Tales of an Assassin

Unexpected Visit

The evening's cloak descended upon the city, casting long shadows that meandered through the narrow streets. Inside his safe house, Draven methodically began to disengage from his professional attire. The black, form-fitting tunic, woven with strands of spider silk for flexibility and strength, slid over his head and folded neatly onto the table. His boots, soft-soled for silence, were set aside, revealing feet marred with scars of countless encounters.

His fingers deftly unbuckled the leather belt adorned with various pouches containing tools of his lethal trade. From it hung a compact crossbow, which had delivered many a silent, poisoned bolt from the shadows. Beside it, a sheathed blade shimmered under the dim light. Its blade, no wider than a finger, gleamed with a deadly sharpness, and its hilt bore the mark of a coiled serpent - a testament to its origin from the Assassin's Guild. As each item found its place on the wooden shelves, Draven couldn't help but appreciate the beauty of his craft. However, the life that came with it demanded a price.

His gaze wandered across his safe house. Stone walls stood firm, guarding secrets and memories of countless nights. The lone window, covered with thick curtains, ensured discretion. Yet, with each contract, the walls seemed to close in a bit more. The idea of relocating had been gnawing at him. A fresh start, a new den - it was, after all, the way of the predator to keep moving, to remain unpredictable.

Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, Draven's stomach rumbled, reminding him of simpler needs. The modest kitchen beckoned. With practiced hands, he began to prepare a meal. On the hearth, a pot hung, within which he simmered a broth of wild rabbit, its tender meat falling apart under the heat. Root vegetables, foraged from the outskirts of the city, added depth to the stew. Freshly baked rye bread, still warm to the touch, sat on a wooden platter beside a wedge of aged cheese.

As the aroma filled the room, Draven ladled the stew into a bowl, the steam rising and curling in the cool air. The bread, when torn, revealed a soft interior which he used to scoop up the hearty broth. Each bite was a comforting embrace, a momentary escape from the perilous world he inhabited.

The remnants of the meal cleared away, Draven felt the weight of the day pressing on his shoulders. The soft straw-filled mattress in the corner beckoned. Pulling a heavy woolen blanket over him, the assassin's eyes closed, and he surrendered to the embrace of sleep.

The pre-dawn stillness hung in the air, a silence so profound it whispered tales of secrets and shadows. Despite the calm, a prickling sensation crawled along the nape of Draven's neck. The instinctual alarm of a predator being preyed upon stirred him from the depths of slumber.

Without altering the rhythm of his breathing, Draven's senses sharpened, his every nerve and fiber alert. The cold steel of the dagger, which he'd kept concealed beneath his pillow, felt comforting against the palm of his concealed hand.

The silent tension grew. The quiet room bore witness to an invisible dance between the hunter and the hunted. With a swift, calculated movement, Draven's arm shot out, dagger gleaming in the faint light, aimed unerringly towards the source of his unease.

A grunt pierced the silence.

As the first hints of dawn seeped into the room, the Guildmaster emerged from the shadows, a figure known for his elusive nature. His face, usually a mask of stoicism, contorted with pain. A hand pressed firmly against his lower stomach, stemming the flow of blood from a shallow wound. Eyes, usually sharp and calculating, now held a hint of surprise as they met Draven's unwavering gaze.

The tableau held for a moment, the realization dawning that this was not a casual visit, and that the events of this early morn would change the course of their professional relationship.

The Guildmaster, a study in contrasts with his grim injury and enigmatic smile, locked eyes with Draven. The pain from the blade buried in his stomach was evident, yet it seemed to intensify the glint of respect in his eyes. The juxtaposition was striking: here was a man, undeniably compromised, yet exuding a quiet authority and control even in his vulnerable state.

"Well, Moros," he began, his voice raspy yet composed, "you've always had a keen sense for the unexpected. I must admit, I didn't anticipate your reaction to be this... swift."

Draven's posture remained tense, his distrust evident. He had worked hard to ensure his location remained a secret, and this unanticipated visit was a glaring breach of his security.

"You've outdone yourself with the Vos contract," the Guildmaster continued, subtly shifting his weight to alleviate some pressure from his injury. "Your payment awaits at the guild. It's double the usual rate, considering the complexity of the task."

The Guildmaster paused, catching his breath, and then leaned in closer. "There's more. Rumors have spread about an assassin hunter on the prowl. Someone targeting our kind, and he's reputedly the best. He's already taken out three from our guild. This isn't some petty thief or misguided avenger; this is a professional, someone who understands our world."

Draven's eyes sharpened at this revelation. An 'assassin hunter' was not just a threat to his profession, but a direct challenge to his very survival. The pieces began to fall into place: perhaps this visit was not just about the Vos payment, but a warning, a call to caution.

The Guildmaster's voice grew softer, "He's methodical, meticulous, and leaves no traces. We're being hunted, Draven. And our usual haunts aren't safe anymore."

Draven's mind raced. Not only was his immediate security compromised by the Guildmaster's knowledge of his safe house, but now there was a new, formidable adversary to consider. The walls of his sanctuary seemed to close in, reminding him of the pressing need to relocate.