[Altamira] Marcus L'Ascieux's Training

[Hastina Fleegin Lish]

I rewrote the entrance entirely because of the whole inferiority complex thing, you know how it is.

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IC:

“Good. A willing and able body. Note that he showed no hesitation in giving chase,” a dry and calm voice spoke. Marcus struggled, but the grip was too strong, and he suddenly felt very tired, “And… His agility is to be recognised. Not a skill we are short of, but always good,” the voice continued in clear, smooth tones.

Marcus tried to speak, but realised a hand was clamped firmly over his mouth. He tried to wonder why he hadn’t noticed that before, but the thought was lost in conception, stuck in the pleasantly fuzzy mind of his. The ceiling tiles were flashing by now, and he vaguely felt his feet skid along the cold, stone floor. He felt that he should break free, but he couldn’t remember why.

He was shaken, and his eyes opened. Another shake, and he grunted. He was being dragged down a flight of stairs.

“Unhhh… I can’t… Stop now…” He managed to say, though his voice was somewhere else.

“Hm. And note a slight resistance to tranquilliser,” the voice returned, and Marcus knew no more.

A flickering silhouette flew across a cobble courtyard. Brackets glowed as their torches stretched and danced as the figure went by. Flames disintegrated and died, leaving only dark embers. A flowing cloak fluttered, pulled to and fro as the wearer seemed to pirouette past an oblivious bystander. The figure leaped onto the stone wall, climbing quickly, with superhuman strength. He reached the top, pausing only a second to ensure a clear path ahead. His footfalls were muffled in the close, warm air of the night as he loped along the flat roof. A leap over an alley blocked the moonlight below for a fraction of a second, and the Assassin neared the Castle of Derante.

Marcus woke with a start. Trying to make sense of his dream, he grabbed it and examined it. Too tightly, though, for the memory slipped like sand between fingers in his mental embrace. He lost the vision entirely, and hence tried to make sense of his capture. It had not been an enemy, that much he knew from his very existence now. He remembered that his kidnapper had been commenting on his abilities during the chase of his father.

His father! Everything else vanished as Marcus reviewed that situation. He had seen his dead father! But not dead, he was very much alive, and even stranger: He was in Surlika, his town of origin. Nothing made sense, Marcus decided. His father ran away, he was faster than his son, he disappeared into thin air, and now Marcus was lying in comfortable cot in a large room, with clean cotton clothes.

The door opened, and a man Marcus recognised from his new assassin guild entered. Suddenly things made a little more sense.

“Marcus!” his friend began, before Marcus could. “Are you alright?”

He paused for a moment, and chose the most appropriate response, “Where is my father?”

“What? Oh, sorry, that was just a look-alike we hired. We had to drill your reaction time to unexpected events. You did well, better than-”

“Where is he?” Marcus interjected. Suddenly things that had made sense were a mystery now.

“Well… He’s dead. That wasn’t your Dad, tough luck,” his friend continued, coming closer.
“…No, I saw him. It was exactly like I remem-”

Very quickly, he was tackled into the wall, pinned to the crude wooden boards. They creaked under the pressure, and the splintery wood dug into Marcus’ back.

“Listen, newbie,” he growled into his ear. Both their cool demeanours were lost, only tense and threatening faces remained. “I know you’re the best student here and all that, but sometimes it’s best that you accept what you’re told by people who can have you killed with one word rather than accepting what you see.”

Marcus stared into the furious face of his colleague and thought. He went through all the time he had spent in the assassin’s guild, in Putyr, in Surlika, in this room. The seconds seemed to stretch to fit the inner machinations of his mind. Things started moving, deep down in the furthest recesses of his mind.

“Because there are things nosy, ignorant people like you shouldn’t think about, or get into.”

“How did you know my father was dead?”

And at that moment the wall gave way with a loud snap, followed a whoosh as he and his inquisitor fell with it. Their screams of surprise echoed in the crisp, morning air as they fell from the top floor of the tower. Falling… Falling…

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OoC: Tacky and Clichéd, eh? (It's great if it isn't, but I'm saying that just in case it is, so you'll acknowledge the fact that I don't think it's the best thing ever, meaning the fall when you point out the fatal flaws in it won't be as huge, Lish)

HASTINA FLEEGIN'!