The Messenger
Prologue
When I was young my father made it clear that I was not to be afforded the same indulgences of grandeur that others my age were; he made it very clear that I was not to be a child, but a messenger just like him. He taught me what it meant to deliver these “messages” and how to do so most effectively. When I was five, he started taking me with him to watch the “delivery” and when I was six I had to perform the deed myself. It was my birthday and he had given me a shiny silver dagger with a blood red hilt. He gave me my gift and sent me out saying that I was not to come back until I had delivered the message to the man at the lead of the caravan of gypsies a few miles away from, what I’d find out later to be our hub for operations, a little pub called The Black Cat. I rode out on my pony half again too big for me that night arriving at the campground I walked right up to a man asking if he was who I was looking for, Clarence. When he nodded, smiling easily at me I pulled my dagger and told him I had a message for him. That was the beginning of my long line of murders and the end of all of my peaceful dreams. After that night I slowly stopped sleeping; at first it was just restless fits of sleep, but by the time I made it to my current age of sixteen I stopped sleeping altogether and instead I dose in the corner of that same miserable pub.
