• Graded • Don't Be Naive

[Kasoria]

26th Trial of Saun, Arc 708
Commercial Circle
9th break

There was right, and there was wrong, and most times Janus knew the difference. No matter how loudly the mob howled, how fiercely the priests or aristocrats railed, if a man knew something was wrong and immoral, he had to say so. No, more than that: he had to act in defiance of it. Because once you started to muddy the two and make the whole world gray, all would be fog and formless and there would be nothing a man could rely on.

Right and Wrong. Such as expecting to be paid for three trials where you weren't at work, and with no good reason.

"Mister Firth, I know I didn't send word, but the point is I'm back now-"

"Margrat, you've been singing this song for nearly a break now, and the tune is no more likely to beguile me." The man behind the desk made his fingers into a pyramid and studied the woman over them. That was a bad sign: he'd made his mind up. "You were away from work for three trails-"

"Sir, more like two trials and up to lunch on the-"

"-three trials, without so much as a word or a note in explanation for being such. Am I to pay the beggars outside now, as well? Because they did exactly as much work for me those trials as you did."

"Sir, my Lijah was sick, and with his father off working up north I had to come home and take care of him and the medicine wasn't cheap and I had to be close to him and..."

She babbled on and on and Janus sighed and massaged his face. Papers and forms rustled under his elbows as he did. He had much to do that day, orders and inventory to sort out for the next half of the season, and he'd already devoted too much time to this. Beyond the babbling woman was a production floor that chimed and clicked happily with focused, dedicated men and women polishing and engraving and sorting various stones and even some gems. His "special clerks" loomed at the front door, for a business that dealt in precious stones was always one targeted.

Robbery and rapine was not his concern right then, though. The woman a few trills away from rivers of tears most certainly was.

"Now, Magrat, that's enough," he said, soothing his words with the edge taken out and a conciliatory hand raised. "I'm not paying you for those three trials-"

"Two trials and up-"

"-fine, two trials and a half, but either way, you're not getting paid for them. You say you were here on the third after lunch? Fine, then you get half a day. But no more than that. Now you're back, so I assume Lijah is better, and you can get back to work. More than that, work a couple of extra shifts and you will make those lost trials back in no time." Another barrage of pleas was on her lips and he strangled it off by leaning forwards, almost pivoting on his elbows. "Magrat, anyone else would have tossed you out on your ear after one, am I wrong? But you work hard and you know your business, so I'm glad to have you back. But no more talk about those trials, and you getting paid for them. Not a word. Am I clear?"

The last sentence saw the edge return to his voice, like a sheathed sword seeing daylight again. Magrat nodded, sniffling back her tears and counting herself lucky. Hard old bastard probably wasn't going to give, but it was worth a chance. Tears never did much for Ol' Janus, anyway. And he was right, after all. Anyone else and she'd be looking for a new job.

"Yes, Mister Firth. Thank you."

"Not a bother. Back to work, you place is as you left it."

He watched the mother of three waddle away and out of his office, carefully settling down back to her desk and running vein-covered but accomplished hands over her tools. She wasn't bad, that was for sure. She could chip and sand and smooth a rough stone into something beautiful and, more importantly, valuable. It had taken her years to reach that level, but now she was an asset he didn't want to toss away carelessly. And she loved her children, that was true. She wouldn't be back if her son was still sick, and now that he was...

No more of this nonsense, I hope, he thought with a sigh, shuffling through some late orders he needed to reply to, get a few extra trials. Again and I may have to make an example.

Janus pushed the unpleasant thought away and got back to work. He'd built his business from a market stall to a respected fixture in the Commercial Circle, and yes, sometimes he'd had to fire employees... but most times, it had been because he'd kept on top of the paperwork. That, and long, long hours away from his own son, and his wife. A few more breaks he would have lunch with her, he thought. That would be a nice surprise. But for now there were invoices to attend to.

"Always plugging away, Janus."

He peered up as quill touched parchment, and smiled at the portly figure filling his office doorway.

"As others are with pastries and sausages, so I am with my scribbles."

Walcomb winced and mimed a blow against his chest. "Sir, you doth wound with naught but perfect truth. How talented of you, and forked your tongue."

"Shut up and get in here, you old stoat."

A laugh between two old friends filled the room, warm and rich in history. Janus opened his drawer but Walcomb waved away the offer of a drink before the bottle even saw daylight. Janus could see he was already pulling something from his pocket and handing it over. A paper rolled thin and tight and sealed with the waxed mark of Cutters Guild.

"Uh-oh. This never bodes well."

"It does for you, actually. Open it."

Janus did, and realized it was darker than he'd thought morning should be as he read the fine penmanship. He looked up and behind Walcomb was another figure, taller and broader and wearing none of the flab his food-loving friend did. There was muscle there, and little else, packed onto a frame with keen, youthful eyes in a bearded face.

"You think I need a bodyguard?"

"I know you do, and the Guild agrees with me."

"Walcomb, for heaven's sake, it was a couple of thugs looking for a handout-"

"My sources tell me they were Vorund's people," Walcomb shot back, all of the good humor drained from a face made for joviality. Janus paid attention. If his carefree friend was worried, perhaps he should be, too. "I have heard the name. He is not to be trifled with, and he cannot allow word to spread that someone like you defied someone like him. That's blood in the water to his kind."

"I'll not pay some leech when I've a family and business and workers that need me." Janus was not a kindly-sounding man at the best of times, aside for those moments with his son, but now he seemed positively fuming. Walcomb rocked back like an egg in a suit, knowing how this conversation would end before the other man even finished speaking. "And he's only sniffing around me anyway because I'm not a member of the Guild-"

"Which could change the trill you decide, I even have the paperwork on me-"

"Oh, don't bother, man."

That was something of a blow, and Janus saw the pain on his friend's face. The two of them had known each other for years, and the fact that the older, more gregarious and... morally-flexible Walcomb had become a well-paid fixer for Trask's nigh-monopoly on the gemstone trade had never interrupted that. But the truth was, Janus did feel the pinch from that unpleasant visit last season. And the more forceful one after that, merely ten trials ago. The thugs that had come to see him had pretensions of eloquence, but no real accomplishment. He had no delusions that their master was more capable.

But right was right, and wrong was wrong, and paying protection money came in many forms.

"I'm... Walcomb, you know me. You have for decades. You know I don't truck with the Guild, and don't need to. I pay my taxes and keep my business clean and healthy. I've never needed to be a due-payer for Lord Trask, and I don't need to now."

"They'll kill you, Janus," Walcomb said, keeping his words simple for maximum impact. "You defy them, that's what happens."

"And the Guild offers a bodyguard to save me, in exchange for-"

"Not the Guild. Me. My cost, my expense." The fat man stood up with some effort, and Janus did the same. "Some things are more than money, old friend." He leaned in closer and embraced Janus over the table, voice a whisper only they could hear. "Reach some compromise, Janus. I beg you. A pittance, an offering, anything, just to get them off your back."

Janus held their embrace and smelled the expensive cologne on his friend's sweaty neck. Very expensive. A good living was to be made in the Guild, apparently. Walcomb never had to spend long hours after dark working on extra gems with his own hands, nor did his wife have to trawl the markets for the cheapest food and cloth for their home. He dressed well and ate even better and maybe even had a pension lined up for his old age.

Janus had none of these things. But what he did have he had earned, not had given to him by a capricious aristocrat who could take it away at any trill. He sighed and Walcomb closed his eyes for a moment. He knew what he would say. He knew what would happen.

"That's not my way, Walcomb. I'm sorry."

"Damn you, Janus. Damn your pride."

They broke their hug and regarded each other. Walcomb smiled and shook his head, taking in his lean friend from their boyhood arcs. Who'd blazed his own trail and scrimped and saved and pulled himself up from the Outer Perimeter into the shadow of the Citadel itself. A true Etzos success story. But inspiration wouldn't save the man from a dagger in a dark alley, and he spoke over his shoulder to his associate.

"Clovis? You stick to Mister Firth at all times. He's my friend and I'm paying you to keep him alive. Janus? I must be off. Keep the scroll, in case Clovis has to... be unpleasant to anyone, you'll have the stamp and seal to explain why."

"I owe you one, Walcomb."

"Oh, enough, man," the fat man's spirits were returned and high as ever, smirking at the world with multiple chins wobbling, smothering his worry in the persona he'd cultivated for arcs. "Call us even, for pulling me out of that brothel that time. I found out after the girls were poxed to a filly!"

"You're a filthy sod, Walcomb."

"That I am, lad, that I am..." He made to leave then paused, as if remembering something. "Oh, and before I forget, there's a shit-smelling beggar across the street from you. I wouldn't mention it but he seems... well, he stinks worse than usual. Shall I move him along?"

"Ah, don't bother. They have a right to the street. Just not the business."

Walcomb shrugged his shoulders and left it at that. He walked out of Firth Engravers and Polishers alone, leaving Clovis to get to know his new client. He nodded to the women he passed, smiled at the men... even tipped a wink at a pretty girl or two. But the air was thick with potential profit, not just labor, and he sighed again for not getting his friend into the Guild like nearly everyone else. Didn't he realize how useful it was, to be part of such a grand and unified whole? How vulnerable he was, alone and at the mercy of a whole army of parasites and killers? Immortal Blood, they'd grown up on the same streets, seen the gangs run their rackets on businesses just like him. Did he really think he was-

"Spar' sum copper, sir?"

"Oh... yes, yes..." Heavs, but the man did stink. Walcomb was sure to make sure not a hair on his fingers touched the bowl as he dropped a copper into it. The bearded figure squatting across the street from Janus' business looked up and fixed one half-closed eye on him. "You know, there are better spot for begging further up this ring, I think. You might have better luck there?"

"Nah, s'right, guv. S'ain't far from where I kip, y'know?"

"Well... consider it. Become a fixture and a Guardsman might just move you on."

He left the derelict with that thought, and sauntered away. His charity had limits, after all, and Janus needed all the help he could get.

Hooded, stinking, and ignored by all the well-to-do, Kasoria watched him go. Then resumed his vigil on the man his master told him about.

Thanks to Rumor for the template

[Kasoria]

It was never quiet in the underworld. A curious fact, but true nonetheless. Even removed from the bustle and glare of the upper world, the industry of a city that never seemed to sleep, the caverns and tunnels were never still. Rodents and scavengers scuttled from shadow to shadow. Great, echoing booms from machinery distant but well-maintained clattered off stony walls. Always there was the constant splash and drip and flow of water from the reservoir, percolating through man-made arteries like blood from a vast heart.

There were whispers of things deeper in the shadows, so far down that the hand of man was absent. But those whispers came from men, for the underworld of Etzos was not just a catch-all for gangsters and killers and racketeers and smugglers and all the sundry occupations of those who made their living flouting the law.

It was never quiet in the underworld, because it was never empty.

The small man did not wander, for that implied a lack of purpose. He strode down passages, turning here and there, one hand clasping his begging bowl, the other at his side. Always half-clenched into a fist. Most of the denizens down there were fugitives, or homeless, dispossessed and yet finding a new home in the sewers. It wasn't much, but it was free from Guardsmen and law, so that was the trade-off one had to make.

But Kasoria never went anywhere expecting violence to be completely absent. Getting jumped and left for dead so far from the sun was not a way he wanted to die. So his ears were cocked and intent. Listening to the echoes and trying to gauge their proximity. He turned sharply at each corner, knowing the route well from the sewer he'd crawled into at the edge of the Commercial Ring, winding down and through the underworld, coming out a few city blocks away from his home.

He'd known the way for arcs, since he'd been a brash boy playing in the dark with his friends. Exploring this unclaimed kingdom where children could imagine so much out of bare stone and functional civic sewage works.

He still smelled like dog shit. But considering he'd wiped the muck on his cloak himself, that was to be expected. He'd found that if you looked and smelled like a vagrant, a beggar, a worthless, hopeless, harmless speck of detritus, people left you alone, save for charity. They ignored you, and once they did that, you could go most places.

Free to watch. To track. To wait for your moment.

He inhaled deeply, and over the stench of shit he found the smell of fresh bread in the air. Ah, here it was. Ulito's bakery, kilns still working, filling the air up and down the street with his famous rolls. This was his exit. He climbed up to the grate and peered out into the darkness. Shadows cloaked it, and inch by inch he slid the cover off... then hoisted himself up...

It was a warm night, of course. Fresh, humid air buffeted him as it roared down the circular thoroughfare, but few people saw him in the night. He shoved the grate back where it was supposed to go and started for his house. And, of course, before he'd even opened the door, the chorus of mewling voices greeting him. Or harangued him, more accurately.

"Lemme in the door first..."

As soon as he did, small quick shapes much like himself trooped imperiously into the room. Tails high, bright eyes scanning voraciously for food and scraps. Kasoria rolled his eyes as he locked the door behind him. Oh so eager for the food, but did they spare any time to greet their benefactor?

Something warm and furry rubbed itself against his leg. He looked down and into a black-white face with only one eye.

"At least you appreciate it," he muttered, reaching down to scratch her, getting a bass purr as a reward. "Only Miss Bella, hmm?"

First thing's first: get that damned cloak off. He carefully disrobed and folded it so the streaks of shit were on the inside when he placed it on the table. He'd need it for tomorrow, and for however many days were to follow until his master gave him the word. It was a good disguise, but what man enjoyed smelling like canine waste all day? The ratty sandals, holed breeches and matted shirt... all were part of the same disguise. They all went on the pile, and naked he washed himself in the basin until he was satisfied he was ready for his clothes.

Much the same, but infinitely cleaner. And better-smelling.

"You eat when I eat," he said to the room and his gaggle of self-obsessed followers. "For now, just try not to mark anything."

It was a simple meal for a simple man. He could afford richer fare, but... no, it was an indulgence. The bulk of his coin was earmarked for something far more important than filling his belly. Besides, the diet he kept kept him healthy, and a man who dealt in death needed a strong body. He stoked the fire under the stove and chopped vegetables until the water in the pot boiled. Carrots, parsnips, onions, leeks, cabbage... the recipe his mother had taught him years ago. He never got the herbs right, but he was still trying. They all went into the boiling water and so did the salt and pepper. He'd need to wait before adding the oats and barley.

That was the secret. Timing and patience and letting it all stew into... well, stew.

Kasoria sat at the table and, of course, his motley crew all jumped up to vie for his attention. That's what happened when you fed them. You never got rid of them. Still, better them than dogs. Cats were... self-regulating, was the word he'd used. They shit in a box filled with sand and if you didn't feed them, well, they found a way to feed themselves. They were as haughty as Rynmere nobles and cutthroat at Yaralon mercenaries, but people loved them, and why?

Because they're pretty and fluffy and make nice noises. Shows what we know.

"Dinner's ready."

He poured half the stew into a bowl, almost half of it into another that went into his cupboard for tomorrow, and the last bit went into a bowl that never left the floor. You didn't need to clean it, not with a pack of perpetually-starving mouths scraping every dram of food from it. Before he'd even finished "serving", they were gathered around, tailing swishing like a line of grain stalks, chomping their way through their meal.

The killer smiled down at them, and at the one-eyed cripple still at his side.

"Fine. You can eat with me."

He ate in silence, save for the purring and occasional hissing of his company. Bella got comfortable next to the table lamp, warming herself in the glow, squatting on her forelegs in that perfectly odd way that cats did. Kasoria always thought it made them look like their legs had been cut off. He spooned the stew into his mouth and relished the warmth and flavor. Now and then he dipped half a roll into it, giving himself some variety. But he didn't use it to clean the bowl, like they'd been taught to do as children.

No, the dregs went to Bella. Even if it meant he had to clean the bowl.

"Enjoy," he whispered as she dipped her head daintily to feed. "Don't let the others-"

A knock on the door. His mood flipped like a lever had been pulled. He was across the room, gladius in hand, and back at the door by the time the caller knocked again. Another killer wouldn't knock. If they were after him, they'd know him, and know what he could do. They wouldn't give him a trill of warning. But it never hurt to be careful. He unlocked the door and opened it a crack, braced to leap back from a ax or sword swinging through it-

-and found another street denizen staring up at him. Small and wide-eyed, with a note in her hand.

"Wuz told t'give you this."

He took it without a word, and closed the door. He recognized her. One of Vorund's minions. Kids from the neighborhood, given tasks, jobs, chances to prove themselves. Once they were, they became messengers, flitting across the cobbles, unnoticed by most. Kasoria remembered those days. Come the flowering of youth, more urgent tasks would be demanded of them. Until the day a dagger or bludgeon was put in their hands. He listened to swift feet beat away from his door, not staying for payment. Doing a job for Mister Vorund was payment enough, because it would mean a copper or two in your pocket very soon, or a food basket, or a new dress or breeches, or medicine if you needed it.

It was a small price to pay, in the scheme of things. Like getting word where it was needed, and quickly, without traveling yourself.

Kasoria opened the note, half-knowing what it would say. Just a handful of words, quickly scrawled, leaving smudges on the cheap paper. But enough for him to understand, scraggly and vague though it was.

Bella continued to lap at her dinner as her human burned the paper on the other side of the table. It made no difference to her, after all.

Thanks to Rumor for the template

[Kasoria]

Seems to fit the mood. Enjoy!

"Sir, we need to get going."

"Just a little longer, Clovis."

"Sir-"

"Clovis, I understand you have a job to do, but this isn't my job. This-" the client spread his arms and gestured to the entirety of the high-ceiling'd room they stood in "-is my life. And sometimes that means I have to be here more breaks than is usual. So please, sit down, or stand, or whatever, and let me finish."

The hulking young man worked his jaw a few times, beard looking like an earthquake was occurring under it when he did, then wisely let it go. Types like Mister Firth worked until their hearts gave out then rose again just to finish that form they were slumped over. Etzos bred men like them, honed them, glorified them in guild halls throughout the city. If he pressed it any further, all he'd get would be attitude and, even worse, an angry message to Mister Walcomb.

So he sighed and settled against a wall near the front door. The seats were all made for women and too small for him. He caressed the hilt of the cutlass at his hip, dagger sitting on the opposite. A nervous habit. Like his eyes flickering out into the darkness beyond the windows. Shadows bobbed and glided beyond it, hurrying home before the sun had fully set. In this season, the fiery orb stayed in the sky for what seemed like forever. Clovis remembered his youth, the coast, the sea and the endless days of the Hot Season. But no matter how proud and bright it seemed, it always gave way to night.

Darkness was always waiting for light to stumble. That's when foul things came creeping out.

That's why you're here, he reminded himself, taking a deep breath and remembering further that he was not some neophyte or amateur. The Guild didn't hire that sort. They hired people that knew what they were doing. So hush up and keep your focus. Just get him home and get some sleep yourself.

It was another break before Janus was finished, filing away the last missive to the Barge Pilots Guild. They were upping their fees again, in response to a new tax on barges over twenty-five feet in length. He groused and muttered into his desk about stupid greedy bureaucrats and stupid greedy bargemen, but there was little to be done. He needed their services.

"Clovis?" He said as they started to move, his big bodyguard already sliding off the wall and opening the door, checking left and right with one hand on his sword. "Remind me tomorrow to visit the Barge Guild. I'll probably forget."

"I'll write myself a note, sir."

"You won't just remember?"

"I've got more important things to fill my brain with, sir," the bodyguard rumbled, still on watch as Janus clacked and clicked the four locks to his business firmly shut. "Like keeping you alive, and hopefully myself with you."

Janus found it hard to argue with that. The big man was useful, he had to admit, and seemed to know his role. As always, he stayed behind and to his flank, a looming shadow he never quite saw but always knew was there from the clank of metal as he walked. Before he'd always felt a vague thrill of latent fear when he walked home late from work. A long man, clearly not a fighter, made for a juicy target. So once again he thanked the fates and the stars for his home in the Commercial Circle, away from the bulk of the gangsters and thugs that infested Etzos.

"Sir? Where are you going?"

"Home, of course."

"Sir, we went the same way last night, we shouldn't-"

"Clovis, it is late, I am tired, and I have you. I'm not worried," the merchant said as they marched on, down cobbles and past bright and burning braziers. They even passed Guardsmen here and there, nodding respectfully as they went. "Besides, if anyone was watching, they'd have left by the time we did. Two breaks after closing, remember?"

Clovis stayed silent, and redoubled his observations. The man was either brave, blithe, or an idiot. He knew the caliber of the men who wanted him dead. They wouldn't be dissuaded by long fucking business hours, of all things. If Janus was marked for death as Walcomb suspected, all they'd need would be a single mistake... like keeping to the same, rigid pattern of travel.

"Sir, can we-" Something in rags that smelled like an open sewer staggered into their path. "Get behind me. Now!"

Clovis was difficult to ignore once his polite rumble became the bark of an angered bear. Janus did as he was bid, scuttling behind the big man and trying to peer around him. Damned Immortals, was that... why did he seem familiar? The stench certainly did. But his memory was interrupted by the bawdy singing emanating from the bungle of rags and ratty beard. A bottle swung from one hand, jerking up and down, even managing to get some of the brandy into the mouth buried somewhere under the muck.

"Spare sum coppah, mate? Fucksake, yuz a big 'un..."

Janus' nose wrinkled, but at the smell and the sight and nature of this vagabond. Yet another parasite, another leech that sucked the coin from better men. He thought he recognized him. Didn't Walcomb say something about a beggar out front the day before? Smelling worse than usual?

"Nothing for you here, old man," Clovis said, one hand reaching out to keep the beggar back, the other on his sword. "Move on, I'm not in the mood for-"

"And stay away from my business, too! I've seen you before and-"

"Wait, you know this-"

Clovis turned away to ask his question. That's what killed him.

Now.

An assassin only needed one mistake. One opening. One act of carelessness. Kasoria had been watching for it since he'd staggered out of the shadows, humming an old tune and splashing brandy over his stinking disguise. The bodyguard was big, but size wasn't his worry: attention was. The whole time, he'd been focused on Kasoria, watching for any hint of a threat. But then the mark said something, and Clovis looked away-

-just as Kasoria was raising the bottle to his mouth-

-and he saw his chance-

"Yes, I-"

Janus' reply was lost in a shrieked oath as Clovis turned back to the beggar and Kasoria slammed the bottle into his face, bottom first, holding it like a dagger in a reverse grip. Not the usual way you'd expect a man to bottle another, but effective nonetheless. Clovis reeled back screaming as shards of thick, black glass buried themselves into his eye and mouth and nose, pawing at them, forgetting them, trying to pull his sword-

-but Kasoria wasn't done. The bottle was shattered but the neck was still in his hand, and he lunge forward and up with it-

Janus covered his mouth, backing away as he saw the bottle neck vanish into the thick mat of hair and muscle under Clovis' chin. The oaths and shouting became nothing more than wet, ugly choking. He fell to his knees. His shoulder bobbed and heaved and the black and white of his shirt and jacket became stained with red. Pouring down from the jagged mess of glass buried into his neck, and as Janus watched the beggar ripped it out the side-

-spraying blood as he went-

-and let it fall, just like Clovis. Who died without ever pulling his sword, because he looked away for an instant.

"S-Shit..."

The beggar wasn't swaying anymore. He wasn't singing or coughing. Even the stink that permeated the air around him seemed lessened now... though that could have been from the shit, piss, and blood oozing out of the man he'd just killed. Eyes cold and implacable as tiger's fixed on him and he advanced on Janus, pulling a short, gleaming sword from his belt.

Janus swallowed and tried to force his body to move. He thought of his son and his wife. His precious business. Margrat and Lijah. Walcomb and Trask and Clovis and the High Marshal and his childhood and the wine he'd drank and the food he'd eaten and the sunrise he'd missed because of his damned paperwork. All of these choked his will and stranded him there, until sheer instinct had him turning-

"Help! Please, help! Guards-!"

Sheer, blinding pain hammered into his back and stole the breath from his lungs. He tried to cry out again, send his words careening down the dark alleyway. Even as he sunk to his knees, he could see heroes in burnished armor, swords out and swinging, bearing justice and lanterns to banish evil and darkness. He blinked and they vanished. Because there was no-one there, and he felt... wet... on his shirt.

He looked down and saw the gladius sticking out of him, under his breastbone. There was no pain. So curious. There was no-

-Kasoria yanked it out of the man and ah, yes, there was the pain. Janus tried to scream but blood frothed over his lips. Tears trickled from his eyes, both of anger and sorrow, as he realized what was going to happen. He wished for a moment that he had Immortals to pray to. That seemed to help his mother, back when he was a boy. But he knew none would aid him. So he closed his eyes and thought of-

Kasoria jammed the gladius into the side of his neck, and pushed forward. At the same time he gripped Janus' neat, combed hair and yanked it back. Between the two movements, the gladius ripped out of Janus' neck and almost decapitated him. Severing pipes and veins and organs in one savage blow, letting him fall down into a lake of his own blood. The killer leaned down and wiped the gladius quickly on the man's breeches, then turned and sheathed and strode away all in the same handful of trills.

Barely half a bit had passed since Clovis got a bottle in the face. Kasoria wasn't counting, but after twenty years... well, one learned to estimate these things.

He walked away into the shadows, and left nothing of himself behind, save bodies. He was already forgetting the name of Janus Firth, his business, his home, the ways he walked to and from each, what he looked like and sounded like. Soon those two words would vanish and he'd become a face among a whole mosaic splayed across Kasoria's memory. A little longer, mayhap an arc or two, his memory would... step back, from that mosaic, and even his face would become a blurry thing, definitely encountered but little noted.

He was in the sewer bits later, tossing the bloody, shitty, boozy cloak into the nearest river of filth. Saun was warm and warmer underground: he'd not need it for the walk home. A few tunnels later, his sandals went into another, for they were specked with blood and his soles were callused enough not to need them. He was at Ulito's Bakery when he wondered, just for a moment, what Janus had done.

The question faded in the time it took for him to emerge from the sewer and get to his home. It didn't matter. The order mattered. The purse mattered. The will of his master mattered. Hungry meows and swishing tails greeted him again, and Kasoria shrugged off such unnatural thoughts for an assassin. They were more important than the corpses of some foolish man who'd angered Vorund, and the muscle he'd hired to protect him.

Night wound on and before it ended, a new widow shrieked beyond the hearing of his ears. His belly full and his cats curled around his bed, Kasoria slept well, wondering no more.

Thanks to Rumor for the template

[Zip]

Overview

This was probably the most detailed assassination thread I've read on the site; not detailed in the sense of actual planning, but in the setup of the perp, giving a face and personality to a doomed NPC, building the scene for Kasoria instead of jumping straight in, and then having the deed done. It felt like one of those Nikita assassination episodes rather than a simple thread. Kudos.

@Kas

Points

XP: 10/10

Loot/Injuries/Overstepping

Loot: N/A
Renown: 5 Renown for mutterings of a murder that may or may not have been you

Knowledge

Disguise: Pretending To Be a Beggar
Disguise: Hiding In Plain Sight
Intelligence: Surveillance of a Target
Unarmed Combat (Brawling): Brandy Bottle as a Weapon
Cooking: Vegetable Stew
Tactics: Fight Like an Assassin, Not a Warrior

Non-Skill Knowledge:
Etzos Underground: World of Sewers, Tunnels, Caverns, and Passages
NPC Vorund: Uses Children as Messengers
NPC Vorund: Extorts Businesses across South Etzos

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