His gloved hand over her mouth, the other brandishing a blackened dirk glistening in runes, his waist encircled by a series of obsidian edged knives. “I need you to be quiet.” Daelin, an assassin for the Lilac Company, whispers into an old woman's ear. At the end of an alleyway comes the sounds of armored hooves thudding into the paved road, a series of trumpets follow.
“If I let you go, will you tell?” He feels her head shake. “I don't want to kill you. Don't make me kill you. Please.” Daelin shoves her forward, and sprints to the ridge behind him. Before he jumps over the stone divider, he turns to get one last look at her, she's done the same. Her eyes shine a bright emerald green, his a foggy black, they clash invisibly.
“I know who you are.” Despite being a step away from the active street, her words reverberate in his head. Deacon feels troubled by the revelation that the Witches' Coven of Demontium is present in Beargrin City, but decides to swallow his fear and continue on the mission as planned.
An exuberant parade marches through the city streets, armored knights brandishing the bear insignia carry lances, and soldiers with decorated shields and long-swords flare in their technical skills as dancers do underneath ballroom chandeliers. Merchants and their stands fill the grassy periphery, playful children and happy adults eat candied fruits and hot pastries, chomping gluttonously as they participate in the festivities.
King Maveric basques in praise, five-hundred laborers hold up the platform of which his gold-encrusted throne is centered, their feet synchronous and their backs unevenly muscular. He stands and walks to the razors-edge, and raises both hands high in the air, eliciting a raucous applause. The plate-clad guards tasked to his protection shift uncomfortably as he soaks in the gawking and cheering.
Daelin is climbing up the side of a watch-tower, hands finding crooks in the white stone, feet propelling him upward. Directly above him is a single crossbowman, observing the opposite side. Taking this opportunity, Daelin unsheathes one knife out of the twenty encircling his hip, and leaps high in the air, diving the knife into the crossbowman's spine as he lands.
He pivots towards the parade, and scans his surroundings.
“For such a powerful man, he presents so many opportunities to be killed.” Daelin sees that the agricultural district is next to be traversed, and begins to ready himself for the final leap. Before he moves once more, he scans for any anomalies, quickly finding that the woman he let go earlier is staring directly at him through the window of a tailor's shop, along with three other women, all younger than her.
“Fulfill your destiny, assassin. We won't impede you.” Her voice slithers into his mind, and refuses to let go, repeating-repeating-repeating fulfill your destiny, assassin.
Daelin smacks his head, and begins to make his way down to the grain-mill owned by no other than Osterus Camps, an investor from the wealthy Isle of Illa Dra, whose employees like nothing more than to be derelict on holidays they're slated to work.
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“My King. If I may, you are unsafe here. I implore you to … contemplate sitting on your throne for the rest of the parade.” Krook Mantis, Captain of the Royal Guard, says, the only one of his kind not wearing a great-helm, hand kneading the hilt of his scimitar, a weapon no other here bares.
“My people love me. You will not impede their admiration” King Maveric waves Krook away, who reluctantly takes a single step back. “I am your King!” He yells in elation to his audience-
At the same time he turns to the other side; waving to an enchanted people, a knife is thrown at such speed it emanates a frequency only heard by felines- the edge penetrates his forehead and exits the back of his skull, blood erupts from the cavernous slit, the blade follows soon after, clanking onto the surface below, swathed in brain-matter and spinal fluid.
King Maveric is flopping over the edge-
Krook Mantis makes no attempt to grab him-
Silence-
King Maveric smacks against the ground.
The laborers holding the platform immediately break in their stalwart posture, some reaching out to his corpse, others crawling away in effort to escape the crushing weight. It immediately slants, the royal guard sputter off, some jumping to their feet in complete lucidity and attention, others tripping in their inebriated state, rolling off the platform like golly drunkards.
Daelin smiles as he leaps over stone walls and wooden pyres. Below him on the streets, is complete pandemonium, stampedes over mounds of squirming bodies, each of them eliciting blood gurgled screams and snot-filled cries.
Some time later. Outskirts, Camp Seril: The Siege of Maerwynn.
In the background are explosions, pillars of smoke taint the tranquil night sky, turning it black.
“Do you know the tale of the Mutilator of Beargrin?” Melisende yells, but it only transfers over the sound of burly men drinking, as a whisper.
“Who?!” Saretta responds, Melisende only registers the curious expression on her face.
“The one who killed King Maveric! Some say it was a spirit risen by the Coven, as a way to exact revenge for the great pogrom!"
Daelin presses his elbows into a table at the far-end of the bar, an exhausted expression is plastered on his face, his youth all-but erased, overtaken by scars and wrinkles. Despite the setting, he drinks no alcohol, he's waiting for company. In the mean-time, he simmers and withholds a grimace that is well-deserved by the amount of open wounds littering his torso.
Luckily, his company arrives soon after, a dwarf named Blimmy, a satchel wrung around her shoulder.
"You wish to be healed?" She leans over the table.
Surprised by her bluntness, Daelin nods.
She slaps down a sketch that elicits shock on Daelin's face.
It's his image, they share a stare.
"If you wish to live, then accept Kali's invitation. I've been ordered to give an elixir if you... agree. If you refuse, the wounds you bare will soon fester, and you will die an agonizing death."
Daelin swallows blood. Blimmy smiles. He nods.
"I'll visit Kali. The answer is yes." His voice grates, not because of his tiredness, but because of the calloused cuts littering his throat.
She pulls out a single elixir, it exudes a violet smoke when exposed to the air, the insides an ever-forming cloud.
"You must drink it the moment you open it. A second too late, and it will be ruined. If you wish, I can assist."
She continues. "If you find yourself on death's door on the way to the coven.." She places another sketch on the table. "Collect this flower, ground it, the hilt of a weapon will suffice, and rub it over the wound. It will not heal you, but it will give you enough time to reach us... and there, we will have many ways to mend -reanimation- if needed.