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Dusk sets upon Sundren City, most folk find their way indoors. Whether that be their home or the closest tavern... The bustling streets alive with the sounds of the busy market and endless streams of adventurers looking to make a name for themselves, have all but cleared out.
A dark shape slides through the shadows, easily keeping far from the view of any still out at the late hour. He nimbly jumps up on a crate and uses the supports of an awning to scale the wall of a decrepit old building. perching upon the roof of the structure, he scans his hunting grounds.
Looking out, his face hidden behind his masked hood, his lips part into a silent scream of excitement. The night goes on as he sits, waiting, the hours seem like nothing against his dizzying dreams. Hidden from the view of any on the streets, he waits for the time to be right. He waits to strike.
He feels the telltale tingle, as he always does. The tingle that tells him it is the True Gods hour. He peers over the edge to ensure no one is watching, his dark eyes darting about. Satisfied, the little shadow leaps from the building to the awning, sliding down the fabric. At the last moment he grabs the front of the awning, and swings his momentum back, landing underneath it with barely a sound. With one last glance down the street, he finds his way down. Barely more than a shadow himself.
He stops abruptly in front of a doorway, his instincts buzzing, telling him this is the one. His trained hands deftly work the lock without a noise, and he moves into the dark dwelling, taking time for his eyes to adjust to the lack of moonlight. He draws his two darkly oiled blades, curved with hundreds of strange symbols carved into the metal, his own special blend of ingredients to ensure no light reflects from them.
He moves to the rear of the home, to a makeshift ladder carved into the stone walls, allowing its inhabitants easy access to the loft. He grins as he steps out on to the loft above, looking out over four sleeping forms. He silently approaches the first form, a wheezing old man.
Coming to stand over the man he bends down bringing his curved blade to rest just below his right ear. In one fluid motion he covers the victims mouth, holding his head firm, and slices the mans throat.
His heart races so loud he looks up, sure the others could hear the pounding of his heart. The dark pleasure almost too much to bear, he stands still making sure all the life had fled the decrepit old man. He moves to the next figure. This one is younger, perhaps his mid thirties, with a laborers look about him.
He once again slices the mans throat, nothing but a faint gurgling noise escaping before the mans life faded. This time the figure recites what can only be described as a prayer, using some of the mans blood to paint a symbol on his head.
Two left... The figures mind races, his heart beating so fast it might leap from his chest. He moves to the next figure, a woman. She is rather average looking for a laborers wife, her hair and face dirty. Without taking his time he ends her life in the same calculated gruesome manner as the two before her.
Lastly he comes to a smaller form, a boy not quite yet a man.. He pauses for a moment. He then smiles and leans in towards the boy, whispering in his ear.... The True God cares not who you are, only that you serve him in life or by death... This wakes the boy, but only in time to stare in silent horror as the blade slices through his throat. The boys eyes flash, tears welling in them, not understanding. Bringing the boys face close, he watches the life fade, with eyes wide with dark pleasure.
The figure kneels silently in the mingling pools of his victims blood , his eyes closed and mouth moving in an inaudible prayer. He proceeds to strip the victims down naked, positioning them heads touching. Their hands and feet stretched out like rays of light.
He looks satisfied upon the gruesome scene, and only steps back in to remove trophies from each. His dark blades cutting through the flesh, he reaches into their bodies, ripping out their hearts from under the ribcage. For each heart, he wraps it in black silk, and places it into a purple velvet bag.
Finished he soaks a cloth in blood, his own hands drenched to the elbows, and exits the building. The moonlight strikes his face, spatterings of blood making shimmering dark dots across his skin. He turns to the door and traces a symbol, a large many rayed sun. He steps back and smiles, and as silently as he approached he flees the scene. Making certain that none see him.
A dark shape slides through the shadows, easily keeping far from the view of any still out at the late hour. He nimbly jumps up on a crate and uses the supports of an awning to scale the wall of a decrepit old building. perching upon the roof of the structure, he scans his hunting grounds.
Looking out, his face hidden behind his masked hood, his lips part into a silent scream of excitement. The night goes on as he sits, waiting, the hours seem like nothing against his dizzying dreams. Hidden from the view of any on the streets, he waits for the time to be right. He waits to strike.
He feels the telltale tingle, as he always does. The tingle that tells him it is the True Gods hour. He peers over the edge to ensure no one is watching, his dark eyes darting about. Satisfied, the little shadow leaps from the building to the awning, sliding down the fabric. At the last moment he grabs the front of the awning, and swings his momentum back, landing underneath it with barely a sound. With one last glance down the street, he finds his way down. Barely more than a shadow himself.
He stops abruptly in front of a doorway, his instincts buzzing, telling him this is the one. His trained hands deftly work the lock without a noise, and he moves into the dark dwelling, taking time for his eyes to adjust to the lack of moonlight. He draws his two darkly oiled blades, curved with hundreds of strange symbols carved into the metal, his own special blend of ingredients to ensure no light reflects from them.
He moves to the rear of the home, to a makeshift ladder carved into the stone walls, allowing its inhabitants easy access to the loft. He grins as he steps out on to the loft above, looking out over four sleeping forms. He silently approaches the first form, a wheezing old man.
Coming to stand over the man he bends down bringing his curved blade to rest just below his right ear. In one fluid motion he covers the victims mouth, holding his head firm, and slices the mans throat.
His heart races so loud he looks up, sure the others could hear the pounding of his heart. The dark pleasure almost too much to bear, he stands still making sure all the life had fled the decrepit old man. He moves to the next figure. This one is younger, perhaps his mid thirties, with a laborers look about him.
He once again slices the mans throat, nothing but a faint gurgling noise escaping before the mans life faded. This time the figure recites what can only be described as a prayer, using some of the mans blood to paint a symbol on his head.
Two left... The figures mind races, his heart beating so fast it might leap from his chest. He moves to the next figure, a woman. She is rather average looking for a laborers wife, her hair and face dirty. Without taking his time he ends her life in the same calculated gruesome manner as the two before her.
Lastly he comes to a smaller form, a boy not quite yet a man.. He pauses for a moment. He then smiles and leans in towards the boy, whispering in his ear.... The True God cares not who you are, only that you serve him in life or by death... This wakes the boy, but only in time to stare in silent horror as the blade slices through his throat. The boys eyes flash, tears welling in them, not understanding. Bringing the boys face close, he watches the life fade, with eyes wide with dark pleasure.
The figure kneels silently in the mingling pools of his victims blood , his eyes closed and mouth moving in an inaudible prayer. He proceeds to strip the victims down naked, positioning them heads touching. Their hands and feet stretched out like rays of light.
He looks satisfied upon the gruesome scene, and only steps back in to remove trophies from each. His dark blades cutting through the flesh, he reaches into their bodies, ripping out their hearts from under the ribcage. For each heart, he wraps it in black silk, and places it into a purple velvet bag.
Finished he soaks a cloth in blood, his own hands drenched to the elbows, and exits the building. The moonlight strikes his face, spatterings of blood making shimmering dark dots across his skin. He turns to the door and traces a symbol, a large many rayed sun. He steps back and smiles, and as silently as he approached he flees the scene. Making certain that none see him.
