If Death meant I liked you

C1

Being an assassin is hard.

It's taxing, It means your constantly being pursued by some knights, and things can go very wrong at the drop of a pin.

The door swung opened, slamming into the wall behind it. Y'shtera was started, jumping and eyes snapping over to her door. A tall man, who's head almost grazed the top of the door frame, stomped into her room. She could see his thin lips moving, but there's wasn't any sound.

She had ducked back down, ducking underneath her pillow to try and avoid this man. As much as she loved her job, she was tired and would've just liked to lay in bed and read.

However, her boss, Ser Crial, seemed to have other plans. He continued to speak, and words slowly became audible.

"--Dress code. You should head out by sunset." His loud but gentle voice boomed and Y'sh blinked.

"Hmm...?" She slowly asked.

Recognition lit in his eyes, and he spoke again

"There's a party at Drinford's. Your latest target has been confirmed to go there. And pick out something on the fancy side, there is a dresscode." he reiterated, moving to sit on the edge of her bed.

Y'sh frowned, she preferred comfier clothing and owned very few dresses, but she nodded nonetheless. 

"I'm sorry, Y'sh. I'd let you have a little break but you're my best. And one of my informants warned me that he might have ordered a charge." Ser Crial mentioned solemnly.

She had been given a lot of commissions back to back, and while she thought each were fun, she'd become kind of drained. Nothing a few extra, couple hour naps couldn't fix.

Ser Crial patted her leg and wordlessly left, leaving her in a room that felt silent, but was accompanied by the hustle and bustle on the streets below her window. She pulled herself out of bed and made her way to the window, peeking out on the street.

Stallbrokers called out prices and discounts while holding an item from their wares, Children played, dashing through and around peoples legs, and occasionally if you looked long enough, you could see the odd pickpocket at work or the odd assassin dashing through the shadows of the alleyways, only if you knew where to look.

Y'shtera's eyes focused on her reflection in the glass. She was getting these dark bags from lack of proper sleep, her long white hair knotted and tangled down her back, her elongated ears twitched as they received each sound that perpetrated her window. And her electric blue eyes stared at her, almost as if it was someone else looking at her, judging her.

She stared back, accepting this person's challenge. She wasn't one for giving up