Late summer, 123PW
It was the wrong time of year to be in Qadis. The summer heat and humidity seemed to bring out the essential odour of the lower classes. For Diego, acting as a mercantile attaché to a small trading concern loosely allied to Morua, it was adding inconvenience to insult. He suspected that Sarita wanted him kept busy and away from the heart of Moruan politics as much as possible. She hid it well, but he nonetheless was certain she resented just how closely he and the former spymistress Eluira had worked together. There had been an intimacy in that partnership which, frankly, the dour Sarita would never achieve.
But with Eluira showing signs of tugging at her webs of intrigue, Diego found himself in Qadis, pretending to be something which was but a single step above a broker's clerk, while the group he babysat sniffed out the money trails of a particular mercantile company based in Keltaris. And so his days had passed drearily until he received a ciphered missive from Salvador Agustin De Morua El Rojas.
It was not unprecedented for Salvador to request Diego aid him in his own ongoing political and economic machinations on behalf of Morua. And Diego welcomed the opportunity for something more suited to his talents. House Belleza, it had been discovered, was in trade negotiations with the Kayi merchant brotherhood out of Samar, trying to corner a large part of the Samarian textiles market. Morua, who had but moderate alliances in Samar at the best of times, would not be able to compete if Belleza's talks were successful. Salvador advised that the Kayi, given their strong cultural emphasis on the protocols of good hospitality, would not look kindly upon an ally who couldn't protect its guests. So long as Morua was not directly implicated.
---
A week later, in the dark hours of the morning when a half-moon shed its wan light across the Bellezan guest estate, Diego was crouched in the outer garden near a corner of the main building. The sounds of revelry had faded earlier, and the Moruan remover of obstacles had scaled the wall and carefully observed the guard patterns. He had discovered that there was no real pattern. The main entrance was guarded by two men, and both looked bored. One had even removed his chainmail coat.
Diego waited until neither was looking in his general direction, then bounced a rock down the side path of the house. The sound echoed in the small hours of the morning, and the bored guards were inclined to treat it with all the attention to detail such a break from monotony warranted. That is to say: one guard whispered to his companion then, with hand on sword hilt, wandered over to investigate the sound.
The cover provided by the garden let Diego slowly shift his location to be out of sight of the main entrance, and withdrew a wire garotte from his sleeve. Garotting a man wasn't just about strangling them. No, that kind of thinking was how amateurs got themselves into strife. Rather, it was about the science of leverage and distribution of weight, as applied with the intention of simultaneously preventing a man from alerting his companions to his plight.
The mail-clad guard passed by and Diego, through the casual expedient of standing up and taking several swift and near-silent steps forward, cast the garotte around the guard's throat before the guard could react. An expert twist of the handles, accompanied by a small stamping kick to the back of the guard's knee, brought the hapless man's own weight to bear against the tight wire. Unable to breathe, let alone speak, the guard clutched at his throat. Shortly afterwards, Diego manhandled the guard's corpse into the garden, then whispered hoarsely from the corner "I think I've found something".
The second guard was greeted by Diego who, with a graceful sidestep placed a gloved hand over the guard's mouth and in two swift motions slid a long stiletto up at an angle into the bottom of each of the man's lungs. The guard gasped for air, but each drawn breath found no purchase thanks to the punctured organs. As the guard tried to come to grips with his assailant, Diego moved with him, a deadly dance as the graceful assassin expertly shifted the guard's weight. The man died in Diego's arms, gasping for air which couldn't be retained in his ruined and blood-filled lungs.
The two guards were laid to rest under the cover of shrubberies, and Diego navigated the shadows of the building to find a likely entrance point.
The Sweetest Poison
The Sweetest Poison
Last edited by Diego on Thu Sep 03, 2015 9:50 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Re: The Sweetest Poison
The days passed much the same, streaming loops of fading footsteps. Watching, they overlapped, each new set grinding into the dust of its forebears, adding weight to wood and stone and tile that would eventually impress a whisper upon the very dirt. Dirt that held memory, but that lost interest quickly.
Fidget knew. She had whispered cotton-soft secrets into it, and had watched them fade away. It was rocksense to care little for things that happened same, until they were big enough to make things change.
She drifted into and around the lost memories of movement and intention, a formless shadow behind the walls and furniture. She was no more than an impression, sinking into the teasing textures that filled the rooms.
Ranger had made an impression into her flesh. Ranger had made sure it would not fade. Ranger would not allow her to collect feelings, to be anything more than a gust of air. She watched, and listened, but there would not be anything of her left behind.
"Not even to wind?" she'd asked, using the rapid hand gestures Asmodeus had taught her.
Ranger had glared at her, and pushed the instructions home deeper.
Not even to wind.
But it was wind that came to her, gliding silky sparking silver against her skin, spreading secrets into her nose and ears. It was wind she whispered back to, feet sliding silently against the floor, skin coated in shadows and the hides of creatures that had once lived.
A voice. A new voice. A new velvet-rough voice almost-same to another velvet-rough voice she had heard over, and over, and over. It had been a fibrous voice, vibrating prickly sweet over her skin. It had left memories in her, ones that she had explored when she was alone with her small collection of feathers and needles and the cloak.
But this was not that voice. It scurried in between the hairs on her arms, digging little thorns into the deep creases skin made.
It was an impression.
A new memory.
Ranger would want to hearseefeel it, or else Ranger would take her things away again, and Asmodeus would be very, very permanent sharp if she touched Ranger's food again in order to get them back.
Hidden perched in a circular window cloaked with cloth, she saw the gathering violet threads, coiling loose and eager at the throats of the treadmakers.
A new treadmaker caught her eyes, moving with the swirling air, silentsoft. One who wished to be a shadow, like her. One who did not take the bright things that belonged to it, but left behind the husks. Careless strewn. But they were dust now, and would be swallowed by the dirt.
She let the whispering air take her silvering attention, let it point her towards the new shadow. She would become the shadow's phantom, and the threads he sewed into the fading footsteps she would carry out with her.
Fidget knew. She had whispered cotton-soft secrets into it, and had watched them fade away. It was rocksense to care little for things that happened same, until they were big enough to make things change.
She drifted into and around the lost memories of movement and intention, a formless shadow behind the walls and furniture. She was no more than an impression, sinking into the teasing textures that filled the rooms.
Ranger had made an impression into her flesh. Ranger had made sure it would not fade. Ranger would not allow her to collect feelings, to be anything more than a gust of air. She watched, and listened, but there would not be anything of her left behind.
"Not even to wind?" she'd asked, using the rapid hand gestures Asmodeus had taught her.
Ranger had glared at her, and pushed the instructions home deeper.
Not even to wind.
But it was wind that came to her, gliding silky sparking silver against her skin, spreading secrets into her nose and ears. It was wind she whispered back to, feet sliding silently against the floor, skin coated in shadows and the hides of creatures that had once lived.
A voice. A new voice. A new velvet-rough voice almost-same to another velvet-rough voice she had heard over, and over, and over. It had been a fibrous voice, vibrating prickly sweet over her skin. It had left memories in her, ones that she had explored when she was alone with her small collection of feathers and needles and the cloak.
But this was not that voice. It scurried in between the hairs on her arms, digging little thorns into the deep creases skin made.
It was an impression.
A new memory.
Ranger would want to hearseefeel it, or else Ranger would take her things away again, and Asmodeus would be very, very permanent sharp if she touched Ranger's food again in order to get them back.
Hidden perched in a circular window cloaked with cloth, she saw the gathering violet threads, coiling loose and eager at the throats of the treadmakers.
A new treadmaker caught her eyes, moving with the swirling air, silentsoft. One who wished to be a shadow, like her. One who did not take the bright things that belonged to it, but left behind the husks. Careless strewn. But they were dust now, and would be swallowed by the dirt.
She let the whispering air take her silvering attention, let it point her towards the new shadow. She would become the shadow's phantom, and the threads he sewed into the fading footsteps she would carry out with her.
Re: The Sweetest Poison
It took Diego only a moment to decide that, on this occasion, boldness was for the best. The front entrance was devoid of its guardsmen, and the dim candle-lit foyer would not be attended in expectation of visitors. Diego carefully opened the door and slipped inside.
If the Bellezans could be given credit for anything, it was for supplying their guest estates with affluent lodgings. The estate was built in the new Romanesque style, the visual aesthetic heavily featuring decorative pillars, sculptures, and bas reliefs. It was very expensive, very stylish according to current trends, and in Diego's opinion a gaudy mockery of the more restrained architecture he enjoyed. Although, from a purely business perspective, the prevalence of pillars and balconies and random statues did make it much easier to sneak through such estates.
Matters went quite smoothly at first, almost disappointingly so. The dining hall held one man who had evidently drunk himself into a happy stupor. A quiet blade ensured he wouldn't wake up. Through the dining hall was a sitting room where evidently some of the residents had retired for a few rounds of La Mano Conquista. Diego cautiously passed through to enter the living area where a slight clink of glass caused him to cease his breath. Easing past a bookshelf, he saw a servant tidying glassware. Rather than risk exposure so early, Diego slipped around to the staircase to where the bedrooms should be.
As with everything, there was a science to killing people in their sleep. The death had to be instant and silent, lest the last moments of the victim's life somehow give warning to those nearby. Many an amateur had been undone when they simply stabbed a sleeping man without thought for how or where, only to find the near-fatal wound awoke their victim to a loud - albeit brief - state of panic.
Options for an optimal method of despatch, Diego knew, varied depending on circumstance and the equipment to hand. Diego, for instance, needed this all done quickly with minimal motion, and had blades and poison as his tools of choice. He was lucky with the first three bedrooms: the summer humidity had prompted the men to sleep naked, and a confident thrust of stiletto through their hearts let the assassin move through with the efficiency of a butler dropping off the morning meal.
The servant's quarters required a bit more thought. Diego knew at least one was awake, and might return at any time, which could complicate matters if he simply cut their throats. Additionally, the servants slept in a communal bedroom on tiered beds, making the dagger a poor choice from a practical viewpoint. Diego carefully removed a small steel flask and cloth from a pocket and decanted some of the pungent sedative onto the fabric. It took little time to ensure that each servant would sleep well through the night and most of the following day if smelling salts weren't brought to bear on their senses.
Diego would have been mostly content if the rest of the night passed with such a smooth transition between victims. Alas, few things in life ever goes according to plan. Diego had located his primary target and, as the Kayi merchant was in bed fully clothed despite the heat, had applied the drugged cloth to his nose to ensure he could at least bare the man's chest for ease of his dagger's access.
What Diego had not planned for was just how much Belleza valued the potential contracts with the Kayi emissary. There are numerous expensive enchantments available to the wealthy and paranoid customer. One such precaution had commenced declaring, in an ethereal voice which resonated through the estate, "Poison in the air. Protect the Master." Diego cursed under his breath, tore open the man's robes, and thrust his dagger through the man's heart in the vain hope it would cease the enchantment. "The Master has been slain. Avenge the Master." Well, so much for a quiet night.
Magic was the greatest agent of chaos in the path of any man working in Diego's niche profession. Largely undetectable, often unpredictable, it could turn a smooth job into a hellish mess of improvisation. The trick was to avoid panic and carefully evaluate the situation. Diego exited the bedroom onto the external bedroom balcony, jumped lightly to grab the ledge of the third floor balcony, and pulled himself to the flat rooftop to get a better idea of his situation.
The sound of people getting hurriedly dressed and armed echoed through the central courtyard. Diego picked his way around to where the stairs from the second floor gave access to the roof. The estate roof was almost a garden in its own right, set up to entertain guests who wanted to enjoy the sun, fresh air, and a decent view of the surrounding areas.
What Diego needed was a way to get them where they'd need to rely on anything that wasn't a ranged weapon. The rooftop was a death trap if he stayed there too long. Instead, he waited just long enough for the inevitable archer coming up the stairs - the entire point of the building's open planning was to allow for archers on the roof if the estate was attacked. Diego did not trust to luck that he'd killed off all the archers, and he was not disappointed. The archer was cautious, holding a falchion defensively alongside his bow, but not cautious enough to avoid the throwing knife which sprouted in his throat. Diego stepped in to plunge his stiletto in the dying man's heart, swiftly retrieved the throwing knife, then listened carefully. He could hear footsteps, but not on the stairs. Diego was not much use with a bow, so he cut the archer's bowstrings, and took the falchion for his own use.
The falchion was not an elegant weapon, but it would do until he could appropriate something more useful to the task at hand. After all, the stiletto alone would only do him so much good in his current circumstances. Diego descended the stairs softly, making his quiet way to the second floor. The estate was turning into a hive of panicked shouting as evidence of Diego's handiwork was discovered on both floors. Lanterns and candles were hurriedly lit. If he'd been trying to escape, Diego noted, he'd have had a hard time of it. As it was, he had other plans.
The sound of a running man came along the corridor near the steps. Diego whispered hoarsely "Help me, he's trapped up on the roof!" The man who came round the corner, expecting an ally, found a stiletto planted through his eye socket while Diego's falchion kept the man's own blade from accidentally impaling the assassin. Ah, now that was much better: the man had been carrying a short military espada. Diego left the falchion with the dead man, then projected his voice across the courtyard, exclaiming "He's on the roof! Stop him!" Diego ducked into another bedroom, this one evidently recently vacated by one of the estate.
It would not be long before they calmed down enough to be more methodical in their search, Diego knew, at which point his game of diversions and trickery would serve no further purpose. But for now it helped to gain a sense of where the remaining men were located. Most seemed to be on the opposite side of the courtyard, consolidating their numbers, but more footsteps alerted Diego to another man cautiously making his approach past Diego's location. This one had the foresight to bring a buckler and falchion, but neither helped him with the throwing knife embedded in his neck. Unfortunately, the man did not die quietly, and shrieked up until the moment Diego ran him through.
The assassin collected the buckler and sighed. The opportunity for hit and run tactics was rapidly passing him by. He'd need to engage them where he'd have an advantage, but where archers would find it hard to intervene if any remained. The rooms were too cluttered for him to manoeuvre effectively, which left the courtyard and its plethora of pillars, plants, and statues. Diego casually walked along the second floor's inner balcony, waving to the men gathered near the steps to the roof. He counted five, which was something of a relief. One of them called out "You idiot, he's on the roof, hurry over here!", but another one, clearly possessed of better eyesight, shouted "He isn't one of ours! Get him!"
Diego grinned and waved again, then ducked inside the servants quarters. The wakeful servant from earlier was present, trying to shake his fellow servants back to consciousness. Diego pounded him at the base of the skull with his buckler, dropping him like a sack of parsnips, then continued on his way to the ground level. The men of the estate were like a hornets' nest after a good poking with a long stick. They were loud, full of rage and very inventive death threats, and in their challenges to the intruder succeeded only in permitting Diego a constant sense of where most of them were.
The assassin slipped into the courtyard, and worked his way around the edges to where the other set of stairs were. Loud footsteps from multiple men warned him that an attempt to greet them at the threshold could spell disaster. Instead, he took up position behind a pillar, and set his buckler aside a moment to let a throwing knife give his greetings. It wasn't the best of greetings. In the split second he had, he couldn't gauge well enough where to aim, and the knife thudded into the first man's left shoulder - a nasty wound to be sure, but neither fatal nor immediately incapacitating.
Diego swaggered from behind the pillar, sword and buckler lounging in his grip "Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you had a good night's sleep. Do you feel up to a little morning exercise?" The wounded man hissed "Be careful, try to surround him." A dark-skinned man spat in response, drew a scimitar from its sheath and advanced swiftly on Diego, his steel-lined sheath held in his offhand "He killed my client, he is mine."
There was no time for pleasantries. The night air rang as scimitar and buckler clashed, espada and sheath clanked, and the two swordsmen began their deadly dance. Diego was not unfamiliar with the scimitar, his time spent in Tamazgha in the past had given him cause to clash blades with the versatile weapon. It was best used in close, where it could cut to best effect, but the same could be said of sword and buckler. Had he been armed with rapier and dagger, Diego would have felt a lot less comfortable. The scimitar glided in, the buckler deflected it, the espada flashed out to be diverted by the scimitar's sheathe, and so the dance steps went.
The dark skinned bodyguard's attention was solely on Diego, but Diego had his eye on more than just his opponent. Considerations of terrain and obstacles were just as important as finesse of bladework. Diego feinted a slash, let the bodyguard catch it with the back of his blade, then punched his buckler into the path of the scimitar's hilt, knocking it back towards its' wielder as the assassin stepped in. The bodyguard stepped back out of range of Diego's follow up, and in so doing stepped into the path of one of the other guards. The bodyguard was quick to duck and leap to the side to gain distance - his companion not so fortunate as Diego stepped to the outside and backhanded a slash, the sword tip tracing a deadly line across the second man's throat. Diego stepped behind a pillar as he taunted "Ah, ah! Clumsy! Shall we try that again?"
The bodyguard, enraged to a cold and calculated focus, hissed at the others "Get in my way and you die. Leave this to me." The wounded man shrugged and gestured to his remaining two companions, whispering to them as the bodyguard advanced on Diego's position. The assassin stepped out, grinned, and the dance resumed. The bodyguard advanced relentlessly, striking out with both scimitar and sheath to keep Diego's blade occupied while he tried to close the distance. And as the exchange grew more intense, Diego began to use the traditional science of Moruan fence, and began to walk the circle.
Each flash of scimitar was a vector, and with each slight dancing step Diego shifted himself from the trajectory of the attack, deflecting further with espada or buckler, drawing the bodyguard into his rhythm. The more the man committed to his assault, the more Diego drew him into that pattern, and then the dance was over. Instead of avoiding the trajectory, Diego met it with his buckler, deflecting the blade to where his own could further guide it out of position. And then Diego's buckler crashed into the man's face once, twice, thrice as his own blade kept the scimitar entangled out to the side and in the path of the man's sheath. As the bodyguard tried to escape, he found himself where Diego had wanted him: with his back to the fountain in the centre of the courtyard.
Suddenly, the buckler struck the scimitar where Diego's sword had been, and Diego stepped in close with espada edge pressed against the bodyguard's throat. He drew the blade in a sharp motion as he stepped back to avoid getting blood on his clothes, buckler still ready to receive any desperate final slash. But the cut was deep, and Diego was given the opportunity to deliver a short thrust to the gurgling man's heart to end things. But he did not have a moment to enjoy the victory.
The wounded man had removed the throwing knife from his shoulder, and his companion hurled it at Diego whose buckler flashed to intercept it. As the blade clanged off to clatter near a pillar, Diego found himself facing three opponents, each armed with typical Corezan espadas. The dance began again in earnest.
The wounded man's companions pressed the attack, taking turns to lash out at Diego, trying to find an opening. The assassin went on the defensive, dancing back and to the side of a pillar, then back and to the side of a statue, forcing them into positions where only one could attack at a time while Diego gauged their ability to coordinate their attacks. The wounded man, sensing something amiss, joined the fray to try and limit Diego's movements.
Diego had learned, long ago, that three unarmed men fighting one unarmed man was a much more dangerous prospect than three armed men fighting one armed man. Unless they had trained to work in collaboration, swordsmen would easily get in the way of each other, entangling lines of engagement and even their blades. And now Diego had gained a sense of the courtyard's terrain. An espada lashed out at him, and he punched it with his buckler's edge, pushing it into a statue as he stomped a kick into the attacking swordsman's knee. The second man, finding his companion stumbling into his path, was unable to reach Diego with his weapon, and Diego stepped around the pillar to lightly slash the wrist of the wounded man's sword arm,
The assassin retreated again, circling back into the courtyard and parrying the next attack with his own blade, pushing the espada into the path of a statue as he retreated around it and shoved his shoulder against stone to topple the statue in their path. One leaped back, one hopped to the side - and it was the latter who Diego targeted with a crisp lunge. Several inches of steel through the heart later, Diego found himself facing two men - one badly injured. A quick clash of buckler and slash of espada saw the last armed man drop dead, and a throwing knife found the neck of the wounded man as he tried to escape.
Diego drew a deep breath of the air, tinged with the scent of spilled blood, and smiled. It was a beautiful night.
The moment was spoiled somewhat by the damned enchantment continuing to repeat itself over and over: "The Master has been slain. Avenge the Master."
If the Bellezans could be given credit for anything, it was for supplying their guest estates with affluent lodgings. The estate was built in the new Romanesque style, the visual aesthetic heavily featuring decorative pillars, sculptures, and bas reliefs. It was very expensive, very stylish according to current trends, and in Diego's opinion a gaudy mockery of the more restrained architecture he enjoyed. Although, from a purely business perspective, the prevalence of pillars and balconies and random statues did make it much easier to sneak through such estates.
Matters went quite smoothly at first, almost disappointingly so. The dining hall held one man who had evidently drunk himself into a happy stupor. A quiet blade ensured he wouldn't wake up. Through the dining hall was a sitting room where evidently some of the residents had retired for a few rounds of La Mano Conquista. Diego cautiously passed through to enter the living area where a slight clink of glass caused him to cease his breath. Easing past a bookshelf, he saw a servant tidying glassware. Rather than risk exposure so early, Diego slipped around to the staircase to where the bedrooms should be.
As with everything, there was a science to killing people in their sleep. The death had to be instant and silent, lest the last moments of the victim's life somehow give warning to those nearby. Many an amateur had been undone when they simply stabbed a sleeping man without thought for how or where, only to find the near-fatal wound awoke their victim to a loud - albeit brief - state of panic.
Options for an optimal method of despatch, Diego knew, varied depending on circumstance and the equipment to hand. Diego, for instance, needed this all done quickly with minimal motion, and had blades and poison as his tools of choice. He was lucky with the first three bedrooms: the summer humidity had prompted the men to sleep naked, and a confident thrust of stiletto through their hearts let the assassin move through with the efficiency of a butler dropping off the morning meal.
The servant's quarters required a bit more thought. Diego knew at least one was awake, and might return at any time, which could complicate matters if he simply cut their throats. Additionally, the servants slept in a communal bedroom on tiered beds, making the dagger a poor choice from a practical viewpoint. Diego carefully removed a small steel flask and cloth from a pocket and decanted some of the pungent sedative onto the fabric. It took little time to ensure that each servant would sleep well through the night and most of the following day if smelling salts weren't brought to bear on their senses.
Diego would have been mostly content if the rest of the night passed with such a smooth transition between victims. Alas, few things in life ever goes according to plan. Diego had located his primary target and, as the Kayi merchant was in bed fully clothed despite the heat, had applied the drugged cloth to his nose to ensure he could at least bare the man's chest for ease of his dagger's access.
What Diego had not planned for was just how much Belleza valued the potential contracts with the Kayi emissary. There are numerous expensive enchantments available to the wealthy and paranoid customer. One such precaution had commenced declaring, in an ethereal voice which resonated through the estate, "Poison in the air. Protect the Master." Diego cursed under his breath, tore open the man's robes, and thrust his dagger through the man's heart in the vain hope it would cease the enchantment. "The Master has been slain. Avenge the Master." Well, so much for a quiet night.
Magic was the greatest agent of chaos in the path of any man working in Diego's niche profession. Largely undetectable, often unpredictable, it could turn a smooth job into a hellish mess of improvisation. The trick was to avoid panic and carefully evaluate the situation. Diego exited the bedroom onto the external bedroom balcony, jumped lightly to grab the ledge of the third floor balcony, and pulled himself to the flat rooftop to get a better idea of his situation.
The sound of people getting hurriedly dressed and armed echoed through the central courtyard. Diego picked his way around to where the stairs from the second floor gave access to the roof. The estate roof was almost a garden in its own right, set up to entertain guests who wanted to enjoy the sun, fresh air, and a decent view of the surrounding areas.
What Diego needed was a way to get them where they'd need to rely on anything that wasn't a ranged weapon. The rooftop was a death trap if he stayed there too long. Instead, he waited just long enough for the inevitable archer coming up the stairs - the entire point of the building's open planning was to allow for archers on the roof if the estate was attacked. Diego did not trust to luck that he'd killed off all the archers, and he was not disappointed. The archer was cautious, holding a falchion defensively alongside his bow, but not cautious enough to avoid the throwing knife which sprouted in his throat. Diego stepped in to plunge his stiletto in the dying man's heart, swiftly retrieved the throwing knife, then listened carefully. He could hear footsteps, but not on the stairs. Diego was not much use with a bow, so he cut the archer's bowstrings, and took the falchion for his own use.
The falchion was not an elegant weapon, but it would do until he could appropriate something more useful to the task at hand. After all, the stiletto alone would only do him so much good in his current circumstances. Diego descended the stairs softly, making his quiet way to the second floor. The estate was turning into a hive of panicked shouting as evidence of Diego's handiwork was discovered on both floors. Lanterns and candles were hurriedly lit. If he'd been trying to escape, Diego noted, he'd have had a hard time of it. As it was, he had other plans.
The sound of a running man came along the corridor near the steps. Diego whispered hoarsely "Help me, he's trapped up on the roof!" The man who came round the corner, expecting an ally, found a stiletto planted through his eye socket while Diego's falchion kept the man's own blade from accidentally impaling the assassin. Ah, now that was much better: the man had been carrying a short military espada. Diego left the falchion with the dead man, then projected his voice across the courtyard, exclaiming "He's on the roof! Stop him!" Diego ducked into another bedroom, this one evidently recently vacated by one of the estate.
It would not be long before they calmed down enough to be more methodical in their search, Diego knew, at which point his game of diversions and trickery would serve no further purpose. But for now it helped to gain a sense of where the remaining men were located. Most seemed to be on the opposite side of the courtyard, consolidating their numbers, but more footsteps alerted Diego to another man cautiously making his approach past Diego's location. This one had the foresight to bring a buckler and falchion, but neither helped him with the throwing knife embedded in his neck. Unfortunately, the man did not die quietly, and shrieked up until the moment Diego ran him through.
The assassin collected the buckler and sighed. The opportunity for hit and run tactics was rapidly passing him by. He'd need to engage them where he'd have an advantage, but where archers would find it hard to intervene if any remained. The rooms were too cluttered for him to manoeuvre effectively, which left the courtyard and its plethora of pillars, plants, and statues. Diego casually walked along the second floor's inner balcony, waving to the men gathered near the steps to the roof. He counted five, which was something of a relief. One of them called out "You idiot, he's on the roof, hurry over here!", but another one, clearly possessed of better eyesight, shouted "He isn't one of ours! Get him!"
Diego grinned and waved again, then ducked inside the servants quarters. The wakeful servant from earlier was present, trying to shake his fellow servants back to consciousness. Diego pounded him at the base of the skull with his buckler, dropping him like a sack of parsnips, then continued on his way to the ground level. The men of the estate were like a hornets' nest after a good poking with a long stick. They were loud, full of rage and very inventive death threats, and in their challenges to the intruder succeeded only in permitting Diego a constant sense of where most of them were.
The assassin slipped into the courtyard, and worked his way around the edges to where the other set of stairs were. Loud footsteps from multiple men warned him that an attempt to greet them at the threshold could spell disaster. Instead, he took up position behind a pillar, and set his buckler aside a moment to let a throwing knife give his greetings. It wasn't the best of greetings. In the split second he had, he couldn't gauge well enough where to aim, and the knife thudded into the first man's left shoulder - a nasty wound to be sure, but neither fatal nor immediately incapacitating.
Diego swaggered from behind the pillar, sword and buckler lounging in his grip "Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you had a good night's sleep. Do you feel up to a little morning exercise?" The wounded man hissed "Be careful, try to surround him." A dark-skinned man spat in response, drew a scimitar from its sheath and advanced swiftly on Diego, his steel-lined sheath held in his offhand "He killed my client, he is mine."
There was no time for pleasantries. The night air rang as scimitar and buckler clashed, espada and sheath clanked, and the two swordsmen began their deadly dance. Diego was not unfamiliar with the scimitar, his time spent in Tamazgha in the past had given him cause to clash blades with the versatile weapon. It was best used in close, where it could cut to best effect, but the same could be said of sword and buckler. Had he been armed with rapier and dagger, Diego would have felt a lot less comfortable. The scimitar glided in, the buckler deflected it, the espada flashed out to be diverted by the scimitar's sheathe, and so the dance steps went.
The dark skinned bodyguard's attention was solely on Diego, but Diego had his eye on more than just his opponent. Considerations of terrain and obstacles were just as important as finesse of bladework. Diego feinted a slash, let the bodyguard catch it with the back of his blade, then punched his buckler into the path of the scimitar's hilt, knocking it back towards its' wielder as the assassin stepped in. The bodyguard stepped back out of range of Diego's follow up, and in so doing stepped into the path of one of the other guards. The bodyguard was quick to duck and leap to the side to gain distance - his companion not so fortunate as Diego stepped to the outside and backhanded a slash, the sword tip tracing a deadly line across the second man's throat. Diego stepped behind a pillar as he taunted "Ah, ah! Clumsy! Shall we try that again?"
The bodyguard, enraged to a cold and calculated focus, hissed at the others "Get in my way and you die. Leave this to me." The wounded man shrugged and gestured to his remaining two companions, whispering to them as the bodyguard advanced on Diego's position. The assassin stepped out, grinned, and the dance resumed. The bodyguard advanced relentlessly, striking out with both scimitar and sheath to keep Diego's blade occupied while he tried to close the distance. And as the exchange grew more intense, Diego began to use the traditional science of Moruan fence, and began to walk the circle.
Each flash of scimitar was a vector, and with each slight dancing step Diego shifted himself from the trajectory of the attack, deflecting further with espada or buckler, drawing the bodyguard into his rhythm. The more the man committed to his assault, the more Diego drew him into that pattern, and then the dance was over. Instead of avoiding the trajectory, Diego met it with his buckler, deflecting the blade to where his own could further guide it out of position. And then Diego's buckler crashed into the man's face once, twice, thrice as his own blade kept the scimitar entangled out to the side and in the path of the man's sheath. As the bodyguard tried to escape, he found himself where Diego had wanted him: with his back to the fountain in the centre of the courtyard.
Suddenly, the buckler struck the scimitar where Diego's sword had been, and Diego stepped in close with espada edge pressed against the bodyguard's throat. He drew the blade in a sharp motion as he stepped back to avoid getting blood on his clothes, buckler still ready to receive any desperate final slash. But the cut was deep, and Diego was given the opportunity to deliver a short thrust to the gurgling man's heart to end things. But he did not have a moment to enjoy the victory.
The wounded man had removed the throwing knife from his shoulder, and his companion hurled it at Diego whose buckler flashed to intercept it. As the blade clanged off to clatter near a pillar, Diego found himself facing three opponents, each armed with typical Corezan espadas. The dance began again in earnest.
The wounded man's companions pressed the attack, taking turns to lash out at Diego, trying to find an opening. The assassin went on the defensive, dancing back and to the side of a pillar, then back and to the side of a statue, forcing them into positions where only one could attack at a time while Diego gauged their ability to coordinate their attacks. The wounded man, sensing something amiss, joined the fray to try and limit Diego's movements.
Diego had learned, long ago, that three unarmed men fighting one unarmed man was a much more dangerous prospect than three armed men fighting one armed man. Unless they had trained to work in collaboration, swordsmen would easily get in the way of each other, entangling lines of engagement and even their blades. And now Diego had gained a sense of the courtyard's terrain. An espada lashed out at him, and he punched it with his buckler's edge, pushing it into a statue as he stomped a kick into the attacking swordsman's knee. The second man, finding his companion stumbling into his path, was unable to reach Diego with his weapon, and Diego stepped around the pillar to lightly slash the wrist of the wounded man's sword arm,
The assassin retreated again, circling back into the courtyard and parrying the next attack with his own blade, pushing the espada into the path of a statue as he retreated around it and shoved his shoulder against stone to topple the statue in their path. One leaped back, one hopped to the side - and it was the latter who Diego targeted with a crisp lunge. Several inches of steel through the heart later, Diego found himself facing two men - one badly injured. A quick clash of buckler and slash of espada saw the last armed man drop dead, and a throwing knife found the neck of the wounded man as he tried to escape.
Diego drew a deep breath of the air, tinged with the scent of spilled blood, and smiled. It was a beautiful night.
The moment was spoiled somewhat by the damned enchantment continuing to repeat itself over and over: "The Master has been slain. Avenge the Master."
Re: The Sweetest Poison
Morningbright. Peppersharp. Silverdeep.
Whispers of tyrian and frankincense beckoned her, sliding forward to match the changing lines of arm and steel. They fell into a series of interlocking patterns, weaving throughout the lushly gilded floors, and walls, and crowded spaces. Fast, that shadow. Fast, as if the feet had been crowned with the rushing, teasing breeze. Fast, as if it slid along tracks of mint cooled by winter's ice. Ice it carried along: killing, burning cold. Handled so cleverly, so cleanly, that she could see its patterns snaking from shoulders to fingertips.
The fallen embraced their new master, but she did not notice them. They held no hidden secrets, not these. She glided past them as if their spreading blood did not hint at intimate conversations. She took care only to avoid the widening grasp of those cooling tributes. The air and its heavy iced breath had moved on.
She had no choice but to follow.
The shadow was lost behind grim partitians, oncetwicethrice; a feather's tickle forced her to pay heed to the moving panicked treadsteppers as she watched the peppered ribbons writhe about her with impatience.
He shone, this shadow. Her shadow. A shadow suitable for the phantom, and as she caught sight of him next, she felt the familiar stirring down deep.
Mine.
Recognition. It stirredpushedpulsed in her, because she saw those moving angles, that impossible shiverstep leap trailing tyrian flakes, and knew that it was hers. Belonged to her. Had always been hers, separated and now found.
She understood his misdirection, his swordplay, his eyes. The things she'd never had, because he had them, had always had them. But now, now he was hers to watch, each movement an impression that was clutched tightly in her perfumed memory.
Ylang-ylang. Thick, heady, touched with frost.
It cushioned her, held her, and it was only with difficulty that she waved it away. Scarlet intruded, bold and brave, and she knew she could not last forever. The beehive was waking, but though they searched for shadows their phantom would not long last without notice.
She drank down the shadow, every line, every texture, every promise in that killing stare.
She would know where her belonging was taken. She would follow those feet, made to dance and glide.
She would be the one to direct that movement.
Only her.
Whispers of tyrian and frankincense beckoned her, sliding forward to match the changing lines of arm and steel. They fell into a series of interlocking patterns, weaving throughout the lushly gilded floors, and walls, and crowded spaces. Fast, that shadow. Fast, as if the feet had been crowned with the rushing, teasing breeze. Fast, as if it slid along tracks of mint cooled by winter's ice. Ice it carried along: killing, burning cold. Handled so cleverly, so cleanly, that she could see its patterns snaking from shoulders to fingertips.
The fallen embraced their new master, but she did not notice them. They held no hidden secrets, not these. She glided past them as if their spreading blood did not hint at intimate conversations. She took care only to avoid the widening grasp of those cooling tributes. The air and its heavy iced breath had moved on.
She had no choice but to follow.
The shadow was lost behind grim partitians, oncetwicethrice; a feather's tickle forced her to pay heed to the moving panicked treadsteppers as she watched the peppered ribbons writhe about her with impatience.
He shone, this shadow. Her shadow. A shadow suitable for the phantom, and as she caught sight of him next, she felt the familiar stirring down deep.
Mine.
Recognition. It stirredpushedpulsed in her, because she saw those moving angles, that impossible shiverstep leap trailing tyrian flakes, and knew that it was hers. Belonged to her. Had always been hers, separated and now found.
She understood his misdirection, his swordplay, his eyes. The things she'd never had, because he had them, had always had them. But now, now he was hers to watch, each movement an impression that was clutched tightly in her perfumed memory.
Ylang-ylang. Thick, heady, touched with frost.
It cushioned her, held her, and it was only with difficulty that she waved it away. Scarlet intruded, bold and brave, and she knew she could not last forever. The beehive was waking, but though they searched for shadows their phantom would not long last without notice.
She drank down the shadow, every line, every texture, every promise in that killing stare.
She would know where her belonging was taken. She would follow those feet, made to dance and glide.
She would be the one to direct that movement.
Only her.
Re: The Sweetest Poison
Diego washed himself at the fountain before he left. The moon's weak light played across the assassin's back, where silvery lines of scar tissue ran like rivers as the fountain's water washed off the sweat. He stretched, relaxing muscles grown tight from the evening's exertions, then took his leave of the silent estate.
He left the grounds feeling refreshed, not sparing a glance at the bodies which bore silent witness to the night's grim task. Diego was careful with how he departed, though, taking great pains not to be seen by casual onlookers who might have been passing near the estate.
Diego became less furtive in his movements when he passed into the more densely populated residential areas. He felt more at home with the narrow alleys, where the multi-storey buildings cast disapproving shadows on the detritus strewn across the cobblestones. Eventually he reached the building his delegation had rented for their assignment in Qadis, a traditional 2-storey affair.
The other members of the delegation were asleep, and Diego returned to his bedroom, knowing that at dawn Gonzalo would be shaking him awake in a disgruntled huff, tutting at his indolence. No doubt the other delegates, Estevan and Benito, would suffer similar morning fates. Gonzalo was so pedantic about when he woke up that he'd once exchanged some vital trade information to a member of the artificer's guild to receive an enchanted musical box which woke him up at dawn each morning. Benito had, on numerous occasions, threatened to smash the damn thing with a hammer. Estevan had learned to sleep through it.
And yet Diego could not immediately sleep, despite it being in the dark hours of the morning, even with the fatigue of the earlier physical exertions upon him. The humid summer air hung heavy in his room, until his clothing grew damp with perspiration. With a grimace, Diego opened the large double windows to his room's balcony, and removed his garments. The naked assassin lounged on a balcony chair for a good half hour as he let the light breeze brush across his sweat-slicked skin.
When the battle against humidity had turned in his favour, before the sun rose, Diego retired to his bed.
He left the grounds feeling refreshed, not sparing a glance at the bodies which bore silent witness to the night's grim task. Diego was careful with how he departed, though, taking great pains not to be seen by casual onlookers who might have been passing near the estate.
Diego became less furtive in his movements when he passed into the more densely populated residential areas. He felt more at home with the narrow alleys, where the multi-storey buildings cast disapproving shadows on the detritus strewn across the cobblestones. Eventually he reached the building his delegation had rented for their assignment in Qadis, a traditional 2-storey affair.
The other members of the delegation were asleep, and Diego returned to his bedroom, knowing that at dawn Gonzalo would be shaking him awake in a disgruntled huff, tutting at his indolence. No doubt the other delegates, Estevan and Benito, would suffer similar morning fates. Gonzalo was so pedantic about when he woke up that he'd once exchanged some vital trade information to a member of the artificer's guild to receive an enchanted musical box which woke him up at dawn each morning. Benito had, on numerous occasions, threatened to smash the damn thing with a hammer. Estevan had learned to sleep through it.
And yet Diego could not immediately sleep, despite it being in the dark hours of the morning, even with the fatigue of the earlier physical exertions upon him. The humid summer air hung heavy in his room, until his clothing grew damp with perspiration. With a grimace, Diego opened the large double windows to his room's balcony, and removed his garments. The naked assassin lounged on a balcony chair for a good half hour as he let the light breeze brush across his sweat-slicked skin.
When the battle against humidity had turned in his favour, before the sun rose, Diego retired to his bed.
Re: The Sweetest Poison
Everything. Everything.
The night touched her, slid in past the silent movements of her lips and dug burrowed into her. Squeezing, painful, it sliced through her, leaving burning citrus and a clinging pull. Need, oh, that scorching knowing -- it taunted her, some phantom filly that always found her, crawled up inside and stroked the emptiness. Because she was empty, so full of it, with it, filling up her lungs until she could almost drown with it, the way it tore free of her pores to illuminate him. Sharp, deadly, hers.
It was a challenge. He moved with the night, kin to it, making claims to something he didn't even know, trying to be something he wasn't. Should be him locked up tight with her feathers and needles, another corpse-pale vibration beneath her fingertips, pressing into the empty spaces until she was left flush with the scar-tissue, left perfect.
She crawled along the thread he left behind, tied tight, eyes pressed close to the flow of air that escorted him. Away. He was trying to slip free, but she wouldn't let it happen.
He was not free.
He had never been free.
When he sat and waited, she counted. Everything she saw, she counted. She took him in, full and heavy, tight with the restricting commands that kept her from him. She edged, hovering there, knowing what she could (should) have and knowing what she could not take without the other things ground and presented neatly in a bowl, girded with the things only she knew. She strained against it, the first brush of warmth cresting the slick spot between her shoulderblades, and drew in to his balcony, where she rested with the shadows. She walked it, back and forth, counting the steps, feeling the furniture, the stone, the places where her belonging had touched and stayed and had gone without her knowing.
She bit down on the soft pressure that pressed up from behind her collarbones, and took out one of her needles, rolling it between her fingers (number twenty-one, exactness known, with her for two years and fifty-eight days). She left it in the spot where dust and detritus had collected, without scrutiny, hunkered down with the practice of long waiting. There, she touched through it, patting it, fingers tangling sign.
There were words that needed to pass, before there was a need for lessons and creeping worms that fed behind her ears and down her throat and other places less sweet.
Her possession was marked, known.
She would see it again.
The night touched her, slid in past the silent movements of her lips and dug burrowed into her. Squeezing, painful, it sliced through her, leaving burning citrus and a clinging pull. Need, oh, that scorching knowing -- it taunted her, some phantom filly that always found her, crawled up inside and stroked the emptiness. Because she was empty, so full of it, with it, filling up her lungs until she could almost drown with it, the way it tore free of her pores to illuminate him. Sharp, deadly, hers.
It was a challenge. He moved with the night, kin to it, making claims to something he didn't even know, trying to be something he wasn't. Should be him locked up tight with her feathers and needles, another corpse-pale vibration beneath her fingertips, pressing into the empty spaces until she was left flush with the scar-tissue, left perfect.
She crawled along the thread he left behind, tied tight, eyes pressed close to the flow of air that escorted him. Away. He was trying to slip free, but she wouldn't let it happen.
He was not free.
He had never been free.
When he sat and waited, she counted. Everything she saw, she counted. She took him in, full and heavy, tight with the restricting commands that kept her from him. She edged, hovering there, knowing what she could (should) have and knowing what she could not take without the other things ground and presented neatly in a bowl, girded with the things only she knew. She strained against it, the first brush of warmth cresting the slick spot between her shoulderblades, and drew in to his balcony, where she rested with the shadows. She walked it, back and forth, counting the steps, feeling the furniture, the stone, the places where her belonging had touched and stayed and had gone without her knowing.
She bit down on the soft pressure that pressed up from behind her collarbones, and took out one of her needles, rolling it between her fingers (number twenty-one, exactness known, with her for two years and fifty-eight days). She left it in the spot where dust and detritus had collected, without scrutiny, hunkered down with the practice of long waiting. There, she touched through it, patting it, fingers tangling sign.
There were words that needed to pass, before there was a need for lessons and creeping worms that fed behind her ears and down her throat and other places less sweet.
Her possession was marked, known.
She would see it again.
Re: The Sweetest Poison
When Diego awoke, it was with the prospect of another dreary day embroiled in the necessary tedium of paperwork and meetings. Diego fetched papers for Benito, filed reports for Gonzalo, and dressed in the kind of clothing which screamed 'trying to keep up with the latest fashion trends, yet still a month behind'. Deep down Diego disdained the gaudy fashions of the times in the same way he'd despised the architecture of the manor whose guests he'd so recently put to the sword. However, he had a role to play, and Diego would continue to discharge his petty and dull attaché duties with just enough competence to keep up the facade.
The first chance for fresh air Diego taking a mid-morning stroll through the business district of Qadis, with the purpose of collecting some paperwork for Estevan from an accountancy firm which owed secret loyalty to Morua. There was something to be said for the persuasive power of blackmail and extortion. The streets were busy as always, and the sole entertainment Diego had for the trek was using the opportunity as practice for reading the movements of the crowd and picking a way through it like a cat passing through undergrowth.
Part perception, part reflex, part understanding of human nature: moving through a crowd at speed was an entertaining diversion. Diego would gauge from observation which people would most likely step aside, and which ones wouldn't. He judged the direction they would step from the way they walked and their posture. And he somehow made a half-hour journey far less tedious than it otherwise threatened to be - which was perhaps the greatest achievement in the exercise, all things considered. His mood was therefore not spoiled by the time he laid eyes on the neat white stonework of the firm's building. Any successful Qadis organisation preferred stone architecture, as arson was a very easy way for a competitor to put rivals out of business.
The first chance for fresh air Diego taking a mid-morning stroll through the business district of Qadis, with the purpose of collecting some paperwork for Estevan from an accountancy firm which owed secret loyalty to Morua. There was something to be said for the persuasive power of blackmail and extortion. The streets were busy as always, and the sole entertainment Diego had for the trek was using the opportunity as practice for reading the movements of the crowd and picking a way through it like a cat passing through undergrowth.
Part perception, part reflex, part understanding of human nature: moving through a crowd at speed was an entertaining diversion. Diego would gauge from observation which people would most likely step aside, and which ones wouldn't. He judged the direction they would step from the way they walked and their posture. And he somehow made a half-hour journey far less tedious than it otherwise threatened to be - which was perhaps the greatest achievement in the exercise, all things considered. His mood was therefore not spoiled by the time he laid eyes on the neat white stonework of the firm's building. Any successful Qadis organisation preferred stone architecture, as arson was a very easy way for a competitor to put rivals out of business.