Molotov
03-06-14, 02:41 PM
(closed)
It had been raining. A few hours had passed since the rain had fallen, but the humid air still carried the smell of freshly wet earth along with the arid smell of rusted iron. Molotov stood calmly on the platform, waiting for the tracks to creak again, signaling that his train would be there soon. “I bloody hate Ettermire,” he thought to himself. Of course, he remembered as much as he might have hated the capital of the Drow, it was not like there were other places he liked all that much better. He had forgotten how much he had hated being an assassin. One person was far too hard to find in a city as big as Ettermire, even if they were a former general and a Raiaraean high elf.
This was the mutant’s first job since ending his self imposed sabbatical. He had regretted leaving Kyo to fend for herself with a group of aspiring bandits, but Molotov knew he had few other options at the time. He had been losing too many friends to keep up with the rate he had been gaining enemies so quickly. Still, it had been good for Molotov to have some time away from the politics and conflicts that had occupied so much of his time when he’d lead his army to Gisela. He had read, he had eaten, grown a little fat, known his own desperation and become comfortable in. But most of all, the mutant had found a way to pray.
Molotov didn’t pray to anything in particular, at least as far as the religions he had been taught in school. Instead, it was an act of humility, a way of accepting contrition for the mistakes he had made and the blood he had spilled without having to punish himself for the sins he could not undo. It allowed him to return now to an assassination job with a clearer perspective on the things he needed to do. More than anything else, Molotov knew that if he was going to keep a low enough profile for the people who wanted him dead in Corone, he was going to have to make an ally in Alerar or Raiaera pretty soon.
It was the search for an ally that had lead Molotov to accept a bounty that few others were foolish enough to attempt, that of Findelfin ap’Fingolfin, the former general and now deserter of the Raiarean army. The reward for Findelfin’s capture was six hundred gold coins. It was a handsome fee for the general, but what had really attracted Molotov was the chance that he could ingratiate himself with Nalith and the rest of Raiarea’s leaders. He had no strong opinion of Findelfin, and under different circumstances might have passed up the job. However, as the former Gisela combatant had said when he had agreed to the assassination, Findelfin had been a general, so he had to have been guilty of a few crimes along the way.
Whatever the politics of the situation were, none of that changed a few basic facts for Molotov. He was standing on a train platform in the middle of Ettermire, waiting for a train on a wet day amidst humid air. Soon the train would be there, and he would be able to put a stressful day of searching for his target behind him by enjoying a cigarette and a glass of drow brandy. He poked at the cement platform with his toe listlessly as the sound of a train approaching began to fill the ear. Molotov did not react visibly, but he was pleased. In the back of his mind, he could already taste the brandy…
It had been raining. A few hours had passed since the rain had fallen, but the humid air still carried the smell of freshly wet earth along with the arid smell of rusted iron. Molotov stood calmly on the platform, waiting for the tracks to creak again, signaling that his train would be there soon. “I bloody hate Ettermire,” he thought to himself. Of course, he remembered as much as he might have hated the capital of the Drow, it was not like there were other places he liked all that much better. He had forgotten how much he had hated being an assassin. One person was far too hard to find in a city as big as Ettermire, even if they were a former general and a Raiaraean high elf.
This was the mutant’s first job since ending his self imposed sabbatical. He had regretted leaving Kyo to fend for herself with a group of aspiring bandits, but Molotov knew he had few other options at the time. He had been losing too many friends to keep up with the rate he had been gaining enemies so quickly. Still, it had been good for Molotov to have some time away from the politics and conflicts that had occupied so much of his time when he’d lead his army to Gisela. He had read, he had eaten, grown a little fat, known his own desperation and become comfortable in. But most of all, the mutant had found a way to pray.
Molotov didn’t pray to anything in particular, at least as far as the religions he had been taught in school. Instead, it was an act of humility, a way of accepting contrition for the mistakes he had made and the blood he had spilled without having to punish himself for the sins he could not undo. It allowed him to return now to an assassination job with a clearer perspective on the things he needed to do. More than anything else, Molotov knew that if he was going to keep a low enough profile for the people who wanted him dead in Corone, he was going to have to make an ally in Alerar or Raiaera pretty soon.
It was the search for an ally that had lead Molotov to accept a bounty that few others were foolish enough to attempt, that of Findelfin ap’Fingolfin, the former general and now deserter of the Raiarean army. The reward for Findelfin’s capture was six hundred gold coins. It was a handsome fee for the general, but what had really attracted Molotov was the chance that he could ingratiate himself with Nalith and the rest of Raiarea’s leaders. He had no strong opinion of Findelfin, and under different circumstances might have passed up the job. However, as the former Gisela combatant had said when he had agreed to the assassination, Findelfin had been a general, so he had to have been guilty of a few crimes along the way.
Whatever the politics of the situation were, none of that changed a few basic facts for Molotov. He was standing on a train platform in the middle of Ettermire, waiting for a train on a wet day amidst humid air. Soon the train would be there, and he would be able to put a stressful day of searching for his target behind him by enjoying a cigarette and a glass of drow brandy. He poked at the cement platform with his toe listlessly as the sound of a train approaching began to fill the ear. Molotov did not react visibly, but he was pleased. In the back of his mind, he could already taste the brandy…