Garrett opened his eyes and screamed. Screamed at the betrayal and terror
in the darkest depths of his mind. They had done this, they had forced his
hand. They had dragged him down into their pits of depravity and bloodshed.
The Keepers had transformed him into this divided, tormented creature, his
morals and human emotions battling this animal desire for the thrill of the
hunt. All his conflicted mind could grasp was that it was their fault.
Garrett stared down at his hands, clenching into fists as if to beat away
the memories. No. He would not drown in this dark well of anguish again. It
had tormented him enough, and now it was time to let go.
Sal shivered as she stared into a pair of eyes that were as dark and relentless as the Trickster's. "It's a wicked cold night, isn't it, sir?" The stranger's silence was unnerving, if nothing else. Her pulse stirred from its usual steady, sound beat and began to race "a drink, sir?" The barmaid's hand hovered over a bottle uncertainly as she blinked away icy sweat. She drew back sharply as a low voice cut through the constant, reassuring stream of laughter and idle chatter in the background. "Do you know of a man called Jason?" Sal's eyes widened "no, sir."
He seemed so sure of himself, but a slight tremor betrayed him. He had potential, but he was young, so young. Well, no matter. Either a guild would adopt him, or he would become nothing more than a splat on the pavement.
The barmaid shook off her reverie long enough to realise that the stranger had melted into the shadows. 'So young' was her last thought about the cloaked figure who had questioned her, and she turned with a smile to a patron, already forgetting the unusual man. Such was the mark of a Keeper.
A passing watchman glanced up, interested, at the faint whisper of cloth. Raising his sword, he marched into the shadows with a boldness that could be fatal in a job like this. A low, heavy thump mingled with a sudden, inexplicable pain was the last thing he felt before he slumped down, unconscious. The dark figure that lowered its arm behind him drew its hand back into the recesses of its cloak, emerging seconds later to grasp a bulky shoulder and haul the man's body into an empty guest bedroom.
"How much did we make on that last export of wool, Tyler?" Garrett flattened himself against the crumbling, uneven wall, desperately searching for an alcove or a shadow, anything. A merchant prince, bedecked in the rich court finery of his class, entered the hallway, a pasty-faced, sweating clerk dogging his heels. A fine chain circled his neck, rings adorned his hands and a belt fashioned from links of gold was clasped round his waist. Garrett's eyes were drawn past the red silken doublet and hose, the oiled black hair and beard and greedy face, straight to the precious metal.
No choice left- he would have to fight. Drawing his dagger, he allowed himself only a moment of hesitation before slashing low into the merchant's stomach, jerking the blade up and into the beating heart. The clerk squawked, face becoming even more pale and rat-like. Garrett acted swiftly, but not swiftly enough. The panicked yells of the guards rang out, loud and hysterical. Poorly trained and ill prepared, they froze, seeing only a cloaked figure lowering a limp body to the ground, not the small details- like the size of the murderer, perhaps an adolescent from the slender frame. As one, they turned and fled; seeking reinforcements in the comfortable knowledge that they could hang back and watch veterans do the work. None of them looked back.
Garrett stripped the bodies of jewellery, money and valuables, cursing his poor luck as his performed the grisly task. Time to leave. Sheathing his dagger, he rose swiftly and exited the narrow corridor. Slipping down the shadowy back stairs, the thief crossed the deserted kitchen with a silence that most would have found chilling. The fire left lit, the dirty plates and bowls, the wine bottles and the half-eaten food abandoned for the rats to steal did not improve his first assessment of the occupants of the house. 'This merchant may be prosperous, but he can't find servants or guards worth a copper penny' was Garrett's only thought as he viewed the dirt with contempt.
There were no heavy footsteps or loud, impatient orders, only silence as one minute, he was examining a particularly rare wine bottle, the next, staring at the guards that surrounded him. Feeling the weight of the flashbomb in his hand- dropped from his sleeve in the shadows of his cloak- he threw it in one fluid movement, turning his back swiftly as the neuron- searing light blinded his enemies.
Not stopping to look behind him- a dangerous oversight- Garrett sprinted towards the side door he had used to enter the mansion several hours earlier. A foot slammed into the small of his back, and another kicked his hands away from his weapons, into the torchlight. He felt the air move as a sword flashed down, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth against the pain that would inevitably come. And yet...the stroke never fell.
Sal shivered as she stared into a pair of eyes that were as dark and relentless as the Trickster's. "It's a wicked cold night, isn't it, sir?" The stranger's silence was unnerving, if nothing else. Her pulse stirred from its usual steady, sound beat and began to race "a drink, sir?" The barmaid's hand hovered over a bottle uncertainly as she blinked away icy sweat. She drew back sharply as a low voice cut through the constant, reassuring stream of laughter and idle chatter in the background. "Do you know of a man called Jason?" Sal's eyes widened "no, sir."
He seemed so sure of himself, but a slight tremor betrayed him. He had potential, but he was young, so young. Well, no matter. Either a guild would adopt him, or he would become nothing more than a splat on the pavement.
The barmaid shook off her reverie long enough to realise that the stranger had melted into the shadows. 'So young' was her last thought about the cloaked figure who had questioned her, and she turned with a smile to a patron, already forgetting the unusual man. Such was the mark of a Keeper.
A passing watchman glanced up, interested, at the faint whisper of cloth. Raising his sword, he marched into the shadows with a boldness that could be fatal in a job like this. A low, heavy thump mingled with a sudden, inexplicable pain was the last thing he felt before he slumped down, unconscious. The dark figure that lowered its arm behind him drew its hand back into the recesses of its cloak, emerging seconds later to grasp a bulky shoulder and haul the man's body into an empty guest bedroom.
"How much did we make on that last export of wool, Tyler?" Garrett flattened himself against the crumbling, uneven wall, desperately searching for an alcove or a shadow, anything. A merchant prince, bedecked in the rich court finery of his class, entered the hallway, a pasty-faced, sweating clerk dogging his heels. A fine chain circled his neck, rings adorned his hands and a belt fashioned from links of gold was clasped round his waist. Garrett's eyes were drawn past the red silken doublet and hose, the oiled black hair and beard and greedy face, straight to the precious metal.
No choice left- he would have to fight. Drawing his dagger, he allowed himself only a moment of hesitation before slashing low into the merchant's stomach, jerking the blade up and into the beating heart. The clerk squawked, face becoming even more pale and rat-like. Garrett acted swiftly, but not swiftly enough. The panicked yells of the guards rang out, loud and hysterical. Poorly trained and ill prepared, they froze, seeing only a cloaked figure lowering a limp body to the ground, not the small details- like the size of the murderer, perhaps an adolescent from the slender frame. As one, they turned and fled; seeking reinforcements in the comfortable knowledge that they could hang back and watch veterans do the work. None of them looked back.
Garrett stripped the bodies of jewellery, money and valuables, cursing his poor luck as his performed the grisly task. Time to leave. Sheathing his dagger, he rose swiftly and exited the narrow corridor. Slipping down the shadowy back stairs, the thief crossed the deserted kitchen with a silence that most would have found chilling. The fire left lit, the dirty plates and bowls, the wine bottles and the half-eaten food abandoned for the rats to steal did not improve his first assessment of the occupants of the house. 'This merchant may be prosperous, but he can't find servants or guards worth a copper penny' was Garrett's only thought as he viewed the dirt with contempt.
There were no heavy footsteps or loud, impatient orders, only silence as one minute, he was examining a particularly rare wine bottle, the next, staring at the guards that surrounded him. Feeling the weight of the flashbomb in his hand- dropped from his sleeve in the shadows of his cloak- he threw it in one fluid movement, turning his back swiftly as the neuron- searing light blinded his enemies.
Not stopping to look behind him- a dangerous oversight- Garrett sprinted towards the side door he had used to enter the mansion several hours earlier. A foot slammed into the small of his back, and another kicked his hands away from his weapons, into the torchlight. He felt the air move as a sword flashed down, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth against the pain that would inevitably come. And yet...the stroke never fell.