"Another impeccable piece of work, Carradine. The Kingdom of Altalusia thanks you for your service—once again."
Carradine’s smirk came unbidden, curling at the corners of his mouth. Praise always amused him—especially when it came from the mouths of nobles who hid behind masks and candlelight, speaking as if their hands were clean. They never came themselves. Instead, they sent their liaison: a faceless figure in silk and shadow, standing in for the gleaming halls of the Blade Tower.
The real power spoke from afar, but the filth of their orders landed squarely on his blade.
"Yes," Carradine drawled, arms folding across his chest as his eyes shut in a slow, mocking blink, rolling them beneath his lids. "I'm sure they do." His voice carried the edge of a scoff. "I take gratitude in stacks of a hundred—no fewer than seven."
He opened his eyes again, watching as the figure counted out the gold with careful fingers. The performance was tiresome. A charade. Surely even this veiled representative knew it. To rule was to kill—whether by decree or by dagger. Would the people of Altalusia truly be shocked to know their rulers paid men like him? Hardly. Carradine wagered they'd be more surprised to learn they didn't.
"Seven hundred, as requested," the figure said at last, pushing the neatly bound stacks forward with a quiet clink. A silent tilt of the head followed, urging Carradine to claim his reward.
But he didn’t move. Instead shaking his head slowly.
Both guards flanking the table shifted at once, hands falling to weapons, boots scraping forward. Tension flooded the small room—but the masked noble raised a hand, halting them with a single motion. "Your additional... requests... have been sent to your home," the liaison said. "Even so, I’ve been instructed to remind you of your station, Blackbird. You are gifted, yes—but not irreplaceable. Do not make yourself more trouble than you're worth."
Carradine couldn't help but balk, reaching out and plucking the stacks one by one off of the table and placing them neatly in a leather pouch affixed to his belt. "Mmm, the next time a brazen little Viscount attempts to organize a coup upon the Sovereign with a few dozen fanatics at his back, I'll let the duty of defusing the situation fall to the other assassin you have capable of such a feat. What was his name again? Ser Imaginary?"
He didn’t need to see the noble’s face to feel the tension spike behind the mask. The grinding of teeth was almost audible. This conversation was done, and Carradine had far better things to do than poke and prod at a silk-swaddled sack of privilege all evening. The slender frame of death on legs turned on his cursed heel with the soundless grace of a man who'd never had to run, exiting with an almost mocking wave back to the Noble, The Guard, and the Crown itself. Insolence and Farewell.
They’d come crawling back soon enough, more gold in hand, another name for his ledger of the dead. But that could wait.
As he stepped into the fading light of a dreary spring evening, the dim gray glow settling over the cobbled street, Carradine clicked his tongue against his teeth with a scowl. The sun was setting behind thick clouds, and he was late.
She hated waiting on their dates.
@Leysa
Carradine’s smirk came unbidden, curling at the corners of his mouth. Praise always amused him—especially when it came from the mouths of nobles who hid behind masks and candlelight, speaking as if their hands were clean. They never came themselves. Instead, they sent their liaison: a faceless figure in silk and shadow, standing in for the gleaming halls of the Blade Tower.
The real power spoke from afar, but the filth of their orders landed squarely on his blade.
"Yes," Carradine drawled, arms folding across his chest as his eyes shut in a slow, mocking blink, rolling them beneath his lids. "I'm sure they do." His voice carried the edge of a scoff. "I take gratitude in stacks of a hundred—no fewer than seven."
He opened his eyes again, watching as the figure counted out the gold with careful fingers. The performance was tiresome. A charade. Surely even this veiled representative knew it. To rule was to kill—whether by decree or by dagger. Would the people of Altalusia truly be shocked to know their rulers paid men like him? Hardly. Carradine wagered they'd be more surprised to learn they didn't.
"Seven hundred, as requested," the figure said at last, pushing the neatly bound stacks forward with a quiet clink. A silent tilt of the head followed, urging Carradine to claim his reward.
But he didn’t move. Instead shaking his head slowly.
Both guards flanking the table shifted at once, hands falling to weapons, boots scraping forward. Tension flooded the small room—but the masked noble raised a hand, halting them with a single motion. "Your additional... requests... have been sent to your home," the liaison said. "Even so, I’ve been instructed to remind you of your station, Blackbird. You are gifted, yes—but not irreplaceable. Do not make yourself more trouble than you're worth."
Carradine couldn't help but balk, reaching out and plucking the stacks one by one off of the table and placing them neatly in a leather pouch affixed to his belt. "Mmm, the next time a brazen little Viscount attempts to organize a coup upon the Sovereign with a few dozen fanatics at his back, I'll let the duty of defusing the situation fall to the other assassin you have capable of such a feat. What was his name again? Ser Imaginary?"
He didn’t need to see the noble’s face to feel the tension spike behind the mask. The grinding of teeth was almost audible. This conversation was done, and Carradine had far better things to do than poke and prod at a silk-swaddled sack of privilege all evening. The slender frame of death on legs turned on his cursed heel with the soundless grace of a man who'd never had to run, exiting with an almost mocking wave back to the Noble, The Guard, and the Crown itself. Insolence and Farewell.
They’d come crawling back soon enough, more gold in hand, another name for his ledger of the dead. But that could wait.
As he stepped into the fading light of a dreary spring evening, the dim gray glow settling over the cobbled street, Carradine clicked his tongue against his teeth with a scowl. The sun was setting behind thick clouds, and he was late.
She hated waiting on their dates.
@Leysa
