Murder

Sep 12, 2010 03:32

The dust on the bar thick, it kicks into he air as the note is slid down it, offending the senses of the half-pint sitting next to our hero. His attention to the halfling, now talking a healthy drink from what's is likely the single most vile thing one can put into their own person - and live, he stifles a chuckle. A creak of paper that's mostly stain and very little paper, and the man's eyes glance down to it. His features change as its clear the paper's contents stir his interest.
Reading the note, we the audience can see its a bounty for someone. As the man reads the name, the corner of his mouth creeps up into a cruel happiness, and he whispers, "Whore," that seems to be coupled almost lovingly with the name he reads. His eyes continue down to see who ordered this hit, knowing full well this bounty came to him alone, else he'd have taken the information - not been given it. His mouth crack full into a smile now, his teeth blades as his face distorts, slicing into two from ear to ear as his mouth widens. His teeth part with his laughter as he reads the one who ordered the hit. Oh the irony. Nothing so delicious in this world.
The man slides from the bar, promptly to his work, ignoring the bartender waiting for his payment. "Always best to start your work close to the home, I think," he muses openly to himself as his hands hungrily handle the pommel of his black knife, and it's wickedly curved blade. Turning sharply down an alleyway, he vanishes from sight.
Our hero once again breaches the light as he steps under a streetlamp in the artisan district. His eyes gleam in the flickering candle light. He knows the mason will be fast asleep and his wife will be home shortly to follow him. Stepping strongly and confidently forward, he bridges the road and approaches the door. Not bothering to test the mason's ability and securing the door, he instead makes his way precariously up the side of the man's home, confident the stones were places masterfully, to the second story window and the master bedroom.
As his feet hit the floor, he rights himself to study the sleeping figure. A proud man in his youth, an early marriage and child broke him. Finding himself trapped, Mattius Mason fled and left his woman and child to found a new life. That child found him some time later, as her mother's new place in an ageless profession still couldn't find enough food for the two. Dutifully, despite his prior cowardice, he and his new wife took the child in, though an orphan to the community and dukedom, this house knew the truth.
A reminder of his old life as Mattius Cobbler, he treated the girl roughly. He was cold and abrupt to her, his hand finding her cheek sharply for the lightest offense. This hell he put her through is the only reason he dies swiftly now. He's save the torture to those who showed her kindness.
"Good evening, Mattius," the figure says from the window. The man in bed rouses. "Who's that. Is that Skylar?" Skylar chuckles to himself, walking boldly towards the half awake man, pulling his blade shortly from its home, "My old name, yes. You may call me the Angel of Death," Mattius made a half attempt to upright himself to defend, but resigned himself to his fate after remembering the stories, "So its true. Well, do what you will, then," Skylar agrees, closing the distance, handling the blade boldly. "Goodbye, Cobbler." These were the last words the man heard as the blade was driven roughly into his neck, pulled side to side.
The man, who is told to be Death Incarnate, took a step back and considered the passing Artisan. Watching the man struggle through his last few, short, breaths, He found his familiar enjoyment, knowing this paled in comparison to his the fulfillment waiting for him at the true completion of his commission. He waited as the man died to continue his work. When the last of the air left the Mason's lungs, Skylar leaned once more over him, driving his blade into the other's manhood, removing what separated him from women.
The door opens, and Skylar knows this must be Mrs. Mason, back from her laundering duties. Our hero stalks down the stairs, remembering the fights She and the Whore had. What ran through his mind faster, insessently, however, was how this woman put so much effort into making the Whore feel welcome. Into trying to better her. Skylar's face once more cracks in two, spreading his wicked mouth into a smile. Oh, how she had shown that girl kindness.
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