The funeral bells gonged throughout Putyr, signifying the end of Peter L’Ascieux. They echoed across the cobbles, into the alleyways, into the very souls of the people. They tolled the fact of death whether the people wanted it or not, as if to say, “Hey, you don’t know this guy, but you should respect his passing!”

They were heard loudest in Strongem Cemetery, where the relatives mourned the sad loss with clichéd cries of, “He was before his time,” and “It should have been me!” Oddly enough, the only unmoved person present was the man’s only son.

Marcus L’Ascieux. He had been trained not to be touched by death, otherwise he would be in misery constantly. Marcus was a professional assassin, the best in all of Putyr, it was said. Garbed in a dark green cloak and a face of pure indifference, he quite put the others of. More, of course. His silver eyes stared straight ahead, focused on nothing. A thick fog clung to the ground, it had poured into the open grave. It was cold, but Marcus did not shiver. He didn’t do anything, as a matter of fact. It was somewhat unnerving. If you looked closely you could tell there was a slightly larger than average gap between himself and the rest of the mourners.

Marcus looked to the horizon. He had always thought his father was a benign, decent man. He had always worked hard as a tanner, a demanding job in itself, and, Marcus realised, it had only ever been for others. Even after his very homeland, his people, exiled him to Outcast Island, he pulled through for his wife, and his newborn son. He remembered, with a subdued chuckle, the way his father often simply gave away his goods top people of negotiable need. People used to be a little surprised when he said things like: “A pair of leather boots will be… Ah, forget it, who needs money?”.

Someone sneezed beside Marcus, breaking him out his musings, to resume his cold-hearted stare, but not for long. A thought erupted in his mind. I really hardly did know him did I? No, that’s a bit of an line. But then… What with my hunting, apprenticeship… And his work… Maybe I didn’t…

The priest finished the hasty sermon. He snapped his holy book closed, and motioned for the men to lower the cheap, wooden coffin. With creaks of rope they did so, the coffin disappearing into the thick fog, acting as a very clever (yet utterly gloomy) metaphor for the waning and the departing of the human soul. The sobs intensified, even Marcus’ eyes began to water. But only slightly. The coffin hit the ground with a muffled thump, and the funeral was over.

Marcus left first. The others remained a while, much to the discontent of the hurried gravediggers. As he passed by the many gravestones, he thought for a second: I wonder; how many of these are a result of my guild? And then a more chilling: How many by me?

He was so caught up with his musings that he didn’t notice the expectant man leaning against the pillar of the main gate. He walked right by him, and he started.

“Sir? Mr. Lasee-Ux!” he called out, with atrocious pronunciation. Marcus stopped, and swivelled.

“Yes?” He acknowledged, impatiently.

“I’d like a word. I mean… If you do-don’t mind,” he requested, nervously.

Marcus walked over to him. He could see he was a short, twitchy man, with a greasy and pimpled face.

“The name’s Johnson, Mitchell Johnson,” he began, proffering a hand. When Marcus did not shake it, it awkwardly shrank back

“Yes, well… I have a… B-B-Business p-p-proposal for you, Mr. Lasee-Ux.”

“It’s L’As…!” Marcus sighed , “Yes? Who do you want killed?” he decided to get straight to the point. He was already irritated and looked past his client at the mourners. They were slowly dispersing.

Mitchell was slightly taken aback by Marcus’ straightforwardness: “Oh, it’s n-n-not an assassination…”

“Well, thank you, it’s been an engaging conversation,” Marcus turned to leave.

“No! I mean… Well, I just want you to… W-W-Well, scare him a bit.”

“Assassins don’t do that, but I can recommend someone who says “boo” very well,” Marcus said, his voice laced with sarcasm.

“No! But… Oh, here, j-j-just take the details,” he offered a crumpled sheet of paper.

“Thank you, I’m sure to give it a thorough examination,” he finished, snatching it and stuffing it in his pocket, intending to do the very opposite. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, turned on the spot and briskly walked into the town, and the fog.


OoC: Sorry, that first thread was an accident, could a moderator delete it? Sorry again.

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