Little Shadow

[Ohren]

((To steal Dargathi's recent nickname for El, for the title of this story that I wrote some months ago. It was meant to be collaborative, but the other player is no longer in game, so I could not resist anymore and decided to post as a single sided story. Hope you enjoy ))

[Ohren]

Squat low against a wall, outside the Reikland Arms, and hat lowered over her eyes, the shadows of the side of the building covering her anyway. A long breath released, moisture forming on cold, winter air. The bustle of the common room sometimes made her uneasy, the quiet solitude of outside helped to gather her thoughts.

A small grunt draws her attention. Glancing from under the rim she notes a familiar, tall form, leaning heavily against the tavern entrance. Not that he can see her, but he doesn't even sense her, alcohol having dulled the senses too much no doubt. Her memorable slanted smile grows slowly in the shadows, whilst she watches the elf push himself up from his slumped pause, wobble somewhat to steady himself before making loud throat clearing sound to fire a substantial globule of spittle at the floor, before staggering off towards the Library.

A moment before she lowers her amused gaze once more into the shadows another body leaves the Arms, immediately pulling a cloak hood up, perhaps due to the cold. Her crooked smile is lost sharply, as the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Pressing herself further into the Darkness, breath poised as a shiver runs down her spine; she pushes her crouched body slowly, and soundlessly up the wall. The mannerisms are all wrong for someone having just enjoyed the wares of a tavern. The hooded form gives a fleeting glance this way and that, rapidly spotting their target turn the corner ahead, they move to follow.

Breath shallow through her nose, making no mist, patiently she waits. Moments pass as she watches from the Darkness, crystal clear blue eyes boring a hole in the back of the hooded skull. Her heart skips a beat as the Stalker moves off round the corner, after its Prey. In one smooth movement her blade is drawn and a readied pistol is cocked. With silence, swiftness and grace she moves in Darkness from the shadows. The Witch Hunter begins her hunt.

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The Stalker is fast to begin with through the city streets, turning this way and that, but soon slows as they catch up with the slower, and seemingly oblivious Prey. The Darkness having left her, the Hunter halts and turns briskly, blade lowered, pressing against the wall of some steps. Carefully she un-cocks and tucks the pistol into her bandolier, close to her chest. Adrenalin pumping through her veins, she takes off her tall hat and dares a glance.

15 foot ahead, Stalker lingers nonchalantly at the street edge, attention on the stalked. 30 foot ahead, Prey pauses, holding onto a lamp post, perhaps for stability. He feels up the metal post and then reaches out to the sign boards attached to it. Attentively feeling along the top of the board, the elf then turns 45º and moves off faster now, more sure of his direction. Stalker: in their blasé ruse, comically double-takes as they almost miss the Prey disappearing round the corner ahead. Hunter: the right corner rises on her lightly pouting lips, returning her hat she begins pursuit once more.

Ever the feline, eyes still on her prey; through touch alone her blade is sheathed. She knows where both the hunter and its prey will end up. For what reason? Truth Seeker will no doubt find out.

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With the city proper behind her, looking across the Emperor’s Circle, she sees the Prey disappear through The Griffon Inn doorway, where he resides. To be close to his charge. She glances towards the War Quarters and then swiftly back to her right as peripheral vision gives away the Stalkers location, still oblivious to also being hunted. She slips into Darkness and moves across the open space expeditiously, closing the distance as the Stalker moves inside the inn in pursuit of their trail.

At the edge of the lobby her whole being pauses in Darkness, listening and watching as the Stalker briefly talks with the inn-keeper, nodding whilst pushing a gold Karl across the counter. As the Stalker turns and heads upstairs to the boarding rooms, the inn-keeper picks up the substantial coin and bites down on it before pocketing swiftly. The Hunter is already following up the stairs, keeping to the walled edge attempting to avoid noisy floorboards.

Distance closing, heart pounding, senses alive. She can smell the ale that would have been on the elf's breath. She can hear movement in the room ahead. The Stalker is clumsy across the floorboards, their only advantage being the elf's excessive inebriation and lack of his companion. She can sense the danger, time shifts endlessly, paused before the slightly open door.

Distance closing, pushing silently on the door, slipping though the gap, she reaches down with right hand to lower left of her bandolier, fingers rap around the innocuous looking Holy Relic as she pulls a finely crafted and sharp stiletto, Truth Seeker, from its sheath. She can feel the Darkness slipping, time shifting swiftly, creeping closer to the assassin, with dagger poised over the elf's chest.

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Hunter almost upon her prey, she takes the last step towards the Stalkers back. Her motive is clear, senses sharpened. In one seamless flow the Darkness fades as her left hand seizes her preys' mouth, index finger and thumb pinch a man’s nose while he tries to cry out - too late, pulling his body towards her own, Truth Seeker making its precise judgement. A small gurgle is heard. Left fingers now rapped along the haemorrhaging assassins jaw line and her final movement, a strong wrench. A sickening crack is heard as she lowers the Stalkers limp body slowly to the floor; using his cloak to soak up the thick spill of blood, wiping Truth Seeker clean on the cloth edge, the Hunter then rolls the body to one side in the cloak.

Her breathing comes deep but steady now. Cautiously looking round the shadows. The morning light will be here in a few hours. She pushes and bolts the door shut and finds a chair in the dusky room. Turning her attention to the bed, where Gyir is laying sprawled ungainly and unconscious, still sound asleep and oblivious to what had just passed, she gives a small huff of amusement. Elsharla makes her self comfortable on the chair placed in front of the door and keeps guard.