Clean Kill

Eyes closed, breathing slow and deep, still as the world. wearing thin clothing the color of dull grey, flat against the cold stone wall of a house, a step up from a hovel, Herk blended out of site, out of the world. He could hear it in the empty night. Curfew was in affect and the local magistrate was very strict about his laws. Past him, a group of twenty lightly armored men strode purposely, a tall noble striding in their midst, as he should they were his guard.

Once past, Herk opened his eyes and stepped away from the wall easily. twitching, he felt the blades secreted in little pockets within his sleeves, his boots, the one hanging between his shoulder blades. The well cared for sword he carried was a dull grey, hidden from the light. It was short, slim, meant for stabbing, quick kills. Pushing forward with his legs, Herk threw his right arm in front of him, blades leaving his hand, others easily sliding from their pockets, his hand easily grasping them. His right hand swept from left to right, back to his side, another wave of blades flying through the air.

Five guards silently died and fell, quickly joined by five more before they were fully rested on the ground.

Turning, the other guards saw nothing but their comrades dead and the dark night behind them. The tall noble swallowed audibly and stepped back. Four guards closed in on him and slowly guided him away, the other six remaining behind, eying the shadows warily.

Herk paid the six no mind, following the tall noble's path as he navigated his way over the rooftops. Jumping off the edge of a low house, Herk swiped his left hand from left to right sending his sword flying into the back of the tall noble. The man gave a squeak, likely meant to be a full scream as he slammed into the ground and slid forward. Landing just behind the guards, Herk's hands move up, slamming into the middle of the nearest guards backs, blades easily passing through flesh. Pulling first the right blade out, spinning around the left guard, easily sliding his blade from the man's back, Herk stabs the third in his throat, the fourth finding his voice fast enough to scream a warning. Herk's blade finds itself embedded in the back of the man's throat.

Quickly retrieving his blades from the fallen guards and cutting their money pouches and taking the most valuable items he could find with a quick search, each item making him slightly heavier. Standing, Herk silently walked to the fallen noble and retrieved his blade, grabbing it with his left hand and pulling it up, swiping it to the side, sending blood into the air, off the blade.

He quickly knelt, wiped his blade on the man's shirt and took the man's money pouch. Raising, he sheathed his now cleaned blade. "The client has requested of me to tell you that your days of life are over because you could not or would not stop your filthy habits." Herk's silent voice was cold, emotionless. He hadn't had an emotion in his life, something that suited him just fine and suited his profession just as well. Turning, Herk grimaced. There was an unclean kill this night.