A Collection of Short Stories

Short Story 002 (a working prolouge)

Prologue:
The black as death cloak billowed in the starless night, as the cloaked one drifted into the tavern.  A black stained bow was strung and hung on their back, the wisp of the silver bow string cast a ray of reflection across the room. The man — no lad— withdrew his hood, revealing a clean shaven and stunning face, a thin faded scar ran from his brow to his jaw. The expression the boy wore was nothing short of impassive.  The inns tavern goes silent as the newcomer brings a cold atmosphere in his wake. 

"Hail traveler, what'll it is!" The Tender calls from the bar, he looks to the tender, and glides over, silent as the grave. A few coins exchanged hands and a finger points to the back corner of the wooden tavern. Then quick as a rabbit the lad drifts up the stairs, not even a footfall is heard in the silent old creaking inn of Abertsdale. 

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The faces of everyone below gave a telling tale of terror; a kingdom so recently out of a civil conflict had a realm on edge for fears of another revolt –Although a majority would be pleased enough to see the new king fall— My cloak hung silently on my lean and agile frame as I stepped from the room.  The small rucksack I carried sat at the foot of the bed and the now unstrung bow hidden under the bed.  

The tavern was bustling again, without the cloak drawn over my head I didn't draw as much attention; calmly I scanned the room, looking for anyone who might pose a threat. None caught my eye, except for a group in the corner, the man in the group looked familiar, a flash of silver tipped my senses off.  Albeit the tender had already tipped me off about the man I was looking for.
"Tender! A round of hum and drinks for the belligerent fools in the corner." I say to the young tender behind the counter, sliding a half dozen gold pieces onto the counter. Before striding over to the table of belligerent fools.
"This seat wouldn't happen to be taken, eh?" I say, switching from a refined accent to a drawl favored by the townships, my right hand stayed concealed inside the cloak.
"An outsider eh? No seats here for an outsider." Says the first man, the drawl giving him away as a farmer,
"You tell the fortress lover right!" says the second, his voice a refined accent, more of a man from the capital.
"And you speak like a city folk." I shoot back sliding into the empty seat, as the tender sets four frothing vessels of hum onto the wooden table.
"Will there be anything else, sir?" The tender asks her long hair, billowing out behind her as I calmly observe the fools I made company with.
"No there will be nothing more; I'll finish my drinks with these belligerent bastards before I recede to my room." I calmly inform her with a chuckle before pulling another two gold pieces from the coin purse attached to my belt.  The fool's eyes followed my hand as I reached for vessel before me.
"Making an ass of us, ya must be a man of money, 'cause I believe we'll be takin' some of what's 'ighgfully ou's" said the third his inability to pronounce 'r's' made it almost comical as the three drunkards stood, the tavern once again drew quieter as the townsfolk began to watch.
"Attack me, and I shall fell you, strike me down you shall not, you shall fall in the name of King." I reply at barely a whisper, drawing a black moon steel dagger from the folds of my cloak, and slamming it the table with nothing but a flick of my wrist.  The pummel was etched with a Silver and blood red Oak leaf —the symbol of the Blood oak assassins— the same symbol branded, carved and inlaid into my right shoulder blade, and hanging from a steel chain around my neck. 
"What. Was. That? All high and mighty with your dagger!" the second bellowed out, slightly slurring his words. I took advantage of his foolery, before he could continue I had shot up from my seat. In the same instant tossing the second dagger-identical to the first-deep into the hand of the first man, pinning him to the wall behind him. A rapid open hand strike, faster than the eye could see, sent the third into the wooden pillar. His head snapping backwards as he slid to the floor. The first man, looking more like a crazed animal than man screamed as he rushed me, wrenching the black dagger from his hand. The vessel of hum (having still been in my hand) smashed against his head. He crumpled under the blow as I turned and plucked the falling dagger from the air. The entire conflict lasted nigh of five seconds, but cost me a drink.
"Yager, is not a common name, neither is the house Felix, you fled from the Capitol, in fear that the Royal house of Carrington would have you struck down." I say, returning to the refined city accent I had adopted from my time in the cities. The tavern was silent as I sheathed the dagger into the folds of my cloak.  The first lay stuck in the table top as a reminder. "And now, Yager, house of Felix, I shall strike you down not only on orders of the King, but on a personal vendetta of vengeance!"
"As if I am afraid of a mere boy! I shall strike you...!"
The dagger from the table top was a flash of Black Death as it impaled itself into Yager's heart; the elixir concealed in its blade cauterized the vast amount of blood in his heart, turning the organ to a soft stone. He was gone before I withdrew the knife, not a drop of blood spilled.  Reaching up to the dead man's neck I yanked the silver chain from his neck, a silver and blood red oak leaf hung from it...