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keep-it-cryptid · 2 years ago

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I balk at the parchment being thrust in my hands.

It’s the same rudimentary drawing, an attractive-looking elf with suture scarring cascading down the length of their jaw and neck, a static image planted hastily on the old paper by one of the resident mages. Below it, basic information regarding the target and its whereabouts is scrawled, alongside a shorthanded code that dictates information on payment. There’s no name on the paper; there never is.

New targets are constantly being forked over to our nasty little crews of mercenaries, assassins, and rogues, so it seems mighty suspicious that I have managed to land the same target not once—not twice—but four times over.

“Resurrection is costly,” I remark to the overhead, whose expression remains mysteriously hidden beneath the cowl of their enchanted cloak. Typical attire for higher-ups in the undercity. “Whatever is keeping that elf kicking must hold quite the coin.”

“Mind where your thoughts take you,” The overhead whispers back. “You are bound to this task until it is finished.”

“Aye,” I sigh, running my fingers down my face as I jam the parchment into my satchel. “I hear you, loud and clear. Target will be eliminated accordingly.”

There’s no point in wasting time.

---

The previous three eliminations had been quick, to-the-point, and done from afar. The elf was quite the traveler, yet consistently found themselves alone on the open roads between empire and town alike.

It was a crossbow bolt between the shoulders the first time. A trap laid out in their encampment the second. A bolt to the abdomen the third. It was only their most recent death that the poor thing had even seen me.

I feel pity for them, really. Resurrection is no easy process on the body, and judging by the scars, death has continually taken its toll on their body. There’s a chance that I’m not even their only assassin, and not everyone is so clean about the procedure of killing.

Nonetheless, I continue my trek, guilt the ever-present companion as I near the last known location of my too-familiar target.

It’s a tavern. A smaller one, sprawled out lazily against a lush green landscape, far from the stone walls of the undercity. Thatch and brick and warm, it’s an otherwise inviting building in an inviting village.

The thought of bloodstains on the walls makes me uneasy, but tonight I am a traveler who has yet to don my executioner’s clothes, and I yearn only for a warm meal and a chance to lay eyes on the elf who refuses to stay dead.

---

I’m greeted by the smell of stew and brandy. Dawn is approaching, and the tavern is bustling with the first wave of customers. I ease in with practiced humbleness, glancing this way and that for a sign of my target.

It is not long before I’m settled into a nook, a bowl of vegetables and broth cooling on the table before me. The elf is nowhere in sight, but the food is good, and the bards are just sober enough to pluck out more practiced melodies before the night wears on.

A few hours pass before I catch sight of them. They appear to stumble down from a room upstairs, long hair tousled, and features painted with exhaustion. Restless. Unbecoming.

I lean in. It’s odd, the languid way they had once moved has been erased, replaced with scars and a paranoia that costs them a passing glance in my direction.

They freeze, a haunted look possessing their face fleetingly before it immediately resigns to despair.

There’s no reason why they should recognize me—I don’t have anything identifying myself as their killer, but the way their ears fall tells me that I am a much too familiar sight. Which leaves me to wonder: if I am known to them, why do they seem so unprepared?

… And if they expect to be killed once more, why are they walking towards me now?

Without fanfare, they make their way across the tavern toward my little spot in the corner, and gently pull a chair up to face me. They sit across from me, and our first greeting is done in cold silence.

I clench my fists beneath the table, cursing every god I know. This must be why hunters kill from afar, because seeing close the way their eyes glitter with life in the warmth of the light makes me want to run.

“Hail and well met,” their voice, a touch masculine, greets me quietly. “My name is Khyrmin. I wanted you to know that before you killed me.”

I sat still, stew forgotten as I processed their greeting.

“I don’t understand,” I respond warily.

Khyrmin narrows their eyes, though they lack any accusation. “Of course you do. I recognize your presence with unfortunate clarity, now. You’re here to kill me again, and I won’t be able to stop it.”

Won’t be able to stop it? It’s not part of my job to ask questions—in fact, it directly goes against one of my creeds, but I cannot help my curiosity.

Discretion goes out the window, though there was admittedly little to begin with, “Why can’t you stop me? Why won’t you run?”

“My death encroaches either way, and so does my life." The elf reminisces. “Escape is futile. My goddess has barred me from leaving the Prime Material, and I return at her behest. Weapons of men cannot cut me down forever... and neither can beasts, or plants sent by the divine.”

Their eyes lower to the table. “I am trying to fix it, but I'm afraid that my progress is getting sloppy. You are not the only one to be sent after me; I’ve made quite a muck of things.”

“That’s putting it quite gently.”

Khyrmin’s lips appear to quirk upward in the hint of a smile. “Yes, I guess so.”

I hesitate. “You’ve gotten yourself into something much bigger than I get paid for. I wasn’t expecting a mystery, let alone to speak with the person I was going to be killing.”

“Was going to,” they repeat my words back.

My brows furrow, and I bring up my hands to rub at my temple. I don't miss the way Khyrmin flinches.

“They never gave me a deadline for the job. At this point, it sounds like someone is aware of your condition and seeks to wear you down." I pause.

I tell myself that I am about to do something impossibly idiotic. It won’t be worth the trouble, and it’d likely just get me permanently killed.

Yet, I look at the exhausted elven figure in front of me, harrowed by death and life alike, and I think about each person I have taken away from this plane. I think about the coins in my pocket that are marked by blood.

I am not virtuous—hells, I’ve hardly even got experience with clerics or virtues or people who are apparently cursed by gods, but I can recognize signs of the damned, nonetheless.

Death is not a friend, but it is a cloying scent that clings to the skin. Rot of a corpse, hands of a murderer, and perfume of the resurrected. It clings to both of us, and I feel pity for both of us. One more than the other.

Khyrmin appears perturbed at my lapse in silence, and I sigh.

“Do you have a particular lead to your… ah, situation? I can let you find it before I kill you. I can’t say I’ve had to deal with something like this before. It just feels fouler than usual.” Now that I know the circumstances of your deaths, goes unsaid.

Their ears flick up, surprised.

“I was not expecting that.” Khyrmin worries their lip in thought. “But yes, I have a lead nearby I was hoping to get to before my death. I’m not sure the opportunity will remain when I return.”

“Then do it. I’ll wait, and if you flee, then I will find you again and finish my job.” I nod as though I’m saying something perfectly reasonable, but I can feel the bile rush in the back of my mouth as I curl inward with disgust.

Is this how it feels to bargain with someone’s life? Have I grown so detached in the market of souls, that it only bothers me now that there is a name to a face? A person and not a hunt?

Something changes in the elf’s scarred face, and they settle into a macabre kind of comfort. “It’s better than nothing.”

I glance away, and moments later I feel a gentle tap on my arm, nearly knocking my bowl of cold dinner back in surprise.

“Say,” Khyrmin begins slowly, “If you were to help me with my lead, it might make it easier for both of us. I can piece some things together, you can get your coin, and we’ll both hope not to have to meet again. It’s logical… if a bit emotionally taxing.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea. Teaming up with- with your own assassin is asinine!”

“My non-foolish options are rather limited. You cannot deny there is logic.”

“But I can deny the moral implications?”

“It seems that you haven’t had an issue with doing so before.”

I stare at Khyrmin in disbelief. There’s a bemused resignation in their posture, and I can almost see the remnants of the elf that they may once have been before death marked them.

This is not going to end well; I can feel it. But I heave a sigh and hold my hand out to them, fingers outstretched. Khyrmin closes in the distance, and I feel their deathly cold hand lock into my own.

“Then it’s settled,” I mutter belatedly and release their hand. “… We work together so that I may kill you easier and you may learn quicker.”

“So it seems.” And the glitter of their eyes beneath the tavern’s lights gnaws again at the guilt in my stomach.

The Assassin’s Code states that you must take any job, no questions asked. But you are pretty sure that you have assassinated this target a few times already.

#this is my first time writing one of these prompts haha #writing prompt #creative writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #fantasy

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