Hetdra. Again.
"By the Saints, you've weighted this toss, haven't ya?" Arrin snarkily grumbled to the three guardsmen as he slid thirty silver marcs across the lightly stained table. The larger of the three was a wall of a man with a jaw squarer than a crate, dotted with patchy stubble; Arrin could pick he was from the south of Vesrala by his stench alone, he might be a problem. The other two weren't a threat in the slightest. Arrin knew that at the mere thought of potential conflict, they'd drop their swords and bolt to the northern - no, the western exit. It was brighter; he'd have to cover that route.
Arrin was surprised by how easily he convinced these guards to play N'klaka with him in the guard post nestled along the path up to the manor. He supposed he had his bedraggled clothes, missing arm, burned face, and the unfortunate lack of a left eyeball to thank for his non-threatening demeanour. He was right not to listen to his employer; a full frontal approach would draw too much attention. His best bet was to catch The Stone Tyrant off guard, preferably while he was asleep. However, the Tyrant was a Dominant, his hardest mark in quite some time, and he couldn't count on the element of surprise. According to the reports from the scholars, these Dominants have a sixth sense, like paranoid eyes in the back of their heads, warning them about every creeping shadow. But Arrin is The Black Blade; he's never missed his mark, and he sure as hell wasn't going to start missing now.
"Aight lads, one more toss" Arrin slurred feigning drunkenness, the alcohol had no effect on him, despite it being one of the strongest brews from The Steppes. Arrin had made sure all the towns alcohol supply had been strengthened for tonight.
"Yagaha! Funny man wants another toss!" shouted the square-headed man "Maybe he thinks he can win back an eyeball!" he continued as he slammed his drink on the table, the others chorusing in with a forced snicker. "Alright, 'armless, tell ya this, if yous win, we give you every marc we 'ave, if yous lose, we take one ofs ya legs!"
Arrin delayed his reply, pretending to try and get the dregs from the bottom of his beer; he needed just a little more time for his plan to work. He didn't know how long he had, and there wasn't a timepiece in this room for him to check.
"Al-hic-right, you slimy bastards, d-deal" Arrin stuttered back to them, swaying perhaps a little too drunkenly, hopefully they can't tell it's all a ruse. Of course, he had no intention in honouring this bet, but neither did the three fools across the table from him. "Hetdra!" Arrin barked, setting down his entire pouch of coins. It was always customary for the challenger to choose which side of the coin in a game of N'klaka. Sixth time's the charm, right? he thought to himself. Even though this bet didn't matter, he was still curious if the tossed coin was weighted or not.
The man on the left picked up the thick iron coin, nervously giving it a little kiss for good luck. He was shorter than the other two, possibly younger as well, and his uniform didn't seem to fit him right; very uncharacteristic for the Stone Tyrant's retinue, who were brutes, yes, but orderly, organised, and all around dangerous. He still knew how to wield a sword, though, Arrin could tell just by the way he leaned on his chair when sitting down. The room was quiet, and they were all staring at the unkempt guardsman as he tossed the coin up into the air. Just as the coin reached the apex of the toss, the northern door slammed open, shaking the room and letting in a cold, damp breeze, followed by the sound of several pairs of heavy metal boots.
Fourth guard change. About drakin' time.
Arrin leaped up faster than any cripple had the right to, using his arm to boost himself off the table. He swung his body into the air, volleying the heavy iron disc straight down at the young guardsman to the left. You could almost hear the skull crack beneath the force of the impact. One. The other guardsmen reacted quicker than he expected, flipping the table to throw Arrin off balance, but he followed the flow of the table, reading the dance it stepped as it was spiralling across the room. I'll have to thank Iryana one of these days, she was right, everything really IS a dance. He landed perfectly on his toes whilst the table crashed into the wall behind him, splintering into pieces.
Without giving them time to assemble, Arrin darted forward, grabbing an iron poker from the fireplace. He pirouetted, carving a semi-circle in the dust on the ground with the metal rod, then catapulting himself off the skirting on the wall towards the cluster of guards, all still trying to get a bearing on the situation. Arrin struck the poker across one of their heads. He heard a thick crunch as the armoured guard tumbled to the side. Two. Arrin shifted his weight to the left, to the right, down, left again, as he dodged the flurry of blades coming his way. He quickly, but calmly, used his weight to guide the path of the attackers' strikes into each other, causing them to parry their own attacks or, hopefully, strike each other down. One of the guards' blades deflected into another's throat, slicing it clean open, red blood trickling down his neck. Three. One of the smaller guards he played N'klaka against stumbled towards the western exit as predicted. Arrin spun in place, using the sudden movement to disorientate his attackers whilst harnessing the momentum to throw the poker towards the fleeing guard's uncovered head. Three.
He had been staking out this town for the last three weeks, hardly enough time for some good exercise. He spent most of his time watching the movement of guards, the ingress and egress of supplies, half of which seemed to be people used for the Tyrant's entertainment. Disgusting. Although he couldn't help but admire how the soldiers here had a certain camaraderie about them, no matter how brutal they were.
Arrin quickly studied the two remaining guards. The large square-jawed man quivered slightly as he held his axe; his grip was too tight, his palms were sweaty, his dance would be too unpredictable for Arrin to judge, and he knew one hit from him could mean lights out. The other guard was female, also from the south of Vesrala, but with pale skin, crystal-blue eyes, and a patchily shaved head. A worshipper of the Shin? In the Tyrant's forces?
The crystal-eyed soldier leapt forward with sudden ferocity, catching Arrin off guard. He ducked left, then right, pivoted, lunged, jumped - narrowly avoiding the thrusts from her rapier. She was quick and well-trained. Wait, a rapier? That's an odd weapon for a guard? Arrin's eyes cast down to the unkempt guard with the coin embedded in his forehead, then back to the Shin attacking him. The anger in her eyes wasn't there because Arrin was an intruder; it was because he killed her friend.
Oh shit. I wasn't the only one here to eliminate the Tyrant.
He spun around, cursing himself. He should have known about this. How did this not appear on any of his intel or in any of his scouting? Arrin knew he wouldn't be needed if the Empire was organising a hit, and considering the King of Rilaen wasn't lifting a finger against the Tyrant after his shameful public beatdown, this had to be some hopeful rebel group. Did they know what it took to take down a Dominant? A fancy rapier wielded by a descendant of the Mist Weavers wasn't going to cut it, no matter how pointy it is. As the Shin lunged a little too far towards Arrin's head, he bent backwards, thrusting his leg into the air, and knocking the rapier from her hand. As he expected, the blade dispersed into a fine blue mist as it broke contact with her fingers. This should give him some time to deal with the other guard.
Quickly using the distraction of the Shin to break from her reach, Arrin kicked up one of the guard's swords from the ground as he danced away, pivoting closer to the large Vesralan man. He grabbed the sword from the air, leaning to the right whilst the guard's axe cleaved the air right next to Arrin's head, shaving a couple of hairs off his head. Slash, cut, stab. Three precise motions, and that was it. The guard stood motionless for a few seconds before collapsing to his knees. "It wasn't... weighted", the guard coughed out before letting out one last sigh, his heavy coin purse making a loud clunk as he hit the bloodied stone floor.
Oh, right, the Shin. "Hey hey hey, let's talk about this, we're both here to kill him, aren't we?" Arrin spoke calmly, still facing away from the woman who no doubt had her rapier back in hand. To his honest surprise, the Shin didn't lunge at him or anything; she just sat down on one of the chairs, wiping the blood from her face where Arrin had deflected a blow earlier.
"You must be a Skade then, heh." The woman had a soft voice that was almost disarming. Almost. Arrin turned, looking at her, a puzzled expression on his face. She couldn't pronounce the "Sh-" properly; it came out more like a "Sk-". She was a true-blooded Shin, and one who knew how to Mist Weave, too.
"Mhmmm", looking around, Arrin found the map of the manor, the one thing he couldn't find a definitive copy of during his scouting. "So, what was your plan then? Were you going to run up to the mighty Darinus Varinir and poke him with that little stick of yours?" the one-armed assassin said inquisitively as he ran his hand along the map, tracing all the different paths in and out of the manor.
"I was going to blend in as one of his girls, and then Vex" the woman's eyes shot down to the guardsman with the coin sticking out of his head, "Vex, was going to escort me out of the place when I was done, and no I wasn't going to try and stab him, I was going to poison him." Arrin couldn't help but laugh at this idea. Trying to slip poison to one of the most powerful mortals in all of the realms, by the pits, you'd probably need a river's worth to even knock the man out, let alone kill him.
"Look Shin-"
"Call me Leha", the Shin quickly chimed in.
"Look, Leha", the assassin corrected himself with attitude, "you're not going to be able to poison a Dominant, and you're not going to even get close enough to try. They can sense things most mortals can't; you'd be sniffed out the moment you stepped foot into his chambers." Arrin continued to study the map. The light from the gas lanterns in the room was dim, but he could still make out the intricate fine print, a blend of common and dwarven script. The map highlighted areas of patrol and possible points of entry, a veritable gold mine for anyone trying to break in.
"How good are you at Mist Weaving, Leha?" Arrin asked, looking up with a smile that almost forgave the grim burns and scarring. Almost.
Leha sighed, almost expectantly, rolling her eyes as she slowly rose from the chair. She knew these assassins were good, but it didn't even seem like this deformed young man even broke a sweat fighting off 5 trained swords, well, 4 trained swords plus Vex. Poor Vex, how was she going to explain this to his younger brother back at the hang? Oh sorry little Jhes, your brother was killed by an assassin who I then teamed up with, whoops! I hope you can forgive me! The thought of it made her sick to her stomach.
She shook her head, pushing the feeling down. She knew the assassin was right; poison was never going to work, and she needed his help. When the job was done, however, that was a different tale; maybe taking the assassin's head back will quell Jhes' cries. But this assassin was a Shade, and she knew nothing about his quirk. All Shades had a quirk, at least that's what the boss told her, and if she could figure that out, maybe she could stand a chance. Her boss also said to stay away from them at all costs.
"I'm not very good", she lied, "I can only weave objects I've attuned to, like my blade and armour". Leha didn't want to give away all her tricks, in case she did end up crossing blades with this crippled assassin. The assassin looked up at her, his one good eye squinting. She felt a shiver run down her spine. Draka, did he know?
Leha was a lot more sensitive to the magics than most, a benefit of her heritage, she surmised, but it was times like this when she wished she were blind. She could see these deep black, red and purple wisps dance around the assassin, and there was something unnatural about them - it was almost like they were celebrating?
Leha snapped back, the magic she saw dancing was now gone, and the assassin's face portrayed no hint that he knew she saw them.
"Very well", the assassin said slowly, shifting his gaze down to the map in front of him once more. "That will work just fine, just follow my lead, and when I give the signal, summon your blade right in front of you." Arrin was confident with this plan, the smirk stretching across his face was hard to hide that fact. He got up, crossing the room towards a window that looked down over the sheer cliff to the east. "But first, help me with these bodies."
Leha grabbed the legs, and Arrin grabbed an arm. Last one, they both thought in unison, their arms tired from stripping and shoving 4 bodies out a window. They shuffled across the floor, the now stripped body occasionally bumping an out-of-place brick. Arrin cringed as he used his shoulder to help hoist the body up into the window, while Leha tipped it out, using the legs as a lever. They stood in silence for a couple of seconds before hearing a thud from the valley below. Arrin surveyed the room, ensuring the armour they had stripped from the guardsmen was clean enough and placed back on the racks.
"Perfect, it looks like they all got changed and went home, a nice touch, don't you think?" Leha asked, entirely rhetorically. It was her plan to rack up the armour after all; genius, really. She needed no validation. Arrin grunted affirmatively in response. Nobody should be back here to check for another few hours, and if anyone poked their head in, they would just assume the guards skipped duty or went home early, it was the Festival of Folstyre after all, and the Tyrant was holding a soiree in his manor that was begging for a closing to die for.
"I've never understood why you Vesralan's celebrate winter", Arrin stated as he closed the door behind him, "it's just cold and wet over here, no snow or anything." Arrin's outfit now masked his deformities; he wore a plush black robe, hood pulled up over his face, adorned with a wooden mask. His mask was a crudely carved face of a Lacitou, an exotic bird, one of the Storm Heralds, apparently. The Histories wrote that lightning chased after them as they crossed the night sky, and their feathers were made of the storm clouds themselves. What a load of 'draka. During the festival, people made offerings to the Storm Heralds to ensure their homes were not destroyed by the storms. Fitting for tonight, considering the destruction they were going to wreak.
Arrin presented his good arm to Leha, signalling her to take hold of it. Luckily, Leha had stashed her change of clothes at the guard house; it was a traditional, deep blue one-piece with long, half-gloved sleeves and shin-high dark leather boots. She complemented it with a generic leather jacket taken from one of the guards' belongings. Leha didn't have a mask for the occasion; she had told Arrin that the courtesans didn't wear them, so her plan didn't account for it. Begrudgingly, Arrin had deftly cut the mask in twain down the centre; he took the left half to hide his scarring, and she took the right. He wanted to keep the mask whole, Iryana would have liked it for her collection, but they needed to look like partners if this was going to go smoothly.
Leha grabbed hold of Arrin's arm tightly as they went up the steps to the manor. They passed others dressed blue and white - the colours of winter - dancing in the streets as rain pattered down on them. She could feel something above, like many sets of eyes glancing over her. She tried to ignore the feeling, but couldn't shake it."Something's very wrong", she whispered, quickening her pace to match the assassin's stride.
"I know. I can feel it too. Keep focused. We won't be staying long," he replied curtly, doing a little hop up the slippery stone steps, pulling Leha with him.
They shuffled through the entrance to the manor, which was crowded with people trying to dodge the rain. Pretending to be in distracted conversation with his partner, Arrin deftly snagged a slip of paper from the jacket pocket of some stuck-up man complaining fiercely about the price of imported jewellery to the door attendant, who obviously had better things to be doing. He only needed one invitation; the guards would only check his entrance, not his companion's, as she was of feminine stature, a strange custom in these parts.
Leha studied the inside of the manor as the assassin showed a slip of paper to the guard who approached them. Where in the realms did he get that invite from? A grand staircase, much like the ones found in the old theatres of her hometown, loomed before them, but instead of being rotted away and filled with stalkfins, those little spined arachnids she was terrified of, these stairs were grandiose. The railings appeared to have fresh gold plating, and the carpet, a deep crimson red, looked brand new as well; not a single piece of dust seemed to have settled between the threads. People leaned on the railings, a couple even sat on the steps at the bottom, cradling their faces, the drinks obviously hitting them hard. How could people be so casual around such fancy furnishings? Didn't they fear bankrupting their estate if they spilled their glass of Centrean Blue?
She felt an elbow nudge her. She turned, finding Arrin looking up at the balustrade. His pitch black hair was neater than it was earlier, slicked back like a nobleman, not the messy mop that she first saw. She glanced up, following his gaze, finding guards strolling away from the southernmost room above the entryway, grabbing drinks from an attendant as they bantered with each other. Another guard change, but his new door guards won't be coming; the assassin had made sure of that.
They passed the attendant upstairs, grabbing the last two remaining drinks from his tray, pretending to be in some drunken stupor. She's pretty good at this, Arrin remarked silently to himself. He could tell she'd been trained in some of the same arts as he had: deception, manipulation, and most importantly, the mission above all. He could tell she still hurt for her friend, Vex, was it? He would apologise once they were done; emotions couldn't get in the way, not when they were about to enter the proverbial dragon's den.
They clumsily opened the door to the room, making sure that the Tyrant knew they were entering. They needed his attention, not his surprise, and definitely not his suspicion.
"Are we allowed in here?" Leha whispered loud enough for the whole room to hear. She pretended not to see the dozen people sprawled over the Tyrant's bed, some still breathing, she hoped.
"Ehhhhh... why... n-not!" Arrin shouted in a feigned drunken slur. He was getting a lot better at pretending to be a barrel deep. He had spent the last three weeks watching people get drunker and drunker for this celebration; it must have been rubbing off on him. He closed the door with a sudden lurch, locking it in the process, nobody in, nobody out.
They turned around to face the Tyrant.
Where was he?