Alaric sighed, staring at his cup of cheap mud-brown rum with contempt. It had been the most expensive drink offered in the tavern, yet the sting of shoddy rum burnt his tonsils. He'd never quite gotten accustomed and he doubted he ever would.

He shouldn't be surprised that such a small town lacked any refined beverages, considering that most people here were poor, and those who found fortune or sought it migrated to greener pastures. Truly, the town felt like a rotting corpse in itself. The streets reeked of animal waste (and likely some human), and the residents weren't much better off in their smell or manner. Their eyes were those of vultures; quick to search a man's soul for a sign of weakness as he passed and the weight of his pockets.

Alaric traced his breastplate beneath his tattered cape that he wore for appearances. An emblem on the breastplate was the source of his tracing and motivation alike. He often traced the design when he needed a reminder of why he'd traveled so far, and still had so much further to go to achieve his goals.

His city would be proud of his great sacrifices.

He'd lingered too long in the tavern. Eyes were starting to burn holes in his back and patrons sitting in crowded tables were getting antsy. They could sense he wasn't one of them - perhaps it was his too-perfect-posture, his perfect stubble beard, or simply the smell of him that was not vulture-like.

He didn't reek of desperation.

Alaric downed the sketchy contents of the cup with a forceful gulp then stood after slapping down his payment with a slight tip. He made his way toward the door, noting the way the entire room seemed to eye him as one. One particular patron started to rise from his seat as Alaric passed, bravely deciding to be the first to have a go.

Alaric lifted his ragged cape just enough so his massive greatsword was revealed. It caught the faint light the tavern's bulb provided and glinted slightly. Finally, Alaric locked eyes with the man, a dangerous expression decorating his face.

The would-be assailant hesitated, his deep caramel eyes holding Alaric's for only a few heartbeats longer before dropping to the floor as he retook his seat. Had he continued his approach, the entire tavern would have backed him up with their pack mentality, but a retreat had the opposite effect.

Once Alaric was outside he quickened his pace. Even together the patrons didn't pose much of a threat - but they were capable of taking up his time - time he didn't quite have at the moment. He'd splurged to acquire a particular parcel of information that had led him to this town and he knew he had a small window before his target would disappear once again.

After all, his target was no simple prey ready to run away from a hunter, no. He was after a legend.

And a dangerous one at that.

A contract killer whose reputation stretched across nations for his efficiency and skill. The story went he'd taken on a big job - one a sane person wouldn't dare because of the dangers, even upon completion - and it had led to a colossal price placed on his head. No one was sure if he'd completed the job or not, or even the exact details of this job, though most assumed he'd been tasked with killing someone of great rank - but what was sure is he'd gone into hiding with all the heat on him.

Alaric was past intrigued with this legend, he was enamored with it. If the legend held its weight, then he'd be a great asset to Alaric's plans and he was sure he could offer something that'd make the man perk up.

Alaric was accustomed to bustling cobblestone streets back in Heuldrik, one of the main cities in which he had been raised. However, in this miserable town, only dirt paths were available to be trodden on, and the few residents who walked the paths walked with slow, cautious steps, their eyes constantly scanning for trouble and prey alike. It wasn't surprising that merchants gave this town a wide berth.

However, Alaric's target frequented the town if his informant was to be believed and that's why he was willing to endure the lackluster town. He weaved through the few people populating each dirt path, wary even in his rush that he wasn't being followed or looked at too hard.

He made it to the shop without feeling watched and sat on one of the aged benches provided further down the path adjacent to the shop. Thankfully, except for unidentifiable filth, it was unoccupied and Alaric settled in for what he expected to be a long wait. Alaric found himself grateful for how uncomfortable the bench was, as it prevented any thoughts of fatigue overcoming him from straying into his head.

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About a half-hour later, Alaric finally saw someone that resembled what his informant described. He'd said that the man's robe frequently changed between visits, but one constant was black sandals joined by silver straps that made no sound when they graced the ground. In truth, the small figure caught Alaric's eye before he had the thought to match the description of sandals and soundless steps.

To put it simply, the figure would've stood out in a room full of the greatest ballerinas the nation of Kallvark had to offer. The practiced poise at which he moved with was ghostlike, and thanks to the extensive training Alaric had been subject to, he recognized the posture of someone who was ready to lash out at any second. Though his gait seemed carefree, this figure was aware of his surroundings and on high alert.

Alaric dared not risk anything more than a passing glance else he be deemed a threat. Satisfied that this figure oozing battle prowess in a village drastically lacking was his man, Alaric waited until his silent sandals disappeared around the curve at the end of the dirt path and counted eight seconds before taking a stroll after his mark.

The key to trailing an experienced killer who was often on the other side of the hunt was to never come off as a predator. One wary glance here, a fleeting glance there, and never establishing eye contact ensured that one may not detect a brave stare, and instead a stray, startled look.

Alaric employed this method here and although he wasn't sure he was the best at it, he was helped by the man's intense focus on what was in front of him and never directly looking around or backward - though Alaric suspected he was putting his peripheral vision to use with every person he passed.

His mark led him through scarcely populated dirt paths - which Alaric noticed with slight embarrassment, the vultures cast much more predatory gazes his way than his mark's. Eventually, his mark led him away from the houses and men reeking of desperation and into the forest and animals reeking considerably less of hidden motives. Here, his technique of the occasional casual glance was especially effective, considering there was so much wildlife scurrying away from the intruders.

Still, Alaric took the utmost caution not to venture too close to his mark. Thanks to his training, he knew exactly where to step with just a glance to avoid the snapping of twigs, the sludge of wet dirt, the clamor of dry leaves, or brushing against bushes. He startled more than a few rodents with his quiet approach. Yet, compared to his mark, he may as well have been playing a flute. If the figure ever ventured out of his sight there was no way to hear him, even when the birds decided to halt their genial singing.

After about ten minutes, the target's path gave way to one leading out of the forest and up the face of a mountain. The rocky terrain slowed Alaric down more, else he risked kicking rocks and alerting his mark that he was above someone on a lower trail. Mercilessly, his mark did not have the same issue and was soon out of sight.

Alaric could only hope that the man's destination wasn't far away and he hadn't come all this way for naught. He kept his robe lifted ever-so-slightly so he could draw his sword, in case he had been discovered and his mark had an ambush planned on the narrow path that seemed to wind upwards forever. Alaric wasn't scared of heights but fighting on such a narrow path a couple hundred feet in the air was bound to give any man butterflies.

Not the good kind.

Fortunately, no such ambush awaited. The cliff trail continued up until a cave that appeared darker than a moonless December night. There was a trail which continued upward, past the cave's entrance but instinct told Alaric that the man he sought was holed up in there. Instinct or the fact that if he'd continued up, there would likely be no catching him at this point.

He entered the cave, an involuntary chill invading his spine at the crisp cold that enveloped him on entry, and the creepiness of it all. He wondered if he should try calling out to his mark, to avoid startling him and initiating a fight. After all, what he was after was a discussion that would hopefully end with the acceptance of his fair proposition.

He'd taken a few steps inside when he heard the whisper of death on the still air and pivoted, swinging his great sword as he turned to his back with tremendous force. He felt the parry of a small blade with impressive strength behind it, skewering a bit of his momentum before slipping under his sizeable sword. Alaric hopped backward, fearful of another attack.

He'd swung to kill out of instinct and a part of him was glad the man had been skilled enough to avoid it, while a much bigger part of him was impressed he'd done it with just a dagger. What he feared the most though, was the lack of bloodlust when the man had attacked.

He'd been just like...a ghost.

"You should be careful with that thing." The monotone voice had come from behind Alaric and he whirled once again, his heart doing acrobatics inside his chest. He saw only darkness and clutched his sword close to him, preparing himself to fend off an attack from any direction.

The sound of a match being lit penetrated the taut silence and a moment later, a fire lit a wall torch, illuminating the room enough for Alaric to see his mark perched on a ledge next to the wall torch.

His first thought was how'd he get up there so quickly, but he reared back in shock when he saw the face of the man who'd just parried his killing strike with just a dagger.

Because it was not the face of a man, but a teenager.