Private Killing Strangers

[Viego]

It was a massacre. The scene that lay before the three of them would send even the most boasted iron gut to wretch. The two assassins didn’t play by any mortal rules, they rewrote them. The redoubt that held them in contempt had been horrifically dispatched within minutes. Men who rightfully guarded the cages to two ferociously feral animals, murderers, killers, lay dead and dismembered.

Except for one. One man painfully rested on his side that hadn’t endured several shanks of the monster's crooked blade. He gasped for air for several seconds while covering his wound with his shirt before turning to look at the depraved twin shades. They shared bodies like that of man behind the shadowy veil, but their eyes were demonic. Shifting between him and back to themselves - Were they talking? Was he to be kept alive? He leaned up against the wall and rested his head against a loose brick, never looking away from the nightmare before him. He attempted to distract himself from the pain by regulating his breathing one, two, three, in. He winced on the inhale, “fuck”. Their unnerving eyes still locked on to his position. He met their challenge and resumed his breathing, ignoring the blood pooling at his legs. With each breath in, the pain would dredge up echoes of his past - Soldiers sharing their war stories when he was in basic. He remembered them fondly, especially the enthusiasm in which they embraced their deeds. One, two three. The pride in their eyes as they talked about victory. He was still in training and simply an observer to the warring pride of the regime around him. He had no combat experience. But he was moved by their brotherhood. One... two.. three.. When he was picked for the Zahrrim garrison he knew he wouldn't see combat, they never did. Tears began pooling up in his eyes as he remembered Jossiah, his battle buddies words, “This will be the easiest 6 months we’ll do and then its back home to warm bosoms.” The tears streamed with heavy pace, “Oh Jossiah” He wiped his eyes and shifted up more on the stone, and with little faculty looked around the room in a panic for any sign of his friend, for anyone still alive - nothing. The limbs and faces of friend were obscured - by those fucking demons and their sickening black magic - He looked over to them with fearful courage, “What do you want from me!?” he despairingly cried.

@Garuda

 

[Diaz]

A hand wreathed in shadowed smoke. Sword down turned, point dug clean through spine. Pulled free in a slick. Turn and flick of the blade sent blood against blood. More spatter for the stones to try and drink.

Teeth flashed in a grin, as scarred body stepped from a tongue of flickering darkness. The shadow lulled. Took the form of his shade, and stepped into the scarred killer's wake. Melt against the darkness that clung to the tiles and danced about the beat of distant torch light.

Mismatched eyes looked to the survivor. Sniffling and cowering as he was. Grin split wide, all teeth too hungry. Easy pickings. Diaz stepped over. Every bit the predator that had torn through this hen house.

Blade swift out. Edge and point aimed between the eyes. Close enough to take one, if the boy moved wrong. Promising to pin him through, if he did anything wrong.

"How many more of you in this damned fort?" a ravenous hush there on his breath. "And you better prey you pull a map out your ass," the steel honed the air as the blade shift. Just a fraction. Tapped the slightest flat of its bite on the kid's nose.

Turn of the wrist.

The blade dug in. Blood spilled from a shallow carve.

 

[Viego]

Instant regret. Like a childs touch to flame even after the admonishings of elders. The sickening shadowy miasma gave birth to a cruel looking boyish figure. His eyes widened and followed the flick n splash of his comrades blood against the walls. The smirk of the demon before him sent his heart into a frenzy of flight. His pants wet with blood, and now piss, as the point of steel from the murderer quickly became acquainted with his face.

The room suddenly fell silent, cold and deadly, like an unexpected winters bite.
He could feel the beat of his heart thrumming, beating, wanting to escape the imprisonment behind his ribs. His face went flush as the killer spoke. He could barely hear the words over the sheer shock that he was experiencing. A coughing fit ensued to clear the blood blocking his larynx; working through the tears that followed his words. "T-t-t-thats it. I-I-Im the last of us." He didn't dare turn his head away from the blade, nor his eyes. "N-n-no map, j-j-just secret passage. F-f-false w-wall b-b-ehind m-me." Frozen still, he watched as the blade danced around his nose - he could feel the cut, but not the pain. He didn't dare wince. He didn't dare move.

Whisper walked passed Diaz to the so-called false wall and inspected it. "Well?"

The boys head didn't move. Just his arm. Shaking pathetically, he pointed to the sconce on the wall.

Whisper scoffed, "Ah, of course. Mortals and their tropes." They pulled the sconce down like a lever while shaking their head condescendingly, and lo - the sound of chain grinding against brick gave way to passage. Whisper turned to the pair behind him and stooped to the dying man's side. "Last question." Their tongue flicked outward towards the mans cheek, like a snake tasting the air for its next meal. "Who were those little sheepies up in the tower, hm?"

 

[Diaz]

Mortals.

Diaz let out a cruel curl of breath at that. He would remember that one. How he heard this thing in Viego's skin call others, mortals.

"Sh-sheepies?" the boy questioned.

A tilt of the blade. Another slice, just beneath the eye. A new lid for it to see through.

The boy clenched a scream through his teeth as red ran down from where the tool of death left its fresh mark. His legs shaking with his want to move. His head, perfectly still.

It was impressive, really. "In the tower," Diaz reminded him.

"In the tower," the boy repeated. "In the tower," trying to gather what he could.

Diaz sword moved again. Point pressed against cheek bone. Sank. "One more time,"

The pressure pinned the boy to the wall. Threat to go further causing him to whimper and shake. "Prisoners, spies for boss Niero!"

A wider smile at that. "Niero, huh?" A hand snapped around the boy's jaw. Fingers squeezed hard to force it open. "Your tongue,"

The boy shook his head. Tried to beg.

"Or your life,"

Out stuck the tongue.

"Good," Snatched it like a fish to talons. A swipe up and off it went. Black in the low light, spilled on the floor. Diaz laughed as the boy slumped and clutched at the wound. "You best take care of that," he said as he wiped his blade clean in the crook of his elbow. Sheathed it. Held onto the tongue like a trophy. "Bleeds an awful lot," Motioned toward the staircase. "Shall we?"

 

[Viego]

The sweat of fear that dribbled down the lads face smelled all too sweet. Or was that the poor blokes blood? Whisper looked down at the converging pools of liquid that poured out of the whimpering guard. Blood and piss. Pathetic. Diaz questioned further. Posing as a threat - but to Whisper, a laughable charade. No matter, with each slicing inquiry, the boy answered. Niero. Whisper shifted and stood from their crouched position as Diaz muttered the name back with amusement and remembrance. Niero. Head tilt, like a dog to a distant whistle. Lip curled into a snarl, as if the whistle was a threat. Whisper was unamused at the notion that a game of cat and mouse was about to ensue. The hunt of things unseen, unknown, didn't entice them. Blade to skin, trophies of skulls and bones, that was the game.

"We shall." Whisper answered Diaz. They looked back at the boy. A moment of remorse crept in, like a thick fog in early winter morn. "Viego.." They annoyingly muttered. "So weak."

The landscape outside of the redoubt was covered in a thin layer of snow. Slightly blinding due to the sun that rose to greet them. Day old tracks of boot, hooves and wheel could be spotted leaving the redoubt, now graveyard. There seemed to be switchbacks turned road that followed down the mountainside towards a nearby garrison that guarded entrance to a city below. "Where the fuck are we? And who the fuck is Niero?" Whisper regarded the scene with arms open, confused, blade loose in hand.

 

[Diaz]

"Valhoven," Diaz said flat as a molar. "Fixer," showed teeth. "Had some dealings go sour with him months back," shook his head. "Didn't think the fucker would keep a grudge over it," if he was bothered by the cold of the frost and snow, he didn't show it. Moving through the field of white, like a drop of arterial blood.

"You were just collateral," he nod down the road, to the garrison and the city wall beyond it. "Plenty of good bones to harvest," he said with a rumble. "Tongues to take," moved into the shadow of the cliff side, took a step that melted into a lightless shape clung to the crevices of a rockface. "Get through the gate," he said with a grin. "I'll cover you," turned to pool of ink.

Mismatched eyes bright there, a toothy smile spread wide. The shadow shift and stalked toward the garrison and the wall. Hungry and on the prowl.

 

[Viego]

The name didn't ring any bells, as if bells were available to ring. The other was still in resting. The compass, the know-it-all, the weaker of the two. Although; Whisper clung to the exit of the redoubt, like a pesky out-of-reach cobweb, contemplating the use of their counterpart. Oh how they did miss the internal struggle. The fight. Two brains battling it out. Viego was a problem to solve for later, for they knew control wasn't permanent.

"As were you, wolf." they sneered, with hint of comradery. They matched Diaz step for step. Arrogance leading. Regard for skill, empowering. Both shared in the talent of shadow manipulation, this was known. A trained eye scaling the wall where they danced elegantly down, with what very little shade was given to them, would be none the wiser still. Each step skillful in not leaving a trace, each breath waned, as if the dead were walking. The game they currently played had stakes higher than that of their duel in the cave. For us, at least. Whisper passed on a look of annoyance as the boy once again stood back and took for cover. Scared pup. Definitely not the leader of his pack. Now, who's the leader of this one.

The garrison was much larger than the redoubt they escaped from. Unusually fortified. Probably to withstand an attack from the mountains, a weak point. The road leading to the gate had been shoveled. From this viewpoint tracks couldn't be seen. Four well guarded pike-men manned the closed gate from the front, four more beyond. The building ran long, fifty-ish yards on both sides. Undoubtedly hosting more soldiers. Attached at each end stood a turret a few stories high, crossbowmen stood prouder atop. A long blue banner with silver trim adorned the front of each turret. Centered on the flags were crossing battleaxes with a thorned crown at the top. Circling the garrison was out of the question - unless they wanted to wait for nightfall. They'd surely freeze by then, or worse, send the place into lockdown after the city caught wind of the hen house massacre. Whisper was displeased. Angry even. Even angrier at the notion that they'd have to forfeit the lead. Never losing concentration of the scene they spoke up, "You know the target, and the city. You take the lead, young pup. Its time to graduate to lead of the pack." They jeered, hiding behind their insecurity.

 

[Diaz]

The mouth wreathed in shade against the stone split wider. Showed its teeth. Happy as a clam. Whatever a clam had to be happy about, was not this shark's problem.

"Sure thing," he said all shadow and piss. And it was through the shadows he slank. Scurried and slipped, slick as an eel in the mud. Thin on the ground, and against the rocks. His shape, not really his shape anymore. A thing that could stretch and warp to fit whatever bit of darkness it could reach. Momentarily skitter across the bright light of day like a serpent across sand.

So, across the darkness he walked. All snake and worm. A spot darker than an umbral it joined. Daring to cross the light, and bleed into whatever absence of light was painted unto the ground. Up the wall still heavy with shadows. Up to the towers. A dark hand would reach from the pool of light's absence. Grab hold one of the crossbowmen and throw them over the turret's parapet.

It happened so quick the fucker forgot to scream until he was halfway down. Voice peeled through the dawn like the yelp of a wild animal.

The splat hardly made a sound over all the people peopling about.

If his partner had heard it, he made slow show of it. Turning to find hand wrenched firm over gob. Sword deep through the gaps in hardened leathers. Fingers clawed about side of face and ripped the dying man down to the ground with a thump and a crack.

Neck came open to keep the screaming from coming out. Blood flicked off the sword. Shadowed only by the darkness of stone obscuring the bright sun rising, he peered about.

One tower clear. Good vantage point. He scanned the layout below and around.