Post by Sir Caedric Moore on Aug 28, 2014 15:06:30 GMT -8
My A2 entry for the Assassins' Guild. Not quite an apprentice yet 
-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-The Butcher of Jahrton-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-
I shoved off from the little camp by the river and headed downstream as the last rays of the setting sun winked out on the horizon, painting the clouds pink and purple. My vessel was a rowboat - small, unobtrusive, silent; it bore no sails but the voyage wasn't far. By nightfall I'd seen the lights of Jahrton. I left the river before the mouth of the bay, where the fresh meltwater of the White River dumps into the sea, and headed down the tributary that led to into town. In accordance with our deal, the harbor master had left the portcullis open and I slipped my rowboat beneath the rusted spikes - barnacles dripping above me - and made my way down the twisting canals and waterways that led through the part of Jahrton known as Dockside.
Sometime after seven, I reached my destination : Riverfront Fishery - a warehouse used for storing and selling what the fishmongers sling on the piers during the day - and anchored my vessel on a small outcrop of land. Picking the lock was easy enough; four tumblers was child's play. Getting past the guards went easier than expected, too, sneaking past barrels of salted seafood, although I heard a great deal about a psychopath known as "The Butcher" - a sellsword said to be leading the mercenaries who was wont to hack off body parts of his hirelings and cook them for the rest of the crew.
I crept up the stairs, readying my dagger as I did; Ferwin's room was on the left. "Top of the stairs, on the left," the dockhand had said. "There you'll find Ferwin Exiph, him who yer lookin for." The door was unlocked and I eased open, sweat beading on my brow. It wouldn't be long now and my dagger would be in his chest - or across his throat, depending on how much of a struggle he put up. "Who knows," I thought. "He might be aslee-"
WHAM!!!
The cleaver stuck in the wood of the doorframe, inches above my head. I leaped to the right, rolling as I landed, and jerked to a stop as the cleaver stuck in the bedpost behind me.
"We got hot pies tonight, boys!" the Butcher yelled, yanking the giant cleaver free. He was immense - grotesquely fat - hair plastered to his head by sweat and grime, bloodstained chefs outfit ripping at the seams and patched with what looked like leather. "Yessir, hot pies and onions!" It wasn't Ferwin - he'd been tipped off, it seemed, and The Butcher of Jahrton was in his place. "Last time I trust a dockhand", I thought. At least he didn't know who to warn them about as I had kept my face scarved and masked.
I glanced around the room for something, anything I could fight this monster with; my dagger would bring me too close to my target and I didn't want to get anywhere near that cleaver. It was too late, though, and the Butcher was on me in seconds, cleaver slashing left and right, a maniacal look on the his face. My hand shot out, grabbing for the first solid object I could find, and closed on the cold steel chain of a small anchor. Using all of my strength, I swung the anchor around my head once then whipped it into the face of my attacker, knocking him backwards into a pile of sackcloth. Not wanting to push my advantage or stay long enough to be recognized, I stabbed the hook of the anchor into a nearby table, grabbed the chain, and leaped out the window, swinging down to the docks below.
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Comments and Criticism welcome!
Ronin
-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-The Butcher of Jahrton-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-
I shoved off from the little camp by the river and headed downstream as the last rays of the setting sun winked out on the horizon, painting the clouds pink and purple. My vessel was a rowboat - small, unobtrusive, silent; it bore no sails but the voyage wasn't far. By nightfall I'd seen the lights of Jahrton. I left the river before the mouth of the bay, where the fresh meltwater of the White River dumps into the sea, and headed down the tributary that led to into town. In accordance with our deal, the harbor master had left the portcullis open and I slipped my rowboat beneath the rusted spikes - barnacles dripping above me - and made my way down the twisting canals and waterways that led through the part of Jahrton known as Dockside.
Sometime after seven, I reached my destination : Riverfront Fishery - a warehouse used for storing and selling what the fishmongers sling on the piers during the day - and anchored my vessel on a small outcrop of land. Picking the lock was easy enough; four tumblers was child's play. Getting past the guards went easier than expected, too, sneaking past barrels of salted seafood, although I heard a great deal about a psychopath known as "The Butcher" - a sellsword said to be leading the mercenaries who was wont to hack off body parts of his hirelings and cook them for the rest of the crew.
I crept up the stairs, readying my dagger as I did; Ferwin's room was on the left. "Top of the stairs, on the left," the dockhand had said. "There you'll find Ferwin Exiph, him who yer lookin for." The door was unlocked and I eased open, sweat beading on my brow. It wouldn't be long now and my dagger would be in his chest - or across his throat, depending on how much of a struggle he put up. "Who knows," I thought. "He might be aslee-"
WHAM!!!
The cleaver stuck in the wood of the doorframe, inches above my head. I leaped to the right, rolling as I landed, and jerked to a stop as the cleaver stuck in the bedpost behind me.
"We got hot pies tonight, boys!" the Butcher yelled, yanking the giant cleaver free. He was immense - grotesquely fat - hair plastered to his head by sweat and grime, bloodstained chefs outfit ripping at the seams and patched with what looked like leather. "Yessir, hot pies and onions!" It wasn't Ferwin - he'd been tipped off, it seemed, and The Butcher of Jahrton was in his place. "Last time I trust a dockhand", I thought. At least he didn't know who to warn them about as I had kept my face scarved and masked.
I glanced around the room for something, anything I could fight this monster with; my dagger would bring me too close to my target and I didn't want to get anywhere near that cleaver. It was too late, though, and the Butcher was on me in seconds, cleaver slashing left and right, a maniacal look on the his face. My hand shot out, grabbing for the first solid object I could find, and closed on the cold steel chain of a small anchor. Using all of my strength, I swung the anchor around my head once then whipped it into the face of my attacker, knocking him backwards into a pile of sackcloth. Not wanting to push my advantage or stay long enough to be recognized, I stabbed the hook of the anchor into a nearby table, grabbed the chain, and leaped out the window, swinging down to the docks below.
-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-
Comments and Criticism welcome!
Ronin
