Ambush
11th of November
Having trawled the gutters of the city and spoken with every likely hooker and dealer and bookmaker in the name of investigation, Tharien had found out nothing he did not already suspect, though confirming that suspicion had to count for something. It was getting late, and in other parts of town the streetlights would be lit just about now. Here, there were no such luxuries. People moved past him in closed groups, visibly armed and doing their best to look tough as nails, and most succeeded. It was time to head home, even if he too wore the same expression and the reassuring weight of a freshly sharpened sword hung at his hip.
None of the information he'd received was bewildering, and there's a fleeting sense of relief that soon he'll be able to wrap up the case and move on to something else. The relief is shortlived, bourbon-stained paper and crossed-out words hovering at the edges of his mind despite his best attempts to ignore them. It would be allright. It always was. Kife's a big boy, he can take care of himself. He's a pro. The reassurances are slowly becoming a mantra, a litany of words losing all meaning. It'd turn out allright. It always did.
There is no sound to warn him of the shadow overhead and he can't tell what it is that alerts him to it, but his muscles tense and move of their own accord and he barely registers the hiss of metal cutting through the space he'd occupied a fraction of a second earlier. Later he'll be grateful for all the miserable hours spent lurking in the least hospitable places of the world, keeping track of the wind and trying to outsmart some beast just as likely to suddenly pounce from above as it is to walk into the painstakingly carefully set trap. But beasts make noise, and not this kind of noise. Not the sound of bone splintering and the softer, sickening crunch of tendons and cartilage making gruesome contact with the pavement. And if they do, they don't pick themselves up afterwards and lunge at him blade first.
Thariens sword is out before he's had time to think, parrying a few slashes while he curses himself for having those drinks earlier, but his assailant pays the blade no heed. Not even when he finds an opening and slashes its gut open does it make a noise; only the hiss of steel slicing cloth and skin and flesh, and the overpowering smell of death. Instead it launches itself at him with enough force to send him sprawling across the pavement, the sword ripped from his grasp, grappling with decaying flesh and dark cloth. Suppressing panic, he has time to savour the small victory when he wrenches its blade hand to the side. And then it laughs, the first noise it's made, and rotting teeth go for his throat.
Disgust-fuelled strength sees the undead assassin thrown off him in time for Tharien to notice the two others, steps soft and unhurried on the flagstones, masked and cloaked, blades out, and panic flares like poison through his veins. Being killed by corpses in Murder Row had never been part of his plans, and yet it was starting to look increasingly likely now that he's caught between them. The two others stay at a lazy distance, letting the first do its job, or have its fun, as it lunges at its target with renewed force. Perhaps Tharien survives a little too long, perhaps half a minute of watching him grapple with the silent shape of their colleague gets dull. From the corner of his eye, Tharien has time to see the pale light slide along the barrel of a rifle being raised, and hear the dull, flat little voice in the back of his mind informing him that this was it, are you satisfied with what you've accompl--
Where the rifle-toting assassins head was, flames erupt. The dead thing still clings to him, teeth and blade and clawlike bony fingers, but it too appears surprised, pausing for a split second. Long enough for Tharien to put all his strength into a completely graceless shove to its chest and detach himself from it in time to hear someone yell "Down!". Following orders never came as naturally to him as now, and he hits the ground without a second's hesitation. A streak of light, a flurry of inky shade dissolving before it, and he's not sure he trusts his eyes when he sees the shadows surge through the one remaining assassin before disappearing entirely. The masked figure drops like a sack of rocks, dead a second time, and gets a knife through the eye when the girl passes.
Tight dress, cleavage to rival Nancias, shortbow. Adrenaline still pumps wildly through his veins when Tharien picks himself up and stares at the girl, then catches himself and thanks her. Her apology for her late arrival takes him by surprise, as does the rest of her casual conversation. He doesn't object to her suggestion that they move elsewhere though the streets pass in a paranoid blur of details, shadows and black cats making him jump until they emerge on a busy street, the kind with streetlights and guards and people. He picks a bar, gets a table out of the way, and though he'd expected no answers to his questions he gets them, and his suspicion is confirmed.
Having trawled the gutters of the city and spoken with every likely hooker and dealer and bookmaker in the name of investigation, Tharien had found out nothing he did not already suspect, though confirming that suspicion had to count for something. It was getting late, and in other parts of town the streetlights would be lit just about now. Here, there were no such luxuries. People moved past him in closed groups, visibly armed and doing their best to look tough as nails, and most succeeded. It was time to head home, even if he too wore the same expression and the reassuring weight of a freshly sharpened sword hung at his hip.
None of the information he'd received was bewildering, and there's a fleeting sense of relief that soon he'll be able to wrap up the case and move on to something else. The relief is shortlived, bourbon-stained paper and crossed-out words hovering at the edges of his mind despite his best attempts to ignore them. It would be allright. It always was. Kife's a big boy, he can take care of himself. He's a pro. The reassurances are slowly becoming a mantra, a litany of words losing all meaning. It'd turn out allright. It always did.
There is no sound to warn him of the shadow overhead and he can't tell what it is that alerts him to it, but his muscles tense and move of their own accord and he barely registers the hiss of metal cutting through the space he'd occupied a fraction of a second earlier. Later he'll be grateful for all the miserable hours spent lurking in the least hospitable places of the world, keeping track of the wind and trying to outsmart some beast just as likely to suddenly pounce from above as it is to walk into the painstakingly carefully set trap. But beasts make noise, and not this kind of noise. Not the sound of bone splintering and the softer, sickening crunch of tendons and cartilage making gruesome contact with the pavement. And if they do, they don't pick themselves up afterwards and lunge at him blade first.
Thariens sword is out before he's had time to think, parrying a few slashes while he curses himself for having those drinks earlier, but his assailant pays the blade no heed. Not even when he finds an opening and slashes its gut open does it make a noise; only the hiss of steel slicing cloth and skin and flesh, and the overpowering smell of death. Instead it launches itself at him with enough force to send him sprawling across the pavement, the sword ripped from his grasp, grappling with decaying flesh and dark cloth. Suppressing panic, he has time to savour the small victory when he wrenches its blade hand to the side. And then it laughs, the first noise it's made, and rotting teeth go for his throat.
Disgust-fuelled strength sees the undead assassin thrown off him in time for Tharien to notice the two others, steps soft and unhurried on the flagstones, masked and cloaked, blades out, and panic flares like poison through his veins. Being killed by corpses in Murder Row had never been part of his plans, and yet it was starting to look increasingly likely now that he's caught between them. The two others stay at a lazy distance, letting the first do its job, or have its fun, as it lunges at its target with renewed force. Perhaps Tharien survives a little too long, perhaps half a minute of watching him grapple with the silent shape of their colleague gets dull. From the corner of his eye, Tharien has time to see the pale light slide along the barrel of a rifle being raised, and hear the dull, flat little voice in the back of his mind informing him that this was it, are you satisfied with what you've accompl--
Where the rifle-toting assassins head was, flames erupt. The dead thing still clings to him, teeth and blade and clawlike bony fingers, but it too appears surprised, pausing for a split second. Long enough for Tharien to put all his strength into a completely graceless shove to its chest and detach himself from it in time to hear someone yell "Down!". Following orders never came as naturally to him as now, and he hits the ground without a second's hesitation. A streak of light, a flurry of inky shade dissolving before it, and he's not sure he trusts his eyes when he sees the shadows surge through the one remaining assassin before disappearing entirely. The masked figure drops like a sack of rocks, dead a second time, and gets a knife through the eye when the girl passes.
Tight dress, cleavage to rival Nancias, shortbow. Adrenaline still pumps wildly through his veins when Tharien picks himself up and stares at the girl, then catches himself and thanks her. Her apology for her late arrival takes him by surprise, as does the rest of her casual conversation. He doesn't object to her suggestion that they move elsewhere though the streets pass in a paranoid blur of details, shadows and black cats making him jump until they emerge on a busy street, the kind with streetlights and guards and people. He picks a bar, gets a table out of the way, and though he'd expected no answers to his questions he gets them, and his suspicion is confirmed.