The Night Angel Trilogy belongs to Brent Weeks; I own none of the material
The Blue Boar's regular jovial attitude permeated the room; the men and women in attendance forgetting their myriad troubles with drunkenness and debauchery. Jason had no interest in the latter for a reason unbeknownst to him; he felt… Empty. Hazy recollections surfaced like the leviathans of the oceans, the kill shot… Or what he thought was the kill shot. He hadn't actually seen a corpse hit the floor, he had had to make his escape but he had ascended to his lofty heights of infamy because he didn't miss. An alien feeling was also radiating through his body; regret. He felt regret. Wetboys, at least of his calibre, didn't feel anything. They just acted, the singularity of their purpose erasing emotional consequences of their bloody actions. Wetboys don't feel what he felt now. He felt weak and vulnerable, and not even training to the point of self-destruction was lifting his spirits. He needed a mission, a target, anything to release his inner demons in the crucible of murder. He needed a fight, for the other option that could console him was almost certainly lost forever.
The light gleamed off the dagger as a deathly figure twirled it with his gloved hand. His green eyes glinted in the gloom and his senses were as sharp as the weapon he was toying with. He had sat cross-legged in his chamber for a few days now, waiting for a contract. Waiting for a purpose. Something, anything, to take his mind off her. He growled, this vulnerability sickened him to the core. Why did she still bother him? Even when she was lost to him forever, ghosts still flickered through his conscious and sub-conscious alike. At times he didn't care, but at times he really did. He snarled again and cursed every deity he knew, he could not afford this turmoil. It distracted him from his purpose, from the business of death, and he was this city's finest craftsman in that particular area. The dagger completed its aerial dance and returned to his hand. Green eyes glared into the darkness as a decision was made. He rose slowly and deliberately and stalked out of his lair, a spectral shadow devoid of features besides a pair of emerald orbs and a shining silver blade facing the cold, uncaring world that he ruled from the darkness, a wolf presiding over the ignorant herd of Cenaria. For the first time since his butchery of the guards, and the girl, he smiled a macabre smile and a single, resonant thought echoed through his savage mind. Time to find someone to kill.
The unlucky soul in question was chosen randomly from a wanted board in the less civilised area of town. While he found hunting men the same way as animals questionable, Jason didn't let morals obstruct his blade. Especially not now. He ripped down the first poster that said "Dead or alive" and walked away, scanning the parchment quickly before tossing it aside. Target: Gavin Dufonte. Age: Not Important. Reward: Not Important. Location: Last seen in the company of outlaws in a nearby forest. If one could call the scrawny clumps of trees poking out of the marshes around Cenaria forests. Wanted For: Horse theft, conspiracy for a number of felonies and resisting and evading arrest. Not bad, Jason thought to himself. These were serious charges; he had evaded serious investigation and pursuit to escape justice. So far at least. Unfortunately for him, Fate had decided that his evasion would be in vain. A killer as black as Hell itself now hunted him, Jason rounded a corner and headed towards the portcullis that led out of Cenaria and towards his victim. The Devil will have his due.
A flash of steel flickered in and out of sight as two sentries collapsed to the floor, knives protruding from their empty shells. Jason walked casually in through the main entrance to the decrepit travelling lodge the target was using as a base, and smirked at the assembled rabble. Their panicked eyes shot first to the dead sentries and then to him. Their fear soon vanished when they realised they were under attack from a single man. An amused cry sounded from the killer's target. "It's just one man. You sons of bitches can handle this bastard, right?" The mob snickered and nodded, as a single entity, and gathered a motley assortment of rusty yet cruel weapons to enact their vicious intentions. Jason smirked, and drew his own blade in a faint hiss. The target turned and spat "Something funny?", drawing a dry smile from his murderer. "No, I'm 'deadly' serious, my friend" Jason chuckled, before rushing into the jaws of the crowd, his blade cutting men down like wheat.
Back in his dark chamber, Jason sat cross-legged, eyes closed, differing memories warring for his attention. One of love and affection, one of murder and death. Only one existed for him now, but the deadly flaw still lingered. He'd exorcise it later, when he could figure out how. Whoring and drinking awaited him, interrupted briefly by crimson flashes of arterial blood when his services as a consummate killer were needed.
The night sky was filled with bursts of light and noise as Jason sat on a veranda, admiring the festivities. Some noble whom he didn't recognise was throwing a party to celebrate his daughter's marriage and had brought in the latest 'big thing'; a foreign miracle known as fireworks. Jason didn't know how they worked, and didn't care; he had only been invited only due to his fake title, and had only gone because Gwen had made him promise to keep an eye on the girls who had been hired to provide entertainment for the dirty old men gathered here. At least the drinks were free, he thought bitterly, as his eyes were drawn to the dance floor where the happy couple waltzed. Jason's lip curled into an impromptu snarl and he looked away. He thought back to when he was like that, happy, carefree and dancing with a woman. He had been good at dancing. "Probably still am" he muttered out loud arrogantly. But that, like so many other things, was a distant, fleeting memory. During moments of outer peace, or as close to it as he could get, he wondered whether he would go back to that life if it were offered to him. The answer he arrived at always troubled him. He spat vehemently and drained his drink, wondering as he always did, why the answer was without a doubt, yes.
Cleaning his blades was a monotonous task, yet it brought clarity of mind to Cenaria's most infamous murderer. Its numbing repetitiveness drowned out painful, joyful memories, and replaced them with the more familiar and recent memories of bloodshed. When you live only to kill, you needed perfect blades. No exceptions. Jason stared at the hand-and-half sword, its polished surface reflecting his dark features. His thoughts turned grim as he glared at his mirror image. What good is a perfect blade if the hand holding it is slowed by emotion? Hesitation could cost him a fight, and losing a fight would surely make his life forfeit. Jason drew a breath through the pipe he had become fond of recently, and returned to removing any imperfections from his sword. If only the mind could be cleansed as easily, he pondered grimly.