The Assassin's Path: A Prologue

Looking upon a vast field, surrounded by
dense forest for as far as the eye can see, Drither begins
to wonder what he has gotten himself into. The only sound
that can be heard is the gentle swishing as his wings flap,
keeping his toes mere inches from the solid earth below
them. Something is wrong with the atmosphere of the
area. The leaves nearest him should be moving due to the
mild breezes created by his hovering, but for some reason
the air in the area returns to stillness as soon as it stops
touching his thin, dark, leathery wings. The stillness of
the air around him is so unnatural. Slowly, but surely,
Drither becomes accustom to the stillness and begins to take
in the visual aspects of his surroundings.
After some studying, Drither notices that all of the
trees on the immediate edge of the clearing are the same
height. What he finds even more bizaar is the fact that
each of the trees is spaced evenly at the base. While not a
single tree is next to another tree of the same type, they
all seem to have something in common. Drither finally
notices what the commonality is; he can hardly imagine why
it would be.
“How could this be? Why would all of these trees
lean away from the center of this field? This is no logical
reason. Perhaps the legends are true. Perhaps The
Storyteller does still live here,” Drither speaks to what he
believes to be himself and only himself. Will he ever know
the truth?
With these thoughts now voiced out loud, Drither
begins to think about the possibilities, and more
importantly, the legends he has been told about The
Storyteller. The stories that first come to mind are the
ones of The Storyteller’s abilities to land a counterstrike
before a strike has been made. Drither turns away from the
field and begins to walk away, headed for the town, but
before he has taken ten steps he stops and begins to speak
his thoughts out loud once more.
“I would be a fool to face an opponent like The
Storyteller,” There is a pause as Drither looks back over
his shoulder, “but then, where else am I to learn all he has
to teach? He is rumored to be the greatest of warriors, the
greatest of scholars, and most importantly,” Drither stops
speaking again and finds himself turning completly around to
view the clearing,” the greatest of Assassins.” The last
word escapes Drither’s mouth as nothing more than a
whisper, if it could be called that.
Assassins are the most respected, and feared, beings
on Asroth. Every child dreams, at one point or another, of
being selected to attend the Enforcer’s Guild’s School of
Mystery. Very few ever see this dream come true. The
Enforcer’s Guild gives one life form from each town a chance
to pass the entrance examination each year. The towns are
responsible for choosing their candidate. Mothers fear
their child will be chosen, and children hope that they
are. The reason for this is that no one ever returns from
the entrance examination. They either die or are entered
into the Enforcer's Guild's School of Mystery. Those who
pass the examination are required to forget their former
lives and devote the future to the Enforcer’s Guild.
The Enforcer’s Guild is a powerful force on Asroth, but
they are far from being the most powerful organization known
to the world. That title is held by the Assassins. The
Enforcer’s Guild produces thugs and ,more importantly,
rogues. These rogues know how to do all kinds of horrible
things, but they do not have the masteries that the
assassins posses. Legends say that on the whole of Asroth,
there are only ten assassins and yet, these ten assassins
strike more fear into the entire planet than the entirety of
the Enforcer’s Guild. This is because the Enforcer’s guild
operates under rules and a chain of command, where as, the
assassins only have codes of honor among themselves.
Legends of old say that through the course of history,
only one assassin has ever been killed by a non-assassin.
Rigos fell to the hands of a general of a great empire. The
general’s name has been forgotten because by the time that
he killed Rigos, Rigos had killed the general’s entire
army. Of course, the general’s death came seconds after
Rigos’s last breath. Rigos was the only assassin to ever
be named in history books. The others never allow their
names to be known and are eventually killed by the assassin
that will take their places.
Assassins through out the centuries have waited for a
young rogue to come to them. They will only train those
that they feel could someday kill their masters. Only a
trained, but inexperienced, rogue ever tries to track down
an assassin’s whereabouts. Only a rogue would have the
skills and recourses to be able to find and reach an
assassin’s abode. Sometimes they are successful and find an
assassin that is more than willing to train them in the
years to come. Sometimes the only thing they find is a
cryptic friend, dressed in black robes, carrying a scythe
and that is nothing but skin and bones. Well, bones at
least. Drither is one of these rogues. Fresh out of the
School of Mystery, Drither has followed the legends of The
Storyteller for years and has finally tracked down The
Storyteller’s last known home.
“He has to still be here. Why else would the air be so
still? There is not a single bird in the area. Or any
other animal… now that I think about it. I have to at
least try and make contact. I wouldn’t be able to live with
myself if I didn’t. Right?” Drither is somewhat confused
with his thoughts. They almost seem to be coming from the
tree just over his left shoulder. Drither decides that he is
right. There is no way he could walk away from this and
live with himself. He will have to try. He begins to walk
back towards the clearing. He notices something on his
approach this time that he did not see the last time. A
simple wooden sign stands roughly two feet from the edge of
the clearing. While the trees can be seen on the other side
of the clearing, the sign is the only thing that can be seen
in the clearing. Admittedly, it is dark in the field and
the silhouettes of the trees across the way can only be seen
due to the sinking sun. There may be something between him
and the other side, but there is only one way for Drither to
be sure. He continues to walk forward. He reaches the edge
of the trees and decides that reading the sign would be a
good idea before venturing further.
“Beware the shadows. Know your footing and fear only
yourself,” Drither reads out loud. “What the heck is that
suppose to mean?”
Drither shrugs and takes another flutter forward. His
toes brush the grass and suddenly the sun falls below the
horizon. The field is completely dark for a moment. Then a
fire sparks in the center of the field. Suddenly as the
darkness had come, it was gone. In its place there was
light and shadows.
“Beware the shadows,” Drither thinks out loud as he
takes another movement forward. Now Drither finds himself
completely in the field and begins to notice something funny
about the shadows around him. Some of them seem to be
darker than the others. In fact, they seem to be solid.
“No way, this can’t be happening,” Drith shouts as one
of the shadows to his right begins to stand up. Not a
single one of the shadows is the same. They are all
different races, different ages, and carrying different
weapons.
“Know your footing and fear only yourself,” Drither
begins to wonder what these statements mean as he digs his
feet in and draws his long, thin, glistening fencer’s
blade.
“I know my footing. That is one thing I am always sure
of. Why would I fear myself?”
Drither works his way through the field, being careful
to never have a shadow facing his back. Now of them seem to
move more than the accasional glance in his direction, but
Drither could swear that there is something out there
moving.
He sees it out of the corner of his right eye and turns
to face it. When he turns back to continue on his way to the
fire, there is a shadow standing in front of him.
This shadow is different from all the others. It
follows Drither’s movements; every single one of them. It
is almost as though the shadow knows what Drith is thinking
before he does. Drither notices this very quickly. Unlike
the other shadow men, this one looks Drither in the eye.
There is a spark of evil deep in the pits of the gaze.
There is something different about this shadow that
still eludes Drither. He knows that something is out of
place about this shadow, but he can not quite put his finger
on it.
Then it hits him and he jumps back in shock. Every
other shadow on this field stands on its own, attached to
nothing but the ground. The shadow that now stands in front
of Drither can be followed all the way to the base of his
own feet. The similarities between shadow and himself are
now apparent to Drither. This shadow and his shadow are one
in the same.
“How can this be? How can my own shadow stand in my
way?” Drither stands still, but ready to strike at the
smallest movement from the shadow and begins to
think. “Fear only yourself; that is what the sign said.
The only shadow here that has shown any movement towards me
is you and you are me. In some twisted sense. So you are
my challenge. I must face you to prove I am worthy?”
Oddly enough, the shadow nods to Drither and in a
voice not unfamiliar to Drither, but one that he is not use
to hear speaking to him none the less; it says “Yes, I am
your opponent. He promised me freedom if you fall here and
while it has not been a hard life stepping in your
footsteps, freedom is a joy I wish to have! Prepare to die.”
“Know my footing. I know that much, but then, so do
you. Don’t you? You know my every movement before I make
it. How can I face you? How can I defeat someone that knows
my every thought?” Drither speaks not only to himself, but
to his shadow-self. The whole time he is in constant
motion, circling and dodging. Then he notices that he is
dodging without watching his opponent. “The link goes both
ways doesn’t it?”
For the first time, Drither sees emotion in the face
of his shadow-self and it is an emotion that he likes seeing
in the face of an adversary. The look of fear spread across
the face of the shadow. Drither and the shadow both begin
thinking and while they are thinking the same things, they
are thinking in different directions.
“All I have to do is act a bit faster than I
think!” Drither says under his breath, knowing that it is a
feat much easier said than accomplished. They had taught
him how to think in a battle at the School of Mystery. They
did not teach him how to fight without thinking. They
taught him how to think fast. They did not teach him how to
think slower than act. It was always, “Plan your move then
make it,” but now he would have to go against his training
and act without thought.
Drither lunged with his shining sword at the ready.
The tip racing, three feet ahead of Drither’s hand, barely
missed the shadow. If the shadow had moved any slower than
it had, it would have had a sword in its chest. “Think
slower. I have to!” Drither whispers to himself. Drither
begins to attack with the fanciest fencing moves he was
taught. With each swing the shadow reacts a split second
slower, until, finally, Drither lands a blow.
Thinking to himself, “Yes, now I know it can be
done,” Drither doesn’t notice the shadow’s counter attack
coming at him from the left. Drither catches the thought
just in time to step with the blow, lessening the impact and
injury. “Damn. It does work both ways.”
The shadow and Drither both take a step backwards
and look each other over for a moment. They both know they
must not think about the next attack. They both know that
the other knows this fact. They both know that the next
move will be the last. They both lunge.
They mirrored one another; Both of their wings
folded tight, both of their swords extended straight out,
both of their eyes locked on the other, other rolling to
avoid the other's blade while adjusting their own to land a
strike. Then, as suddenly as they had lunged towards one
another they were stopped in mid air. The shadow’s blade
was a fraction of an inch from Drither’s eye and his was the
same distance from the shadow’s, but neither of them was
moving for some reason.
“This is the end,” was the only thought going
through both of their minds. And then, a wind wiped through
the area and all of the shadows disappeared. Drither
recovers from his lunge and rolls into a defensive stance.
His sword at the ready for any attack, he surveys the
surrounding area, searching for any movement.
“Zery good. Zery, Zery good,” The voice seems to
come from all around. Drither can’t place it and this
worries him. The fact that it sounds so familiar scares him
more than not knowing where it is coming from. “You’z has
done zery well to have defeated you’z zelf. Not many can
do’z that. Come. Come sit with me and letz me tell you’z a
ztory!” Just then, the fire roared and swirled as though it
was caught by a wind.
By the fires light, Drither can now see the
silhouette of a figure sitting between it and him. He
begins to slowly make his way toward the fire.
"You are the Storyteller, aren't you?" Drither askes
cautiously as he scutes his way forward, his sword tip
trained on the silhouette.
"Yez. Yez, I'z iz dee Ztroyteller. You'z is a zery
cunning Fae to have come thiz far."
Drither's face contorts in anger. He attempts to keep
his cool and continues to slowly move towards the figure
that has yet to turn around and look at him.
"I'z never zeen a Fae up cloze. No. No mez hazen't."
Drither loses his temper and begins to yell at the
figure, "I am no Fae! I wear no color 'cept for the darkest
of them all! Purple, black and red! They are not only my
colors but the colors I grant my enemies. I have not the
butterfly wings of a weakling Fae! I am a proud and noble
Arisie! A dark fae as some may call us, but no fae! We
stand our ground and fight where our," Drither spits the
word,"Cousins, run and hide."
The whole time Drither is yelling, he is moving closer
and closer to the Storyteller. He has lost all control of
his emotions and is now ready to attack the Storyteller.
Standing directly behind the figure, blinded more by
hate than the light of the fire, Drither draws his saber
back and wispers in the small creatures large ears, "And
now, I think you need some good Arisie colors! See you in
the next life!"
Before Drither could blink away the sudden surge of
light that was created by the Storytellers movement, there
was a large sword at his throat.
"You'z iz in need of much training 'fore you'z are ready
to make that move," This time the wisper was in Drither's
ear.
The cold steel upon his neck reminds Drither of who he
is talking to and he begins to reconcider his action. He
regains controll of his anger and speaks slowly so as to not
cut himself on the blade at his throat, "I am sorry. My
anger got the best of me. Perhaps we could start again?"
"We'z need not start completely over. You'z has pazt
dee frizt challenge. Thiz warrentz you a ztory and training
if you'z so wish it," the Storyteller speaks as he replaces
the blade in it hidden sheath.
Drith takes a step away and turns to face the
assassin. He flourishes his blade and bows low to the
figure, taking him in as he does so.
"My name is Fencer Drither Pickerpocker. Most simply
call me Drither. I see now that I have found the right
assassin for my training. You are the sole assassin that
uses only one blade and that is where my training lays as
well."
The Storyteller tilts the blade enough that it can be
seen in its hiding place, "Valgath haz zerved mez well and
you were right to seek mez out. I'z would not train any
whom would need to uze more than one extension."
"If I did not know better, I would say that you are a
rat man, but this cannot be. They are but a legend. Long
dead if they did ever exsist."
"You'z iz wrong. Wez still live. Deep. Deep in dee
groundz, wez live. I'z am a Ratonga. Perhapz dee only one
to live where dee sun doez zhine."
Drither looks at the face of the assassin. Drither
actually finds himself looking down to meet eyes with him,
is somewhat shocked, seeing as he himself is only 4'6". The
Storyteller could not possibly be much more than 4' tall and
Drither is fairly sure that the blade that was against his
throat was atleast that long.
After the intial shock of the assassin's hieght has
worn off, Drither notices something else. Something even
more astonishing. The Ratonga is blind. Not just blind,
but old and blind.
"How is it that one as old as you look to be, and
blind, is able to move with such presision and speed?"
"There'z a ztory for all and I'z think that ztory is
one you'z shall hear, but for now, I'z shall leave it at
training. Much training."
"Mez name is Assassin Binluil Ztickyfingerz. You'z may
call mez Bin if you'z wish. Mez experiancez and mez
training shall be yourz, but first, come, zit, and lizten,"
Binluil motions to the log that lays infront of the fire.
Dirther finds himself moving towards the log to sit,
but keeping an eye of awe on Binluil. He now knows that
training is coming. He is now among the assassins. It can
no longer be said he is a simple rogue. He is an Assassin.
Even if it is an assassin-in-training. He is on his way!
His minds flashes to the what the future could be like and
is only brought back by the voice of his new master,
Assassin Binluil Stickyfingers.
"Now, let me tell you a story. It starts many year
ago when..."