"For the night is dark, and full of terrors. R'hllor, protect us with your light." The red priest rose his hands to the starry sky, and with is rose the flame, beating higher and higher. Surrounding him were several kneelers, acolytes of R'hllor.
"All hail R'hllor, the light in the darkness." They chanted, seemingly as one, voices ringing through the night. Foolish people. They think that their god will save them. The gods don't care.
The smoke mingled with the freezing air, brushing breaths with hints of sulfur and magic. It was the perfect night-the little fools would be unsuspecting, laying down after the night's prayer was over, sleep washing over them like death did a slain man. Signaling to her kin, the night watcher crept forward on silent feet, brown leather smooth against her pale chalk skin. Sliding behind an old oak, bark rotted and crawling with bugs, she halted, her breath a mist in the air. Now they must wait.
Soon the red ones were curled up in their little bedrolls, with not one gaurd posted except for the red priest himself, tending to the fire, stick poking in and out of the flames, watching it flicker and rise. Signaling to one of the other watchers, she tapped her foot, and he nodded, dirk in hand as he crept around the clearing. With the grace of a dancer, he slipped the dirk through the red priest's back, exactly where the heart was, sending him slumping over. Now, Mhylo, if you can get back without fail...
The bravo tiptoed back to her, without a twig snapping or rock kicked. He moved back into his place in the bushes, and waited for her to give the next signal, a nod of the head or the unsheath of a knife.
"When the embers die and the acolytes wake in confusion." The watcher woman mouthed to her company. Providing they did wake in confusion, this was a remarkable plan.
As the coal gave way to the frost of the night, and the fire dimmed to candlelight, one of the sleepers woke, cold now that the warmth of the fire was gone. Swift as sound, the watcher woman left her position, eyes meeting her allies. Now.
As her hand covered the boy's mouth, smothering him and painting a sly red smile across his throat, the other watchers surged forward, shouting, waving small swords painted black over garish gold and silver, driving the red ones from their beds and into the arms of two other attackers. They tried desperately to defend themselves with magic powders, but their god cowered in the face of hers. The god of death, my mother once said. Then she fell into that god's arms a day later. Almost purring, the enigmatic watcher watched her dirk slash through the throat of a fleeing acolyte and felt blood splatter all over her muddy leather leggings, along with what used to be her lung.
Fuck. I'll have to wash this again. She sated her anger against the last few acolytes, painting masterpieces on their throats with her brush, her knife.
"Is that all?" The small bravo named Mhylo asked her.
"I think. Can you send Orcho and Saenys to scout in case there was anybody was alerted with all the noise those fucking idiots made trying to escape. We should have killed them faster. Now go, before I take your fucking brain out like I did those cunts." The boy shrank before her.
"Yes, Tyshara. At once." The bravo scurried off, long chestnut hair flapping as he dodged over a stone. Sighing, she took the hem of her shirt and wiped off the blood on her dagger. It left a deep red stain, and she grimaed once again at the poor state her clothes were in. Walking toward the priest, Tyshara wrinkled her nose as the stench of death that had already begun to seep through the red robes that the former priest wore. Kneeling next to him, the watcher woman sifted through a bag full of coins, from groats and pennies to the finest gold dragons.
"We're going to be rich." She muttered gleefully. Calling the others to see her treasures, they started counting the coins and waited for the dawn.
