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| Establishing A Contact; One-Shot | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Sat Nov 16, 2013 11:38 pm (227 Views) | |
| Sita Scheherazade | Sat Nov 16, 2013 11:38 pm Post #1 |
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The too-silky curls of his black hair did not pass the nape of his neck, yet they receded from the broad expanse of his too-pale forehead. His crimson smoking jacket was patterned in gold, and the black interior matched his cozy wool slippers perfectly. The smoke from his pipe had gone out some time ago; the fire had begun to die, yet still he stared into it. When his head came up and he spoke, it was less the ringing out of his voice and more the soft, subtle tones of a loud whisper in the dark. There was no fight left in this man. He had long ago given up escaping. He had long ago given up trying to change his fate. “The townsfolk believe I have begun to go mad,” he said, his voice increasing in volume only a little with his next words. “As do my own men. Three have left today alone - twelve in the last week.” He looked at his pipe suddenly, the edges of his well-brushed black mustache dipping as his lips curled into a deep frown. He stared as though wondering why it had gone out, and then he looked at the fire once more. “Are you to blame for this?” he asked quietly. Sita did not respond. She had been training for more than four months now. Prior to arriving in Imythess, her stealth had been her greatest weapon by far. She had been able to stay in the same place for hours without moving a muscle, never being detected by her targets. Now, she could stay in the same place for days. She had already forgone sleep on more than a few occasions, trying instead to survive or to complete a quest - and she had never failed a quest. But now, she could go without sleep for far longer. She had officially been inducted into an Order known as the Shadow Dancers. Her recently acquired tattoo had helped her get here, and she had killed two of the six men still guarding this pitiful excuse for a human. While he was not particularly old, neither was he particularly young. “Eighteen,” he continued when there was no response, “eighteen men did I have guarding me. Only six remain. Less, if you are here. What do you want from me?” Still, the man did not turn to face her. She waited. She was used to waiting. She was good at waiting. Her waiting paid off. When he finally turned to face her, she was already gone. She ducked behind an over-stuffed chair on the right side of the room, and he looked about as though searching for something. Remaining perfectly still, Sita was completely concealed in the deep shadows of the room. Her target could not see her. His eyes had first lit upon the open door and upon the hallway beyond it; they roamed all sides of the room, never settling for too long on one place. They roamed over the table and chairs before the left wall, its flanking windows curtained in white; there was a light breeze that the closing of those windows could not completely still, for the seals upon the window were old. He gazed upon the cabinet of fine dinnerware to the left of the door (it was to his right) and upon the armoire in the left corner of the room (to the right of the door as Sita had come in, and now behind her). He glanced at the pair of armchairs and the coffee table betwixt them. The man rubbed his temple as he spoke. “Perhaps I am going mad,” he whispered to himself. Sita decided to test him. Quicker than most men could blink, she hurled a shuriken in his direction. It sliced cleanly and instantaneously through the stem of his pipe, causing him to drop the two pieces of the now-broken object and scatter the ashes within the bowl upon the tartan rug in surprise. It was lucky for him that the ashes were no longer even warm, let alone still smoldering. He looked at the left sill of the window in the far corner, observing the curtain that was now pinned to it. Quickly - too slowly to catch sight of Sita rolling behind the second chair and coming to a halt on its other side but quickly for him nonetheless - he turned to face the source of that shuriken. The man gritted his teeth in a deep scowl. “No,” he said, “I am NOT going mad. Who are you? What do you want with me?” Sita waited until his gaze had left her, and then she stood. Again, she remained still. Again, his eyes flitted to her but saw nothing. Again, she watched him as he took a couple of steps toward the door. “I know you’re here,” he said in a warning tone, “answer me!” Her answer came in the form of two shuriken that pinned the backs of his slippers to the floor. He tripped and gazed upon a shadow before the fire, only her outline visible and only that due to the slowly dimming illumination of the fire behind her. He demanded that his antagonist kill him and get it over with. “You have already driven me mad in the eyes of everyone,” he said with malice, “kill me!” After a moment of silence awkward only for her target, Sita finally spoke. “If I was going to kill you,” she stated plainly, “I would have done so the moment I entered your home.” The man seemed astounded that it was a woman speaking to him. Soon, however, his sprawled form got over the shock. He managed to sit up and readied himself to rise, yet he did not do so just yet. “Then what do you want from me?” Sita pondered this. “I see your outline, yet only barely,” he murmured. “It is as though you are not really there.” “Oh, I am very real,” she responded. “And I have a task for you, if you are up to it.” “Why would I work for you?” the man demanded to know. ”I have nothing left - nothing but the clothes upon my back and a few pieces of gold, and I am paid up for the winter for this place. Yet even if I was rich, I would have nothing. I know that now. A lifetime of convincing people to part with their gold for a fool’s cause that was not real has shown me this.” A small roll of parchment landed at his feet. He picked it up. It was the deed to the house upon whose floor he now sat, staring at the parchment in bewilderment. “Redeem yourself,” Sita said to him, “by keeping a close watch on those that pass through this village. Tell me what you see, what you hear, what they say, and what they do. I want to know everything. That is your first payment - a year’s service rewarded in advance.” ”How will I find you?” he wondered. When he looked up, she was nowhere to be seen - not even her outline. The shuriken in the window and those at his feet had vanished. The message, of course, was clear: he would not find her at all. She would find him. Unbeknownst to the man, she watched once more from the doorway as he slowly got to his knees and retrieved his slippers. When he was upon his feet and his feet were within them once more, he walked over to the fireplace. He pondered the deed. Then he carefully folded it and slipped it into an inside pocket of his smoking jacket. He stuck his hands in the outer pockets, glanced at the spot where the shuriken had been, and looked into the fire once more. “Perhaps it could use more wood,” he said, though he did not move to remedy the dying embers. “Perhaps this task will not be so bad.” With that, Sita vanished into the night once more. |
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2:37 PM Jul 11

