The wars of Darkness and Light had raged eternal, thousands of years of bloodshed and conflict and chaos and strife. The Six Lands bore the brunt of the conflict. Darkness might be defeated, but only to resurge with the rise of a new evil. Heroes fought back and struggled to maintain their gains of peace and prosperity.
A small group of heroes, of different skills yet united in a common cause, drove back the evil with the help of their allies and armies. And then further-- the powerful magics of the last High Elf, Mizzamir, were called into play to seal off the world from Evil, once and for all.
As Evil drained from the world, more heroes, young and strong, came forth to battle with the remnants. One by one the inhuman monsters fell to the swords of Light, and the Darkness was driven ever further towards extinction. Dungeons gaped empty and bandits became tour guides. In cities, crime decreased as people became kinder and nicer, and a frown would get you a funny look. It was peaceful. It was safe. It was---
"BORING!"
Sam thumped down into a chair and looked around the once-teeming hall of the Assassin's Guild. The bottle in his grasp was empty, but he was reluctant to let it go. Just like this place.
The others had all left. Some, giving up the Guild, accepting the Pardon, and going off to civilian lives with every expression of happy-ever-after, one by one.
Or those who went out on missions-- (increasingly rare as contracts were these days, any job was worth taking)-- and never returned.
The Cloak And Dagger Theater, their 'cover', hadn't been doing well either. The traditional plays of tragedy, drama, betrayal and revenge were unappealing to modern audiences. The suggestion to switch to musicals had led to several deaths. And now, not enough of them were left to fill the roles and run the stage.
The building was seized by the city for back taxes, and they planned to turn it into a school for young ladies. The Guildmaster, Fradagar, and his protege' Sam, had been among the last holdouts-
- and now Fradagar was gone, and Sam found himself the last remaining Assassin in, probably, the World, but certainly the Six Lands.
A man whose mixed-Race blood showed in his slightly pointed ears, young enough to rebel although he was old enough to know better, he was stubbornly still wearing his traditional black clothing, even though it was highly unfashionable these days. The leather and cloth didn't afford much protection, but it concealed any number of small lethal objects, and still billowed menacingly as he got to his feet and paced silently around the room again. His hair was slicked and black as well, his eyes a weary hazel.
Then-- his hackles twinged, and he spun around. Rogues in general have a trap sense, but assassins also get twitchy when something alive is close by. He lunged into the shadows and grabbed-- felt something brush his fingertips as it dodged--and he threw the bottle into the darkness. There was a crash, and a yelp.
"Ow! Bloody sodding biscuits, Sammy, that were me noggin! Is there any way to treat an old friend?" The aggrieved voice was familiar, especially the way that it always seemed to be smirking, even when you couldn't see its owner.
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Who was visible now as he stepped into the dim lantern light, shaking bits of broken glass out of his flat leather cap and graying curls of hair.
Arcie was one of the Kin; at first glance you might mistake him for a Human-Race child, albeit a rather pudgy one. But his face had the lines from a life of laughter at everyone else's expense, and his clothing was that of the professional and successful rogue. Leather and cloth in layers that looked respectable in the light and broke up his outline in the shadows, while also providing far more pockets than anyone really needs.
"I'll forgive ye, this time," Arcie added, settling his cap back on and smirking, "Given yer recent loss an' all that there." He gave Sam a punch in the knee, in a friendly gesture that nevertheless made Sam hop back warily.
"Should have thrown a dagger," Sam groaned, leaning against the wall. "The hells are you doing here, Arcie?"
"Gloatin', mostly," Arcie said cheerfully enough, but he gave a rueful sigh. "An' I dinna have aught else tae do t'day anywhoos."
"So the Thieves lasted, what, two months longer than the Assassins? I'm surprised, I thought you lot of rabble-rats could survive anything, like cockroaches." Sam glowered.
"Even cockroaches hide when you turn on the light, and there's a lot of light about these days," Arcie said. "Youngfolks nowadays, they can adapt, but old farts like myself and puffed-up jacks like yourself just get more ornery." He took a small knurled pipe from a hidden pocket and started to clean it with one of Sam's blowgun needles.
"You're right about the light, anyway. Or Light, or however you're supposed to say it," Sam agreed, looking haunted and hunted as it seemed even the shadows of the Guild were pulling away around him, leaving him exposed and alone. Except for Arcie, of course.
Assassins and Thieves had never really gotten along; they shared many skills, but the Assassins had prestige and rarity; very few were born with the berserker-blood that drove them to kill. But anyone could be a thief, and often was. Not many became as old as Arcie while doing so.
They'd met when their mutual professions crossed paths in the middle of a heist/hit, and had been of some help to one another.* They wouldn't call themselves friends, but acquaintances, with some caveats, sure. Sam found Arcie a useful resource when too many locks stood between him and his target, and Arcie had learned that following in Sam's wake tended to provide a lot of shiny loot that could be picked up from the bodies along the way. It was still an embarrassment to the assassin, which only pleased Arcie more.
"Reckon we're the last ones?" Arcie tried to keep his tone casual, but there was a forlorn echo to it.
"Last what?" Sam pulled his cloak around himself.
"Bad guy types," Arcie said. "Ye ken. All the others gone, or took the Pardon, and off livin' normal, respectable lives." Arcie's nose wrinkled. "Such a glut of professional locksmiths these days, and no market for locks anyway."
"What am I supposed to do? I was raised by the Guild! I don't have any other skills! Assassination is all I know! And maybe some acting," Sam added, modestly. His performance as Oswald The Mad Doomed Prince had gotten very good reviews, some years back. "They say if you take the Pardon you get retraining, but dammit, I don't want to be something else. This is who I am!"
"Donged right!" Arcie gave him an encouraging nod. "Yer the terror in the shadows and such, the Adder!"
"Viper," corrected Sam, as his hands dropped to the matched daggers on his belt, curved like a snake's fangs. But his bravado was sludging down into gloom as the bottle's contents began to break down inside him, threatening to pull him along with them. "Let's get out of here. I need a drink."
"Oh, there's a grand idea," Arcie scoffed, but the malicious grin returned. "This I'd like tae see. An' ye can buy me a drink tae makeup for the dent on my loaf."
The Frothing Otter tavern glowed invitingly in the pale dusk as the shadowy figures made their way towards it.
*(See Footnote: The Party Crashers)