Tales of an Assassin

Assailant

In the dim glow of the room, Draven moved with deliberate grace, his fingers skimming over the various trinkets and artifacts that adorned his space. Every item held a memory, a story, a mission. But the time had come to disentangle from the past and move forward.

One by one, he deftly packed away his weapons, each blade reflecting the muted light, revealing the intricate craftsmanship. Scrolls with secrets written in archaic scripts, vials containing rare poisons, and other tools of his trade found their way into his collection.

But the crowning jewel of his possessions was the spatial storage ring. Its unassuming exterior belied the vastness within. A contract reward from ages past, it was more than just a token of gratitude; it was a testament to his skills and the high stakes of the job. With a thought, Draven opened the portal within the ring. A swirl of energy pulsed, waiting to accommodate whatever he willed into it.

He placed each item into the ring's void, watching as they vanished, securely stored in an unseen dimension. Even his bulkier belongings, from the worn-out map of the realm to the ornate chest that once belonged to a deposed king, disappeared within.

With his belongings secured, Draven took one last look around the room, feeling the weight of the many nights he'd spent there, planning, preparing, and resting. But sentimentality was a luxury he could seldom afford.

The large wooden doors of the guild hall groaned as Draven pushed them open, revealing the dimly lit, cavernous space within. The room echoed with the murmurs of assassins, a susurrus of secrets and dark deeds.

Ahead, the guild master stood behind a grandiose desk, the wood worn smooth by years of deals. He looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but masked it quickly. "Draven. You're punctual," he remarked.

Before him, a polished chest waited. When the guild master clicked it open, the contents sparkled: a collection of precious stones - emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds. They weren't just gems, they were the currency of those who existed in the shadows. Each gem was an untraceable, highly valuable, and portable method of payment.

Without a word, Draven collected his due, the cold gems heavy in his palm. "I'm leaving town," he announced, his voice low but firm.

The guild master raised an eyebrow. "Running from the hunter?"

Draven met his gaze. "I choose which battles to fight."

As Draven turned to leave, the hall's whispers grew more pronounced, drawing his attention.

"...heard he took out Sylar by the eastern docks," one assassin whispered, a touch of fear in his eyes.

"Rumor is, he's not alone. Got an army of 'em," another hissed, glancing around nervously.

A third leaned closer to his companion. "He's got a vendetta, they say. Someone from our guild wronged him years ago."

Draven's footsteps echoed in the hall as he walked out, the weight of the rumors and the stones both heavy in his heart. The hunter was closer than anyone realized, and the guild was buzzing with fear. It was the perfect time to disappear.

Emerging from the guild hall, the city unfurled before Draven like a tapestry of memories. Narrow streets twisted into each other, teeming with people and echoing with the distant calls of merchants.

Draven's thoughts churned, memories of contracts and faces swirling in his mind. Who among them might have lit the spark of vengeance? Faces flashed through his memory - a lord from the east, a merchant's daughter, a rival thief. Yet, none seemed to fit the shape of the vendetta haunting the guild.

Pulling his hood lower, he navigated the city's bustling streets. The worn fabric of his peasant attire blended seamlessly with the crowd, and his steps, deliberate and unhurried, matched the rhythms of the market around him. He moved like water, unnoticed and unremarkable.