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[Sulla]

His name was Joseph Kaynard, and he was murderer. Specifically, he murdered people who found themselves in the crosshairs of those affluent enough to afford his services. He was built tall and lean, with a face turned leather from days long journeys in the relentless sun. Scars covered his body, and each one had a story that ended with another mark claimed and another bounty earned. Clients were unsettled by his laconic speech and blunt remarks. He was clear and to the point; he hated games and he hated people who played games. Matters he concerned himself in were serious situations looking for resolution.

And his resolution was as final as the grave.

Relentless. A Natural Born Killer. A Heart as Cold as Ice and Black as Coal.

These were the more colorful ideas that surrounded his mythos. A reputation untarnished by failure, unblemished by mercy; his was an existence that evil men across the world celebrated. His were hands that could not be washed clean. They were calloused from his weapons, and marred by the struggle his victims would vainly attempt.

“Cutthroat Kaynard.” “The Beast.” “Joseph Graveyard.”

He wore his monikers like badges of honor. He recited them proudly to victims that were fortunate enough to see him coming. He used their fear as a weapon. He manipulated them into believing his myth of invincibility. He encouraged them to surrender, and then he unleashed upon them all the savagery that dwelt deep within his monstrous heart; a heart many believed to be fictitious

His name was Joseph Kaynard, and he was a murderer. He had remained a murderer up until the moment his heart, which many a coward believed not to exist, was cut from his chest while he lay in the bathtub in the room he had rented from the Forked Road Inn. It was a quiet destination off the path for most major trade routes. The clientèle ranged from message couriers to villagers making the long trek between communities for feast days and funerals. Though only two stories high, it contained an additional guest wing beneath the ground in a well-crafted stone basement. The rooms their were quiet and sectioned off in such a way that guests there were well hidden from unwanted social interaction. The rooms were dark, offering only half a window that provided a steady stream of fresh air and little else. The light was inadequate, but then one assumes killers prefer to reflect in the depriving abyss.

The dark basement room had seen heavy foot traffic earlier. Kaynard's belongings had been scavenged by vultures in the area who had heard tale of another corpse ripe for the plunder. All the stories, all the hype, had died down into nothing more than the naked, rotting corpse of Kaynard festering inside that basement room. The men that discovered his body had no notions or considerations for his body. Their only concern was Kaynard's last assignment and its open status. Only one thing had filled them with a grim glimmer of hope.

A card had been left near the heart.

“His name was Joseph Kaynard. My name is Sulla.”

[Sulla]

Granden had started out as little more than a trading colony begun by Corone two centuries back. During its antiquity, it had been known as Sorrowshore because of the unexpectedly strong currents that surrounded the chain of islands, the perilous sandbars and jagged rocks that peppered the treacherous waters. Through a combination of tenacity and necessity, the early settlers had carved their meager homesteads into wealthy properties inflated by the lucrative business of catering to all manner of merchant and sailor who found shelter in their harbors. While most of the visiting ships and their crews spent their time on the fringe islands, core isles in the center would receive the benefit of tariffs and docking fees shelled out to port authorities while incurring none of the ill-effects of drunken sailors or plague-ridden vermin that crawled from the holds of docked ships.

It was in the small Republic of Granden, on district four, that Walter Maye found himself. Only an hour before he had been dining with Senator Jules in a private villa near the core of the islands, with seaside views complimented by the sweet and savory smells of a gourmet feast. It was during a third helping of roast suckling pig that Maye received an urgent letter that bayed him leave the luncheon early. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd be blackballed at the senator's next event, but the success of his business was one of the few things he put before Granden had started out as little more than a trading colony begun by Corone two centuries back. During its antiquity, it had been known as Sorrowshore because of the unexpectedly strong currents that surrounded the chain of islands, the perilous sandbars and jagged rocks that peppered the treacherous waters. Through a combination of tenacity and necessity, the early settlers had carved their meager homesteads into wealthy properties inflated by the lucrative business of catering to all manner of merchant and sailor who found shelter in their harbors. While most of the visiting ships and their crews spent their time on the fringe islands, core isles in the center would receive the benefit of tariffs and docking fees shelled out to port authorities while incurring none of the ill-effects of drunken sailors or plague-ridden vermin that crawled from the holds of docked ships.

It was in the small Republic of Granden, on district four, that Walter Maye found himself. Only an hour before he had been dining with Senator Jules in a private villa near the core of the islands, with seaside views complimented by the sweet and savory smells of a gourmet feast. It was during a third helping of roast suckling pig that Maye received an urgent letter that bayed him leave the luncheon early. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd be blackballed at the senator's next event, but the success of his business was one of the few things he put before his appetite.

”District 4”,” he whispered to the sweet nothingness of the cool winter air. Though the largest island in the archipelago, it lay further east than people were willing to travel, and it's harbor was inhospitable to unwary captains unfamiliar with the waters. It was hear that the collection of factories, butchers, dyers, and all manner of vile rancid work lay for those dependent upon the coffers of industry. Those that didn't work near the larger towns found a scarce but honest existence on the fringes and coasts were beds of clam and shallow water fish could be used to subsist small communities. ”What a shithole.” Maye could not fathom how the owner of the Forked Road Inn kept himself in business without the steady stream of coin found in the purse of merchant fleets. And he didn't care much either. The inn's owner was a fool who gave neither help nor hope in the dilemma Maye was in.

He was a businessman first, and an honest one if “strenuous” circumstances didn't present themselves. They often did. Take, for example, the case of Joseph Kaynard; a specialist in his field. A field that now remains open and problematic. Maye buttoned his long, brown coat in a huff. The name Sulla rang in his head clear as a church bell and with many more emotional ties. He could be anyone, hell, anything; and his existence meant complications.

As he hurried his robust figure down the winding, unpaved streets, his footsteps fell hard on ground frozen since the beginning of the season. The shabby hovels that lay on either side of the street were dilapidated or empty, as the noon sun soared above and signaled at least six more hours work for the honest men that called district four home. The quiet was deafening, and the shimmer of ice crystals on wooden plank and stray grass caused an occasional squint to appear on Maye's face.

Three minutes from his schooner, which lay just on the outskirts of town in a crudely improvised dock, the businessman felt a tingle run up his spine. Only large sheds surrounded him, with broken windows and a small covering of snow on their roofs that caused their planks to warp with every drop of water that soaked in. Their gray, sullen aesthetic was disheartening, and the occasional crack of frozen earth was the only sound that carried on the wind. Without knowing it, Maye had stopped. He looked around him, cautiously at first, and then more and more frantic. His eyes darted from shed to shed and his hands clenched tightly into firsts.

Fear had begun to overtake him, and soon a figure finished the job.

Within an instant, Maye felt another man's arm wrung tightly around his neck. His throat allowed just enough air to pass so that a constant and panicked steam poured from his mouth.

“If you move, I will not hesitate to break your neck.” The assailant whispered calmly into Maye's ear, like a concerned parent to a child. “Kaynard did not appear to be the man for the job. His reputation is as forfeit as his life.” Maye struggled a bit beneath the assassin's grip, who only drove a punch deep into his victim's spine. “I will not ask you again.” Defeated, Maye allowed himself to go limp in exchange for a bit more airflow. His eyes were focused on the bright, cloudless sky above, and he found it more than a little vexing that he could not face the man. “I will make this quick,” began the killer in an emotionless, firm voice. “You have three days to gather everything you can on the target Kaynard was suppose to kill. The information I found with him was lacking. I need more than a name. I will complete his job, and you will pay me double what you agreed on with him. If you do not have the information I need, or if you refuse to pay me what I've asked, I will kill you in any manner I see fit. Any way it ends, your target will be dead. Your fate rests entirely in your hands.” He stopped for a second to tighten his choke hold. “Do you understand?”

“Ye..Yes.” Maye's struggled words were weak and weak-willed, but his cowardly reputation would undoubtedly shine through. With that, Maye found himself spun around to face his attacker. All he saw was a tuft of light hair and a red scarf that clung tightly to the assassin's face. It was all he saw before the bright light that flashed before his eyes as his attacker's fist met his gluttonous gut. He couldn't breath, he couldn't cry; he could only fall on his hands and knees and feel the frost and fear that dwelt all around him.

“My name's Sulla. I'm glad we have this chance to work together.”

The next blow knocked Maye out cold.

[Sulla]

Twelve blocks down, past the tannery and east of the makeshift doctor's office, near the oak tree locals say houses the spirit of their town, was Mrs. Humphrey's house. It was quaint and unassuming, but stood out from neighboring homes because of its trimmed, clean yard and refinished exterior. The windows had been replaced three days earlier, an afternoon's work with out four windows, and now the house enjoyed the luxury of efficient insulation. The roof was cleared of snow that buckled and broke nearly everything else in the damned hamlet, and salt was laid down in preparation for the snowstorm that would inevitably come.

Mrs. Humphrey's small house would give the average viewer the assumption that she was a strong, energetic, and orderly woman. These assumptions do not take into account the border she had for nearly a week.

Sulla had returned to his temporary haven with a head rush. For the last week, he had performed odd jobs and tasks, offered to repair more than, and even assisted in the kitchen with a meal Mrs. Humphrey served at the local chapel's feast day. All appearances pointed to a extraordinary young man, and appearance, or lack thereof, was everything to Sulla. His ambush had went off without a hitch, but spinning Maye around caused unexpected eye contact. For that brief brilliant moment, Sulla experienced, second hand, all the emotions his twisted black soul could never fully enjoy; fear and surprise are standard fare, but that spark of admiration and twinge of subservience were icing on the cake.

Even as he stood on Mrs. Humphrey's porch, prepared to knock on the door, he took a few moments to regain himself. His eyes closed and the vivid pulses of color that synced rhythmically with his fastened heart rate began to dim slowly. He swept all his thoughts away into the blackness that followed, and pictured a small, glowing white orb that expanded into into his consciousness and regained him his composure and serenity. The monster, for he was a monster, called it his “launching pad”; a neutral stance that allowed him to flow into any emotion or thought that a situation dictated. Meditation was a woeful necessity, but its practicality was unquestionable. Some of the finest things he'd ever learned to help him kill were taught to him by men of peace and mercy.

He opened his eyes and knocked on the door five times in rapid, excited succession. A wide smile grew from cheek to cheek, and as expected the warm face of Mrs. Humphrey soon greeted him at the door. She was a wrinkled creature who had worked for years in the local spinning mill, with hands calloused by the harsh life that District Four offered. Her dress was conservative with a bit of flair and ribbon around the neckline, and her hair was wound tight into bun, kept taught by the knitting needles she kept in her hair.

“Eric, I thought you'd gone didn't say goodbye.” As she opened the door wider, the hot smell of stale air and fresh fruit pies flowed out onto the porch. “If I hadn't seen your bags near the door, I would've been offended.”

“Oh Edna, I you know I wouldn't leave without a kiss farewell,” he said as he pecked her gently on the forehead. Apart from the alias, they were on a first name basis ever since he chased away a pickpocket bothering the wizened woman. The thief was never apprehended, “Eric's” best efforts to assist in the investigation, though he kindly assured Mrs. Humphrey that the crook would get his final judgment. Truth was, hiding the body of a petty thief became a cake walk in District Four, which held ample spots for animal waste. “Have I told you how much I love this scarf you made me?”

“Only eight times. Oh, I'm so glad you like it dear, but do you really need it right now? The weather's not even that bad today.”

“You never know when you need to hide your face,” he paused to pull at the cheap rag around his neck. It was itchy and smelled just as damn stale as the rest of the island. “The wind can kick in from the sea at any moment.”

“Oh, I'm so glad for you. Are you well enough for your trip? I know the boat ride is less than an hour, but the sea heading to District One can get rocky in the winter, and you were up awful late last night.” It was true. It was past midnight by the time Sulla returned from ending Kaynard's worthless life. He had expected to kill him sooner, but Kaynard's social drinking prevented a move until the opportunity was perfect. Kaynard receives the attention of a beautiful woman, whose only caveat is his hygiene. When he went upstairs for a quick scrub, Sulla moved in with the precious little time he had, and ended it with all the subtle savagery he could. He was good at killing, and enjoyed pulling it off as quietly as possible. By the time the woman arrived, Sulla was gone and Kaynard had bled out. “That visit with your friend must've taken a long time.”

“He's sick,” he began reciting his story exactly how he had planned it the night before. “Too sick. I'm glad he decided to stop his work for a moment to meet up with me here, but the affair it...,” the smile faded and his words grew grimmer, “...it just tears at the heart, you know?” Her face was priceless.

A few more minutes of inane chatter. Mrs. Humphrey had the annoying habit of informing Sulla of everything she did during the day, and even the vapid dreams her wrinkled, empty head regurgitated at night. If her ties to the community weren't so strong, Sulla would have killed her the moment he returned. Instead, she got to live the remainder of her dwindling days, her worthless life extended beyond what Sulla thought nature possible of doing.

It wasn't all bad. She made him a scarf and packed a lunch for his trip.