Cold Blood

[Smokestorm]

All Bunnying has been approved by both parties. Closed to Arya.


Cold Blood

[ Dramatis Personae ]
[ Zachary Snow (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23023-Zachary-Snow) ]
[ Arya (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23062-Arya) ]



Chapter One:
Tracks in the Snow



“Nothing splendid was ever created in cold blood.
Heat is required to forge anything.
Every great accomplishment is the story of a flaming heart.”
Arnold H. Glasgow



The clouds looked like ash and soot smeared across a canvas, pouring snow down on the remote city. The wind had a bitter chill here, numbing flesh and biting down into the bone. The lakes around Istarim were frozen, eternally locked in the perpetual winter. Though hidden, the moonlight still carved the landscape in silver tones, reflecting off the shimmering white ground as if it were glass powder. The architecture of the city was simple but elegant, squat one story buildings with peaked roofs made of thatch, wooden columns carved with flowing celtic knots. Shops and businesses littered the streets infrequently, rune covered signs creaking in the light breeze.

A shadow sat in the night, his white cloak flapping in the wind. Despite being trimmed in the fur of a Direwolf, it provided little in the way of warmth to his small body. Clouds rose from each breath, and his skin was nearly as white as the snow itself. Crouched at the edge of a roof he stared out through the night like a gargoyle, the gears in his mind turning. The Mortalis Assassin had come here hunting dangerous prey indeed, one of his own kind. She was a defect from the Order, a loose cannon that needed to be stilled. A traitor. He hadn't been told of her exact crimes, only that she was to be silenced.

The Sense had risen hours past as he stalked the streets, warning of nearby peril. She was out here somewhere, hidden in shadows, waiting. But he was patient. It'd been near an hour since he'd moved, and the creeping discomfort in his limbs was hardly noticeable. He'd felt far worse. His pale lips, sewn shut for months now, could attest to that. It was a remnant left over from his time in L'enfer Rocheux, the Hellrock. A notorious prison in the sands of Fallien, it had burned away the weakness and left nothing behind but vague emotions, diamond hard memories, and scars. He would wait as long as it took.

His eyes continued to sweep the snowy landscape, watching for movement in the dark. Still, there was nothing. He occupied his mind while he waited, replaying the description of his target. Slender and small, dark hair cut short, green eyes.

His Sense was growing louder, the hairs at the back of his neck and arms raising as imminent danger grew closer. She was approaching. Still, he didn't move. Master Renaud's voice echoed through his mind, the advice he'd given long ago, before he'd died, still as wise as ever. Let them strike first, and use the time to read their eyes.

He closed his eyes. There was no need to search anymore. She was nearly here. He could feel it, that intention of harm. The resolution of blood, the looming death. It felt like home. He stood abruptly as the strike launched. Silver flashed in the night as he turned and fell backward over the edge of the building. His stomach seemed to rise as the feeling of weightlessness washed over him. A cloud of black and purple smoke wrapped around him, wisps twisting as he dropped. And then he was gone, flashing out of reality. Inside the Rift, moments stretched to lifetimes. His lungs burned in fire, but were not consumed. His limbs froze but never went numb. And then the feeling passed and he winked back into the world.

He stood ten paces behind her, watching as she recovered fluidly from the failed ambush.

[Arya]

The last few months had been harder than she expected. Certainly, the girl knew how to survive on the streets. Growing up an orphan had taught her how to make do with what she had. She knew how to steal without being caught. She knew the safe places to sleep and how to tell a charitable face from one concealing bad intentions. Still, the time she'd spent training with the Mortalis Order had pampered her. She'd gone soft while training to be an assassin. The thought made her want to laugh out loud.

Her breath came out in little white puffs of steam. Her leathers were damp from snow and her wool cloak did little to keep in the heat. She was crouched behind a chimney, watching the boy. Arya placed pale cold hands on the wooden grips of her daggers. The blades hung low on her hips, perfectly placed for easy withdrawal. That, she had learned from the assassin's guild. She wondered once more if her training had been more extensive than her current target's.

She'd seen the boy, crouching in his stark white apprentice's cloak. She'd made note of the glint of light coming from beneath his heavy sleeve. It was one of the gifts from Mortalis: a hidden blade attached to a gauntlet. She'd had one of her own once. Before she threw it away and defected from the place.

Her assassin was out in the open which implied stupidity, or that he wanted to be seen. She'd assume that he was waiting for her to make the first move. His body was thin and tight, like a mouse trap pulled taut.

The apprentice's robes disturbed her. "Sending an apprentice to kill an apprentice?" she wondered. "It's as much of a test as it is a job for him." Once more her hatred for Mortalis bubbled. A group of so-called disciplined men (and a few women) who claimed honor while killing on contract.

The attack was sloppy. Arya told herself it was on purpose. She didn't want to get too close on the first try. He was waiting for her. Still, it was so very cold. Her stomach was empty and her body was stiff. She launched herself forward, pulling out her daggers. The sound of steel sliding against leather sheaths gave her chills as she ran. Arya made an arc with her right blade, while the left remained still, poised for a counter-attack.

When the boy went over the edge of the building, she watched him go. His body seemed to be wrapping in fingers of shadow, and then he was gone. Spinning on the spot and crouching now where the boy had been, she found him standing behind her.

"Oh, so that's the trick your master chose to teach you? Did your master also choose to tell you why you're coming after me?" she asked. Her hands readjusted their grips on her daggers while she steadied her feet. "Do you know why you attack a young girl, or do you just do what you're told, Sheep?"

[Smokestorm]

Zachary lifted an eyebrow.

His Master had taught him that, yes. Before he had been murdered by a traitor and Zachary had been locked away in a dark corner of hell. As for why he had been assigned this mission, what did it matter? She'd have a hard time trying to bargain with him anyways.

He wasn't sure if the girl was mocking him, or if she was just too preoccupied to notice that she'd get very little conversation out of him. He reached up and unclasped the cloak, letting it fall to the ground behind him. The moonlight fell over his white hair, carved deep shadows between the stitches that held his lips together. His clothing beneath the cloak were simple and stained black and gray with ash. The daggers at his waist remained sheathed, but his intentions were clear in the way he held himself. She could run if she wanted, he would follow. They would fight, and one of them would eventually die. That was just the way of it.

Steam lifted from his nose with each breath, his cold gray eyes moving over her body to inspect her. They would be a match for speed and strength, likely enough. He was Rashefellian in blood, and like most of his countrymen, he was undersized. Agility had ever been the mark of the Rashefell warriors who favored slicing and piercing weapons over those that relied on a strength they did not possess.

He approached slowly, his steps certain on the icy rooftop. His first attack, by contrast, was swift. Snow sprayed toward her face in an arc of white as he kicked out. It spread in a ribbon of dust, obscuring sight. He jerked his left arm up diagonally across his body, three slashes of silver glittering in the night as the throwing knives fanned out from his hand. End over end, they spun, deadly edges rippling with moonlight.

[Arya]

Arya hadn't noticed the boys mouth. As the shadows slipped away and his cloak fell, her gaze trained on his lips. The dark thread stitched haphazardly through his lips, pulled tight and pressing against the flesh of his mouth. "Why does he leave it? Why doesn't he rip it out? Who did it to him?" Thoughts trickled over the surface of Arya's trained calm. She knew hunger and cold were clouding her mind and slowing her body, but even training couldn't fight them both back. She was unprepared for the attack when it came.

Snow sprayed over her face and she stumbled back, dangerously close to the edge of the roof. Her feet went out from under her, and her ass hit the stone. Her head hung out over the two story drop, and snow had crept down the back of her pants. Arya dropped her right dagger and clawed the wet grit from her eyes just in time to see one of his daggers pierce her left shoulder. Another dagger grazed her arm, and thankfully the last missed. Arya let out a surprised cry as deep red blossomed through her brown leather tunic.

Her hand lifted, and a small gesture sent an even larger spray of snow and dirt at the assassin. Arya pulled her knees up and propped herself up with her right elbow. "I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING WRONG," she shouted. She scurried, trying to get her feet under her. "Whatever they told you was a fucking LIE," the last word ripped through her throat and came out as a hoarse scream.

When she'd decided her scurrying was doing no good, she kicked out in his general direction, hoping for a hit.

[Smokestorm]

Zachary felt nothing as the words rang out through the otherwise quiet night. Innocence was not absolution, as he'd learned in the Hellrock. He'd known nothing of Renaud's secrets, and still he had suffered for them in the Lord Marcel's pursuit of knowledge. And even that was beside the point. It was common for a mark to lie and plead before they died, they would rage and bargain, weep and run. Eventually it all came around to the same thing; they had brought it upon themselves. Whatever she had or hadn't done, she had fled the Order and she was a deserter that held their secrets in the palm of her hand. She was a danger.

The boy ducked aside from the torrent of dirty snow slung at him, but was knocked off balance when her boot smashed into his knee. Pain blossomed in the joint, but he ignored it as he stumbled forward. He caught his balance, leaned down to wrap his hand in the throat of her clothing.

He pulled her up to her feet in one fluid movement, intending to put his Hidden Blade into her stomach. But his plans disappeared in a burst of confusion as her elbow smashed into the side of his face. He dropped to the snow covered roof, twisting as he fell. His leg came out as he rotated, attempting to trip her. But she wasn't there. He saw her somersaulting backward, away from him.

She landed at the same time as he came up to his feet. The boy had expected this to be quick and clean, but he knew now that it wouldn't be. She was a match for his skill. He was okay with that, though. There was always time for a challenge.

As he dusted snow from himself, he gestured to the spot where she had been when she had screamed at him, then flicked the tip of his ear with his finger. If they were to dance, there might as well be music. And hearing her tale would bring no harm. She could say nothing that he hadn't heard before, tempt him with nothing. The only thing he wanted couldn't be bought, and a life couldn't be restored from the grip of death.

He pulled his daggers from their sheathes while he waited. The moonlight reflected from the wicked twelve inch blades.

[Arya]

When the boy flicked his ear, Arya grinned. So he wanted to hear her story, then? Obviously, he would kill her no matter what it was. That was the Mortalis way. Your contract was to die. You needn't know why. Still, she would tell it. It stalled the inevitable, and would hopefully distract him.

They circled each other on the rooftop, leaving a smatter of footprints in the fresh snow. Arya's shoulder was a blaze of fire in the cold. She grasped his dagger and gritted her teeth, pulling it from her flesh. Warmth tickled down her shoulder, and she tried to block the sensation from her mind. Arya wiped the bloody blade on the leg of her pants, and stowed it in her waistband.

"Had you ever met Augustin? He was my master." The assassin shook his head, never taking his steely grey eyes from Arya's green. The girl switched the dagger from her left hand to her right. The left would be clumsy, thanks to the shoulder wound.

"Everyone in the order used to always comment on how Augustin seemed to favor female apprentices, though. Yes?" Her assassin shrugged his shoulders minutely. "Well if I told you that the fondling of those apprentices was the least of his crimes, I'm sure you'd be surprised." Arya laughed a little desperately, trying to keep the memories of the filthy man from her head.

[Smokestorm]

Zachary cocked his head to the side, disturbed by the implication but unsurprised. Some people were just animals swaddled in clothing. They were everywhere in the world, though it was still alarming to think of people like that being a part of the Mortalis order.

The apprentice lunged forward toward his target, one of his blades glinting. She caught it on her own and twisted away. She was fast, maybe even faster than he was. But she was also injured. He moved with her, trying to get inside of her guard. As the moonlight reflected off their weapons, it seemed as if they were dancing inside a cage of silver ribbon. And that's exactly what it had become, a dance of strike and parry, riposte and counterstrike. Zachary was beginning to grow tired, and he was finding her wound to be of little help. He dropped into a crouch and sprung away into a backward somersault. When he landed he slid, falling to his left knee in the snow. This was hardly the ideal place to have an ongoing fight.

The boy pointed the tip of his blade toward the girl, then flipped it backward in his hand and made a mock gesture as if to stab himself in the groin.

[Arya]

Arya was breathing deeper now, her wound a ragged pain in her shoulder. She'd held up well so far, but her assassin was bigger. He had better reach, and he wasn't as wounded as she was. The girl wasn't sure how much longer she could keep this up.

When he made the gesture towards his groin, Arya's brow drew down. It took a moment to process his meaning. "Did I cut it off?" she asked. The assassin nodded once more, eyes still trained on her as before. Arya let out a laugh and shook her head. "No, no. His unwelcome advances were just one cut to the rope tethering me to Mortalis. I was still hanging on by a thread, loving that I had a warm place to sleep every night and food in my belly. You know most apprentices are orphans. Not sure about you, but most are. Orphan's are easier to mold," she said.

Arya was regaining her breath now, but her head was starting to grow fuzzy. The wound was deeper than she'd originally thought. The girl steadied herself on her feet once more, reaffirming her grip on her lone blade. She'd gone into defensive mode now. Arya knew she couldn't take the offense, she was too weakened.

"Anyway, that's beyond the point. When we were in Fallien I overheard Augustin speaking with someone there. Speaking in the night, where most betrayals take place." Arya eyed the assassin for any change in expression. "They were speaking of betraying one of The Order," she spat.

[Smokestorm]

Zachary's face darkened, but the sound a deep, trumpeting warhorn stalled any other reaction. He looked around in the direction it had come from and noticed several armored men on horses coming down a nearby street. It seemed their nighttime activity had finally been noticed by the local law enforcement. Zachary slid his daggers into the sheathes at his waist and pointed toward the riders as he turned back to the girl he was supposed to kill.

He evaluated her again, wondering if he was making the right choice. But then Renaud's face swam in his vision, and he tossed aside his doubts. If there was any chance, any possibility that this girl knew something about that hellish mission in Fallien, he had to know. Renaud had died there, his throat cut when he was betrayed into an ambush. The Lord of L'enfer had died at Zachary's hand shortly after that, but whoever was truly responsible had walked away without punishment.

He flicked his ear again, and tapped his mouth, and gestured to her as he moved toward the edge of the roof. He stooped to pick up his cloak along the way, waiting to see if she would follow him or if he'd have to beat her unconscious, then tie her up. The thought amused him, but he didn't have the time for it currently. The riders were getting closer.

[Arya]

When the boy gestured toward the riders, Arya nodded her head to confirm she'd heard the horn blow. She was shocked by the boy's sudden change in demeanor. Did he really believe her? Or was it a trick? She didn't want to be lulled into a false sense of security. She wasn't ignorant. She was.. growing hazy. A look down at her shoulder revealed that the blood had soaked down to her breast and trailed down her arm.

"I guess you win, Sheep," she said wearily. It was getting hard just to keep her feet under her now. Sheathing her blade, she stumbled over to pick up the one she'd dropped. Falling to her knees beside the boy, she fished her second blade out of the snow and sheathed it as well. There wasn't any point to fighting now. She couldn't run without his help, and that didn't even take into account that he might kill her when they got to a safer spot. She couldn't fend off the guards. Her wound would fester in prison. It was all too damned much to deal with, and the blood loss was making any decision difficult.

"I can't run on my own. If you still want to kill me, just get it over with. No charades. Just do it." Arya lifted her head and glared at the boy. She'd face it, if it was her time.

[Smokestorm]

Zachary rolled his eyes. Silly girl. Why would he need tricks at all? If something wasn't done about her wound, she'd be dead anyways. It wasn't like he needed to think out some complicated plan or plot.

She tensed when he touched her arm, but his gesture stilled her. He no longer meant harm, and posture conveyed that well enough. He slipped her arm over his shoulder, then grabbed around her waist as if to help her walk, but didn't move. Instead, a cloud of black and purple smoke wrapped around them. The rift deposited them on ground level, in an alleyway behind the building. They began to walk, the girl tense and proud at first but slowly slumping against him as they went on. Despite the wind that howled across the roof tops above, he could hear her stomach growling, her breathing labored.

But after navigating the twisted alleys of the darkened city for awhile, their feet kicking up paths in the snow, Zachary Shadowstepped them back to the rooftops. It wouldn't do to leave a clear trail for the guards to follow. They rested there for a few minutes while the boy recovered, before jumping again, to another building across the street. From there, they went back to the ground.

It took almost half an hour before they found their way to an Inn. By then, the girl was stumbling badly, Zachary catching her every few minutes to keep her from faceplanting into the cold snow. Before entering, he pointed at his lips and made an expression as to say [i]"Hiding the freak.", before pulling up the hood of his cloak. He handed her his coin pouch, before pushing the door of the Inn open and waiting for her to step inside.

[Arya]

Arya pulled free of her assassin-turned-companion, and jerked her cloak loosely over the wound on her shoulder. It wasn't perfect, but it hid most of the carnage. Taking the assassin's coin pouch, she stumbled through the inn doors.

The common room was mostly quiet. It was too late for all but the heaviest of drinkers, and they were on the verge of passing out. A few men lounged languidly throughout the room, and a burly man in dirty leathers stood behind the bar. Arya shielded her eyes against the sudden light, and began to fall towards the inn keeper before the boy caught and steadied her. She let herself be guided toward the bar.

"I need a room," she sputtered. The inn keeper raised his eyebrows and laughed.

"Had a bit too much, love?" he asked. He eyed the two of them together, her leaning drunkenly on the boy, his arm around her waist to steady her. "Sure, sure. We got one left-"

"Gods, how we must look to this man," she thought. Sighing, Arya upended the bag of coins until it seemed enough. The coins clinked on the rough wooden bar. After a bit of thought, she added another stream of coins to the pile. She could feel the assassin's grip on her waist tighten as he watched her carelessly spending his coin. "And a couple of roasted.. something. Whatever you have in your kitchen." The keeper's eyes widened, before the man broke out into raucous laughter.

"Up the stairs, third door on the right. Have fun, kids," he said, scooping up the pile of coins.

[Smokestorm]

Really?

Well, Master Renaud did always say that women spent more of their time in your coin purse than in your pants. He smirked, the stitches turning it into more of a grimace than anything else. If anyone had asked him how this contract would go, he doubted he'd have envisioned this. But to be honest, it was a rather nice change from the droll pace of his life. Renaud had trained him well, and most of his marks died silently and quickly. He spent most of his time traveling between targets. Alone, and without much interaction.

Zachary had sudden misgivings as they stood at the bottom step and looked up, and for a couple seconds he considered the viability of rigging up a makeshift rope and pulley. He doubted the girl could reign victorious over a single step, let alone the whole staircase. He'd have felt worse about stabbing her, but she did just spend most of his funds.

They took the first step slowly, and the boy was relieved to see that she only wobbled as if tipsy, rather than full blown drunk. But by the middle of the stairs, it had turned into the hike from hell. He was practically carrying her up them, but every time he tried to fully pick her up, she would start bitching and whacking at him. And then she would try to fall over. So he continued dragging her up the steps, her feet catching every ledge. At last, they managed to reach the top. Though it was an epic battle, Zachary's perseverance and the girl's flailing finally brought victory.

And then there was the battle of the numbers. While carrying her, she abruptly turned into him and mashed him against the second door in the hallway. She stared at him as if he was retarded, and tried to push him out of the way. Finally fed up, he grabbed her shoulders and spun her on the spot. He held up one finger in front of her eyes and pointed at the first door. He repeated it, but with two fingers, and pointed at the door she was trying to knock down. He then made the mistake of flicking her forehead.

She replied with a swift kick to his groin that dropped him to the ground, after which she waved a certain finger of her own in front of his eyes, before turning and walking -well, if you could call that walking-, into the third room. So she had realized he was right, but had kicked his junk anyways. Great.

Oh my god.

Zachary climbed slowly to his feet, almost as unsteady as she had been on the stairs, his hands firmly cradling his injured testicles. The pain was incredible as he began to shuffle toward the room.

This is the voyage of the damned.

[Arya]

Arya collapsed on the lone bed in the room, giving a moment of regret to the fact that she'd forgotten to ask for two beds instead of one. At least they could hold up their charade as a drunken couple this way. She flopped over on her back just as she heard the door grate shut on it's uneven frame.

The assassin's stomping boots echoed through the silent room, as well as the sound of furniture being dragged closer to the bed. Fear coursed through Arya, but as she looked up, she saw the assassin had dragged a chair close, and was pulling some linen bandages, a small bottle of clear liquid, and a needle and thread.

"Getting cold," she muttered, not really to anyone in particular. The boy responded by roughly yanking the blankets out from under her, sending fresh pain through her wound. He then laid the rough woolen blankets over top of her.

"I don't even know what to call you," she muttered. "I guess if you aren't going to kill me I can't call you 'Sheep' anymore. Thanks for that, by the way," Arya said as she turned her head once more towards the assassin. "You know. For not killing me and everything."

[Smokestorm]

The look he gave her while lowering himself carefully and slowly into the chair said there was still time for that yet. The ache in his legs and stomach hadn't subsided, and to be quite honest, he felt like punching her in the boob.

Instead, he just threaded the needle. That in itself was a tall task thanks to his cold numbed fingers. But it was a chore that kept his mind from the ache in his crotch. When he'd finally finished, he pulled one of his daggers from its sheath and leaned forward. The girl tried to grab his wrist, but he knocked her hand aside easily and pinned her down with his left arm. The knife sheered through the fabric of her shirt, and he tossed the knife down at his feet. She was staring at him with venom. He stared back at her for a short second before lifting his shirt to show his own nipple. He widened his eyes and waved his hands in mock panic in front of himself. The whole scene was ludicrous. She was bleeding all over the bed, and still more concerned about him seeing her breast.

Lifting the bloody, frayed cloth away from her, he studied the wound. He rolled his eyes as she covered her breast and gave him another go to hell look. Unceremoniously, he dribbled fluid from the vial into the wound. As expected, she flailed at him, spewed curses, and generally acted unpleasant. He wasn't surprised really, it was the most potent anti-infection agent he knew of, and particularly painful at that. He sat the needle and thread beside her as he scrubbed softly at the wound with a clean corner of the rag. He flicked his ear at her again as he started his work. It was a grim thing, and Zachary was uncomfortable with it. He was used to putting holes in people, not repairing them. Every time the needle poked through flesh, he flinched.

[Arya]

Arya gritted her teeth against the pain. Despite her chills, she could feel beads of sweat on her forehead, dampening her already dirty hair. She pulled the woolen blanket up just high enough to cover her nakedness, warranting an exasperated look from the assassin.

"I said I was cold," she grunted. He shook his head and went back to work.

His hands were clumsy, but invitingly cool against the warm skin around her wound. He grimaced through the whole procedure. Or maybe it was a smile. Arya couldn't tell. Before long, the sting from the clear liquid, the dull ache from the cut, and the biting of the needle got to be too much. Too much blood had been lost. Arya could feel her eyelids growing heavy. They fluttered open just long enough to get a blurry glance around the room before closing again. She heard a knock on the door, and could smell the food she'd requested being delivered, but she had no strength to eat. The last thing she felt was the assassin rolling her on her side to bandage the wound. And then, she was out.

[Smokestorm]

The brevity of the night faded to stillness after the girl fell into unconsciousness. As far as he could tell, she would be okay eventually. But the question was what to do with her. She would flee the first chance she got, if she didn't try to kill him first. Though that was a possibility, he figured it wasn't a strong one. Life on the street programmed instincts in a very specific way. The flight part of the saying 'fight or flight' was emphasized, greed became a driving factor. Whatever you could steal and get away with became your focus. If he went to sleep now, he had no doubt that he would wake up without his money, his weapons, and his companion. He had to keep her here if he wanted his answers.

He rose from the chair and walked over to the bed. Standing over her, he once again had a moment of doubt. She should be dead by now, and he should be on his way back to Corone. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to do it. She knew something about betrayal within the Mortalis. He wasn't even sure if it had anything to do with Renaud or the final mission they had taken together. But if it did, he had to know. That loose end had dangled above his head for months, and he wanted nothing more than to put a knife through the neck of whoever had sold his Master out.

He leaned over her, his hands deftly retrieving her weapons and patting her clothing lightly as he searched for hidden weapons. Everything he found, he put in the center of the bloodied towel he had used to care for her wound. When he had finished, he added all of his own weapons to the pile save for his Hidden Blade. Mounted inside the gauntlet strapped to his right wrist, it would be difficult to remove and near impossible to hijack. Sewing the towel shut was a simple task and took little time, but deciding where to hide it was a bit tougher. After a few minutes of thought, he ended up tying a leather string he pulled from his belt pouch onto the sewn end of the bag. He opened the window, ignoring the frigid wind that blew in from the night. With the bag of weapons hanging outside of the window, he closed it on the string. It would hold, so long as none of the blades slipped from their sheathes and put a hole in the towel.

The next task was more disturbing, but just as crucial. Drawing back the covers, he began to bind the girl with more leather pulled from his belt. They were less than half an inch across, but long and thick enough to be useful in many pursuits. He had originally thought to bind each limb to the respective bed post, but tossed that idea out when he remembered what the girl had said. She'd been wronged by her Master in a sexual manner. Being tied in such a way would panic her, and make her uncooperative. He bound her at ankle and wrist instead, before pulling the blanket back over her.

He settled down to wait in the nearby chair, his body stiff from the activities of the night. As the hours passed by, his mind turned back to his days in L'enfer Rocheux. If the girl knew anything about what'd happened to Renaud, he would have the information, and he would have his due.

[Arya]

When Arya first began to wake, the first sensation was the pain in her shoulder. It was duller now, but still prevalent. Next, she noticed more pains. Her ankles, the other shoulder, her wrists. She tried to stretch her stiff legs, but there was little give in her ankles. She tried again. She was bound!

Arya's eyes flicked open and she squirmed, kicking her legs and tugging at her wrists. Fresh fire shot through the wound in her shoulder and she yelped from the pain. Lifting her hands to her mouth, she started picking at the knot with her teeth. She could feel the missing belt of her daggers, and did her best to fight down the panic.

The leather binding her wrists was strong, and the knot was complex. "Who the hell taught him that," she wondered.

[Smokestorm]

Zachary's light doze faded as the sound of the girl's struggles brought him to wakefulness. Sunlight filtered through the window now, and his joints ached from spending the night in the chair. He wasn't too bothered by that, though. The alternative was the floor or the bed, where the girl would have undoubtedly tried to strangle him with her bindings. He lifted his chin from his chest, and placed it in his hand instead. He did nothing but watch as she bit at the leather ropes. It struck him again how difficult life on the street was, to have turned the girl into something that so resembled a rat.

Her hair was greasy and unkempt from the inability to wash, her clothing stained and unclean. But more telling than that was the way her eyes darted about in search of escape, and the way her body always remained taut and ready to spring into action. And though he made no threatening moves, she still struggled against the bonds and scowled at him as if he would start raping her at any moment. He sighed, the air passing through his nose instead of his locked mouth. Even from this distance, he could hear her stomach gurgling as she struggled to sit up on the bed.

He moved with exaggerated care and slowness to the bedside table, retrieving a crusted heel of bread. He held it in front of the girl's eyes, noticing how her fiery gaze faded. He flicked his ear again, then handed her the food. He moved the wooden plate to set it beside her on the bed within easy reach of her tied hands. He wouldn't try to starve her for information. He'd suffered that in the Hellrock, and wouldn't inflict it on someone else. Better to just stab them in the head.

He took his seat again, watching her.

[Arya]

Arya wiggled her way into a sitting position, her back propped up on the rough wooden headboard of the bed. She eyed the assassin wearily, and then the bread he'd left for her. Taking it in grubby hands, she began to eat slowly. "Slow, or it'll come right back up," she warned herself. It had been days since she ate, and she knew the consequences of gorging yourself after a fast. The action was awkward, with her hands tied as they were. She imagined she looked like a squirrel, holding the bread tight in two hands, and nibbling at it.

As she picked at her bread, she looked up at the assassin, once more sizing him up. She noted that his weapons seemed to be gone as well, all despite the hidden blade. Stowed away somewhere, certainly, so she wouldn't steal them.

"You want to know more," she said. It wasn't a question, but the assassin nodded. "Are you going to untie me when I've finished?" she asked. The assassin shrugged. Surely, it all depended on what she had to say. Arya sighed.

"I overheard Augustin speaking to some man named Marcel. Warning him that one of your kind was going after him," she said. She dug through her memories for the name she had heard. "Reynolds? Reno..?"

[Smokestorm]

Zachary's face darkened as he stood and walked to the window. He could vaguely see his reflection as he stared out through the glass, lost in memories that were neither consoling or easy to bare. He knew only what Ibn had told him before he'd left the Hellrock with Marcel's head. Renaud and Marcel had once worked together on something, an artifact of power. Fearing what they'd made, Renaud had hidden it away. That was the root of all that had happened. That was why Marcel had lured them to Fallien, and why he had taken Ibn's wife hostage. The Raja'Aini Ibn was the Mortalis contact that would house the Master Assassin and his apprentice while they planned how to kill their mark. But unfortunately, Ibn had betrayed Renaud and Zachary into Marcel's hands to save the woman he loved. Seeing Zachary as the easier one to get information from, Marcel had killed Renaud out of hand and taken the boy prisoner.

And now Zachary had the name of another, the one who had made it all possible. Augustin, she'd said. The name was familiar to the boy. Renaud had spoken of him rarely, to note how they'd once been friends. But that was before Augustin had let the blood go to his head. He lost his regard for human life, and had become only a shadow of himself. Achieving whatever he wanted through death and massacre, he was only tolerated within the Order because he accomplished any mission given to him. There was a great deal of history there, and a lot of it Zachary didn't know.

His eyes fell to the Hidden Blade at his wrist. It had belonged to Renaud. Embossed with silver scrollwork and archaic symbols that Zachary didn't recognize, it was a beautiful weapon. It was all that the boy had to remember his Master with. He'd been like a father to him. Many within the Order taught their students with distance and coldness, giving the child no respite from the harsh reality of their lives. Renaud had been different.

He had all he needed now. He grabbed a hold of the leather strand beneath the sill and pushed the window open. The bag of weaponry was still intact, and he pulled it up through the window before slamming it shut again. His Hidden Blade deployed and sliced the stitching open easily before retracting back inside the gauntlet. From the bag, he removed all of his possessions, stowing them where they were normally kept. He left the remaining weapons on the chair as he moved to the girl. His Hidden Blade came out again, this time slicing open the bonds holding the girl immobile.

At the door, he stopped as he threw his cloak around his shoulders. He looked at her, and made his decision. Pulling his coin purse out, he threw it on to the bed beside her. As he turned to leave, she spoke.

"What are you doing?"

He turned back to her, thinking of how to portray an answer. He pointed at her, then lifted his hand above his own head to hold it at a level indicating height. His hand dropped back to his side, but his palm turned out toward her as he flexed the muscle in his forearm as he'd been taught. Inside the gauntlet, the button that controlled the gear mechanisms was pressed by his flexing, and the blade hissed out. He held it for a moment, then retracted it. He looked at her for a moment as if he wanted to convey something else, but ultimately turned away and pulled up his hood as he left the room.

He wasn't sure what would happen to her, but it was no longer his concern.

[Arya]

"Wait, wait, WAIT," Arya shouted. The boy was already heading out the door as she crawled out of the bed. The blankets slipped off, and she frantically covered herself with her hands. "Forgot about that," she muttered. The girl crossed the room on unsteady legs and knelt by her pack. She pulled out a leather tunic, much like the one the assassin had ripped up the night before. After tying it with clumsy fingers, she pulled her cloak over her. On her way out the door she grabbed her blades from the cloth sack, and sheathed them. The boy was standing outside the door, staring in at her.

"If you're going to kill Augustin, I'm coming too," she said. The assassin sighed, gesturing at her shaky legs.

"I lost a lot of blood last night, but I'll be fine. I've been through worse," she said. Arya grabbed a few more heals of bread and some of what looked like duck, that the inn keeper had brought while she was passed out. She stowed the bread in her pack, and picked at the duck as she walked out the door.

"Of course, it would be nice to have something to call you," she muttered, following him down the stairs.

[Smokestorm]

Sure, let me just tell you my name. Oh wait...

Zachary rolled his eyes as he took the steps of the staircase. He was only faintly irritated at her insistence in following him. Either she would keep up and be a valuable help during his new mission, or she would fall behind and be left in the dust. Either way, she'd either be useful or she wouldn't be bothering him anymore.

The common room of the inn was much as it'd been last night, though the smell of vomit and cheap whores had been cleaned away by the wind as it whispered through the open windows. A fire roared in the brick hearth, but did little to hold away the chill. Not that it mattered anyways. He had no plans to stay.

The door opened easily, in spite of the wind that pushed against it's opposite side. Beyond, the city was covered in frost. Icicles hung from the wooden eaves of the buildings of Istarim, snow coating every surface in sight. It had been packed down and ground into mud along the more well traveled thoroughfares of the city. The boy stood for a minute, trying to get his bearings. The city was a lot different in the daylight, and he wasn't sure which way the docks were. Finally picking a direction, he set off. The girl followed him.

"Where are we going?"

He stopped and turned toward her, trying to think of how he could reply. Finally, he led her off the street and to a clean patch of snow at the mouth of an alley. Kneeling down, he used his finger to carve in the snow. When he was finished, a crude image of a boat was dug into the white, and a single word beside it. Fallien.

He stood and dusted the snow from his hand, starting to walk again. He disliked communicating by writing. When a person knew you couldn't speak, but also knew you were capable of writing, they got it stuck in their head that they could just make you write everything down. He didn't have the patience for it. Most times, he found body language to be enough. He'd never been one to idly chatter just to hear the sound of his own voice.

The city around them was alive during the day, men and women in heavy fur coats moving about their daily routine. They were a unique people, the Nords. Blue woad paint covered their faces, and most wore their pale hair long and plaited. In the case of males, they even wore their beards braided. When they carried weapons, they were almost always axes and maces. Wolves traveled the streets beside the Nords every so often. They'd been domesticated many centuries ago, but were still lethal killing machines when needed.

Ahead, Zachary could see the docks coming into view. Positioned at the coast of the arctic land, Istarim was surrounded by one side on the open sea, and on the other by three large, frozen lakes. The air here was crisp, the wind carrying the biting cold from the mountains further inland.

He looked back at Arya. He'd planned to stow away on a vessel headed in the general vicinity of Fallien when he'd given her his coin, but now that she'd decided to come with him, it seemed they'd have to book passage. That was something he wasn't able to do, so he motioned for her to lead the way and fell in behind her.

[Arya]

Arya tossed the duck bone she'd been picking at, and dug the coin pouch out of her pocket. Skimming the docks, she found one who looked to be in charge. He was huge, his fur coats making him seem even larger. His hair was dark brown, with matching eyes. He was obviously a foreigner, and in a hurry to leave. He kept rubbing his arms with his hands, and complaining about the cold. Arya approached him, and put on her best smile.

"Excuse me sir, if you're headed to Fallien, we'd like to book passage on your ship," she said. The man looked her and her companion over in turn, then turned to the assassin's hidden face.

"You let your woman talk for you?" he asked. Arya's lip tightened, but she recovered quickly.

"He's mute, and slightly.." Arya trailed off, tapping her temple to indicate retardation. The assassin watched her do this, and she knew the scowl was on his face, even if she couldn't see it.

"Well," said the man. "As long as he doesn't have no stupid fits, I suppose ya can ride. Let me see the color of your coin," he finished. Arya held up the coins, and when the captain nodded, she dropped them into his palm. "Down below, first door on your right. It ain't big, but it's cozy."

Arya grabbed the assassin's hand and pulled him up the ramp behind her.

As soon as they were in the room with the door securely shut behind them, the assassin pulled off his hood and glared at her. He tapped the side of his head, and raised his eyebrows as if to ask, "retarded?"

Arya giggled and dropped her bag beside the bed. "Well I had to say something to get him to leave you alone," she said. The assassin's hands pointed to his throat and mouth before holding his hands up at his side, palms up. He was questioning why being mute wasn't enough. Arya shrugged, and sat on the bed.

The room was tiny, with two small beds set into the wall, one above the other. Arya stretched out on the bottom one, then leaned over the bed and pulled a pad of parchment, and a small graphite out of her bag. She held them up to the assassin, and he sighed.

"You've already proven you can read and write, so now I want to know some things," she explained. "First one is easy. What shall I call you?" she asked. The assassin glared at the parchment, then scribbled something on it, and held it up to her.

"Zachary," it read.

"Zachary? Pretty ordinary name for a mute assassin. Second question: Why didn't you just kill me?" she asked.

[Smokestorm]

Zachary was getting annoyed with his situation now, and second guessing himself for allowing the girl to follow him. She might be helpful, but he wasn't sure that was enough to counteract the fact that she was about as comforting to have nearby as a loud, braying Ass. Retarded, was he?

He took the pad and the graphite pencil, and casually disappeared in a cloud of purple and black smoke. As he passed through the rift, he felt his body change. The most talented of the Mortalis order could heal themselves during a Shadow Step. Renaud had tried to teach him that, but he'd fallen considerably short. However, it did have one noticeable effect on him. It cured his hunger. That was the only reason he'd managed to survive so long. Very few others knew how he lived, as he was unable to remove the enchanted thread from his lips.

When he reappeared from the Rift, he was laying on the top bunk on his back. His hand began to sketch out lines on the paper. When he was done, he held the pad over the side of his bunk She took it from below, then made an annoyed grunt and kicked him through the thin mattress. He'd thought his illustration had been enough. After all, it did show him in a gentleman's suit, and depicted her as a horse's ass.

He hung his head and arm off the side of the bed and motioned for her to flip the page. She did so, and stared at him questioningly, but he only smiled as he relaxed back into his bunk. He needed to sleep, but he did so only lightly.

[Arya]

When Arya flipped the page of the tablet, it simply read "Your answers lie in Fallien." She sighed, and was beginning to wonder if coming with Zachary was a mistake. Leaning her head back on the lumpy pillow, she closed her eyes. The pain in her shoulder had dulled to a slow ache, hardly enough to be concerned with. The boy had been clumsy, but at least he seemed to know what he was doing when he patched her up. She tried to be thankful, but it was hard when he was the one who put the hole in her in the first place.

Still, it was best that she was with Zachary. If for anything, than for the fact that he was part of the organization which was trying to track her down. Surely that afforded her some bit of security. Beyond that, he had coin, which she did not. Two nights in a row sleeping in a warm bed; that was a record for her since leaving Mortalis.

"Thanks again for not killing me," she muttered. "And for letting me come along, whether you really wanted me to or not." Arya gazed around the tiny room, with it's small table and chairs bolted to the floor on the other side, and the bucket in the corner, tied down to the floor. At that she cringed, and made a note to rush Zachary out of the room when she had to do her business. There came a rustling from the top bunk, and Zachary's slow breathing. Arya rolled her eyes.

Leaning over the side of the bed, she stowed away the pad and graphite once more, seeing that she wasn't going to get any answers from him today.

Time on the ship passed slowly. He sharpened his blades more than Arya deemed necessary, and she patched her clothes while humming bits of tavern songs. The girl tried her best to make any sort of conversation with the boy, but he was mostly unresponsive. By the fifth day, he'd thrown her pad of paper across the room and played deaf, as well as mute. Her endless stream of questions seemed to annoy him.

"What are we going to do in Fallien?" "What do you do when you're tired, and need to yawn?" "Do you know Augustin?" "What if you're sick, and you have a cough?" "How long have you been with Mortalis?" "Who trained you?" "Do you miss real food?"

When the ship finally docked in Fallien, Zachary hopped out of his bunk and gathered his things quickly. The air was dry and warm, and their cloaks had been stowed way in their packs days ago. The boy rushed out the door as soon as the ramp was lowered, and Arya had to jog to keep up with him. He ran deftly down the wooden ramp, and hit the ground with only the slightest wobble. Stepping on the solid ground after weeks of sailing felt odd to Arya, and she stumbled before grabbing onto Zachary's robes. "What now?" she asked.

[Smokestorm]

Zachary waved off her question as his eyes wandered the familiar sands of Tal'Ahkmet. When he left here, he'd hoped to never see it again. He'd never have expected to return here of his own free will. The heat was overbearing, the winds bringing no respite. As the boy stood there, he had to fight the urge to turn around and walk back up the plank to the ship. This place held nothing but nightmares for him, phantoms from his past that he'd rather not revisit. And yet, Arya's questions weren't the only ones here that would be answered if he stayed. The Raja'Aini. It had all started with him, and it would end with him as well.

The voyage here had been long, and he'd had plenty of time to remember the horrors of L'enfer Rocheux. Weeks after he'd first returned to Mortalis after escaping from the Hellrock, he'd received word that the Prison had been condemned by the Raja'Aini. After Lord Marcel's removal, the local Nobles of the city were finally brave enough to close the gates of L'enfer, hopefully forever. But somehow it seemed insufficient. Zachary would never be happy until that place was completely wiped from existence.

He walked out from the docks, his stride uncertain. He hadn't spent much of his time here in the city at large. When Zachary and his Master had come here, they'd arrived at a port city roughly a week's hike to the south of Tal'Ahkmet, and had crossed the burning sands. Taking a ship directly to the city would have been foolish. So many eyes and ears in Fallien. They'd been concerned only with trying to keep a low profile, and had stayed mostly in doors. In Ibn's house, where he had gained their trust before ultimately selling them to the Lord Marcel to free his wife.

As they moved through the city, Zachary couldn't help but look around and remember. Later, he would come to believe that he had led himself to the city square on purpose, maybe to bring some form of closure to his past. But when they arrived there, the boy was stunned. The memory came back then, as clear as a mountain stream. Renaud forced to his knees by the guard, disarmed and cut off from his magical abilities by Ibn. The spray of blood across the sand when the guard's knife bit into his jugular.

Arya shook his arm. "Hey, you still here?"

He glanced at her, then looked back to the square. There was another memory here, one much happier. This had been where he'd left Marcel's head after escaping the Hellrock. His first and last gift to the people that suffered a tyrant, and allowed him to kill Renaud in the center of town during broad daylight.

He let the memories fade and started forward. He knew where he was now, and how to get to where he wanted to be. The city streets weren't that hot here, and Zachary pointed out the reason why as he walked. Renaud had done that same thing for him when they'd been here. The Raja'Aini runes were hard to spot, thanks to the other colorful murals painted on the sides of the houses. They blended well with all of the religious art that decorated the walls. Imbued with ritual magic, they pushed the desert heat away from the homes of the rich. But further toward the edge of the city, the runes grew less and less abundant until the heat was almost enough to strangle the two Assassins. After what seemed an eternity of walking, Zachary stopped in front of a squat house. Like the rest, there were paintings covering the outer walls.

Zachary reached over to dig in the pack hanging from Arya's shoulder, withdrew the pad and graphite. He scrawled two sentences. "He betrayed us to save her. Get her and the fight is over."

Arya looked confused when she read it, but Zachary gestured promptly at her. She placed the pad back into her bag and drew her knives. Zachary only drew one, and held it in his left hand. He would keep his right hand free. If he had to kill Ibn, he would do it with Renaud's Hidden Blade.

The boy wrapped his arm around Arya's waist, and together they disappeared in a cloud of black and purple smoke.