Prolouge

PROLOUGE


The man wasn't enjoying his mead. It was crass on the tongue and left a bitter aftertaste like old metal. He had never enjoyed the taste. On the occasions when personal preference and good sense had given way to peer pressure, he had pretended to enjoy it. With the pretence came an assortment of heady experiences, which in later years would manifest themselves into fond memories..... Very fond memories. Memories of friendship, camaraderie, women, love, conflict. Memories which made the man smile, just before the sharp stab of regret and a lost life, caused the smile to be replaced by a pained frown. Those times were gone, lost, stolen.... And the frown deepened.
He sat drinking his mead, enjoying the memories that the taste brought. Allowing the waves of nostalgia to wash over him, cleansing him, temporarily, of his true purpose for his presence there. The tavern in which he was sat was called 'The Crippled Bear'. It was a little past midnight on a Cold, windy night and somebody was about to die.

Paroles was an arrogant man. Arrogant and fat. He carried himself with the practised ease of a man who is used to being envied by those around him. Parading his huge stomach as though it were an embodiment of Wealth and power..... Which of course, it was. Paroles may have been arrogant. He may have been fat, but he was also very rich. Obscenely rich In fact. He invested his gold wisely, purchasing the favour and influence of powerful men, paving the way for corruption and personal gain. He exploited the weak and the poor. His latest venture had seen the destruction of several shelters within the poor quarter. Hundreds of Men, women and small children were left homeless, left to battle the elements alone, and afraid. Paroles had no compassion. No regard for other people and their daily struggles. The poor and the crippled were a blight, he would say. Better off.... Gone.
People would laugh loudly at his bad jokes. Nod approvingly at his shallow, bigoted views. They would buy him a drink when he walked into the tavern, stand to let him sit, and gather around him like flies on dung when he did so. After all, he was a powerful man, with powerful friends. It would not do to upset him. The fat merchant did not notice it. He expected it, and he was never disappointed.
Paroles was in a good mood. He was sat in 'The Crippled Bear', surrounded by his normal entourage of well wishers and sycophants. They were all listening intently as he boasted about beating a man because he had bumped into him, on the high street, in broad daylight. The man hadn't even apologised! His captivated audience feigned shock as Paroles continued. Paroles had taken hold of the man and demanded an apology, which apparently was not forthcoming. The unfortunate was then struck repeatedly about the head and face, until he lay there, unmoving, whimpering quietly. His audience laughed and clapped loudly. Paroles laughed with them. Enjoying the adulation his lackeys showed him. Better for him, and his reputation, if he missed out particular, truthful details from his tale.
The unfortunate had a name. He was called Tim. He was 10 years old. He was looking for his mother, but he couldn't find her. He was listening for her voice, but couldn't hear her calling over the hustle and bustle of town life. He had bumped into something, but had done so several times in the last 5 minutes. Somebody had shouted loudly, but he wasn't listening. He was listening for his mother, straining his ears, trying to isolate her sound. Rough hands had grabbed him. Then came the pain. He sank to the floor, curled into a ball as blows reigned down on him. It's all he could do. He couldn't fight back. Tim was blind.

The man watched the fat merchant, feeling the faint glow of anger arise within him as he heard him brag of the thrashing he gave 'Blind Tim'. He suppressed the urge to draw his blades, walk over there and kill them all. He could have done so.....easily. The man was fast and deadly. Some would die without even seeing him, death coming swiftly, from the shadows.
The man remained in his chair, sat at a table within a dark alcove, obscured in darkness. Anger would never be permitted to roam free within him. It would be kept on a tight leash. Snapping and biting.. But never free. Control was paramount. Discipline, everything.
He had followed Paroles for days now. Observing him as he paraded himself about the town, gold dripping from him like slime off a swamp dwelling creature. He had witnessed the brutal beating of the blind boy, helpless to intervene lest he reveal himself to his target. The man had approached the poor, confused, broken youth as he lay curled up on the cobbled street. "Stand yourself up boy. You are safe now". The boy had ceased his pained sobs and looked in the direction of the voice. "Why? Why did the man hurt me?"
"Because he could, young one. Now stand. Your mother is worried". Tim had stood then, his non seeing eyes searching for the strange, powerful voice.
The boy reached out and touched the mans face, gently running his hands across the mans sharp, unflinching features. The man closed his eyes and allowed the young boy to examine him. "You have suffered" the boy said, seeming older than his years.
"Yes" replied the man, "Thats all there is".
"You are wrong..... You are going to kill him aren't you". The man opened his eyes and stared into the opal blue of the boys blindness. "Yes. I am"
"Don't" Timmy said, a note of resignation in his voice. "If you do, his blood will be a stain upon your soul." The man reached up and took the boys hands from his face. "I have chosen my path boy. Now I must walk it. He will die tonight". Then, a woman's voice interrupted, "Timmy!! Timmy!! I've been so worried. Where have you..." then she saw the swelling and bruising of her child's face "By the gods!! What happened!! Who did this to you?!" She ran towards him, arms opened, ready to sweep her baby into a mothers embrace. The man recoiled from the love he saw there. The boy looked in the direction of his mothers approach. Then back towards the man. He whispered, "I have to go now. It is better to walk in the sun, than in the shadows. Remember that stranger"
"Then walk in the sun boy. Feel the warmth of it upon your face". Timmy stared at the stranger, almost seeing him, "Thank you" he whispered and limped towards his mother.
And so the man sat, and watched. The time was close, he could feel it. His heart began to beat a little faster. His breathing quickened as the oxygen concentrated on getting around the body, in the quickest, most resourceful time. Feeding the muscles within, preparing the body for conflict. He flexed and relaxed his hands, a repetitive movement, working the extrinsic and intrinsic muscle groups there. As his body subconsciously primed itself, so did the man prepare his mind. He felt calm descend on him, embracing him like an old love. Choice and deliberation had left the mans thoughts, to be replaced by a cold, deadly certainty.
Paroles would be dead in less than 3 minutes.

He was surrounded by friends. He was safe. No harm could come to him. The fat mans belief in his own unassailability was a credit to his arrogance. The thought of death rarely crossed his mind. He knew it would come to him eventually, but he imagined being old and comfortable, asleep in his silk adorned bed, surrounded by young, naked girls, their soft bodies still bearing the marks of his depravity the night before. A fine death.
Paroles raised his drink at his assembly. He drank deeply as they applauded him, then slammed his tankard back down again, splashing the murky brown beverage everywhere. He was drunk and more importantly, he needed to empty his bladder! He placed both hands on the table and pushed himself up so he stood, exhaling air with the exertion as he did so. Mead dripped from his drooping moustache and he wiped it away with the sleeve of his absurdly expensive, bright green robe. His large, red face creased in amusement as he chortled at his own humorous anecdotes. He grunted as he heaved his walrus like body away from the place in which he was sat, and walked boldly forwards towards the rear tavern door and the alleyway beyond.
Paroles seldom thought of death
Had he known that he would never finish his mead. That these few steps towards his relief would be his last. If he had an inkling that in a few heartbeats his soul would be torn cruelly from its body, screaming and writhing in denial at the way in which it's body was so swiftly dispatched. He may have thought about death a little more. Perhaps.

The man watched him stand. Watched as he bowled his way towards the rear of the tavern. He was going to piss, thought the man. He'll be in the dark, alone. He would take him there. The man stood slowly, the barely noticeable weight of his twin blades concealed within his brown, leather cloak reassuring him. Empowering him. He selected a path through the busy, bustling bodies, pulled his hood over his head, concealing his face, and eased himself into the crowd. He was barely noticed. A shadow. A draft of air as he passed. People would later say they saw something moving between them, a man or maybe just a trick of the light as the interior torch flames flickered in the wind. They certainly wouldn't remember a face. Nor would they recall the figure of a man, sat within a dark corner of their favourite drinking establishment. Sat silently watching... Waiting.
He watched the fat man struggle as he attempted to grab the door knob, then, eventually twisting it and opening the door. The man moved himself directly behind the merchant, and as the fat man clumsily exited the warm glow of the tavern, the man shadowed him, moving with him through the wooden doorway. They both stepped into the night, the hooded man instantly melting into the darkness as paroles turned to close the heavy wooden door behind him. They were alone. The man watched from the shadows as paroles turned to face the wall, undid his trews, and relieved himself, sighing loudly as he did so.
The man peeled himself from the inky blackness of his hide, stepping out into the passageway so he stood directly behind the drunk, fat man. He reached into the folds of his cloak and silently drew his blades.

The ache within his loins began to recede as he expelled the evenings refreshments from his body. The merchant sucked in cold, night air as he urinated, enjoying the feeling of his bladder being emptied. He recollected how he found himself snatching at thin air, instead of the door handle. He hadn't realised how inebriated he was. Silly old fool, he thought, one more tankard then it's goodnight. Much to the disappointment of his revellers. Thats when he felt it. A change. The air around him seemed to alter, the sensation cutting through the veils of alcohol which clouded his mind. He couldn't quite grasp the feeling, but it made him very uneasy. He tried to ignore it. Realisation struck him then. He was not alone. The flow of his urine stopped short. He stood still then, listening to the night sounds. The sounds of muffled laughing and joviality coming from within the tavern. He wanted to be back in there. Safe. Warm. He looked up at the stars, at how bright they shone. He had never noticed them before. He hesitantly began to manoeuvre himself around, not wanting to, for fear of who or what he would see there. He froze at the completion of his turn. Before him stood a black garbed figure, green eyes regarding him from within a deep hood, the rest of him barely discernible in the dark alleyway. As if on cue, the clouds overhead made way for the bright white moon, and paroles groaned as he saw the glimmer of metal in the mans hands.
"Am I to die here?" He whimpered
"Yes" said the figure. The merchant could feel himself perspiring in fear
"I can pay! I am very rich! I can pay you anything" he cried, an edge of desperation in his voice.
"No" said the figure.
"Please please I'm begging...."
His last pleas for mercy were a guttural sound, as silver death cut deep into his throat.

The man watched as Paroles slowly turned to face his death. He saw the terror in his eyes when he had seen the blades. The knowledge that his life was to end here, in a piss stinking alleyway, evident in his mewling. The merchant begged for mercy, but the man was cold. Unmoving. Unwilling to feel. He did not enjoy the final moments that came before the kill. He was not empowered by the pleading, as some were, nor was he incapable of pity. He was efficient, and would not allow himself to be distracted by emotion. Paroles' imploring was cut short as the mans arms swept up and across, his razor sharp blades slicing into the fat mans throat in a scissor motion, cutting deep, passing through several layers of fatty tissue, before finally severing the cartoid artery.

The fat, swollen hands of the merchant reached up to his own open throat, attempting to stem the flow of his lifeblood. To no avail. The crimson liquid flowed through his fingers like a Red Sea, splashing onto his green robe, turning the expensive cloth a purple brown where it ran. Strange, harsh rasping sounds exuded from his mouth, his ruined vocal chords preventing the sounds from forming into words, halting any efforts to cry for help. He could not believe what was happening. He was dying. The hooded man had moved so fast. He hadn't realised that his throat had been opened until he heard the splashing of his own blood upon the cobbles. Panic had set in then. The urge to preserve his own life compelling him to press his hands to the gaping wound, as if somehow he could dam the cascade. He felt himself growing weaker and dropped to his knees. His assailant stood over him, silent, as Paroles took a bloody hand away from the trauma and reached out. But the hooded man merely sheathed his weapons, took a black envelope from somewhere within his garb and stayed, watching. The fat man fell sideways, his head striking the ground. He rolled onto his back and saw again the stars. How bright they shone, he marvelled again. In that moment, he wish he'd studied the stars. The scrabbling at his throat began to cease, slowing down as the pain lessened, and the body acquiesced to death.

The hooded man studied the black envelope. It would pose as a warning. A message. The letter inside was written beautifully in a strange golden ink. Three simple words inscribed upon pitch dark vellum. The White Raven.
He continued to contemplate the magnitude of this simple note. Leaving it here, with the body, would place him on a course of action, to which he would be committed until he breathed his last. There would be others, he knew this.The deaths sending shockwaves throughout the realm. Striking fear into those who embraced corruption and malignant politics.
He dropped the envelope onto the fat mans chest and walked away, stopping only when the bubbling death rattle had turned to silence. He turned and saw the fat, still body lying there, like an island floating upon an ever widening crimson lake. It was done.
He surveyed the scene, satisfying himself that he had left no trace of his presence there. He span on his heel, then stopped, statue still. His head inclined ever so slightly to the right. "You shouldn't be here" he said quietly. A noise came from behind him, a slight patter as though a cat had jumped from a small roof onto a stone floor. "I wanted to watch" a female voice replied. The man turned and saw the dark garbed, slender frame of a young woman stood by the body of Paroles. She walked feline like towards him, gracefully skirting the pool of blood oozing through the cobbles. He noticed the way her dark leather armour clung to her leanness, accentuating the curve of her breasts as she moved. He looked away, uneasy in her presence. "Katyana. You must leave"
"You did well" she said. The man looked up at her then. She was smiling at him, the humour never quite reaching her brown, almond shaped eyes. Her long brown hair falling loosely about her shoulders.
"He is dead. That is all" he said
She was close to him now. He could smell the polished leather of her armour and the sweet smell of watered wine on her breath. She leant into him, her hand pressed firmly against his chest. He could feel her breath on him as her lips brushed against his cheek. "It has begun?" she whispered to him. He nodded slowly. Her hand slid down the length of his leather chest plate, but he took hold of it, "Go" he said, instantly regretting his harsh tone. She stayed pressed against him, her lips still caressing his cheek, her ragged breathing loud in his ear, then she pulled herself away from him. He watched as she scaled the alley wall, ran along it and then vaulted up onto the tavern roof. She turned, silhouetted against the white of the full moon, looking at him. Then she was gone.
The man stood alone within the dark passage way. A mild wind had started and leaves were dancing wildly about his feet. His eyes once again fell on the still form of the dead man. The blood had stopped flowing now. The small red rivers between the stones had ceased their journey further into the darkness. Paroles was cold and pale. The drama was over. The body lay unceremoniously, waiting to be found. The hooded figure stepped into the night, and was embraced by it

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Author's Note

Shall I continue? The first chapter starts 15 years earlier, when the hooded man is a young boy.

Reviews

[Maglia Weaver Twill]

you should always continue as much as you are able, whoa, but I don't know about this particular story,

it ends with a very very bloody scene, with someone's neck popping off, better they were a voodoo doll, I want to say, touche (pronounced too-shay) but I don't know if that is a relevant response, as though one writer were fencing with another, 'touche' like you know they say in fencing, I think, we used to say that as kids where I was a child I'm feeling like you must have, but I am going off the deep end frequently in a way

;0