A roaring bellow shook the heavens. Receding far into the distance, monotonous grey clouds followed eagerly, spilling forth their stockpile of liquid, raining down onto the dark city of Antagon. It was here that Thom Ambrosia, First Assassin of the High Chancellor Navear, made his living as he had done for 3 years now. And it was now, when the sky was overcast with lightning, that he did his job best. Quickly pulling himself down from a ledge, Thom perched precariously on an overhanging windowsill, and just as quietly, pulled himself through the beckoning entrance. Shards of glass pricked his padded boots as he landed softly inside the bedroom. Someone had been here before him. Glancing around at his surroundings, he spotted his intended victim even before he spied the dark shape of a knife jutting out of the body. He now realised the danger he was in. Quickly pivoting around on his left foot, he swung his dagger around just as- He was too late. A sudden, sharp throb jolted his chest, sending spasms of immense pain through his body. Coughing blood, he slumped down onto his knees, head raised high to look into his attackerâs eyes. And his eyes widened in recognition. And shock. The eyes of Jac âthe ghostâ Ambrosia stared down at him equally surprised. They had been brothers once, until the law denied their connection to one another. Slowly, the blade slid out of Thomâs body, leaving only a thin, if not deep, incision. Lowering his head down again, barely concealing his pain, he gasped quietly to his ex-brother. âJac...how?!â Jac answered him with tears in his eyes. âThom, I was sent to kill him,â he whispered anxiously, referring to still shape on the far side of the room. âMy master told me he was a threat to the city, and had to be eliminated. Iâm sorry, Thom.â His life flashing behind his eyes, he recalled a time when he was satisfied, if not happy. A time when he was free. When he was... 3 Years Before âLucas! Where are my clothes?â It was always the same situation. A sunny day, birds chirping, flowers blooming. It was only slightly marred by the fact that, of course, Thomâs head servant was losing things yet again. That man may be a genius, but he is more disorganized then a beggar in a palace, Thom grumbled irritatingly to himself. The man had only recently been promoted to Chief Advisor, and already he was playing up the fool. Thom suspected it was because he enjoyed his newfound privileges much too excessively. That would have to be dealt with. Meanwhileâ" A piercing scream shattered his thoughts. Quickly gathering himself of the ground, he rapidly sped to the scene of where a horrifying sight greeted him. A woman lay dead in a puddle of blood, one hand clutching her upper torso, fingers parted to reveal the hilt of a knife sticking out of her chest. Thom quickly avoided the appalling sight. Before him a serving woman gaped in horror, and with a hand over her mouth, went to scream yet again. Thom hurriedly ordered her to send the chief advisor to the situation immediately. Within seconds, Lucas, Head Servant of High Chancellor Thom Ambrosia, was on the scene, with a shocked face and hurriedly assessing the situation. And that was where it all went wrong... Present Anger numbed his pain as he remembered his stupidity from that moment. Why hadnât he seen?! Why had he not suspected? He remembered the servant putting away his dirty gloves, dirty with soil, he had thought at the moment, a thought he had rendered un-important. Yet important it was, he had realised when a few days later, his own trusted advisor, his own faithful servant had denounced him and accused him of murder. That was when he remembered that blood could have the appearance of dirt, and that a look of shock could be either a look of satisfaction or contempt. Lucas had enjoyed his privileges too much, and still he wanted more. Lucas, High Chancellor. It was a well known fact that advisors were often jealous of their masters, despising them for receiving all the credit from their advice. Thom had mistaken Lucasâs jealousy and contempt for inability and disorganisation. Thom ground his teeth weakly in annoyance. A fresh dribble of blood escaped his lips. He was wasting away... His whole family had been broken up, after that. His and their Honour had been distributed to those citizens that still retained theirs, and he was outcast. Having no means to live, he had given up on life itself. Until he became an Assassin-a tool used by others to destroy and to kill. He had no choice, no other means to live. His current master had seen the defencelessness of his situation, and had taken advantage of it for his own means. The same had most likely happened to Jac, who he had not seen since he had lost his honour. His mission today had been to kill a threat of his master, another high chancellor, another one of the petty squabbles that dominated the life of most of the citizens of Antagon. Today he died, and what had he achieved? Distantly, he heard Jac whispering his name. Everything was fading... A distant bellow shook the heavens.
Ok, I was digging up random stories that I'd written a few years ago and behold, found some random fantasy crap that I started but was never going to finish :P Anyway, here it is.
Deaf: The epic Tale of Love and Butchery
The night was dark. And while the lone man ran through the silent streets of Apocolypsia, he cried out for help. But no one heard him.
No one heard his pleas, shouts of mercy. He was being stabbed. Stabbed to death. The knife repeatedly made squelching noises, as he was stabbed, with horrific accuracy, in the same spot every time the already blood-soaked blade came down. He screamed.
No one heard him.
Slumping against the wall, eyes wide open in a final glimpse of his life. One final cry of anguish, a hoarse cry of despair.
And no one heard him.
His attacker moved off without a word, footsteps stepping lightly over the body. Freeing the corpses frozen wrist of its treasure. The insignificant looking brown parcel. Rustling the paper as it was pulled out of the young man's grasp.
Yet no one heard him.
The mysterious individual jostled through the bustling crowds of the Great Capital. At first glance, she was not different from the others, although if one kept solely on track of her particular movements, one would see. A typical merchant, one with a careful eye would point out. But if an even more speculative eye observed the way the woman moved, one would see she moved unsteadily, swaying, making no effort to counteract her unnecessary movements. One could even suggest she was one of the Anti, the greats, who travelled thousands of kilometres on foot to preach at various cities. But no, there was something more. Something in her eyes, something evoking a veil of cautiousness, a barrier of hindrance, obscuring a dark secret hidden away in that suppressing mind. And it was on this day, a day for merriment and joy, which the first dark Necromancer from the shadows descended upon the continent of Inerssia, foreshadowing havoc and destruction, leaving all behind to waste.
Metal clashed against metal as an unearthly monotone rang out across the heavens. Sweat dripped from Tomas's brow as he struggled to find a good footing on the treacherous mountain hillside. His opponent showed no similar signs of fatigue, resorting only to nimbly dance across Tomas's field of vision, mocking the young knight as if he were no more than a mere barbarian. Lunging forward with the last remaining ounce of his strength, Tomas watched, as if in slow motion, as his sparring rival deftly flicked his staff in front of Tomas's field of vision.
Impact.
Disbelief clouded Tomas's eyes as his sword was batted up high into to sky, his eyes continually flicking back and forth, alternating between the sneering elf and the quickly descending blade. With expert precision, the young elf lightly caught the handle of the weapon with his free hand and quickly jammed the sword down into the hard, compressed soil. With a sharp snap, the tip of the blade crumpled under pressure, rendering the sword useless.
Lol, it might. Making everyone die gives me some chances to make the story actually feel like I have a goal at the end of my story: finding the most hi-larious ways to make everyone die. Maybe I should make Thomas be the one that was stabbed in the prologue? How ironic. Rantrantrantrant -.-
Or I could just finish the story :/ Haha :P I wrote it a few years ago, and it's been lying around on my desktop growing mould for quite a while now.
