The skies above Olencia sported ominous, spiraling storm clouds which obscured the sun as well as any veil the night could conjure. Rain was pouring down upon the fair city, and thunderbolts struck the streets below the dark sky in fury and natural beauty. Sevejar Locke, a simple assassin with a complex background, could not be happier about the falling raindrops. In the mindset of a hired killer, rain, correctly exploited, was the best ally; it took care of your footsteps, it obscured you from view, and, perhaps the most important, did not allow for the blood to soak on everything it fell on but took it away, washing it out like the sin on his hands. Sevejar, to cut it short, absolutely loved the rain. Grinning from his place of hiding upon the rooftop, he remembered Angela’s teachings, about how Lelahiah was in the skies, watching over them, overwhelming them; her spirit was like the wind, an angel watching out for them.

An angel. He smiled sadly; angels did not exist in children fairy tales, but only in reality.

He swiftly tilted his head to the right, hearing the bones in his spine crack with a satisfying noise. He had grown tired of waiting for this ‘Valandil’ person to show up, but an assignment was an assignment. Plus, the last money he had earned by chopping a head off was spent almost to the core; he needed to do this mission, and do it right. Although, he had to admit that most people could not tell him much about this person’s background. All they had told him were the usual ones; fear him, adore him, use him, obey him… He had resisted the urges to bring his swords at their throats, but barely. Had their leader not walked in the right moment, there would be a blood bath.

It was Sevejar these fat nobles should be scared off, not an urban legend who was – in their opinion – aptly called Shadowdeath. Fuckers. He would bet his poisons that their court jesters had far more wisdom that all of them combined. With a flex of his bow, the assassin sat more comfortably on the rooftop opposite house Ghayth. Locke patted his hood in place, to make certain his silver hair were hid from view, before allowing himself to go over the agreement for the thousandth time that day.

“It is simple, really, lord Locke. All we ask of you is to put an arrow through his eye, really.” The noble was smirking.

“Indeed. Still, you’re already forgetting about the idiotic parameters you’ve set. They’re more restraining than a corset, and less useful than a dead horse.” Sevejar had countered, but the noble would not hear anything of it.

“Valandil Shadowdeath has been a thorn to our sides for so long, that the situation demands that he dies poetically, lord Locke.” The noble explained to the discourteous assassin. “Plus, by killing such an important person right outside House Ghayth, his… benefactors, so to speak, would be seen as the weak fools that they are, thus allowing as to continue prevailing.”

“While you aren't.” He tossed the insult with a smug smirk, and one of the other nobles watching the conversation banged his hand on the table. “How dare you, you filthy swine?” He yelled, but a gesture from their obvious leader had his shutting his mouth before he could spew anything else.

“While we aren’t, it’s true. But we have delayed settling the deal quite a long while, and me and my friends are excited to know what you are going to do, lord Locke.” The gentleness in the noble’s voice brought a shudder in Sevejar’s spine, but he banished the feeling. It was either agree, succeed, and make a load of money, or disagree and have guards barge in and kill him in the spot.

“I agree.” Was all he had said.

The assassin’s attention snapped awake as he saw from afar that the house’s doors opened, allowing whoever was passing through to come out. Could it be this Valandil person? So far, he had only heard descriptions and seen crude drawings. He shifted his gaze to his other various surroundings, and saw that the streets were devoid of life. Should the attempt succeed, he would be filthy rich by midnight.

Sitting in the rooftop opposite from House Ghayth, Sevejar Locke smiled genuinely and readied his bow, hoping that the shot would not be disrupted by the howling winds and the falling rain…

Rain. Assassins, as a work class absolutely adored rainfall. It quite simply made ones life much simpler on the job. Valandil was far more cynical than many of his skulking brethren. Working inside a building was much harder when one was sopping wet, and it became impossible not to leave tracks behind one's self. In short, it was an incredibly fristrating experience for experienced assassins who worked inside buildings. Rain was fine for the much lower class assassin, the type of assassin who waited for his prey to come to the world, instead of hunting them in their own home. Assassins were never meant to be lazy vultures. They were the predators of the social class, and only a few ever reached that level.

So as the rain fell, so did Valandil's sense of foreboding. Something was going to happen, he was certain of it. A man like Valandil always had little minions who sought his pleasure. Minor nobles who did not want to awake to the black-clad assassin in their bed-chambers, or minor sycophants who wanted the jobs he did not want to do. Either classification was known to feed him a tidbit of information, who was going to die next, who had bought whom, and who had slain whom.

Then suddenly all talk had stopped. It was not like someone had put a stopper in a pipe, causing an immediate drought, it was more like a desert oasis, slowly drying up until suddenly it was all gone. The paranoid portion of Valandil's mind made him wonder if someone had been following the food chain straight up to him, but he swiftly decided that something else was afoot.

The greatest assassin who had ever lived, Hordikus Aory, had written a book entitled, "The Edge of Man". In it, the legend had referred to something called the "Chain of Life". It basically was a theory stating that all of mankind, all creatures on the food chain, every social circle had a potential chain of events. That is to say that anything that happens has an equal reaction in force. This then triggers another event and another until it eventually plays its momentum out. This was true for assassins as well as for politicians.

For men and women of the blade, the chain was called the "Kill Chain". And unlike the "Chain of Life" it had to be wound tight before it could be released. The tighter the "Kill Chain" was being wound that bigger the upcoming death, the greater the retaliations, and essentially the more corpses at the end of the day. And the tighter the “Kill Chain” wound the less and less people would talk, each perhaps subconsciously afraid that their event would touch of the reaction. And to Valandil, the "Kill Chain" was wound as tight as it could possibly go. This could mean only one thing to the assassin’s mind. Someone wanted to kill the High Seat of House Ghayth.

So, as Valandil strode out of the Castle-like home, and into the city proper, he was unusually tense. The dark night, and the horrendous weather meant that no one was out in the broad paved streets. Alone, the black clad assassin meandered down the path, lost in thought, when suddenly he tripped on a broken flagstone of the road. As he fell, an arrow passed through the night just above his head.

With an oath, Valandil dropped into a roll, his hand's flashing to his belt where his two black steel longkives resided. They came free from their scabbards with a flash of dark light as lightning briefly lighted the small square he had descended to. Keeping low as another arrow came seeking him, Valandil dived behind one of the closed booths, and crouched their, ready to pounce as he waited for his would-be-killer to make a move. His heart beat a steady tattoo against his ribs as he struggled to slow his breathing down. His blades he held reversed along his wrists, their wickedly sharp, and slightly curved ends glinted with each flash of lightning that was followed by an ominous crack of thunder. At least it was keeping the sound of his heavy breathing hidden.

Crouched low and lean Valancil waited like a panther, cool and patient, in a moment his little friend would get nervous, nervous that the other assassin had slipped away, and that he would be summoning help, and so he would come, hoping to end Valandil swiftly. The big man smiled a most chilling grin. Then the two of them would talk face-to-face, blade-to-blade.

((OOC: So I took some liberties, but I am fine with changing anything. Drop me a PM if needed.))

Sevejar did not pride himself for his archery skills. In fact, he only used bows because of their practical use; they did not satisfy him. Of course, there was always the knowledge and the accomplishment the knowledge that it was your shot that ended someone’s life, but to him, it was not good enough. Sight did not satisfy him; Sevejar was a man of action. He wanted to feel his victim’s flesh hacked, smell and taste the blood, see the death and horror, and hear the screams. Killing his own father had given him the little quirk of killing in melee, and he usually liked to satisfy it.

So, in the middle of the storm, Sevejar cursed loudly as he saw once again why exactly it was that he preferred fighting with his swords to using a bow – he didn’t miss because his target lost balance. Valandil was not slow to formulate a plan as well, it seemed, running towards closed ground and in a swift pattern, making Sevejar miss in his second shot as well. The caped assassin tossed his bow aside and ran in pursuit, his face filled with frustration as he pulled his swords. He cursed Valandil for his sheer luck and wits as the tattooed man ran for cover behind a stool. Frowning, Sevejar decided to take it easy and carefully get off the – thankfully low – building by jumping down and landing on toes and swordtips. “Damnation”, he hissed as his long cloak followed, covering him with the night’s shades. There was no way for him to circle around on Valandil, not with the way the blonde had gone and stuck himself behind the counter.

Sevejar picked himself up from the ground and moved behind another counter himself. The way he saw it, the sly bastard was as stuck as Sevejar himself. The square had two exits, one the way that Valandil had come from, and the other far away from both of them. None of the two would be able to run without the other one seeing exactly where the other was. This was not a game of hide and seek; one of the two had to finish it, but Sevejar knew clearly that Valandil had all the time in the world – where the pale assassin did not. How much did Sevejar wish he could have spat in the noble’s eye and left right then, he had no idea.

Not the time, fool, he heard cursing in the abyss of his mind, you have to finish this!

An order was an order, and Sevejar decided to comply. He got up from where he was hiding and decided to move closer. One of the three western counters was Valandil’s hiding places, unless the fool was quick enough in moving around. A thunder illuminated even the darkest corner, revealing Sevejar’s face underneath the hood. He was grinning.

The man thought of calling to Valandil, but it was meaningless. Why ruin the combat about to ensue with trivial thoughts and taunting? This was not a tavern brawl; this was a clash comparable to the one in the skies. His hood falling behind as Sevejar jumped on the counter to the left, the one he had thought Valandil was hiding behind, and the pale assassin glared to the ground as he stabbed nothing at all. There was Valandil, crouching behind the stall next to the one he was on, clear as much as Sevejar himself was.

Sevejar jumped off the counter to find his glare lock with the blonde’s one, and he could not help but smirk as he charged forward, Poena in his left hand cleaving upwards, trying to take off Valandil’s foot, while Tuska was readied for a parry – the assassin did not doubt for a second that Valandil was as good in a sword fight as much as he was.

His hunch proved to be correct. His hunter did not have the time or the patience to wait him out. Valandil smiled as he crouched behind the market booth. Lightning flared, illuminating the square, and he saw his hunter clearly for a brief second. Long silver hair, was plastered against his head, and he wore a matte black cloak that hid him in the shadows. As the light fell, Valandil’s vision dimmed as his pupils rapidly expanded trying to accommodate the sudden change in light.

His attacker had yet to see him, and with a shout he leapt behind a booth. One down from the one Valandil crouched. The two men glared at each other for a moment, and Valandil searched the man’s face for some hint of recognition, but he did not get one. This assassin then was not a man he knew. With a sideways dive, he rolled out into the center of the square. Standing tall, he set himself both hands extended forward with his left hand dagger held reversely. Silently the other man lined up against him, drawing two swords. While Valandil did not have weapons with the same length as his foe, he was not overly worried.

The two men charged at each other, and his foe’s own left hand blade swept down towards Valandil’s calf, seeking to cripple him swiftly. Thinking swiftly, Valandil waited till the last second, then leapt forward kicking above his opponent’s blade, and knocking the tip down with his left foot saving his leg. He leapt into a spin; with his left handed blade lying along his forearm caught the other blade pushing it wide. He jammed back with his right elbow, and felt it connect with something solid, and then he was past. The two men landed past each other, and Valandil spun to guard against a counter-attack. There was blood on his opponent’s face, and looking down Valandil saw a red angry slice through his black-leather pant leg. So neither of them had gotten through that first attack unscathed he realized. With a grim hunch of his shoulders he shrugged the now pouring rain off of his shoulders, and set himself.

With a flick of his wrist he reversed his left hand blade forward, and then he began to advance forward warily. A sinister grin bedecked the blonde assassin’s face, and contemptuously he waved his opponent forward with his left hand dagger.

“Come and die foolish one.”

Charging straight ahead was never a good course of action in a duel, and a loud, if painful, ‘whud’ that resonated in Sevejar’s head was proof enough to him so that he should stop performing such maneuvers. He winced as he felt Valandil’s elbow connect to his temple, a metal piece on his armor cutting his temple, allowing the blood to fall freely. Between blood drops and rain, Sevejar turned to glare at his opponent. Tall, blonde, unshaved and tattooed, Valandil seemed to be every household woman’s dream; he seemed to be some sort of a big bad devil standing there with a smug smirk on his lips, but the illusion was shattered when Sevejar saw a nasty looking cut on the blonde’s leg. So, it seemed that Tuska had succeeded in countering somewhat; Sevejar had gotten an annoying red blur in his vision, a blur that he hoped would not interfere with the battle, and Valandil had hopefully got a limp. Hopefully.

In the middle of the storm, Sevejar barely lost the opponent’s cocky taunt; he did not, however, and opted to counter it with a remark of his own: “When you stare into the abyss, Valandil, the abyss stares right back. Stare at my eyes, and know that…” With two hurried steps, Sevejar’s attacks were renewed, trying to get Valandil in the middle of his taunt. He was but five feet away from the blonde when he cleaved with both swords from right to the left, and his voice was apparent with the strain he imposed to himself as he attacked, the fury and power behind his attack bare for the older of the two to see.

“…Death is coming for you!” Sevejar Locke did not care if his strikes hacked flesh or not; he pulled back immediately afterwards, and with a thrust, sent the right sword to the front, hoping to stab the blonde’s heart, or liver, or anything, for that matter. The left sword was once again readied to retaliate against an attack, ready to counter and oppose Valandil’s short blades.

Scrutiny. Inspection. Trying each other in a dance of death. To Sevejar, that was what this battle was all about. It was not about the money that he was promised; it was not about the satisfaction of killing one of the most known assassins of the modern era; it was about living life to its fullest, making the most of what you had. As he moved, the pale assassin realized that if the rain kept up, he would have the advantage of the fight. The rain washed the blood obscuring his vision away, while the dizziness was subdued with his adrenaline pumping with the excitement he felt. Sevejar idly wondered if the leg wound was going to be the treason Valandil would need to suffer before falling to Sevejar’s weapons.

Sevejar loved the rain; it made him think.

This cloaked assassin did not seem impressed, despite the red life-blood running down his face. Even while he waved his opponent forward, he gingerly leaned back on his sliced leg, testing his weight on it. It burned fiercely, but still supported his weight. Valandil smiled his confidence lifting. At least he could still stand. Valandil gritted his teeth as his opponent taunted him right back.

“When you stare into the abyss, Valandil, the abyss stares right back. Stare at my eyes, and know that…”

He leapt forward, his twin swords flashing in the storm wracked night. Whatever else he may have said was lost to the blonde assassin. Crossing in a slash aimed at Valandil’s abdomen, the pale haired, aristocratic like assassin leapt into the attack. Valandil dropped to his backside, and kicked out with his feet. But his now wary opponent had danced back out of range. Valandil’s eyes flashed at his opponent’s cunning. Slowly he rose to his feet, as if he was injured or hurting. A low moan escaped his throat, and he made sure he was panting. He had to lure this other man into a sense of superiority, setting him up for a fall.

Setting himself on his feet, he kept flat footed, instead of on his toes. Then with a grunt he lunged in, catching his foe’s left blade with his right, and then jerking them wide. He slashed home with his left blade, and then leapt back away from the counter-slash which cut another angry red slash across his arm.

With a hiss, Valandil glanced down at his wound, and then eyed his opponent.

“Not bad, but you’re still going to die.”

It was just the first minute of the duel, and Valandil was bleeding more; the only thing that seemed to matter to Sevejar at the moment. He heard the taunt, but shrugged it off. What did it matter to him if what the only thing the blonde could do was brag and brag? Sevejar smiled with honesty and serenity for just a moment, and lowered his swords so that Valandil could get the message. "I am here to kill you, not listen to your whining. An assassin of your prestige should know by now that talking only tires you, and rarely gives you an advantage against an opponent who does not give a rat's tail about whatever crap you're spewing."

He raised his swords back up and crossed them in an 'X' pattern, before pointing them at Valandil's direction. "Now shut it and fight!" The smile was lost forever, his features now occupied with malice and an adrenaline filled smirk. Sevejar moved two feet to the front before spinning on his heel and bringing the left sword down on a round slash, with the right one following. It was a common technique that left the user rather open to a counter-attack. However, it was alsmost impossible to parry by swords as short in blade as Valandil's, as well as difficult to exploit in a riposte and dodge tactic.

Not caring whether he struck or not, Sevejar used his other leg, the one he held low to the ground in order to withstand his body equilibium, and kicked at Valandil's knee. Hopefully, the attack would strike and take with it the older assassin's balance - and leave an opening for Sevejar's Tuska and Poena to severe a head.

Brutal as the battle was, it was also a duel of wits and agility in a no holding back parameter. Do or die, swim or sink, and Sevejar planned to step on Valandil's head as long as it took for the blonde to suffocate.