Several pools of stagnant water littered the alley, flowing through the cracks of the battered stones. The cobbled walls on either side loomed like bastions of shadow, blocking all light from the alley. Several scampering critters and rodents rushed through the alley, attempting to find sanctuary within the sewer grates and small holes in the shadowed cobbles. This alley was a cauldron of creatures, but each one was so unbefitting of it. Each creature was forced and compacted into a stale existence, fighting within a manmade prison, unable to find shelter befitting of them. The Mice should be frolicking in a field of grass, the insects feasting in a brush of a forest and the stray felines bathing in the delicate sun within the L’marr plains in the east. Each one ensnared like a witch with their own delusion of promise, all by the web of stone and mortar encircling them.
Most of all, the humans within the alley, ever domineering and manipulating, stirring the fates of those poor enough to be caught within their cages, were utterly out of place. At the mouth of the alley, overlooking a large road bustling with horse-drawn carts, stood two cloaked male figures. They watched the brick towering agencies on the opposite side of the road. Sevrel, leaned on the left, wearing a leathered coat and dark garments, and watched the buildings intently, and on the right, Culler, his head sheathed in a light cloth balaclava and pale white shirt. Sevrel glanced to his right, watching as Culler played with his long-bladed knife, twirling it between his hands.
The pair had waited here for several bells, watching the buildings – or rather glancing at them whenever movement occurred outside. They had never been fond of waiting this long, for they preferred their jobs to be completed swiftly. However, with the amount they were being paid this time, some more attention to detail was necessary.
“We should pay more attention; he’s going to come out any moment” Sevrel called to Culler.
“I’m paying enough attention. He’s such a fat loaf that it would be hard to spot him anyways.”
“That’s beside the point. Not only will Grace not pay us for this job, but she’ll be also on our ass until were all the way into the wastes…”
“You think I’m scared of Grace? She’s a leech in a pool of piss for all I care.” He tucked his knife under his belt. “They have better things to worry about anyways. I don’t think we will be their top priority, even if we fuck this up.”
Culler had never been one to worry, Sevrel noted, he always wore a relaxed expression, as if he was a spirit without strings for others to control. In the times before they had earned a reputation among the street-dwellers of Malant, the pair had been subject to attempted exploitation numerous times, and yet Culler had never once been afraid or unsure of his position. Even from his youth, he was a calculating horror. Unbothered by schemes. Culler had earned a reputation for being a loose cannon. He was as volatile as a desert storm, battering all within his gale.
There had been but one time, where his steel podium had been melted down, and it had left him in a state of destructive vulnerability. He had sulked for weeks, scampering through alleys leaving a trail of dead rats and mice, evading all Sevrel and others attempts to locate him. When Sevrel finally found him, he was crouched in an alley, dismembering rats with his long blade like a beast possessed by a devil. Like he was in a drug-fuelled insanity, like he was within the bowels of frenzy. If it was not Sevrel who had found him, but one who had dragged him into that mania, a sovereign of cruelty would have emerged. Culler is as unhinged as he was calm, as unknowable as he is constant.
Sevrel looked once more at the man opposite of him, he was uniquely threatening with his stance. He was like a barman, welcoming and accepting, but with one hand underneath the counter, grasping at the trigger of his shotgun. His wrapped face conjoined both the murderous thug and polite clerk, with an air of mystery. Culler is obsessed with covering his face, spurred on by a housefire at the age of four. He never really had to cover his face. The burns had been healed properly by some passing clerics, only leaving a slight scar. However, he never got over the change to his face. He seems to see that which he bears as… alien. The last time I saw his face was when he rampaged. I’m kind of glad he covers his face now; the scars seem to have stuck with me when I saw them in that sort of light.
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“What gives that this guy needs to be hunted so bad anyways?” Sevrel noted. “From what I’ve seen he’s done better than most police commissioners for the good of the city. I get that he could be impacting business, and is a bit of a sleaze, but when those spore addled freaks from Bankside start working their way up into the city, it impacts a whole lot more than business. But apart from the Clyst addicts, I don’t understand what else he could be doing…”
“Those addicts are a god damned misery to look at. Frankly, we should be letting this guy live for the shit that he’s doing. While I can’t blame the freaks for what they’re doing, they’re a fucking eyesore.” Culler continued “This commissioner we’re hunting seems to have pissed someone off somewhere, whether it’s to do with Clyst or not is up for debate. But the only truth we can find is that he poses a threat to someone or somewhere.”
Sevrel nodded “Grace’s expertise isn’t so far from that, so its not too unexpected…” He let a long loose sigh “But I never thought her the type.”
“Either way its not my job to judge. Since we’ve been paid, his death warrant’s already out.”
“True, Tick’s time is nearing for the poor bastard.” A devious gin emerged on Sevrel’s face. The hunt began to blossom within them.
Moments stretched into minutes before their target finally appeared out of the large archway in the building adjacent to the alley.
Culler pulled his long curved bladed knife, spinning it between both of his hands nimbly. “Let’s move. You trail right behind him, Ill head to the house. We’ll spit this bundle of waste straight into deaths embrace.”
Culler bolted down into the alley, he was as swift as bullet, racing out of sight. Sevrel then exited the alley, crossing into the busy bustling street, in which a number of carts and horses paced up and down the wide street. Putting the hood of his dark coat up, Sevrel nimbly dashed across the street, evading horses and riders. He crossed the road in plain sight, but as if a shadow none paid him any mind. No horses buckled at his sprint across the road and no driver or pedestrian attempted a glance at him. The line that he followed across the road was thin and difficult to tread but gave him the complexion of the wind. Sevrel was treading an unseen line between comprehension and oblivion, a skill few gained and even fewer understood – Sevrel himself did not comprehend the skill he had. Within seconds he was on the other side of the street, his hood down and blending in as any other pedestrian would be.
He continued to trace the line which followed the lumbering man who was to end up this night as their victim.
There were an infinite number of the shaded scores which Sevrel could follow, all leading him in a different subtle direction, leading him to vastly different fates. Each step he took along the line, hundreds of other lines appeared. They all reached out, grasping his ankles overwhelming him with every decision. The lines never left his vision – never left him without a hint of doubt. Ever since Sevrel gained the ability to see these lines, his steps had been heavier, each one sunk like in mud. But once each step had been taken those previous opportunities slunk back into the dark, failing in their mission to tempt him, but succeeding in afflicting him with regret. He could look back all he wanted, but those shadowed hands filled with promise would never rise to greet him again. The world was painfully slow with this skill, a fact that he had grown used to know. But the time awarded to him to greet each of these shadowed seductresses, only fuelled his loathing. While the ability gave him options which would be utterly knowable to him, he still loathed it. He abhorred the idea that each choice he made was subject to debate, that there was no certainty in decision.
Sevrel narrowed the distance between him and the man, now only a few paces stood between them. The man was rotund, as Culler had described him, but his tall stature made him seem off balance and strangely angular at parts. While Sevrel was of average height, towered one to two and a half heads above him. Within the crowd of pedestrians, he was particularly easy to trail.
When coming up to a large junction, the road splitting into two diagonal directions, he crossed the road and turned into the mouth of a wide alley. Following through, now attempting to hide more stealthily than when he was disguised by the crowd, they both continued down several wide streets. With each alley and road, he discreetly followed the man down it only affirmed that the man was ensnared. He was walking straight the den of a den of crones, bewitched by their schemes.
Sevrel felt sorrow for the man, to have been captured so easily was pitiful. All because he was a gullible little child, ignorant of the target on his back, which they had just scored a bullseye on. However, the sorrow was brief. The man only reminded of himself, who had been fooled too often many years prior – nothing to this extent though.
Finally, the flea masquerading as a man managed to emerge before a non-detached building along a quiet street. He stared at his final resting place for a moment, then pounded upon the door.
Not wanting to watch the fool dance quicker towards execution, Sevrel went into a building opposite and turned away from his increasing pity, as he was to become the executioner.