This type of vision is slow to change. As I moved across the flat roves, darted across planks, shadow flitting briefly upon the roads of packed earth below, my vision was a staccato of black upon white. The humanoid shapes of red marching, strolling, those who were stationary. But also now those groups of blue. Normal vision reasserted itself but the knowledge that this other sight gave me stayed with me over the days that followed. But all the way through my sight and interest was always with that glowing, luminous shifting figure that had so caught my eye.
People where weary. More so than perhaps was usual. Darting eyes shifted to unknown shadows, unrecognised faces. It only served to make the figure more seemingly fluid. Sliding smoothly between crowded alleys, materialising in banks and disappearing again. And for the second time, saving another through the act of killing. It started with another morning of following him. With vision returned to normal, they could see his golden , just so locks, the spark of sunlight on his goatee, parting smoothly around laughing lips. His hands were fascinating, darting and shaping, moulding perhaps the air before him, other times nursing the words that bubbled from his mouth. Crouching only a single story above, hidden by shadows and a happenstance alcove, originally their eyes only for him. Until the feeling of vibrating deep in their ear, the recognition of running, no, fleeing steps. Cocking their head to the side like a bird, they saw now deep in his eyes his own flare of recognition as three rugged thieves shuffled through merchant stalls and untrusting shoppers.
It happened in an instant, though that time since I first recognised the fleeing feet and his wide eyed understanding of the blurry apparition, slowed to a crawl. It was fear, or mayhap more than that which dug those white lines around his mouth or flared his eyes wide; that now stark circle of white around an artist's iris. He was in an instant of indecision, to flee or to fight. There was no way, not in my short time of observation and analysis that he could do the latter. And it would be folly for this one to attempt the first. His was a body for creation and beauty, and from what I had seen, laughter. But there was something even he was afraid of in the face of the shorter slimmer one who was leading the others. I made the decision for him. The jump down was nothing, in the split second before I landed part of my mind replayed that short glance back, face changed by alteration of light and movement. But I had seen that face before, several times, though perhaps not set in such an expression of dread. Rosa. The chasing men were dressed differently, moved differently. As I took the landing and leapt to his side I saw him make the wrong choice.
The figure darted an arm through the folds of a merchant's silks, grabbing, barely, his other shirt sleeve as he made to run, turning his flustered first steps into a tumble forward. The steel like grip was mirrored on his other side as he stupidly panicked and clumsily fought to be free from this other unseen foe.
"Enough."
It seared through his brain, jerking his back straight in almost recognition. At that their grip was gone and his hands fell to his sides as if strings had been cut. The dangerous looking figure jumped o the merchant's desk, neatly vaulting, halting in their decided pursuit long enough to look back at him. He stumbled closer, though there was no true identification of the figure, what they represented seemed to echo something in his mind, and it showed on his face.
"Where do they run?"
His mouth didn't gape, his words came out fast.
"Closest is the Fox's hole, Antonio's is too far."
Peering forward and under that slightly drooping hood, he could see pale green eyes narrow, slim shaped lips pulled down into a frown as the figure's mind blitzed through the map held in the figure's mind. Suddenly they were focussed on him. T'was a female. Rag wrapped hands rose to grip the portico of the merchant's stall above and pulled that body onto the flimsy structure, it swayed as knees bent and pushed. A fling of the loose wrap and the billowing garment was cast off for quicker and smoother movement, falling to land before the shaking artist.
It would have been impossible before I had seen the dottore. Impossible without full lungs of warm air. Above them I had a better view. They did not have the finesse of those they chased with such palpable anger. But the threat they represented was so blatantly obvious, though why would for now remain a mystery. As would my already cemented decision to kill those men, for Rosa or perhaps the white man who had given me something else in this brown and gold city. Four was enough, all timing would be tight, surprise would take care of one, perhaps even two. But if the others didn't abandon their chase in what would be such terrible murder of their men at arms, escape would impossible for the tiring thieves. The knife appeared in my fist as I danced across a rope ladder, convenient balconies and flower gardens guided me lower until I leapt. My toes turned into claws, digging into his armoured hips for purchase, in the same moments my left hand grabbed his hair and yanked sideways, the top of the knife entered his slightly craned neck and slipped out followed by an eruption of blood. His body sagged and my abandonment of his dying body turned into a forward roll and my balance was shaky until I thundered my feet into the ground and was in an instant sprint, this time my weapon held over hand. I darted around the next, even as he half heard my approach, always staying in his blind spot. Until I ran that razor-sharp blade just below the back of his knee. I felt the shattering ping as sinew parted. I slowed and watched as he automatically tried to take another step on his ruined leg. The sound he gave as it gave way was still terrifying no matter how many times I hear it, it is the same. As horrible as that sound was, it had the desired effect. Their attention was shifted instantly, spinning right around and abandoning their dead sprint. They focussed upon me as I loomed behind the fallen man and barely crouched above his back. I never stopping looking at them I needed their full attention on me. One hand grasped those thick sweaty curls and yanked his head up so even he looked at his comrades. The harsh nearly guttural sound that spilled as I cut his taut throat the only sound down alleyway. Blood thundered like rain from his severed artery and only when it started to diminish did I released his hair. That nerveless head splashing into the still growing puddle of his own blood. Anger transferred to me was what now drove these men and I welcomed, striding forward my only weapon a blood red blade, tiny as the two remaining men drew swords. They glinted yellow in the sunlight. Hopefully their emotions would drive them and this weakness would work with me.
It was a stand off, the figure patiently still, but extra alert – what could account for the confused stance of those men they faced, bar the gross deaths of their comrades now reduced to sacks of dead meat. The tickle left in the wake of breath wafted strands of hair gave them the reason. For the first time their face was now bare. The seemingly soft and safe visage of a woman was now showcased in a red backdrop of well executed murder. It was the perfect opportunity to strike. The forceful but slow move was deflected with an automatic reflection. But not the next few steps. Dancing and nimbly placed feet moved the slim body closer inside the guard's arms. A shuffle and turn opening his stance, until the combination of blade and rigidly held wrist had loosened then broken his grip. The sword now masterless, it swung in a lazy arc before the woman took it in her own hand. It darted out again as quick. Sunlight flashing first on blade then in the spurt of blade. But the last would not be duped by the face that had downplayed the threat she now no doubt represented. Even with the one sword in offence and defence against her two, it wasn't quite desperation that moved him, instead it was indignation.
The sound of metal clashes rang out, longer and longer. It was the feeling of frustration that I could feel building. It shouldn't take this long. This one was nothing but an enemy. Perversely, the end – the cause of the end should help me gain the upper hand, but could also have me lost. The word stupid revolved like a mantra as I spun in defence. It must have broken through my stern lips for the man I faced started, but had me turning in defence, so he too could see what had be changing focus. The white man had appeared, not so afraid of the bodies, no he regarded these instead with macabre interest. My next reaction surprised me with the strength of my new anger. Perhaps it was a faked shuffle to the one I had one-sidedly 'befriended'. Designed to open me to an attack, or a real dart to cause harm. My small blade was imply abandoned, using my free and soft hand to try and bat away the attack. It served to slide deeply along the side of my wrist, the white cold shock as steel struck bone. But I kept it up. Using the pain to first lever, then capture his weapon, twisting the blades together before flinging it, and so his arm and guard, wide. Using both hands, slippery with blood, I brought the sword to enter near his navel, even with my fading strength I managed to rip it up; blood welling from his slack mouth. I knelt as he fell, taking the time I should have been using to put space between me and all this new murder scene, just breathing.