#nolotec

Hot as the days in the desert my be, the nights are out as cold, maybe more so. The wind which hours ago may burn bone white now blows cold sand across the dunes. It is a good night for killing.

Two figures stand facing one another in the desert outside the city of Camar. One in fine raiment, black with gold buttons and white lining. The other is dressed half so well, and is bound to a rope, held by their finely dressed captor. The captor pushes their hostage to the ground, where their knees dog into the sand. They look to their master, eyes pleading. They do not understand. They ask why.

The captor answers.

Love.

There is no sound as an ornate dagger is slid into the eye socket of the captive, but one could almost imagine the sound of their light sniffing out echoing off of the sand. Their corpse falls silently to the ground.

The finely dressed figure pulls back the dagger, sliding a finger along it’s edge. The scraping noise is accompanied by a low chanting from the weapon’s owner. Moments later, another figure arrives from somewhere else, clad in black so dark it appears to be a void. The sand responds to the figures presence a moment too late, as if it has yet to realize there is weight pressing upon it. The figure stands a foot or more above the finely dressed killer. Neither move for a long moment.

Finally, the killer releases a shaking breath. They take a step forward, but the shadows of the night sky seem to gather before the black-clad figure and violently shove the killer away, sending them sprawling. A sound echoes from the void-black figure. It may have been speech, or it may have been the sound of grinding, breaking bone dragged across jagged stone. The tone, regardless, is enraged. The tall figure slides forward as if falling sideways, stopping abruptly only a foot away from they who summoned it. It looms above them, and the killer again makes to approach, speaking quickly and desperately. Whatever they say, they are able to proceed unimpeded. They stand, putting only inches between the two. Slowly, the killer moves their face closer to that of the otherworldly presence. They kiss the face if death.

The killer stiffens, but does not pull away. As the moments pass, their skull begins to crack and crumble. Soon, there is little mouth left to make contact with death’s visage. Only now does the killer pull away. They reach up a hand and gently stroke death’s face. When their hand is again at their side, a knucklebone is cracked.

They speak again to death, as well as they are able. They ask of death some question. Death dies not answer. It turns, having seemingly forgotten it’s suitor, and glides to the corpse. It kneels, and it’s cloak pools around the body as a fluid. The bones therein glow momentarily, and then are passive again. Death stands again, it’s duty dine. The now disfigured killer stands, unable to leave so soon.

Suddenly, death looks to the city. It glides towards the walls of the settlement, fast as rain. Even as it is moving to harvest again, it turns to the killer and speaks again. With a scream, the killer feels their skull reconstruct itself, piece by rotten piece, until it is the same as it was before. Except, they notice, for a single, nearly invisible crack, which runs from the bottom of their left eye socket to their nose. They look to death, hand in their mouth. They wonder. But the spectre is gone, past the walls of the Prince’s city, gathering some dead citizen.

The sun has only recently set on the city of Camar, but it does not take long for the heat of the day to disappear. Already the light of dusk fades and the stone street grows cold underfoot. It is as good night for killing.

A man is walking down a narrow shortcut between buildings, whistling to himself. He rounds the corner out of the alley and towards his home. For just a moment, he ceases all movement, and then he is running.

The man's home has clearly been broken into; the two men who had been standing dutifully outside all day now lay on the ground either unconscious or dead, and the wooden door hangs loose on its hinges, bent and splintered. Even as the man runs, he pulls from within his clothes a dagger with a jewelled pommel.

Inside the house, a presence holds its breath. It has heard the running steps of its victim grow louder, and is waiting in the dark. From the fading dusklight which reveals the door to the outside, the intruder sees the silhouette of the man appear. The time has come to leave this place.

The man has scarcely time to blink in the time it takes for the intruder to launch themselves at him, but he manages to swing his weapon. His blade makes contact, where he is not sure. Wherever he has struck, it is not enough, for his head has already felt the crack of a blunt object on the side of his head.

As the man falls, the intruder uses his body as a launch pad and vaults out of the house, landing ten feet away running. The man, barely conscious, is able to see some red on the intruder's attire. His last thought before his eyes close is a single word: eanqa'.

The cold night wind is silent in the alleys of the city, but a chill with no sound is deeper for it. It is a good night for killing.

On the roof of a small, single-roomed clay building which forms one wall of an alley, there is crouched a figure clad in tattered clothes. They aim a crossbow at a plain patch of wall on the building opposing theirs. Their breathing is so quiet and slow, they may appear dead to someone not accustomed to crossbow-wielding strangers. They make no move to adjust their position, scratch an itch, or in any way indicate they exist at all. Like them, the alley is still as stone.

Someone rounds the corner of the alley, silently moving against the opposite wall. The figure on the roof squeezes gently on the crossbows trigger. Otherwise, they remain still.

The figure below pauses and looks behind themself. Seeing no one, they continue on slowly. The one on the roof remains still. Their breathing speeds up.

In the alley, the sneak lowers their guard. As they move past the entryway of the one-roomed building, they do not look inside to see if anyone awaits within. Which indeed they do; the sudden whoosh of cloth is accompanied by a thud and a pair of grunts. Someone has pinned the sneak to the wall, and holds a blade to their neck. Above, the sniper remains still.

"Where is it?" The whisper from the dark-clothed assassin is intent, desperate. They see the fear in their prey's eyes. They see the anticipation. They see those eyes look upward for the briefest of moments.

The crossbow makes the loudest sound of the night when it is fired. Before they bolt has made its mark, the sniper has moved, smoothly pushing themselves forward and off of the roof. When they land, the assassin leans against their would-be victim, skull cracked and eyes lifeless. The sneak, in turn, has tilted their head severely; where their skull had been, sticking out of the eye socket of the assassin, is the bolt.