Magical Sailor Fuku

((between Hawk and Haylie... PM one of us if you're interested in joining))

Characters

Rath Lowen
Race: Nord
Age: 25 years
Affiliation: Dark Brotherhood
Rank: Rookie

Malak the Crow
Race: Breton
Age: 37
Affiliation: Dark Brotherhood
Rank: Veteran

((Let me know if this is too long or too short.))

The shack had been still for hours. No one had come in, nor out. Soon, though, Rath expected a light-haired man around six feet in height (that was the description in the contract, at least) to show up and stash some supplies. It didn't matter what the supplies were, or who this man even was, really. All that mattered was that Rath should end the guy's life. Rath, a young assassin still new to his profession, had been waiting eleven hours for this target to arrive. And all this time spent waiting had drained him of interest and energy.

"Say, Malak," he murmured quietly, turning towards his older and more experienced companion. "You've been with the Brotherhood for a long time, yes?" Rath paused for a moment to yawn, revealing a sign of his intense boredom. The waiting had all but killed him mentally. "When clients come to us with contracts, do they always do their homework? I mean... do we know that the time and place that they give us to find their target will be accurate?"

(A bit more description would be nice, but it's okay)

Malak the Crow, a dark-haired Breton man a tad on the short side but quite muscular, replied simply, "Aye. ... People don't... come to us with contracts. You'll figure it out eventually. There isn't any 'homework' to do; we're told who to kill and where they likely are, or can be found at some point. The hows are up to us and the whys are unimportant. We're quick, efficient, patient, and above all, secretive."

During that little speech, Malak hadn't taken his eyes off the door until the last word, when he turned his head to his protoge with a stern look, indicating his own impatience.

"I recall one assignment I had that forced me to squat in a barrel of rotting fish for three days..." he began. He'd told this story three times today alone.

((I'll describe a little more about my character as we go along I guess.))

"Hmm... You seem pretty dedicated," mentioned Rath, barely managing to cut the sense of disgust from his voice as he mentally pictured Malak sitting in a barrel full of rotting fish. He sighed briefly, understanding two points that his superior had presented: that this sort of work took patience, and that circumstances could easily be less pleasant. At that, Rath stopped complaining and began to slowly scratch his beard. It was a rather light beard that covered his entire face, composed of short black hairs. He was pretty dark for a Nord. His skin was a slightly tanned, unlike the most of his countrymen, who had very pale skin. His hair, which he kept about neck length, was dark as well. He more than likely had a mix of something else somewhere up his family tree.

"Guess I'll grow into this way of life soon enough," he figured out loud. After that, he turned back towards the shack and resumed staring. A frigid wind blew by once or twice, rustling the leaves as it passed. The air grew a little chillier, but that didn't bother Rath. He was a Nord, and he could handle the cold.

About half an hour later, the faint sound of a gallop could be heard coming from the distance.

Malak himself was not a tall man. His face was rough and harsh, but clean-shaven. There were a few small scars on his head and neck, each one of which seemed to have its own story. If nothing else, the man liked his stories.

He rubbed his arms a bit. He still wasn't used to Skyrim's cold, no matter how long he had stayed there. He'd learned long ago not to complain, however.

"Look alive, lad," he said, readying a bow. "I think our mark is about here. But if it's not our man, we leave 'em be. Got it?"

Rath became silent when Malak mentioned the arrival of their target, and he listened as closely as he could. He realized that he, too, could hear the beat of the galloping horse. The rhythm grew louder and louder as the person approached; Rath reached with his right hand for a hand-crafted steel dagger attached to his left hip. The weapon had a rather weak enchantment for the magic of thunder, which gave it a very slight electric pulse.


Norm, the target who Rath and Malak had been expecting all this time, rode in on a brown horse. When he arrived at his shack, he dismounted the horse rather abruptly by sliding off and landing hard on the ground. Then, after tying his horse down to secure it, he fumbled with his keys for a while until he could manage to unlock his front door. Norm began to mumble incoherently as he opened his front door rather quickly, actually hitting himself with it and knocking himself back a step or two. Following that, he stumbled inside, leaving his door wide open.


"He seems... Like he can't handle his mead," Rath noted quietly, failing to suppress a grin. He derived a lot of humor out of Norm's drunken clumsiness, and it almost saddened him that he had to kill the guy. It was almost like killing a dog.

"Not our problem," Malak said coldly as he drew an arrow. "I can't shoot him from here, and you're a better sneak than I, so here's what we do: You're to sneak in through the door--shouldn't be too hard--and slit his throat. Should he spot you, chase him out here and I'll stick him with an arrow. Then we drink. Nice and simple."

Malak the Crow decided to do what earned him his title and climbed the tree they were using as cover to stand on a thick branch so he'd have a better view. "Get to it, lad. And be careful."

Malak's orders seemed simple enough. Rath was pretty light on his toes, and he managed to get around without making too much racket. "Understood," he murmured, before rising from his position to descend upon the shack (and the victim inside). Doing his best to avoid creating any sounds, Rath took his time getting into the shack. He didn't want to keep Malak waiting, but at the same time he understood the virtue of patience.


When he crept through the door, Rath found Norm lying on a bed with a hand over his face. The man was breathing rather heavily, and he seemed sick. Rath stood still for a moment before drawing his blade...


"Mindy? Mindy, is that you? Don't worry, my wife doesn't know we're out here..." Norm mumbled. Little did the drunkard know that his wife had ordered his death.


Rath removed Norm's hand, which had been covering his face and neck. In response, Norm just leaned back and began to grumble, too drunk to notice what was happening. Rath lowered his blade onto Norm's neck and just left it there for a few seconds. It was eerie how the guy offered no resistance at all... But Rath wasn't payed to feel eerie. Instead, he put pressure on the blade and made a quick, clean cut. Norm flinched for a moment and tried to cry out in surprise, but he bled out almost immediately.


A moment later Rath emerged from the shack and gave Malak a thumbs up.

Malak felt a tad disappointed he couldn't fire his bow, but would never admit it. Besides, the job was done, they'd earned their pay, and now they could get out of this damn cold.

He hopped down and replaced his bow and arrow, an odd half-smile on his face. "Not badly done, lad," he said, patting Rath on the shoulder, "You killed a man drunk off his arse. Next time we'll try something more challenging... like a sleeping goat!" He chuckled a bit, jokingly nudging Rath's gut with his elbow.

"In all seriousness, though, that did happen once. I was put on a contract to kill a goat. I've a feeling the man that placed it was... unwell in the head."

A slight grin appeared on Rath's face as he listened to Malak. "I've encountered a few crazy people in my time... Luckily I've never worked with one," he mentioned. The young assassin wandered back into the shack and wiped the blood off his blade using a clean patch from Norm's shirt. "So you think a goat would be harder to kill than a blacked out drunk? I might have to agree with you there... This guy did absolutely nothing to resist."


"Oh, before I forget... the guy started calling me Mindy. I think he expects someone of that name to show up soon. I wouldn't stick around here for long..."

(OOC: Dovakiin in this continuity didn't join them, and so they haven't switched Sanctuaries yet)

A grin split Malak's face when Rath told him about "Mindy". "Hah, he must've downed a whole barrelful, then, to mistake you for something pretty!" A playful slap on the shoulder. "Would've been prudent to bring that up first, lad," Malak said matter-of-factly, but without condescention. "Best get moving back toward the Sanctuary."

He set off at a brisk pace southward. He always made a point of staying off paths, and thus not using horses. He thought it toughened the feet, and kept one on his toes should they be attacked by any of Skyrim's wildlife, which lead to more combat experience, which was always useful.

"Ah, I used to know a Mindy. Only she was a Wood Elf. And ten years my senior. And a member of the Thieve's Guild. And tried to shoot me with a ballista. So nothing like this one, most likely."

Rath followed his superior, agreeing with him that it was best to return to home base rather than stick around at the scene of the crime. He hadn't taken time to enjoy any of the mead, but whatever. There was always time for that later. He was working now, anyways, and he had to separate his professional life from his desire for leisure.


"Mindy the wood elf, huh," replied Rath in response to Malak's words. The guy seemed to have plenty of past experiences to ramble about, and it wasn't a bad thing at all. Rath more or less enjoyed listening to Malak, and he imagined the guy becoming something like a sage or an elder when he got old. Most of what he said was entertaining, and the rest was pure wisdom. "What do you think the other Mindy will do when she finds the body?"

Malak shrugged and said, "I don't know. Panic. Scream. Run away. Loot his house. I'd have done the last one, personally, but we'd risk getting caught."

Unusual for his chosen acquaintences, Malak always had the policy of "target only". Most other assassins didn't much care about collateral damage, but Malak believed that a truely skilled assassin shouldn't have to kill anyone but their mark, unless in self-defence or if the contract specified "and any henchmen you come across". The former is just good sense, and the latter is still part of the contract and thus wouldn't be in violation of this policy anyway. It took a certain amount of finesse to drill an arrow into a High Elf's ear from a rooftop as he weaves through a crowd.

"I'm guessing since the lady that paid us was his wife, and by that scowl on her face when she spat out his name, that this Mindy person he was expecting was his... 'lady escort'. She'll likely holler and leave, maybe tell a guard, and forget about it. Don't try to attach yourself to it, trust me. Do the job, go home, and gorge yourself on fine cheese and wine. In that order. Hard to enjoy cheese while drunk."

"Ha ha, I'll do that," answered Rath. He tried to make himself forget about Mindy, which wasn't too hard. She was nothing but a name to him anyways. It was Norm himself who was giving him trouble. And it wasn't the killing of Norm that bothered Rath. It was the guy's lack of resistance. If Norm had struggled, moved, or even cried out "No!" things would have been alright. Instead, he just lied quiet and still, as if he had already died before Rath got to him. It was... too eerie.


Whatever. Rath had chosen the business of cold blooded killing, so he'd just have to toughen up. He glanced at Malak and figured the guy had gone through the same experiences. It was almost surprising that he hadn't become some murderous sociopath. Rath didn't know how his mentor could kill over and over again without becoming stone cold... Hopefully he would turn out the same way.


"Do you think they'll have more work for us when we get back?"