The Set-Up

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.

OoC: I've decided you may comment before I'm finished.

IC: Marcus lived in a tiny one-room apartment in the slums of Putyr. It was on the very top floor, the least desirable location for any apartment for a multitude of reasons. The walls were a cheap, flexible wood and were bare. The thatch roof leaked and was, in itself, an ecosystem home to hundreds of insects and rats. The only apparent furniture in the room was a single, metal-framed bed with a cardboard-thin mattress, and a small dresser in the corner. The window was devoid of glass, covered only by a tattered cloth tied to the frame. The first, most obvious question that arises is: Why did Marcus, a highly-paid assassin, live in squalor such as this? And the answer is: Everyone knows the most likely person to be assassinated is the assassin. He was simply trying to keep a low-profile.

The creaks of the floorboards outside the crooked door announced the return of Marcus. He pushed open the door (no lock on the door, either), and sat on his bed. He sighed deeply and took his cloak off. He flung it in the general direction of the dresser, and the scruffy paper fell out and landed on the floor with a silent thud. Marcus reached for it and realised it was that man Johnson had given him. He decided it might be good for a laugh, and opened it.

No. 23 Cooper Street, Just off Belangrist Square
Target: John Brady Task: Assassination, Make it look like an accident
Reward: 1700crns

Johnson, Mitchell

Marcus read it three times, just for belief’s sake. Seventeen Hundred Crowns!? He thought, That’s enough to retire on! But then he noticed something, Assassination… H’mmm… He said “Just a scare”… But then Marcus’ greed overpowered his common sense, Ah, it’s probably nothing. He dropped the paper and got up with a creak of bedsprings. He carefully stepped on one loose floorboard and the other end rose up, like a see-saw. He took only one item out of the hidden cubby-hole: A knife, with a plain wooden handle and a blade so sharp you could swear it went ting when it caught the light. Marcus had always liked to challenge himself on his assassinations, he felt it was the only thing he was really any good at.

Marcus opened his window (that is, he pulled across the rag from the hole), and climbed out. It was naught but a step out onto the next roof. He always used the roofs during an assassination, he was faster and unnoticed when he was on the roofs. It was more or less straight to Cooper Street. He began to walk his special way, his feet went in front of him first, and the body floated over. This not only made no noise, but also allowed him to test the floor in front of him. But he did it so fast and smoothly, you‘d think it was just a form of tip-toe running. He made sure his weight was supported on the wooden crossbeams. It was darkening now, and more fog was creeping in from the highlands. The streets looked like they were miles below, below the clouds.

He jumped across an alley, and landed heavily on the roof opposite, and continued. He shimmied onto a taller building in front of him, and from that, he jumped onto a roof across the street. The people would only have thought it was an overly-large bat. He was on the Cooper Street now. Or rather, high above it. He walked along the row of buildings, counting. He stopped.

“No. 23,” he said to himself.

He produced his knife and embedded it into the roof. He quickly cut a hole into it, and let the disc of thatch fall down to the floor below with a fwump.

He followed it.

Marcus landed heavily, but the segregated thatch muffled his fall. He was in a short, dark hallway. The only light came from above his head. He made his way to the door at the end, making sure his footfalls landed near the walls, to prevent any creaking. His ears were alert for even the slightest noise, his poor eyes even poorer in the gloom. The door was not a perfect fit for the frame. Marcus could tell, only by looking, it would make a horrible clacking when he opened. He used his bony index finger to keep the tumblers in perfect place while he slowly pulled the door open carefully. Not even a creak was heard, he used his foot support the door on the hinges so they barely touched them at all. This was the way Marcus always opened doors. At least, while working. He slipped through the door and continued.

***

“So far so good.”
“Any assassin can do this.”
“Yes, well, we’ll all see soon enough.”

***

The next room was unlit, too, and you could tell ,just by being in there, that it had been unoccupied for quite some time. But this wasn’t really all that suspicious. The rich people Marcus had been sent to kill were generally eccentric old people who lived on their own in a big, empty mansion. That was sometimes the reason they had to be killed. He strode the length of the room to the next door, he tried it, and it was locked. Strange, he thought, a locked door inside the house. Most doors like these could easily be opened with a lock pick, but the simpler, often overlooked way, was merely to lift the door, thereby taking the lock out of its socket. He did so, slowly so as not to make noise, and subsequently swung it open.

He was now in the foyer. This place had a slightly more used quality to it.
There was littler dust, there were old trails of feet from the front door to the rooms, and the chandelier was lit with several low, yellow candles that sucked and popped in the wax. One of the skills Marcus had learned was wood prospecting. It was used by assassins to determine whether a stair was creaky, put simply. Marcus could do it better than some carpenters. This was the kind of thing that made him the greatest assassin on Outcast Island. He knelt down and inspected the wood. The grain was oak, no doubt about it, and it was old. Old Oak is notorious for creaks. He inspected the handrail. It was relatively young Yew, not a creak off that, under any circumstances. He climbed on to it, and deftly crawled down, not once losing his balance. He alighted softly onto the first floor. There was another set of stairs going to the ground floor. He took note of them, and continued into the next room, searching for his quarry.

***

And from their various peep-holes, three people watched.

“Impressive,” said the first, without a hint of expression.

“Yes… Dorfl?” said the second.

“Yes, Master,” answered Dorfl.

“Let’s see how skilled our good friend Marcus really is.”

***

Oblivious to his watchers, Marcus progressed slowly through the house. He tread into the next room, silently. There was a window that caught the last light of the day, it was bright. There was a suite of sickly-green furniture that had accumulated a notably thick layer of dust. The olive-green sofas surrounded a small table that supported a set of glasses and a decanter. Marcus grinned and decided to have just a sip. He walked to the table and took a glass.

There was a cough from the next room and the noise of a chair dragging on a wooden floor. As footsteps neared the door, Marcus silently placed the glass down. He looked for a hiding place ever so slightly frantically. He ducked behind the nearest lime sofa, and slowed his breathing. He was lucky his cloak was not only black for the shadows, but also a dark green for the sofa. He covered himself in it and waited.

He didn’t wait long. The door creaked open and a figure appeared at the doorway. It walked erratically to the sofa Marcus was at, and sat on it, heavily. A cloud of dust billowed into the air and slowly became one with it. Marcus was deadly quiet now. He didn’t know whether this man was John or not, but he was willing to bet he was. There was a clink of glass and the sound of a liquid pouring.

H’mmm… Mr. Brady should know drinking can damage his health… Marcus thought.

He noiselessly moved into position and imagined himself jumping over the sofa, grabbing the glass and pouring it all down his target’s throat, while punching his lungs. Keyword: Imagined.

In reality, Dorfl, the highly skilled assassin, sprang into action and punched Marcus right in the chest while in mid-air, sending him, breathless, flying into the table, snapping it in half.

“All too easy,” Dorfl gloated, and moved towards the temporarily paralysed Marcus, producing a blade from his wrist.

OoC: Oh, yeah, and I didn't make up the poem in the titles, but it is a modified version of the poem here.

IC: “Not the best of ideas,” said the second.

“Oh, please, how was he to know it was Dorfl?” said the first.

***

Marcus writhed amid the wreckage of the table as he saw his adversary come to him and unsheathe a wrist-knife. He fought back a hundred questions in his mind and focused on surviving. He quickly flicked his eyes to an area behind Dorfl. He hadn’t expected much, and received little. Dorfl barely paused to process this feint. But it gave Marcus ample time. He leapt up from the splinters and drew his knife. He strafed to his left and jumped onto a sofa gaining the high ground. The would-be John Brady narrowed his eyes and evasively attacked Marcus, but only for a second. Marcus was put off by Dorfl’s sudden manoeuvre and ran to the end of the sofa. Dorfl gave it a flying kick, unbalancing Marcus, but not enough to throw him off.

Marcus wobbled uneasily on the sofa arm, giving Dorfl time to jump up and onto the opposite end of the green settee, tipping it over and throwing Marcus towards him. They collided into each other, winding Dorfl but the momentum carried Marcus onto the wooden wall, snapping it. He seized his opportunity as Dorfl wheezed on the floor, and ducked out of the room. Marcus put his objections on hold for just a moment as he raced through this room and into the next. Here there was a window, offering no light, the sun having just set beyond the horizon. The darkness was perfect, and, as Dorfl’s heavy footsteps pounded outside, Marcus ducked behind an empty bookshelf.

Dorfl entered, and left as soon as he had, through the next door. Odd, Marcus thought, Reason suggests he would search for me, if he so wanted me dead. Then he began to think about his whole scenario. It was clear that his client was nervous as he gave Marcus his assignment, and he gave one different to that on the paper… And he did have a gut feeling about the whole place, as if it were made for assassinating assassins. It was all a trick… He thought, And I’ve got to get out of here if I want to survive. And if they know enough to want me dead, then they could know where I live. Not safe to go back there again. But perhaps… If no-one alive knows…

Marcus smiled a grim smile. He extricated himself from the cobwebs behind the wardrobe, and searched for his would-be killer. He could hear him in the room over. He was doing something loud, moving wood. But there wasn’t anything wooden in there, was there? Just green furniture… There was a ripping sound and the light rain sound of splinters falling to the ground. Marcus opened the door just a crack and saw the man ripping the wooden wall off, apparently trying to fit through. He widened his eyes and considered he was seeing a madman. Inadvertently, he had steeped onto a creaky floorboard. There was the slightest of creaks, and Dorfl paused. Suddenly, he span around, and threw his knife at Marcus. Through an impressive feat of agility, he caught it and instantly sent it flying back at Dorfl, hitting him squarely in the chest. The late Dorfl toppled backwards into the wall, finishing the job of opening it.

Wait… Opening it? Marcus warily checked the hole, and to his surprise, found a dark and gloomy passageway inside. Built for assassinating assassins indeed… Marcus marvelled. He considered entering, but decided in there could only be worse than out here. Without hesitating, Marcus proudly fled the building with little difficult, out onto the foggy streets. He felt at ease as he faded into the white, and sought a room for the night.

***

“The fool didn’t even check our passageways!” said the second.

“I believe the proverb, “He who runs away shall live another day,” doesn’t come into it, Mr. Deors-Mäcul?”

“Oh… Please, cowardice is not a trait favourable in an assassin!”

“No, not cowardice, my good sir, logic.”

“Logic is not needed in one who blindly takes orders, either, my good sir.”

“Oh, do calm down… We need to tail him,” he finished, and tramped down the corridor.

***

And our good friend Marcus walked on through the mists as the scouts for the International Guild of Assassins, Spies and Saboteurs followed on the rooftops.

Somebody's been reading Terry Pratchett.

Great story so far. It's not often you see a character that's just packing his wits, some experience, and one knife with him...fun to read, you know? If I had to complain about one thing, it's that Marcus's personality doesn't show very well sometimes...but maybe that's just him being a cold, calculating S.O.B., haha. Everything else like description and battle scenes and whatnot are all great! Keep up the good work.

OoC:

Originally Posted by Duke of Clubs

Somebody's been reading Terry Pratchett.

Damn! He saw through my ploy! It's not that bad, is it? I mean, I used the name Dorfl, but that's only a name, right? Anyway, I thought I might add a bit of comic relief by means of the two watchers. Slight comic relief.

IC: The fog was a light, white sea. Marcus imagined he was swimming through it, blindly. It was his favourite stuff, fog. He liked humidity, but he didn’t like heat. The damp air kept his lungs plump and gave his nose a nice, fuzzy feeling. But best of all, the cold kept him awake and alert, making him all the better an assassin. He walked quickly, leaving a vacuum, as it were, behind him, sucking the fog he had pushed aside back in. He found he was drenched after only a minute. Marcus squinted the signpost into existence. That was the only bad thing about fog. Made you blind, and Marcus’ slight eye deficiency didn’t help. He struggled to see the large print even though he was nigh on beside it.

Sn… Smi.. Smith… Smithco, Smithso... nian… Street, he read. Now, don’t get the wrong impression, Marcus excelled in the field of literacy, just like every other field, the little creep. He’s just a bit short-sighted. In ways more than one.

Satisfied, he turned onto Smithsonian Street, leaving behind the rich district for the poor. Marcus had always liked that Putyr was an early-bird city, not a night owl. It made things simpler.

***

“Look, just… Like this! Yes, on the crossbeams,” said an exasperated scout.

“Well I don’t see why we can’t follow him on the ground, he can see us more easily up here than down there!” said Mr. Deors Mäcul.

“You saw him do it this way, and he’s like, the king of assassins!”

“In Outcast Island, may-”

“Shhhh!!” The first interrupted.

“What!?”

“He’s right there, looking at the sign!” the first whispered.

“Where? I can’t see him!”

“Shut up! Shut up! The little smudge through the fog! Next to the wobbly cart” He pointed.

“Ah, right, okay. Oh, yeah, you dumped the body on the right street, yeah?”

“No,” said the first, without a hint of sarcasm, if you know what I mean.

***

Marcus continued on. He knew he should have probably checked that secret passageway, if only to make sense of his whole predicament. What kind of predicament was he in, anyway?

Let’s see… There’s someone who wants me dead, and that someone had enough money to use a booby-trap infested house with another assassin as a means for to accomplish that task. Then that means this person has enough money to get me anywhere, and that means nowhere, least of all my actual house is safe. The prime suspect is Mitchell Johnson… But no, I’m only thinking that because he’s the only suspect. Well, let’s try and look at the positives…

When none were forthcoming, Marcus looked up and realised his feet had carried him onto his street, subconsciously. And not only that, but also his foot was on something squishy.

“Oh, crap.” He was in the worst possible place, he crouched down, disappearing into the fog. And found the corpse of Mitchell Johnson.

“Oh… Jesus,” he cursed (of course, he said the name of his respective deity, but because anything he’s said so far has been translated from a language not unlike the sound of someone singing with a mouth full of biscuits, we can hardly stop at names of obscure prophets, now can we?). Marcus was, of course, not unused to corpses, so he knelt down closer for an inspection. Yes, an inspection, because he is, of course, as we’ve explained recently, an expert in all fields regarding killing and silence. Body inspection is not an exception.

There was no sign of an entry wound, or signs that he was strangled. And chances are he didn’t die of old age. Marcus knew the only reason for a death he couldn’t find the reason for was an assassination. And an assassination requiring an assassin more skilled than he was.

Which means he was killed from someone abroad… Marcus was cocky and proud, no doubt about it, but… Well, he was the best assassin Outcast Island. And Marcus considered: I was only talking to him an hour ago… This must mean he wasn’t part of the plot, a pawn…

Suddenly, everything was coming together, or so Marcus thought.

***

“Perfect, he’s found Johnson!”

“Hey, the thatch is-”

“Oh, look, he’s just moving on!”

“Listen, I can’t hold-”

“Will you please stop interrupting? I’m trying to keep an eye on him.”

“Help! I’m falling!!”

“SHH!! He’s heard us!”

“AAAGHH!!”

***

Marcus heard a scream and a crash behind him. He turned around, tense, and saw a figure struggling to his feet in a disturbance in the fog. It groaned and looked at him. Marcus could see a pale face, shiny with condensation and eyes as wide as the moon.

“Are you alright?” Marcus asked, surprised. The man paused for a moment, then jumped to his feet and ran away, disappearing into the fog. Marcus, following instinct, followed the man. He could barely see his quarry, only a slightly greyer shade of white showed up against the fog, his deep black coat. Marcus was catching up, fast, and the man knew it. He ducked into a side alley, and continued running. There being less fog here, he reckoned his coat would show up less against the shadows. Marcus kept a close pursuit, dark green cloak flapping in the wind. Already the escapist was slowing, his breath coming in large gasps. Marcus was very close and then he tripped over a cobble loosened just now. He scrambled to his feet and could scarcely see his target, now only jogging at the end of the alleyway. The chase was renewed again, with as much vigour as it had when it started. But now Marcus had a limp, he was slower than his unfit adversary for a moment, but still managed to keep a close gap. They came onto another street, this one with some people and late-night vendors. Mr. Deors-Mäcul looked back to see his chaser, and crashed headlong into a barrow, knocking jars and a barrowman flying. Smashes and curses were heard. Ignoring cries of despair, he gathered himself and dashed along the road. The unfortunate barrowman too got to his feet, only to be knocked to the ground again by another speeding pedestrian. The hunt continued onto another lane, and the chased literally collapsed with exhaustion.

The chaser soon got to him, and spared no time in getting answers.

“Who are you!?” Marcus demanded, shaking his shoulders.

“… Luke… Deors-Mä… Cul…” He was choking, partly for lack of breath and partly for the fear,

“Who sent you!?”

“Derante… General Derante…”

At that instant, Marcus was kicked in the side of the head. He lay, paralysed, on the ground.

“Did you tell him anything?” Marcus heard, a familiar voice.

“… No,” said another, familiar, but more obvious.

Marcus heard more, but the memories were buried in the back of his mind as he drifted out of consciousness.