Namoric
March 22nd, 2009, 12:55 PM
An Assassin's Song
by Joxer
A dark figure lay in wait by the tavern doors. Bathed in dark shadows, the assassin watched as patrons came to and from the busy Brewman Pub. Nazzire de Milo was quite fond of this quiet part of the world, the Yew area often times gave wondrous enjoyment to the darkened soul of this Master of Assassins as well as providing the secure home to his cousin, Lord Joxer the Mighty, and the guild with whom he belonged, The Lost Order of Akalabeth.
Nazzire often times wondered how he came to be such a foul man. While he did maintain honor and vigilance as his highest virtue, Nazzire was, at the heart of all things, a murderous scoundrel of the highest caliber. When he was a young child, random thieves murdered his mother in their Scara Brae home. Having never known whom his father was, the young Nazzire took to the streets as a destitute beggar.
Living on the streets was very tough on Nazzire. His only family that he knew of was his cousin Joxer -- but he was far away in the Trinsic jungles and most likely knew nothing of the murder or of Nazzire's plight. Their families were never that close you see and at this time Joxer was nothing more than a farmboy and could do little to help even if he had known.
So Nazzire was left to his own devices.
A few years passed with little improvement to Nazzire's life. Having learned a good bit about thievery from other street people, he eventually found passage aboard a small boat to Buccaneer's Den -- home of those unscrupulous folk that earned their living off of piracy, murder and pillage. This is the place where Nazzire would truly evolve. Never again, he swore, would he suffer the burdens of poverty and ridicule.
Shaking these thoughts from his head, Nazzire continued to watch and wait -- his prey not within sight.
Nazzire first killed a man when he was twelve years old, an accidental slaying of a merchant who he woke during a midnight theft. He had only meant to incapacitate the old man, but the merchant's health could not withstand the crushing blow to the skull. Seeing the old man dying at his feet, Nazzire was changed forever more. He felt no pity, no remorse at what he had done. The other thieves would always tell Naz how hard the first kill was, how it floods you with guilt and anxiety. But for him this was not the case. It was a simple action that ceased this creature's being.
Though the candle may be blown out, the room and its contents still remain.
A woman walked through the village holding a softly glowing candle. She was quite beautiful and wore the colors of an Akalabethian elder. Nazzire did not recognize the woman, but he did notice that she appeared to be looking for something in the shadows of the houses. Then he heard her speak:
"Here Starlet... come on out.. I have fish cakes for ye..."
Ah, Nazzire thought, she appears to look for some animal, a pet perhaps. Looking about his environment, he decided it best to move to a point of higher elevation. Quickly he moved, around the side and to the back of the Barracks -- leaving only a whisper of his passing. Pulling out a thin cord, Nazzire fastened a small hook and grappled the roof of the building. Pulling himself up as quick as a spider, Nazzire took nest within view of the pub's entrance.
His second kill was the hardest. A woman named Freya who was believed to be unfaithful to her husband, a wealthy landowner with powerful friends. This woman was one of the most beautiful women Nazzire has ever laid eyes on and his first female kill. He was hired by the husband, for a price of five thousand crowns, to remove her life and leave behind the appearance of a suicide -- a final effort made by the woman to remove her of guilt. It was the act itself that weighed upon him; he gave the woman a choice before she died of how she wanted to be found: dead by poison or death by hanging. Freya chose poison but the only venom Nazzire had was slow acting and painful. He watched for two hours as the gagged woman slowly died.
It wasn't until the sixth kill that he actually enjoyed it.
An autumn chill crept into the thick wool shirt. Rubbing his hands for warmth, Nazzire looked about the village. Surely the patrons inside the tavern would be enjoying deep ale and freshly baked breads -- all served near the warmth of a great fire pit. How he envied this land. The Lost Order had always taken care of their own, have always tried to do justice even in the face of corruption and betrayal. These traits, even if Naz didn't follow or endorse, deserved to be respected. It takes a great deal to earn Nazzire de Milo's respect.
Cousin Joxer was a great man. Being the most decorated member in the Lost Order was well deserved -- and hard fought against the hordes of evil that threatened the Order's home on a daily basis. Nazzire knew that Joxer was well liked and famed throughout the land but this was not enough to earn his respect. Joxer was a kind-hearted man at his truest nature. The many years he spent pirating the seas wore hard on his soul and in the light of the Shard he found his forgiveness and sanctuary. This is what earned Nazzire's respect, not the medals, nor the praise, nor the unwavering friendship of a great many folk. He was in his truest nature a good man.
Nazzire was quite the opposite.
Reaching into his pack, Nazzire drew forth a wicked black crossbow and a small case -- also painted a deep black. Inside the case were several crossbow bolts, each being fletched with harpy feathers and laced with extremely deadly poison. Loading the bow, Nazzire looked for his prey. The poison he used was the most deadly he could possibly create -- a mixture of nightshade, silver serpent venom and one special ingredient -- the boiled bark from the Order's "Tree of Faith". This poison would fell any living creature within seconds of induction -- even those protected by the divine light of the Shard - forever banishing them from the face of Britannia as a cursed shade, unable to receive the restorative healing magic.
Leveling the bow toward the front doors of the Brewman Pub, Nazzire waited.
The loud singing and sounds of drunken revelry echoed through the night. The bright lights within cast strange misshapen shadows about the village -- the bar being the center of attention on this eve. There was a celebration going on, a victory celebration over a glorious battle west of Vesper in which many Ebon Skull were banished from the realm of the living.
Nazzire waited for the target. He did not know who he was contracted to kill, only that when the time is right and the target in view -- instruction would follow. He would be paid fifty thousand crowns to do the deed; the assassination of a ranking Akalabeth member was all he knew.
It was just past midnight when the patrons began to exit the bar.
"...Him....he's the one.....", whispered a hollow voice. "...He be the one we seek.... To Oblivion ye send him...."
Nazzire steadied himself and prepared for the shot.
. . .
Freejack, Guildmaster of the Lost Order of Akalabeth, was quite drunk. The celebrations at the Brewman Pub lasted quite some time and the aging man was tired and in need of rest. Stretching his arms wide and drunkenly standing up from one of the many stools, he prepared to leave.
"Lord Freejack!", a rosy faced Affliction yelled, "Ye are in need of a escort else ye might end up wanderin' in ole Joxer's oven. Haha. Let us take some revelry outside so that we might perhaps wake the birds and hear their tunes then sleep ye may -- but only after another draw of Yewberry Wine."
Several other members of Akalabeth were roused by these words and joined in the party. "Hear! Hear!", yelled Lord Stubby, "Let us wake yon birds with.... Um... words of........", then he promptly fell over -- passed out under the haze of whiskey -- his face buried in a pile of half eaten potatoes.
The outside air was chilled; the coming winter could be felt throughout the northern Yew area. Freejack drew his cloak tightly around his body as he stepped out onto the Brewman's porch. Behind him, Lord Affliction and Lady Tara followed.
"My lord Freejack." Tara spoke, "The winds are indeed chilled this eve. Mayhap an autumn storm approaches? Well, we best get inside regardless less we catch a fierce ailment. The rum only warms so much of the spirit!"
"Aye Lady Tara, perhaps ye and Affliction should go back inside. I will be fine, tis only a short walk to my bed and only the dead would be out this eve. The Shard protects us and I have naught to fear."
"As ye wish my Lord."
. . .
Nazzire aimed at the victim's chest. It was an easy shot for a skilled archer and he was considered a master of the art. The drunken man would fall this night, easily banished from the realm of the living -- forced to walk in darkness for eternity. Fifty thousand crowns richer would he be, good pay for a job he enjoyed.
Then he saw her. Lady Tara who he recognized even in the shadows. She was quite beautiful, her long braids tied into a tail, scimitar at her side and her white shirt held by a wide black belt. She looked such the swashbuckler. He had on numerous occasions conversed with the fair lady but Nazzire knew deep inside that his feelings could never be revealed to her -- he didn't trust himself enough. He knew his path led to darkness and he would never attempt to bring her with him.
She reminded him of the fair Freya that he loved many years ago.
by Joxer
A dark figure lay in wait by the tavern doors. Bathed in dark shadows, the assassin watched as patrons came to and from the busy Brewman Pub. Nazzire de Milo was quite fond of this quiet part of the world, the Yew area often times gave wondrous enjoyment to the darkened soul of this Master of Assassins as well as providing the secure home to his cousin, Lord Joxer the Mighty, and the guild with whom he belonged, The Lost Order of Akalabeth.
Nazzire often times wondered how he came to be such a foul man. While he did maintain honor and vigilance as his highest virtue, Nazzire was, at the heart of all things, a murderous scoundrel of the highest caliber. When he was a young child, random thieves murdered his mother in their Scara Brae home. Having never known whom his father was, the young Nazzire took to the streets as a destitute beggar.
Living on the streets was very tough on Nazzire. His only family that he knew of was his cousin Joxer -- but he was far away in the Trinsic jungles and most likely knew nothing of the murder or of Nazzire's plight. Their families were never that close you see and at this time Joxer was nothing more than a farmboy and could do little to help even if he had known.
So Nazzire was left to his own devices.
A few years passed with little improvement to Nazzire's life. Having learned a good bit about thievery from other street people, he eventually found passage aboard a small boat to Buccaneer's Den -- home of those unscrupulous folk that earned their living off of piracy, murder and pillage. This is the place where Nazzire would truly evolve. Never again, he swore, would he suffer the burdens of poverty and ridicule.
Shaking these thoughts from his head, Nazzire continued to watch and wait -- his prey not within sight.
Nazzire first killed a man when he was twelve years old, an accidental slaying of a merchant who he woke during a midnight theft. He had only meant to incapacitate the old man, but the merchant's health could not withstand the crushing blow to the skull. Seeing the old man dying at his feet, Nazzire was changed forever more. He felt no pity, no remorse at what he had done. The other thieves would always tell Naz how hard the first kill was, how it floods you with guilt and anxiety. But for him this was not the case. It was a simple action that ceased this creature's being.
Though the candle may be blown out, the room and its contents still remain.
A woman walked through the village holding a softly glowing candle. She was quite beautiful and wore the colors of an Akalabethian elder. Nazzire did not recognize the woman, but he did notice that she appeared to be looking for something in the shadows of the houses. Then he heard her speak:
"Here Starlet... come on out.. I have fish cakes for ye..."
Ah, Nazzire thought, she appears to look for some animal, a pet perhaps. Looking about his environment, he decided it best to move to a point of higher elevation. Quickly he moved, around the side and to the back of the Barracks -- leaving only a whisper of his passing. Pulling out a thin cord, Nazzire fastened a small hook and grappled the roof of the building. Pulling himself up as quick as a spider, Nazzire took nest within view of the pub's entrance.
His second kill was the hardest. A woman named Freya who was believed to be unfaithful to her husband, a wealthy landowner with powerful friends. This woman was one of the most beautiful women Nazzire has ever laid eyes on and his first female kill. He was hired by the husband, for a price of five thousand crowns, to remove her life and leave behind the appearance of a suicide -- a final effort made by the woman to remove her of guilt. It was the act itself that weighed upon him; he gave the woman a choice before she died of how she wanted to be found: dead by poison or death by hanging. Freya chose poison but the only venom Nazzire had was slow acting and painful. He watched for two hours as the gagged woman slowly died.
It wasn't until the sixth kill that he actually enjoyed it.
An autumn chill crept into the thick wool shirt. Rubbing his hands for warmth, Nazzire looked about the village. Surely the patrons inside the tavern would be enjoying deep ale and freshly baked breads -- all served near the warmth of a great fire pit. How he envied this land. The Lost Order had always taken care of their own, have always tried to do justice even in the face of corruption and betrayal. These traits, even if Naz didn't follow or endorse, deserved to be respected. It takes a great deal to earn Nazzire de Milo's respect.
Cousin Joxer was a great man. Being the most decorated member in the Lost Order was well deserved -- and hard fought against the hordes of evil that threatened the Order's home on a daily basis. Nazzire knew that Joxer was well liked and famed throughout the land but this was not enough to earn his respect. Joxer was a kind-hearted man at his truest nature. The many years he spent pirating the seas wore hard on his soul and in the light of the Shard he found his forgiveness and sanctuary. This is what earned Nazzire's respect, not the medals, nor the praise, nor the unwavering friendship of a great many folk. He was in his truest nature a good man.
Nazzire was quite the opposite.
Reaching into his pack, Nazzire drew forth a wicked black crossbow and a small case -- also painted a deep black. Inside the case were several crossbow bolts, each being fletched with harpy feathers and laced with extremely deadly poison. Loading the bow, Nazzire looked for his prey. The poison he used was the most deadly he could possibly create -- a mixture of nightshade, silver serpent venom and one special ingredient -- the boiled bark from the Order's "Tree of Faith". This poison would fell any living creature within seconds of induction -- even those protected by the divine light of the Shard - forever banishing them from the face of Britannia as a cursed shade, unable to receive the restorative healing magic.
Leveling the bow toward the front doors of the Brewman Pub, Nazzire waited.
The loud singing and sounds of drunken revelry echoed through the night. The bright lights within cast strange misshapen shadows about the village -- the bar being the center of attention on this eve. There was a celebration going on, a victory celebration over a glorious battle west of Vesper in which many Ebon Skull were banished from the realm of the living.
Nazzire waited for the target. He did not know who he was contracted to kill, only that when the time is right and the target in view -- instruction would follow. He would be paid fifty thousand crowns to do the deed; the assassination of a ranking Akalabeth member was all he knew.
It was just past midnight when the patrons began to exit the bar.
"...Him....he's the one.....", whispered a hollow voice. "...He be the one we seek.... To Oblivion ye send him...."
Nazzire steadied himself and prepared for the shot.
. . .
Freejack, Guildmaster of the Lost Order of Akalabeth, was quite drunk. The celebrations at the Brewman Pub lasted quite some time and the aging man was tired and in need of rest. Stretching his arms wide and drunkenly standing up from one of the many stools, he prepared to leave.
"Lord Freejack!", a rosy faced Affliction yelled, "Ye are in need of a escort else ye might end up wanderin' in ole Joxer's oven. Haha. Let us take some revelry outside so that we might perhaps wake the birds and hear their tunes then sleep ye may -- but only after another draw of Yewberry Wine."
Several other members of Akalabeth were roused by these words and joined in the party. "Hear! Hear!", yelled Lord Stubby, "Let us wake yon birds with.... Um... words of........", then he promptly fell over -- passed out under the haze of whiskey -- his face buried in a pile of half eaten potatoes.
The outside air was chilled; the coming winter could be felt throughout the northern Yew area. Freejack drew his cloak tightly around his body as he stepped out onto the Brewman's porch. Behind him, Lord Affliction and Lady Tara followed.
"My lord Freejack." Tara spoke, "The winds are indeed chilled this eve. Mayhap an autumn storm approaches? Well, we best get inside regardless less we catch a fierce ailment. The rum only warms so much of the spirit!"
"Aye Lady Tara, perhaps ye and Affliction should go back inside. I will be fine, tis only a short walk to my bed and only the dead would be out this eve. The Shard protects us and I have naught to fear."
"As ye wish my Lord."
. . .
Nazzire aimed at the victim's chest. It was an easy shot for a skilled archer and he was considered a master of the art. The drunken man would fall this night, easily banished from the realm of the living -- forced to walk in darkness for eternity. Fifty thousand crowns richer would he be, good pay for a job he enjoyed.
Then he saw her. Lady Tara who he recognized even in the shadows. She was quite beautiful, her long braids tied into a tail, scimitar at her side and her white shirt held by a wide black belt. She looked such the swashbuckler. He had on numerous occasions conversed with the fair lady but Nazzire knew deep inside that his feelings could never be revealed to her -- he didn't trust himself enough. He knew his path led to darkness and he would never attempt to bring her with him.
She reminded him of the fair Freya that he loved many years ago.