RP:Dal'Ra Vaheed: A Rookie's Mistake

Markas ' footfalls to the earthen floor are near silent, his form down into a low crouch as he careens his way through the thick foliage. Just before the forest gives way to the clearing, where the compound lie in wait, the man comes to an abrupt halt, without so much as a glance back to see if Quincy was on his heels. Flickering lights danced high up on the eastern wall of the heavily fortified garrison, casting angry shadows all about the forest--this may prove a useful guise, Markas thought to himself. He tosses his head to the side, flicking stray strands of charcoal hair from his face, so as to better peer out into the clearing unhindered. If their information was correct, the eastern wall was the location of the midden heap, and in turn, a small door tucked away in the wall for the servants to toss out the refuse; the easiest of ways into this beast of a fortress, without having to lurk around outside where several eyes lie in wait for something of this sort to happen. The excitement is giving the youth a bit of a quickened pulse--he revels in this. The timing of the guards is easy to figure out; their march from one post to the next, then back to the first. At intervals, the men were facing away from the path that the pair would have to traverse to get to the wall. Markas glances back, a malevolent look upon his visage, to wink at Quincy before bursting forth from the bramble, and rushing across the clearing. Upon arrival at the wall, the man hugs his back to it, and stills his breathing, awaiting for any kind of noise to signal he may be found out. Moments drag by… but no noise. Easy, he scoffed to himself. His eyes glance back across the clearing, watching in the direction from whence he came, awaiting his comrade's eventual pursuit.

Quincy’s steady footsteps were habitually tracing the steps of his comrade, whose steps were as silent as his own. The heavy foliage was a little demanding, he had become accustomed to moving about the city, not through dense forests, but it was a task well suited to his smaller frame. Without even thinking, he came to a crouch just behind his comrade to only peer over his shoulder. The garrison was covered in guards and torches, too many torches he thought, but his thoughts were quickly interrupted. Markas, he thought, why was he always winking? Quickly his gaze moved back to the wall. If any had spotted him, he’d be sure to remove the threat here and now, before they could alarm anyone further. Alas his comrade was always more than he seemed, making it safely across. Quincy waited for his comrade to watch the wall and then moved out. He skipped back and forth darting from shadow to shadow, the light never catching anything but a piece of his shadow and a very small one at that. Footsteps fell silent upon the earthen ground even as he moved, like floating across air. Upon making it to the wall, he spun on foot and placed his back against it as well, listening for any commotion of the guards above him. Only moments had passed and he was back to work. With a flick of his wrists the tools, from his waist, flung out and into his hands. Lock picking was a very simple task. A muffled click rang out before he too turned and winked back as his comrade who he assumed was still there watching the walls. With another flick of the wrist the tools were back at his side and his left reached for the handle. With a quick jerk the door flung open and he tumbled into the room, weapon ready as he flung back to his feet. Here he’d wait for his comrade before locking the door behind them. No traces, he thought.

Markas is indeed alongside his companion, and when he hears the click of the door unlocking, the grisly weapon that is held at his side by means of his left hand, is brought about into the right--a sign he was ready for a kill. The coppery-hued brand followed by the rest of the half-naked Human, enters the room. No elaborate gestures or fancy embellishments with this one; he just simply strolls into the room, a look of death ghosting across his visage. Those plain green eyes of his scour the room with fervor, until they alight upon a servant standing afore the pair, a look of utter shock seared across the fellows face. A servant. An easy kill, Markas thinks. In so much as a blink of an eye, the serrated brand lashes out, his right foot following in suit, as he leans in for the kill. Death, it seems, comes all to quickly to the helpless servant. With a sawing noise, the sword rips across the fleshy throat of his adversary, cutting short the cry of mortal pain just as it was about to begin. A wheezing noise ensues as the man falls to his knees, Markas just in time to catch him and keep the servant from making a bloody mess on the floor--pun intended. Armored left hand lifts, a single digit sheathed in banded metal lifts, pointing to a nearby crate, indicating that is where they will put the body, for later finding. Big enough, Markas lifts the man up by the scruff of his neck and in so doing smears warm blood across his own chest, which in turn drivels down supple-skin, tracing many a scar on his taut abdomen. He makes way towards the crate, and awaits the other to open it, in order to cram the lifeless body in. They had work to get to, and had to make quick work of this in order to see it done. In and out, as quickly as possible.

Quincy’s cold, dead grey eyes set their gaze upon a servant, who was utterly helpless as his comrade stepped towards him. He was finished he thought. The light sword within his right hand was quickly sheathed, placing the weapon along his lower back. The door was quickly in sight again as he turned away from the man to shut it silently. A slow blink crossed his eye lids as he heard that gut wrenching noise. It was like a saw against flesh. It was like nails on a chalkboard to him, sending shivers up his spine. He preferred to kill his targets silently, not brutally. Turning on foot again he moved with Markas to the crate before lifting the lid off. Slowly he set the lid down next to the box and turned on heel again, silently moving down the hallway. Shadows, he thought, allowing his movement to pause briefly. This had to be done right. Within an instant every muscle within his body flinched throwing himself maniacally down the hallway. Just a fast as he took off he was in the air flying towards wall. His feet were quick to move themselves about it. Two steps were taken in all and his momentum had been kept through the turn. Sure enough, as his body turned through the air around the hallway corner, there was a guard. Probably keeping an eye on the servants, but he too would meet a violent destruction. His right foot flung towards his opponents neck in a quick attack at his throat. It was easily demolished beneath the momentum, only a gasp made it past his lips. Continuing with his now spinning momentum, he landed and flashed steel through the air, flicking his wicked Kukri with his left hand. His gaze watched behind the guard, this was all too simple for him. Red mist sprayed through the air covering the side of his face while he continued his sweeping motion and came back to his feet. It was done. The poison on his Kukri alone was enough to paralyze the man. He couldn’t help but smile, a sad attempt at emotion, which looked more awkward than genuine. The body flopped downwards as he caught it, and pulled him back around the corner to suffer in silence. His comrade would soon be in the hallway to cover it as he ditched the new carcass.

Markas stuffs the body into the crate, and slides the lid over the top of it, before turning and making way down the hallway his companion undoubtedly went through. He had hoped that kill would unlock his adrenal glands, and begin pumping that drug through his veins, however it did not. Languidly, he stalks down the hall, just in time to see the confirmation of a clean hit by the red mist splaying out of the guard. These fools knew not what lurked in their labyrinth; host to their own demise, Vaheed would soon rip through their ranks like a plague on the high winds. The copper-brand is returned to his left hand, held in reverse behind himself as the blood covered male creeps down the corridor, stone floor showing no sign of hindrance to his speed, or stealth. The servants halls were relatively bare, a barred window the size of a hand here or there, a cask of all sorts of varieties lining the halls in some places. Nighttime meant the servants halls would be near desolate, devoid of life--befitting, Markas smiles to himself, the Dal'Ra Vaheed is used to such. Torchlight lit the halls, enabling navigation to be far easier than he had expected. They had to traverse the servants halls, through the sleeping quarters, and up the servants stairs to the rooms belonging to the chain of command. Servants always had the quickest and easiest access to the high-ranking fools. It was blind stupidity to this man. The only hard part was not stirring the alarm before they could flee. The hallway opens up into an expansive room, with beds lining the walls, and snores echoing throughout the vaulted room. Along one of the walls was an alcove, where the flickering of a hearths fire could be seen, within the flickering lights, a shadow swayed to and fro--the shadow of a person rocking in a chair. This may prove to be a problem, he thought, hunkering down to a crouch to await his comrade.

Quincy moved the body back down the hallway, he didn’t have the time or the luxury to properly dispose of this body, instead leaving it tucked against the wall. With another twitch of his hand his kukri was again sheathed as his silent footsteps moved him back down the hallway next to his comrade. Grey orbs scanned the area taking it all in as he crouched down low. A cold calculating mind quickly went to work. This was indeed going to be more of a problem. He knew that his skills alone could get him to his target however, if Markas could was a different story altogether. He was much too noisy of a killer for such a task. His eyes then moved back to his comrade, sure to make direct eye contact before pointing at himself, lifting his thumb and sliding it across his own neck, which was simply obvious. Next he pointed at Markas and then raised his middle finger and index, pointed them downwards and moved them like a pair of legs. In essence it meant for Markas to ignore the man entirely, Quincy would deal with him. Again he was back to work, moving slowly this time and utterly silent. It was what he referred to as ghosting. An assassin’s walk of death, his hang mans noose. This is why they always worked in pairs. The men of death, the members of Dal’Ra Vaheed, were always prepared. Moving within the shadows, he stalked his prey, stopping behind his target just to gaze down upon the man, his helpless target. Only brief moments passed before his hands moved fast to a killers loving embrace. Right hand placed upon the man’s mouth, the left brought that wicked kukri to his throat in unison. His neck was efficiently sliced open like cheese, not even a moan of discomfort escaped his warm lips. The man’s head fell limp within his embrace, before he turned and stalked away, following his comrade. The body was left alone, a corpse in the flickering light of the fire.

Markas nods his head to his partner, as he waits for the Assassin to get a good head start on him, before moving on ahead. He knew the task to be done with the abrupt halt of the creaking rocking chair. Excellent kill. While Markas was probably capable of such a feat, he lacks the weapons desirable for a quick kill like that. The serrated sword wasn't too wieldy in means of stealth, so he preferred to let those kills go to his comrade, as the man seemed to revel in them as much as he himself reveled in the slaughter. This is why they were assigned this task--they were ready and equipped both physically and mentally. They were the best at their job, and none found such a sickening pleasure out of it as this pair. The man floats near to a wraith across the ground, no disturbance to stone or object during his travel through the room. Markas turns on heel and begins his ascension up the servants flight of stairs. No more than four steps are taken, before he comes face to face with a half in his armor a bewildered look on his face. The seasoned killer whips his left hand around to his front, with no hesitation, places his right hand on the pommel of the brand, and thrusts the gruesome weapon into the right side of the man's lower abdomen. Just as he lets loose the first of a grunt of pain, it halts, no breath able to escape passed his lips. Markas hovers up, lifting his head to smile wickedly in the face of the man in more pain than is imaginable. The blade, you see, was thrust through the guard's entirety--off to the right just enough to skewer a kidney, and provoke so much pain, that not even a troublesome scream can be issued from lungs. He trades hands on the weapon, and holds tightly, his banded left arm moves to lift the man up by the neck, with aid from his right hand holding the serrated weapon sheathe in viscera. He hefts the man up, clearing the stairs, and begins his ascension once more, the man shaking all the while in horrific pain, still not lifeless. Warm blood trickles out over the ground, and down the cross guard-less brand, lubricating his bare fingers. Before long, Markas would look the servant of death; bathed in blood so. A battle armor, in its own respect, capable of striking fear into even the most seasoned warriors, should anyone put up a decent fight. At the top of the stairs Markas drops the body to the ground, letting the weight of the man pull the sword free, sawing its way out through his side. At this point, the man wouldn't be able to walk, or let out a cry for help. A burden no longer, Markas ventures forth, if only to stop and lie in weight within the confines of inky black shadows for his comrade.

Quincy carried a toothy grin, one that stretched across his face. He existed only for such kills. He loved knowing that any mans breath could simply be his last. He however, was not the only man to score a kill. His comrade had skewered a guard in a very painful way, only shaking his head slightly at the sight. He moved silently behind him, still ghosting, it was a game to him. No harm was meant to his comrade, but it was just simply exciting to keep it going. While his comrade crouched he moved past him and checked the door just beyond the stairs. Unlocked. Their security was simply astounding, like sleeping children. He opened the door and continued through it thinking about which door he needed to go through. Beyond the doorway was another hallway, two doors on the left wall, two on the right and one at the very end. Unfortunately, his human eyes didn’t allow him to see very far within the darkness and he couldn’t make out any signs or markings upon the wall. The torches here had been long out. Quincy moved down the hallway to the last door on the left and as he reached it, his gaze fell upon the floor. Light was flicking through the doorway, someone was awake. Slowly he grabbed the handle and flicked the door open silently and moved within the room. In the room a man and woman sat upon a bed talking amongst each other. Great, he thought, random gossip. He moved again flashing his blades outwards towards the necks of his targets. No! He thought. Quincy had miscalculated the distance over the bed and missed the woman entirely! She let out a deafening shrill before he moved in to silence her, ending it as fast as he could. The man however had sprayed blood upon the poor woman, giving her cause to alarm. Now they were screwed.

Markas grunts in displeasure, as he hears the scream, not having entered the room behind Quincy. His hand was on the doorknob to the door at the end of the hall. He tenses up, releasing his hold on the doorknob, and awaiting the sound of the General within to rise from bed and undoubtedly storm through the door. Clinking and clanking arose from within all the rooms, and he could begin hearing shouts from all around. Come on…. Come on… he muttered in his head, come on… Just then, the doorknob turns, obviously the General trying to come through. With all his might, he push kicks the door, simultaneously leaning back to further add to the force of the kick. A surprised General lets out a shout in pain as the door swings in with such tremendous force that it topples him over backwards, stumbling over his own feet. "To the General!" Markas could hear men shout behind him, as he flings himself into the room, gruesome brand brought back and rammed into the heart of his foe as they both collide to the floor. Markas is quick to rise to his feet, spinning around to face the next adversary. He was lucky to have achieved a surprise attack on the General, for he feared the man would have been a much more difficult foe. Hopefully he drew enough attention to himself with that display that they would think he the sole agent in their midst, enabling his comrade to strike from the shadows. At this point, he could feel it. It was like a dam being opened up, to free the torrent of a raging river to rip through the lands. Oh, how adrenaline felt so good. His vision blurs, his heart pounds in his chest and in his head. His hand begins to shake, a smile the only demonstration of the cruelty he harbors in his intent. "Come, fools! Meet your death at my hand!" He screams at the other officers down the hall, spittle flying free from his mouth.

Quincy was quick to react to the alarm, it was his fault and now he had to make up for it. In a hurry he skipped back over the bed and against the wall near the door, just opposite a bookshelf, in time to evade the gaze of an entering guard. The man’s eyes looked out at the bloody bed and then he quickly turned on foot. Now his attention was elsewhere, chasing after his screaming comrade, who now, had his adrenaline rush. Unlike him face to face combat was not something he enjoyed. This was where Markas excelled in comparison to his own skill. Again he moved using the darkness in the hallway to mask his presence completely, towards the door atop the stairs. A flick of his hand had the door locked, it wasn’t much of a block but enough to keep them separated for moments. His athletic figure moved within the darkness like a phantom in the night, while he picked his targets, 3 men had bolted out of their rooms and were now focused upon his comrade. Soon, he thought, they shall fear my blade. He moved towards his target like a tiger, one track minded, the thrill of a kill within his sights. His light sword was quickly unsheathed and launched in an upward arch, slicing straight through his opponents Achilles tendon. Before his opponent even began to fall he had turned and followed his attack through with his kukri, lodging it deep within his arm-pit. The man flopped to the floor like a fish upon dry land, flailing through the air the whole way down. This fool didn’t even have the time to put his armor on. However he couldn’t stand still for long, he had to keep the rest from getting in. They were still too focused on Markas, the threat within their sights. Instead Quincy dragged the soldier off towards the door and slammed the dead weight against it before turning and preparing for another assault, hopefully his comrade would shred his opponents apart, while he kept the door closed.

Markas knew that Quincy was already beginning his dispatch of the men, and he too was all too quick to rise to the occasion. If they were slow in coming to him, he would go to them! Officers they may be, Markas was well suited for the task at hand. The more damage he sustained, the more adrenaline his body poured in, further feeding the berserker craze he loved so. The first Officer rushing to Markas hefts his sword and swings it down in a arc aimed for an obvious lethal blow. Bold, very bold. These men knew not what they were up against. Markas back hands the attack away with his banded left hand, the momentum of the sword maintained as it throws his foe off guard. With violent disregard of life, Markas swings his own brand for the Officers neck, hacking with horrid intent. It lands with a solid 'thunk' in corded muscle and tendon. This is not the last of his attack, no. The serrated blade is embedded well within the neck, and so Markas draws it back tugging it free from flesh. Again, the sawing noise is followed by the snapping of tendons and ligaments as the Officers head hangs to the side, incapable of remaining upright. His mortal cries of pain did its work in further sending Markas into his berserker state. Stiff arming the Officer out of his way, the Killer stalks onwards to the next man. Lazily, he approaches him, shoulders hunkered down, head hung low, charcoal hair nearly blocking all of his vision. His foe lets loose his own battle cry, as he brings his weapon down in a powerful arc for the top of Markas' head. The Warrior manages to turn his head just in time, the sword ripping down the side of his cheek and down his neck, to strike his collarbone. His head turns back, lifting up to gaze into the eyes of his attacker. Vaheed. A bloodcurdling scream ensues, issued from Markas' lungs--his battle roar to depreciate the Officers own courage; bathed in blood so, he looked the reaper of death, the sewer of humanities demise, the harbinger of doom. Instead of hacking the man down immediately, Markas throws a haymaker punch at the man, clocking him clean on the nose. The Officer stumbles back, metal banded knuckles leaving a fleshy wound and crushing the frail bone of his nose. Markas follows in the wake of the backpedalling Soldier, jumping up into the air, and thrusting both his legs out in front of himself to kick the man square in the chest. Markas, like the man, falls to his back, but unlike the man, he is quick to rise to his feet. Gasping for air the Officer tries to rise up, placing his hand to the floor to aid himself. Markas hacks the arm off at the elbow with his serrated sword, mocking the man maniacally all the while. "Get up, idiot!" The bloody stump is waived about in a mad frenzy, spraying blood every which way as the Officer cries in pain. "Prove yourself and man and get up!" The Officer cowers behind the blood knob, holding it up like some sort of ward of death. Markas dispatches him with a gruesome thrust of his brand through the eye and into his brain. He looks up to his comrade, who undoubtedly witnessed the brutal murder, and smiles, winking to him. "Let us get the documents and be off, then."

Quincy only gave a brief nod to his comrade, locking his eyes onto the wound upon his neck. That was going to leave a nasty scar. The guards down the stairs were now pounding upon the door trying to get through to them, trying desperately to fight the deaths that took place within this hallway. Footstep after footstep he marched onward -- no need for silence, for the lambs knew the wolves were among them. Upon reaching the room he entered in while releasing a sigh. He had exerted himself more than he had intended. The desk was in front of him in no time. After a quick rifle through the drawers he finally found it and yanked it out from the clutter within. Quincy’s gaze turned to the window within this office. Of course, a high ranking officer would want a view. “Thanks for the easy way out.” He spoke only carrying sarcasm within his voice. His kukri was quickly launched from his sheath and out the window. Next rope was yanked free from his body, no one ever truly knew the equipment an assassin carried. The rope was tied straight to the window frame and secured tightly. He didn’t care if they followed they could lose them all in a heartbeat. Looking back at Markas, he nodded towards him before he fled through their new escape route. Their plans had been foiled entirely, something new had to be done. Running down the stairs into more guards was the last thing he wanted to do. Before long his feet thudded upon the ground and he took off back into the heavy foliage that surrounded the garrison. Once he reached this spot he yanked out his hand crossbow and watched the wall for guards. Here he’d wait for Markas and flee, with their objective complete.

Markas simply waits for his companion to scale down the wall, before taking his turn to follow. Just as his head drops below the window, he could see armed men pouring into the General's quarters. With his banded hand, he let loose the rope, and allowed himself to slide down the thing with staggering speed, before clenching his fist tight so as not to meet certain death on the ground below. He turns from the wall, and darts through the darkness in the wake of his ally, seeking refuge in the forests 'yonder. An easy and quick escape. Markas smiles to himself as he sits in his chair, reminiscing about the time Quincy almost got them killed, and when he received a new scar to his vast assortment of the ones he already maintained.