MerryLlama

Hi, i took into account what was said when i posted the first part of this so hopefully its improved Advise, as ever, is much appreceated, i hope you enjoy it.

The Story of an Assassin

Prologue

I dipped the nib of my quill pen into the ink and held it over the fresh sheet of paper before me, I frowned, then shook my head returning the quill to its pot and rubbing my eyes. It seemed strange, bringing up these old memories. I was not even sure I could, so long had I tried to forget; nevertheless, my friend had requested it. He said people wanted, nay needed to know. I sighed, opened my eyes, and looked around my study. Papers were scattered across my rough wooden desk, books lined the walls in straggling disarray. My friend often reproached me about the untidiness of my study but I some how welcomed the disorder. It bought its own kind of interest and uniqueness. I smiled wryly, imagining what my friend would say to that, he was meticulously neat. I returned my attention, some what grudgingly, to the sheet before me. I painfully stretched my old, aching fingers. I looked at them, remembering a time when they were young and smooth, when they had deftly played the dark song of the assassin. Memories flickered at the back of my mind, a cold day, a pub. I picked up my quill, dipped it in the ink again and, after only a moment’s hesitation, began to write.
A story of murder, lies, redemption and love. My story.

Chapter One

I crouched down in the dark shadow of a doorway. The full moon floated ghostly in the darkening sky above, strings of clouds chasing themselves in front of her. Unfortunately the street I was in was little improved by her silvery light. It was dark and wet. Wooden houses leaned precariously over the street, their tired wood creaking in the icy wind. Shop fronts stood dark and shuttered. The exception to this was the bright pub across the street from my hiding place. Outside it hung a crude, rusty sign that read “The Hook and Ancor.” Obviously spelling was not their strong point. I sighed and wrapped my black woollen cloak tighter around my broad shoulders. It was going to be a long wait. The smell of meat and beer drifted tantalizingly across from the pub, my stomach rumbled loudly. Times had been lean of late; I had barely enough money to pay for the rent. However, I comforted myself, with the silver from this job tonight I would have enough for a feast. With that in mind, I forced myself to wait patiently. I settled back for the wait, I was sitting on a cold stone step in the house opposite’s doorway. I shifted in an attempt to get more comfortable and a flash on the ground caught my eye. It was a piece of broken mirror. I hesitated then picked it up and looked into it, a slightly bedraggled looking face stared back. My long brownish hair straggled down to my shoulders and stubble was thick upon my chin. My eyes, their usual steely shade of grey, were shadowed with fatigue. I sighed and tossed the piece of mirror back into the dirt, pulling up my hood against the cold. The sky got gradually darker, fading from navy to black. A grubby lamplighter with a hacking cough shuffled slowly down the street, illuminating the sparse gas lamps. A few people wound their way to and from the pub, which was still glowing brightly in the dark, other than that the night was still. I patiently scrutinized the face of each person that left, searching for my mark. The wind had died and the moons brightness was now muffled behind thick clouds, the cold settled deeper into the night. I shivered, shifting on my freezing stone step, rewrapping my cloak about me, it didn’t make much difference. I was beginning to fear I had missed my mark, the cold helped me stay awake but I was still almost dosing as a large man stepped out into the street. He was soon followed by a noisy group of drunken friends. I shifted in the shadows, rubbing my eyes, and tried to see his face in the wavering light from the lamps. “Turn,” I muttered shifting from my step but keeping to the shadows. Then, roughly cuffing one of his drunken friends for barging him, he turned and I sighed quietly in relief, it was him. The mark was exactly as my informer had described. A tall, thickset man with a scraggly beard and permanent scowl. A knife sheath hung at his belt and he looked around, his eyes sharp and alert. He obviously hadn’t drunk tonight. He was currently glaring at his friends who were mock fighting, the half full bottles in their hands sloshing. The group finally set off down the muddy street. I straightened fully and stretched painfully as warmth returned to my chilled limbs. I set off after my mark.I kept to the shadows as I walked behind him. He looked ill at ease and glowered repeatedly at his friends as they weaved down the street singing loudly. This will be easy, I thought satisfactorily, it was like following a beacon. The man led his friends on a long roundabout route but finally arrived at a small old wooden house, the sort that was common in the outer parts of the city. His drunken friends tumbled in, complaining about the long route but he simply waited until they were inside then paused by the door and looked around carefully. I was concealed in the black shadow of another doorway and his eyes drifted over my hiding place and round. Finally, when it seemed he was satisfied, he closed the door and I heard the sound of several bolts being pulled across. I smiled, they wouldn’t keep me out.
I waited another hour or so to give everyone time to fall asleep. It was the darkest part of the night and the coldest. Shivering slightly, I came out of my cover and crossed the rough, muddy street. A wind had begun to pick up and, for a moment, the clouds in front of the moon tattered and cleared, a strange silvery light bathing everything and dazzling my eyes, so used to the dark. I hurried across into the shadow of the other house. However, soon more clouds rolled in and the moon was concealed once more. I glanced up and down the quiet street but all was clear. I turned back to the building; my wait had given me ample time to think of a way in. I flexed my cold fingers and began to climb. This old houses was easy, the rough brickwork yielding me plenty of foot and handholds. I was soon level with the lone, second floor window. I paused shifting onto a wooden ledge, before quietly working at the latch. After a moment there was a soft clunk and the window rattled free. I slipped in through the gap, my soft shoes making no sound on the old wooden floor, and looked around me. The air was full of the sound of breathing and I could make out the shapes of four or five men slumped in chairs around a cold fireplace. However, my mark was clearly not among them. I moved silently across the half open door. Just as I reached it, one of the men gave an extra loud snore. I froze but he did not wake up and, cursing under my breath, I slipped out onto the landing. There was only one room upstairs so I crept downstairs, watching for creaking floorboards, and continued my search. One door opened into a kitchen, another into a larder. I doubted that this was their house; they had probably evicted the residents when they had decided to set up a base here. I felt acute distaste for this type of petty criminal, turning other people’s hard work to their own gain, they were known as bullies, a lower class than assassins, who were at least skilled in their work. Concentrate. I told myself and opened another door, this one to a living room. There he was, slumped in a large battered armchair with a dagger held loosely in one hand, sleeping soundly. I paused, taking him in, before creeping closer. Even asleep he seemed somehow watchful, his breath soft, his eyes flickered under their lids. I moistened my lips, silently drawing out my dagger. At that moment his eyes snapped open. Startled, I threw myself sideways narrowly avoiding his thrown dagger. I leapt quickly behind him, drawing a second dagger from out of my coat as he turned on me with a snarl. Then he paused looking down at the dagger buried in his chest. He gave a roar of rage yanking it out brandishing its bloody blade. I dodging out of range and threw another dagger with unerring accuracy. He staggered and fell heavily back against the chair. I moved forward to finish him but with a grunt of anger and pain he lunged forward hurling my dagger back at me, I dodged, just, feeling it’s sting as it flashed past my shoulder, ignoring it I stepped forward finishing him with a last thrust. He grunted, piercing me with hate filled eyes before slumping back, his last breath rattling out, dead. I sighed with relief staggering back, my heart thudding, panting for breath. Already there were sounds from up stairs, his bar friends woken by his roar. Quickly I scrabbled through the dead mans pockets looking for the loot. After a moment I found a lump in the coat and, pulling my dagger from my belt, slit the lining. I felt something cold and hard plop into my hand. I shoved it into my pocket, there were thuds on the landing and I thanked the gods they were all drunk, quickly retrieving my daggers I went the quickest way, out the window.
I hurried down a street or two before slowing my pace, breathing in the cold night air. That had not been the smooth, easy job I had envisioned. I drew my hand shakily over my face and for the thousandth time I asked myself why I was doing this. Dodging and disseminating death like some macabre card dealer in the game of life and death. The church talked of guilt and shame of internal damnation but all belief had been beaten out of me when I was just ten, since then I had shut myself off. I felt myself being dragged back yet again to that day.


thanks for reading

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The glass is neither half full nor half empty... it's twice as big as it needs to be.

Necromortis

Want to edit it so it's easier to read?

~Christian

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Faith9

Is there more or is that it? It was good though. Alot of detail. The fight scene went kinda fast.

louloubelle80

I liked this. Is there more? I'd like to read it. One of my fave lines:'they had deftly played the dark song of the assassin' - it's dramatic without being corny and I think it fits really well with the tone of the story. I know I'm going to sound like a geek when I say this next thing but I'll say it anyway, my only criticism is your mistreatment of the poor old possessive apostrophe. For example, it should be 'moon's, and 'dead man's' - you miss out the apostrophe, and you put 'feeling it's sting' - this one doesn't need the apostrophe. I know I probably sound like I'm being overly pedantic but I have friends who work in the literary agent business and they really do care about the little things. On the whole though, I thought it definitely had potential.

salmon the creative

Dont get me wrong i do like it, in fact i love it

But id suggest making it easier to read because all it looks like is a wall of text and some people start reading but then think, "my eyes hurt" so give up.

But still good though

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Well, writing, what do you think?!

MerryLlama

Thanks for your advise

Sorry about the layout im not great with computers unfortuantly. I'll try and edit it....

__________________

The glass is neither half full nor half empty... it's twice as big as it needs to be.