Cigar smoke formed a nigh impenetrable haze around the cloaked, shuffling figure. Moving through the press of hot bodies at a stately pace, the figure willed itself to lower its gaze to avoid attention and subsequent discovery. Clutched in its hands was the purpose of its visit to the brothel, and it would be glad to part with it and the whore house as fast as it could.
Two drunken soldiers, both dressed finely in the livery of the local police force, shambled past, more than one haze afflicting their senses. One of the soldiers, short but heavily muscled from a life time of engagements and physical stress, shot a threatening glance at the inconspicuous figure. Suspicion and hostility glared from his eyes, before his companion diverted his attentions with a rough pat on the back. Two women, exposed to arouse, had strolled in front of the two men, and suspicion was thrown to the wind.
Breathing a sigh of barely concealed relief, the figure carried onwards. The smoke was clearing as the figure arrived at its destination. Three men clustered around a modest table of polished wood, empty steins of beer clustered on and around the floor. Two of the men were oblivious, the doubtless pints of alcohol eliminating all ordinary senses. Both were swilling a local brew, apparently uncaring of the damage they were causing to their already overstressed livers. Upon closer investigation both appeared to be in contest, as if the one to have alcohol poisoning first was lesser in manliness. The figure was positive that several more drinks would finish them both off for the night.
These drunks were not the focus of his task, the figure reminded itself, and turned its attention to the third man. Leaning on the back two legs of his stool, the third stood in blantant contrast to his counterparts. Not a single drink could be linked to his being, the man instead opting to keep careful and sober watch over his comrades. The man wore the clothes of a traveler and adventurer, a large sword placed carefully between his legs showing to all that the man was not defenseless. Stricking hazel eyes stared out from a face of intense concentration, locks of curly dirty brown hair falling over his shoulders. Sashed across his torso was a belt of undoubtly razor sharp throwing knives, and the figure noticed the man's hand was hovering near one of them.
With a slight cough the figure attempted to attract the mercenary's attention. One of the drunks turned around and burst out laughing as he saw the small figure standing behind him. The other quickly joined in the laughter, unaware of its source but laughing all the same. The third man did no such thing. Standing up and carefully placing his sword across his chair the man approached the cowled figure with a quiet confidence. As the sellsword approached the figure noticed his considerable height, well over six and a half feet coated with lean muscle. The mercenary was an excellent choice indeed, the figure thought, and reminded himself to thank his contact.
"Please excuse my comrades", the man said, holding out his hand in greeting.
"Mikhal Kruschev", the man continued, and dropped his unshakened hand in bewilderment. Clearly this dimunitive creature did not venture out his lair at socially health intervals. Several moments of awkward silence served to fuel Mikhal's natural impatience, and with a flare of anger he demanded,
"I was expecting you, but I have no time to stare in silence at antisocials. Give me the address and begone."
With a smirk, the cowled figure raised a gnarled hand and dropped an envelope embossed with an intricate design linked to those of high social status. A lion stood proudly, wreathed in a halo of divinity and majesty, an elk staining the earth with its life fluid.
"Pompous fools, they flounder in their own vanity", Mikhal thought, and smiled as he extracted the message from the snotling. "Ha ha, snotling", Mikhal laughed at his own brilliance and returned to his comrades, seemlingly never to have espied the figure. With a mocking flourish the figure turned on its heel and stalked toward the exit. The atmosphere of the brothel had instantaneously undergone a complete transformation, the idea of escape from an area oppressive to the figure's nature gleaming as a sun on a midsummer's day. Unfortunately, that beaming orb of life held sway over both life and death, parching throats and shriveling skin under its incessant pressure, bleaching the bones of the dead and leaving a reminder that man had no control over the forces that shaped and manipulated it. The figure understood the subtle threat lurked under the front of anticipation at leaving the brothel, and cautiously continuedon its set path toward the exit.
"THE BLOOD WILL FLOW", the figure thought and smiled.
Drifting through smoke as like a wraith, an inconspicuous body stalked the retreating figure, intent on divining its next location.
"If what Isuspecthas justtake place, my life has just broken under a layer of shit", the stalker thought, and wholeheartedly dedicated himself to his mission.
TO BE CONTINUED (SO ORIGINAL)...
Author's Note:
The story above is but the groundwork ofan action packed tale of glory and slaughter. Comment as you please, as I will be basing my future writings of what my audience has to say.