Tales of an Assassin

Contract

At dusk, Draven Moros stood before the massive wooden doors of the Assassin's Guild, hand tracing the rough grain. His reputation, a tempest of whispers and fear in the world of shadows, preceded him.

Before the sun slipped beneath the horizon, he pushed open the doors. The innards of the guild buzzed with nefarious energy. Stealthy shadows moved, figures darted, obscured by dimly flickering torchlight. He moved with measured grace, each step confident. The clinking of daggers against belts and the muted rustle of whispers ceased at his approach. They knew him. They feared him.

In the deepest heart of the guild, a figure awaited, half-hidden in the shadows - The Guild-master. His eyes met Draven's, a spark of interest igniting the darkness. He knew Draven's presence signaled yet another contract, yet another life waiting to be extinguished.

"Draven," he murmured, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that echoed off the stone walls.

"Guild-master." Draven responded, a hint of respect in his otherwise cold, detached voice. He passed him a nod and advanced towards the table at his side. An envelope lay there, a red wax seal embossed with the guild's symbol of a serpent coiled around a blade.

As he slid his finger under the seal, the wax broke with a satisfying crunch. He unfolded the parchment, eyes flicking across the neat, inked lines. The guild had always been meticulous about their contracts. A name. A place. A price.

The Guild-master watched him as he absorbed the information. "The client wants this one dealt with quietly. No fanfare."

Draven smirked, sliding the contract back into the envelope. "My kills are always silent, aren't they?" The chill in his voice sent an almost imperceptible shudder down the Guild-master's spine.

"You are our finest, Moros. That's why this contract is yours."

Exiting the chamber, Draven felt the contract burn hot in his pocket. Another name. Another life. Business as usual for Draven Moros. The cobblestone streets outside echoed under his boots, the moon casting long shadows as the night welcomed its lethal son into its embrace.

Under the obsidian curtain of night, Draven retreated to the privacy of his safe-house, an unassuming stone building on the outskirts of the city. Only the stars bore witness, their gaze indifferent as he slipped inside, the heavy door muffling the chaotic symphony of the nocturnal city.

Inside, he unfolded the contract, letting the glow of a solitary candle illuminate its contents. A life to end - Nathaniel Vos, a notorious merchant known for his illegal dealings. The guild had apparently decided his time had come. Details of his residence, routines, and notable entourage filled the parchment. It seemed Vos had a penchant for round-the-clock security - a challenge, but not insurmountable.

Vos resided in the northern district, in an estate known for its opulence. Gold leaf decorated his house, reflecting his taste in grandeur. A constant stream of lavish parties and high-profile visitors added another layer to the challenge. Draven would need to strike discreetly amidst the chaos, like a phantom.

The contract carried an ominous warning about Vos's bodyguard. A giant of a man with a scar running down his face - a man as brutal as he was loyal. The guild never included such details without cause. They had deemed this a worthwhile challenge for Draven. An acknowledgment, perhaps, of his skill.

With a contemplative sigh, he stowed the contract away. Nathaniel Vos had just become his next target. A merchant, a bodyguard, an estate full of watchful eyes - it mattered not. They were but pieces on a game board, and he, the player with a reputation for winning.

As the candle flickered and shadows danced on the stone walls, he reveled in the quiet, the calm before the storm. In the world outside, Vos slept, oblivious to the fate the morrow held for him.

Preparation - a key tenet of his creed, a ritual before the dance with death. In the low light of dawn, he began, poring over the details of Vos's estate - his routines, his guards, their patrols. His gaze lingered on the details of the bodyguard. He'd be the one to watch.

He spread the blueprints of the estate over the worn table. The sprawling mansion, a challenge in itself, had numerous entry and exit points. The main entrance, the service entrance, the numerous windows...all watched with hawkish eyes. But there, tucked away behind a rose bush, a small drain entrance caught his attention. Discreet. Perfect.

The next component - disguises. He rummaged through a chest at the foot of his bed, pulling out a tailored servant's uniform. It was perfect, down to the last stitch. He would be one amongst many, just another shadow scurrying about the grandeur of Vos's mansion.

Finally, the tools of his trade. He walked to a hidden panel on the wall, sliding it open to reveal an arsenal of death. An array of weapons lay in front of him, each a silent promise of demise. A blade, as thin as a whisper, as sharp as a viper's fang, caught his attention. Perfect for a quick, quiet kill. A grappling hook for navigating the estate's tall walls. Smoke pellets, for a swift disappearance. A compact crossbow with poison-tipped bolts, his choice for long-range efficiency.

One by one, he inspected and packed his tools. A deadly ballet of preparation. In his line of work, each detail mattered - the cut of the uniform, the edge of a blade, the timing of a guard's blink. He missed nothing. There was a reason he stood atop the guild's ranks, a reason the name Draven Moros was synonymous with fear and awe.

As the day turned to dusk, he left his safe-house, headed for the opulent manor of Nathaniel Vos. Cloaked in darkness and disguised as a servant, he blended with the shadows, a ghost amongst the living.

The estate was just as the blueprints detailed. The lavish party was in full swing, the mansion alive with laughter, music, and revelry. Yet Draven, disguised in a servant's garb, was just another face in the crowd, an unnoticed player in the grand orchestra of the night.

His steps led him to the drain entrance, tucked away as the plans had indicated. Slipping through, he found himself in the basement, far from the prying eyes of guards or servants. He climbed the stairs, his heart beating with cold precision.

Out in the grand hall, he blended effortlessly. Tray in hand, he moved from group to group, a servile shadow amid the glittering throng. His eyes scanned the sea of faces for one man - Nathaniel Vos.

Vos, gaudy in his silk robes, was holding court in the center of the hall, surrounded by his cohorts and admirers. Draven moved closer, a silent phantom weaving through the crowd.

The large man at Vos's side could only be the bodyguard, a mountain of muscle with a scarred face. He eyed Draven briefly, before his gaze returned to scanning the room. But Draven was already fading back into the crowd, the servant mask perfect.

Biding his time, he waited. Waited until Vos, heavy with wine and revelry, retired to his private chambers, the bodyguard following like a loyal shadow. The moment came, and unnoticed, Draven slipped away from the party, heading towards the grand staircase.

Upstairs, he navigated the mansion's shadowy halls, using the layout he'd committed to memory. He arrived at Vos's chamber, hidden in the shadows, watching as the bodyguard entered the room with his master, then exited, taking up his post outside.

Now came the dance with death. With silent steps, he crept towards the bodyguard, a shadow in the dimly lit hall. A swift strike from behind, his blade meeting the flesh of the bodyguard's neck - it was over before the man could even grunt in surprise. The giant slumped to the ground, silenced.

Then, pushing open the doors to Vos's chamber, he stepped into the room. Vos, in his drunken stupor, barely registered his presence before Draven was upon him. A swift, decisive thrust, and it was over. The merchant gurgled, shock registering in his eyes as life slipped away. Draven watched, impassive as death himself.

As the light faded from Vos's eyes, Draven straightened, wiping his blade clean. The contract was complete. Silent as a wraith, he slipped back into the shadows, leaving the mansion and its oblivious revelers behind.

Back in his safe-house, he held the completed contract, the weight of the kill now just a piece of paper. Another name, another life, another successful mission. His reputation remained intact - the whispers and fear his name incited would live on.