his hair stubbornly failed to become dull. Oh well, he reasoned, I'll have to live with being the only assassin whose head shines like a golden doorknob when the sun comes out.

Where had he gone wrong? Oh yes, it had been when he was exiting the inn with his knuckles and the police arrived just at the wrong time. They'd knocked him out and taken him... here. His feet crackled on the moldy straw that served as a carpet, and he walked up to the bars and surveyed the situation. They'd put him in the basement section this time, unlike all the other times he'd been caught sneaking out at night on one of his contracts. No guards in sight, but four ten-inch thick steel bars and a door made of the strongest titanium. He'd have to wait it out in there.

And look at what we have here, Pradd thought as he heard the footsteps. Someone's coming down to talk to me. Some four, by the sound of it.

Pradd was an assassin, and therefore knew how to tell the number of people walking at any given time, as well as the different sounds each person created with their feet. In this case, the footsteps were composed of two clanking metallic ones, four leathery ones, and one heavy sweeping one. Two knights, four footmen, and one royal. The king had come to see him, Jericho, a lowly assassin that these royals disapproved of immensely. Well, well. Sounds like a change of heart.

It was indeed the king.

King Leonard was, for all intents and purposes, the undisputed ruler of the Kingdom of Life. He wielded unquestionable power over all his realm (all thirteen and a half square miles of it) and its people (all 96,734 of them). A fat man in a beaverskin coat rimmed with Epic Duck feathers, and a bronze crown two blox tall, Leonard didn't look the type to rule. He was, after all, a slightly obese, three foot tall, two hundred-thirty seven year old man with back problems, throat cancer, and some sort of three foot-long whispy white rope that people called a beard and strung with flowers every Founder's Eve and New Year's Day. But he did have power, and even showed it by outliving his own sons. And he disapproved of assassins, greatly. Leonard valued his life more than anything else except for his kingdom and his fortune. So it was understandable why a profession that dealt death for a price was off his good books.

But here he was talking to Pradd.

"Mhm," he began when his knights had found a stool he could stand up on. "Mm, assassin?"

"Yes, Your Majesty?" Pradd asked.

"I... am inclined to just get to chopping off your head and, mmh, reproductive organs right now," Leonard wheezed. "However, due to current events... MMMMHHHgh!... I am resigned to my fate of..." He stopped to catch his breath. Akward, breathy silences were common when in the presence of His Divine Majesty the King of Life.

"...Letting you live," Leonard concluded.

"What exactly are 'current events'?" Pradd inquired.

"Well, you'll see when we let you out and bring you to the Captain of the Guard," the king answered.

"And... who the hell exactly would that be?"

The king chose to ignore that bout of profanity as the rest of his guards stiffenned.

"His name is Fergus," Leonard said. "Mmm, a capable general. He will lead you on to knowing what the plan is..." There was an akward pause.

"Oh bother, a plan," Pradd could be heard to have said.

ooo

Fergus was kind of taller than Pradd had imagined. However, he was a ginger like Pradd had imagined. He was also six blox seven inches, extremely fit, and wearing no armor, just a light, breezy green tunic. Fergus spoke in a rich, lilting accent. It's a fact that people on Earth love voices like this, and people on Robloxia are no different.

He did compensate by being one of the loudest users of this particular accent he'd ever met.

"Alright," he barked as Pradd stood before him, flanked by two knights who had hands on his arms. "THIS is serious business, so listen up! The Underworld has declared war on us... again!"

"They got their asses handed to them last time," Pradd said.

"Yeah, but they'll have to toss them back this time," Fergus replied. "They got somethin' real... dangerous."

"Okay."

"And you wonder why we sent for ye in the first place?"

Pradd considered this. He usually took what was given to him, not wondered about it.

"Er, no," he said.

"You're going on a very special mission, Pradd," Fergus said. "Down to the depths of Hell itself to take it down from the inside."

"All by myself?" Pradd asked.

"I'm considering sending some other talented people like yourself with you," Fergus answered. "Now go. The king wants you to attend a... briefing."