Homage

Shanked.


"You're bleeding quite a bit," Basle's brow furrowed. "Maybe we should see a Physician."

" It's nothing," I tried to answer calmly, my voice was sounding stark. " Get me to the Tabidian," picking up stride.

It was late as we walked. The streets were empty. The others were looking at each other, and at me. Two of the others were wounded. I wasn't in much pain but, my vision was beginning to blur. I needed to stay focused until we got to the apartment. I had to make it to the apartment. The blood was pooling in the fingers of my gloves and running in streams down my leg into my boot. I could hear drumming sounds in my ears as we rounded the corner.

" Dispose of the bodies, leave nothing in the alley," I sent the four I thought most capable, " Take Herschel and Castor to the Caste Physician." Basle refused to go with them, " No trace, do you understand? " The pounding in my head was getting louder. I swear I heard Basle say, " He's going to kill me for this."

We entered the double doors of the towers foyer. Behind a desk was the manager of the residences. His eyes widened with the quiet spectacle. He nodded his head once, and the elevator opened. Before the doors closed behind us, I saw three slaves with buckets and rags mopping up the spattered footprints I left behind. " Send the doorman a satchel, Basle, " I remembered to say. Once the doors closed, I began to feel the wounds. I slumped against the elevators wall. " Get a signal to The Cleaner, " I managed to get out with great labor, " For the trail on the streets." The last brother, Aradorus, exited the elevator on the second floor, and went to carry out my orders. Managing the situation seemed to help me retain focus.

Basle had acquired an apartment here in the Tabidian on the fourth floor. That is where we headed. I did not argue, it was closer. We stepped out of the elevator, the hallway seemed to stretch out to an impossible length. I was starting to feel cold. After what seemed ahns, we reached his residence. I leant against Basle, trying not to touch the walls. Basle slung my good arm around his shoulder. " I've got you, not to worry, " there was great angst in his voice.

I looked at him gravely and grabbed fist fulls of his shirt and cloak, " Do not let them see my face Basle, promise me." He was resolute and again the moniker for honor and ethics, " I will not allow it. I swear." He unwound my fists and brought a first aid kit. Tearing off lengths of gauze. "It's sterile, " he assured me. His hands were steady as he pulled the glove off. The blood had congealed some, making it stick and tear from the open wound. When he reached for my wrist I saw stars. He pressed the gauze firmly. I heard the door open quietly, " I think you'll be needing new gloves, She," Ibrahim had arrived with his caravans doctor, a man named Farrakan. " All is well, do not fret, " he nodded to me. He held my eyes a long while, without words I knew he would see me safely through this. " Mind her wrists, there are trigger daggers, " I heard Ibrahim warn the Physician. Basle made sure to unhinge them and unbuckle the mechanisms. I saw a bright light shine into my eye, and all faded to a haze. " The wound at her hip is a simple flesh wound, though there is still a shard of glass in it. This arm looks worse. I think the weapon nicked her artery, " was the last thing I heard.

I was standing in the meeting halls of the Black. Beside me, my sponsor. Before me sat three men their eyes filled with malice and judgement. Dragon, Ralton, and the eminent Captain, Surbus. I swallowed back my youth and inexperience like a hard lump of reality. My sponsor spoke, " I bring to you this pledge. She comes from years at the training schools of Ar. I have personally seen to her education further. She will be the one." He was held fast with conviction. The schools he spoke of were where I spent the entirety of my youth. When my family had died, my brother and I were sent there. Our tuition paid by a small estate. We lived under constant scrutiny and vigilant discipline. My brother was sent to the Red four years previous. The teachers had a different set of intentions for me.

I was not the first Woman to grace the presence of the Chairs. If I did not overcome that adversity, I could have been the last. An argument broke out amongst the four men. It was fueled by fists pounding the arms of the chairs. Raised voices became shouts. I did not move or flinch in time we stood before them. They would not see my fear, even when Surbus jumped from his chair with vehemence, I held still. In the end, the decision was that I was a necessary evil. A woman could open doors no man could. They would allow me probationary status. I could not take away coin from the Brothers, so they would throw me a few test contracts. Tests indeed were to be my lifes work and greatest chore. I would carve the way for the next. I would not falter. I would not fall victim. I would rise. Within the next hand, I had a Sister, Aspyyre, amongst the Brotherhood. She would walk this path with me. She and I would show them the error of their judgements. It was not long after, that the Chairs occupancy changed. They knew our dedication and zealous loyalty to the Caste. For this we were rewarded with the most difficult to obtain trusts. Tasks that took great patience and subterfuge. Soon we were no longer two, but twenty.

My mouth was dry when I awoke. It was daylight. I was still in Basle's residence. I sat bolt upright and felt my face, the wrapped coverings still there. The doctor fussed over me, making me drink thick juice. I asked for tea and was refused with mumbled comments. " Your defensive wound will take some time healing. I removed the glass from your side, it should be healed within a few days, " The Physician Farrakan said while packing his satchel, " See to it she favors that arm. The cut was quite deep. I can see by the scarring over the rest of her, she will know what to do. " He handed Basle a bottle of antibiotics. I laid back down. Yes, this was not the first time I'd jumped to meet a shank. Nor, do I believe it would be the last. As the fog of drug induced sleep came over me once more, I saw them. My trio of ghostly companions, ever present, rarely seen. Earth, Air, and Fire were there in the full length hallway mirror. The laudanum smelled sweet on my breath. I heard the Beloved speak. Darkness. Damned Mercenaries and their make-shift weapons. I had just broken those gloves in.

Prideful

I did not have to ask Ibrahim if he made the delivery I requested. There was no point, the giant of the deserts always completed requests as planned. Perhaps he leads an ideal charmed life. Lucky then, I have made him loyal.

"Yes of course, my First. It is done. The Crossroads will fulfill your request," I had said standing tall. He was gruff today. Haggard even. The plotting was taking its toll on his chiseled face, making it coarse. " I assure you, one way or another, I will get to him," I was held fast to my prediction. I have no choice but to be. Conviction. " May I ask, what will be the payment to the Woman, should she complete this for you?", I was referring to the Baker of course. I found myself curiously interested in what they would offer her at the end of all of this. They had said she would be compensated.

The First lifted his head he was looking at me, but not seeing me. He lowered his head, " Why do you wish to know? What difference is it to you ?", I should have waited more patiently, for a better opportunity. I answered, " I wish to know what to tell her, should it come to that." Hoping that was simple enough to secure the secret. " We will discuss it when that time arrives, " he answered dully. Moods aside this was the most emotion I'd ever seen this man betray. Was he entrusting me ?

" If there is nothing else, I shall take my leave, my First, " he waved me off only to call out, " She will be offered a position of standing. That is all for now, go."

I had left unceremoniously. No reason to leave with pomp and circumstance. As I walked the streets of the Anbar I thought of that meeting. Savana Vinquient, She Killer. Basle sat where I had put him. I half wanted her to pick him without question. Then I could find dislike for her. But, she did not. He was too transparent. Too young, and perhaps to eager. She had questioned my motives a great deal. It was good, her interest in our intentions. At first I mistook this for loyalty to the Woman. But, I believe it now was her own curiosity. Situations sometimes do need answers, even Black requests.

Tonight I would find the Tabidian Residence more to my liking. I have no need to don the robes and veils of the Apothecary for such a short stint. In truth, sometimes the smells around the stall gave me a headache, made me hallucinate. I had more business to attend, I was after all still painted.

I sat before my mirror, my reflections dancing behind me. The brush dipped in black paint was used. The mask of She stared back at me. The flame on the candles flickered. Two more men of Ar would find the dirt and nap forever. Dust to dust, and all of that. I had used this long respite to reinvent my plan.

No bodies would be found.

To Clement, or not to clement

The Contingency

He had said, "Let it be." Such is the way of men. Cruelest orchestrations set in tablets of salt. So shall it be done.


I am simply the messenger, delivering mortality at its finest hour for the price of a contract. Betrayal that singes the edges of family bonds. The brothers are good men. Just men, in the end. They have a dream that Ar shall return to its glory. Who cares in what kind of paper the present is wrapped? Isn't it the thought that counts? I see their vision, and believe its wholesome. Does this make me a puppet? I think not. I think this makes me a visionary. I am from Ar. Once, before the beauty of black paint I was an Arian Woman. Regal. Now I owe no Home Stone fealty. Deep within the recess of my heart I hold love for the city. Perhaps this is a fault, perhaps this is an asset. Relevant to be sure.



They had called for me, the Red and the Black. To be dutiful I arrived on time. I did not choose to linger at the door and listen, instead I simply knocked and entered. Call it pragmatism, but I am no longer interested in what their plans are, only that I carry out this task and have it be done. They were huddled over the desk, pointing at some plans when I entered. Neither seemed altogether interested in my presence only that the door was closed behind me.


"It seems as though our tides have shifted, my Sea, " the First had said. I nodded a reply. " Make an amendment to our previous order. We shall wait this out, and see what unfolds."

I said nothing in reply. But, didn't I suggest that? Whatever these two were plotting, if they wanted my opinion they would ask for it and they would usurp the idea as their own.

The Red looked at me full on. I think he was pondering a de'ja vu, at least one seemed to wash over his rugged face. I kept stoic, for should he know that he had spoken to me, in truth, stared upon my almost bare face, it might make him angry at the deception. He did drink much that night, also, he was one of those men who tries very hard. It was embarrassing. I did deceive him on purpose. I also, did it with great joy and slight sanctimony. He deserved it.


The two were passionate. Not about the affairs of most men, their passion was played out in a great love of their city and Home Stone. They wanted to rebuild, remodel, and reinvent it. I listened for a while to their discussion. It was provocative, and called for reform. It was citizen friendly, and at least sounded like an even balance of good and evil. Politics never made much sense to me. You must rob the poor to renovate the dilapidated. Seemed like a sad tale of budgets and taxes. To the two of them, it was the things dreams were built on.


I went to leave, and the First called for me, " You will continue on as if nothing has changed. Should clemency be called, I will do it personally. Do you understand? " As patronizing as it sounded, I think he just wanted to be reassured. " Yes, my First."



"You may go," he waved me off to show his control. Everyone in their own way is a thrall to something more important or powerful than themselves. I am no different. This is a profundity to which I will find no answer or end.

In Perpetuity

You are my constant.
My northern trajectory,
My broken Mirror,
House of my reflection.


You are my constant,
An audience held captive;
Bewitched by wit,
To which I am chained.

Stalking


Down



Moonless gardens,
Sunny Alleyways,
Resounding rain gutters.


You are my constant.
My cruelest curse;
My truest good deed,
Unyielding faith.

Vigilant hater do not fall prey to your guesswork;
It is not what you think.
It simply is,
Constant.

Commend, Condemn, Collide

The banquet was beautiful. The people in attendance roaring with hurricane forces. Like a hurricane it was lovely to watch and yet altogether terrible to experience. The wine at least, was good. I am not one for food in public places. It is unfortunate to have this kind of neurosis, as it genuinely smelled delicious.


Ibrahim proved himself useful when he wasn't enjoying the bread. He seemed to know just when to draw attention so that I could leave a trail for my target to follow. I am commanded by the powers that be to make this man, the target, come to me. This was not the way I would have it, but it is not for me to choose. I am beginning to despise this new world order. Edict or not, it is not right to expect me the black whore. Figuratively, of course. I am above this type of behavior, but, a contract is binding. I have agreed to fulfill it, and am being compensated well. There is something to be said for knowing your place in this world. Then again, there is something to be said for rooftops, too. I'd prefer the latter.


I was told a story once, of a great woman who knew her place. It always struck a chord with me. She had been a woman of plainness and not particularly beautiful for the times but, she had command of a powerful man. Moreover, a man she wanted and desired, held captive by her guile. It was not without rumor as to how. Some had said she was a witch who enthralled him with a poison. Others had said she begged the Moons, and her wish was granted. One proclamation was more simplistic in nature. It had been said she would give him just enough to instill the want of her, and then she would walk, sometimes run away. Subsequently, this powerful man would chase her, want her, have to have her. She became his obsession. He gave up companion, Home Stone, religious affiliation, and almost his monarchy. Just to have her? Just to hold her? No, just to posses her. When the hunt for her had come to an end, bored of her whims, he betrayed her. I do not believe she was a heretic as the story's end would have us conclude. It is my feeling she was done in by love. Lust is a chase, love is a conqueror. Love after all, had chopped off her head in a market square. Love had watched it roll into the awaiting basket. Love had left her to the flies and spectators.


I had been seen. Stalking me across the room. It is like being a feast at the pulpit of the poor. Or, more like kaissa, if played right, of course. A moved piece, a first pawn, sacrificed for the long war and not the quick battle. A taste of things to come. It isn't as if we have never been the object of someones affection before. For that matter I also know what it is like to covet with desperation. I can play this out. If experience teaches us anything it will be that we can draw upon that past for use now. The Lady Desdemona with her regal poise, and long slow voice, I hear her speak to him. To someone.


He will hunt us down.

Sovereignty

A Copper for your thoughts.



The paint upon the brilliant tower of white seemed indelible. Workers had tried all day in vain with solvents to remove that which was etched into the stone of the Initiates Cylinder. 'You are Giants, Bow to No One' was the effigy. It rang up amongst the people, a slogan of their cause. The shouts along the Market Square were clear and full of the anger they had been storing up and pushing down for several hands. Taxed to the point of poverty, mothers, sons, fathers and daughters could all agree they needed to be heard. They would be heard. Men in their pristine robes of white scattered to alcoves for safety. Safe will not be the case to be sure. As I had told the First and his Brother, I would bide time for such actions to occur. The people needed to call out to the culpable parties who lunched high in their apartments. I would indeed set ruin to the grindstone of money sifting and theft. The priories across Ar should beware the masses. Nothing says good afternoon like a lynchmob on your temple doorstep.

Ibrahim arrived at my debtors residence in the southwest section of the Great Square District on time. He had been invited to a catered political event and wished for me to attend with him. Often I find myself wondering how does a man of Tor find himself in such high regard of Arian politicians? But, then again, why wag a muddy tail at good fortunes. Tonight I go on his arm as the lovely and wealthy first daughter, the Lady Desdemona. He had sent me a set of robes that were beautifully handcrafted in white heavy silk and beads. I think he meant to take me as far away from the black leather as he could. While veils are not a standard in Ar, I assumed ones that were more sheer. Women of station should never be seen fully in our opinion. Certainly Desdemona could show her face, but Oman preferred that not be the case. As a token Ibrahim had bestowed upon me a necklace of gold and matching bangles and rings. These were crafted of fine gold and gave the impression of sea treasures. The inlay was of moonstone, a personal favorite, though how this man knew that is an arcane a mystery as the golden beetle. It is my opinion, that the jeweler had made them himself just for me. The matching bangles which housed our secrets, attested that yes indeed he had. He looked quite proud to have me on his arm, and in truth, I felt quite proud to be there. His caravan of men along with my own retinue, made for an auspicious presentation as we rode our way towards the Tower Districts. It would not be uneventful. Ibrahim spoke, " She, it was not easy getting to you. Be prepared."

As we rounded through the streets, the outrage became apparent. The palanquin on which we rode was no formidable form of protection should the masses of protesters raise up against us. I cannot say I was wholly comfortable dressed up and on display. My Brothers were rallied close, Basle at the door. Ibrahim patted me on the arm, " Do not fret. I have taken care of everything, She."

It is very hard to be faced with such hypocrisy. Here I was, wearing something that was worth more than all of these men combined had made in a lifetime. They are right to rage out, and I am right to feel the truth of it. When we turned the corner to the High street the torches, smoke and shouting grew into hysteria. Ibrahim stepped out onto the street, and put Basle in his seat. He walked with his arms on his waist and a smile in his voice. "Yes, Yes!," he had shouted, " We are Giants, WE are Giants!" I could hear the jingle of lots of coin hitting the cobblestones. People were cheering, thanking him, praising him, supporting his cause. I caught only a brief glimpse of what was going on, that fact alone made me more nervous than walking through an office door and slitting a mans throat. From the billow of beautiful drapes on the palanquin, I saw his men tossing coins from great hip sacks. It was like a parade, the people screaming, "Giants! Giants! Giants!"

We arrived on time, and uninjured. Now to face the mob inside, that will be another story.

A Tale of Two Castes

The Meeting

I put a finger to Basle's mouth to keep him hushed. We were both stood there outside the great ebony carved doors of the First's office. He tried to protest, but kept his tongue. He was loyal at least. They were speaking, the First and another man. I found that I had a hard time telling which was talking. The argument was over issues of control. More importantly it was over controlling me. This of course peaked my interest and forced me to hush the young Brother with me.

" She is capable, " one had said. " But a woman loosed is like an act of nature. Unpredictable, " said the other. " This is what the agreement was ! You cannot have a say in how, when, where, why or who. Just know it will be done and when it is over their will be no worry. You will be opposed by none, and the Administration will be yours." I still couldn't make out who was saying what. There was silence for a few moments. The kind of quiet that is deafening. My ears were ringing. I was left wondering just what that meant. I looked to Basle, he was staring at me. Now he understands what could be at stake should I fail, so failure is not an option. I am found wondering if they will send someone to hunt me, if they haven't already. Perhaps some precautions should be taken.

I nodded, and Basle knocked on the door. As I entered the room the two men stood. I am quite ambivilent to acts of courtesy. The guard of Brothers followed. I saw now why I could not distiguish the two voices. They are brothers one in Red, and one in Black. Look alikes to be exact. Somehow this all makes sense now. I am being used as a tool in the Red's ascension to power. Ambition is a cruel mistress indeed. The First paced behind his desk looking at his brother with concern. The Red leant against a window frame in a casually rogueish fashion. His face half lit with a smile. I wonder, whose canary he's eaten. I was about to find out.

"I have been summoned to the First, and to the First I have come," I bowed and moved to fix a glass of water.

" I summoned you," the Red spoke. His Black brother winced, " I wish to see you, She Killer."

" I am not to be seen, " I replied, quietly cocking a dagger from a wrist spring sheath to my hand.
The First interjected at this point. I think he heard the click of the switch, " Now Oman, we are all allies in this room."

" Then allow me to do my part in this and we will remain that way, I am not in contract with this man of Red, " I was seething. You see, this man was not asking to see me, he was asking to look upon me. He was asking to unveil me.

" I will not agree to this. How dare you! " I could feel the presence of She, urging me to simply retaliate. It would be within my rights. Then that cocky, arrogant bastard smirked, " I have heard tales of your beauty," he tried to be persuasive. Perhaps on any other it might work, it made me sick to my stomach with anger. " I am an Assassin, and you are insulting me in my own House. Just who the fuck do you think you are? More to the fact who do you think I am? To add injury to such an insult, now you think to charm my veils off? You must listen to your brother when he tells you that I am not for your eyes. I will never be for your eyes, " I spat.

" You do not speak to me that way woman!" he pounded a fist on the wall. " I will know you. You will not be some puzzle to be figured out after the solution is complete. You will show me to whom I am intrusting my secrets! " He roared. I turned to leave the room. The Black guard interceded his objections this time. " Like hell I will, " I said over my shoulder.

"Oman, there is another discussion we must have, " The First had spoken and paused in hopes to add calm to the churning. He stood there behind his desk, wringing his hands with nervous tension, " When can we expect results?"

" I will allow time to pass for now. The Administration is in chaos, and fearful. They will be easier to hunt on the night of no moons. For now, I should think to let the city speak out, and see what occurs, " With that I went from the room, my guard behind me.

The Mirror

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, Rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know the dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

-Dylan Thomas

The tides of the sea follow the lunar cycle. So do the tides of a city change with the whim of our moons. Lately, our Sister Moons have seemed cruelly precocious. Ar, its citizens and denziens have been in a certain state of uproar and unrest. Initiates search the nights skies for answers. Their double knowledge leaving them lost in a star-less night, leading them only to the mortality of a She Killer. I listen as I walk through crowded streets, to their heartfelt pleas without shame or sympathy. My path and new found persona will take me once again to the Administirial Offices. Tonight I do not go as Oman Khan the Assassin, I do not go gently into this night. I am She.

The mirror I own has been my constant companion. A true friend who tells no lies, and houses all of my demons. This mirror reveals secrets that are only for me. She keeps Earth, Wind, and beloved Fire close for my call in times of need. Too, she houses The Apothacary, The Golden Dancer, Oman, and now She. I only need look within to find them all their in the reflection waiting for their time to come forth. As I sit before this pane of ornate glass I am succumbed to a will not my own.

Tonight I shall bask in Black. I will let it warm and comfort me for soon the Brothers will know glory. On this night of the waning moon I will murder two men of the Council of Ar. Their bodies will be found hanging on the steps near the Great Square, arms out and feet bound in black hemp. They are ascended to the cause.

10 of 18

La'Luna Aria

Red skies at night
Should have taken warning
It's just, people mourning,
running, hiding, lost
You can't find,
find a place to go
So it's red skies at night
Someone's taking over
And it looks like they're aiming right at you
Someone says, "We'll be dead by morning"
Someone cries, leaving Red eyes at night, red eyes at night
Red skies at night

Blood Moon.

Surely it was appropriate for all it was worth, it did seem a sign. The haruspex for hire in the Great Square pontificated on omens, and other such sith. Crazy one eyed bitch had better look out.

Last night I had feasted on the souls of two men. Something about pairs or doubles always appealed to me. Perhaps it is because I myself am a twin. Too, it could simply be that I have always had such a duality of nature. Who would know me well enough to say, truly.

The two men who once held high positions in the Administrations Offices, had grovelled at my feet, begged for life. Pathetic. These two petty individuals thought to buy my affection, and my sympathy. " Neither sympathy nor affection are my forte`", I had told them. There was indescribable, overwhelming power as I watched their heads bend backwards from their necks and swing pedulant from their spines. I must have been more brutal than intended.

My constant companions, the guard of Black men had watched my presence grow as I left these two dogs to spew forth hearts blood around the foyer of the Central Cylinder. Two of my young Brothers had been sick. Maybe they fear me, or perhaps what I have become before their eyes. As well they should for I am licensed to kill these days with 10 more writs of execution in my hands. These Administrators will not have died in vain, no longer will the Black hide behind the Cosian scum for our hand in this. No, we have found our path and soon, yes dear soon, I am coming for you that have stolen from us. You will find the heaviest of hands not gloved in Red. We are silent as the dagger now coming from behind to take from you all that you hold beloved. I shall show this city what it truly means to revel in the lust and greed, and what price that bounty will bring. I am, after all, marked for greatness.

I have found my lost soul in this Moon. I have found her, and she is hiding no more. For this sanguine Moon, she who makes these streets my pale red venue, I salute. Vigilent I shall rise from the ashes of forlorn. I shall become a living, breathing, nightmarish icon for a whole city to fear and revere. I have painted myself appropriately as I think she painted herself bloody just for me. Yes, just for us.


Glory to Ar. Glory to the Black. Glory to the People.

8 of 18

Distractions

Dirty is the man who slings mud.

Lately so it would seem, there had been much filth being thrown about. The day after my trip into the Magisterial Offices, they found a mans corpse floating in the fountain of Hesius. His blood had turned the homage's once crystal waters to red. I stared at it for quite a while, I could see the investigators trying to hush the crowds from my kiosk in the Market. All day it took five men to empty the fountain and refill it. I think it still has a pinkish hue. Officials in the Central Cylinder were seen openly arguing on the steps. The people, rich and poor, seem in a state of unrest. Anger is prevalent on the minds of the scared, the taxed, and the destitute. Perhaps they are reaching a breaking point. I heard tale from some customers that there was a riot in the Teiban Sul district. Also, I heard some looters had been smashing things up at some brownstones near the Tabidian Towers. Change will come. It has to come. For now, I am relieved to hear from Fat Sal at the grocery kiosk that the Red have been spread around the city to quell the uproar. Things are going well in that regard.


My part in this task is not finished. I received a long list, and a short list of targets. The short list is to be taken care of rapidly and in nightly succession. So at dusk I will be escorted through the Anbar to the Black Caste. After which, I will find myself on the high hunt. Watching the pink hued fountain from my Alchemy Stand in the Central Market, I meditate on the events yet to unfold. The last four accountants on my short list won't pose too much a problem. I think it best that they are to be found victims of terrible beatings, ultimately ending in their demise. Yes, it will be better to leave them in the filth of the streets where they belong. As before I will blame the Cosians. I have found it is far easier to stir the already boiling pot.


My respect for Death is a deep one. She and I have a bond that spans a lifetime. Its my belief we are, she and I, Sisters. From the time I was young, I can remember having a feeling of destiny. Sometimes I wonder if Death and I were bound by something greater than the blade of an Assassin. Perhaps I simply muse to pass the time.

Then again, perhaps not.

A New Babylon

We called upon the Mountain, but the Mountain did not move.
We called upon the Air, but the Air did not answer our plea.
We called upon the Fires, but the Fires did not ignite to cleanse;
We call upon the Sea, and Her tides turned towards the shore.
Such is our Will and Command.


It was a full moon, in a dirty sky. The cold had become a caressing touch, silken and dream-like. Seemingly alone I walked on hard cobblestones, a cloak of blue swirling, appearing zoetic on the wind. I was lost in the thought of who else, in conspiracy, had walked today on this same sidewalk. Before me lay a tower of stone, impenetrable and ancient. Its niche windows, some dark, and some light, shone like puzzle pieces to which the answer would be simple and blissful death. My clarity had been paved with coin and an alliance of two great powers.


The First had called me to Ar. On the day I arrived, still journey weary and sleep deprived, I had stood before the great desk of ebony as a soldier whose only task was to deliver herself for duty. Thrice before I had denied his request to appear, for in the end I could see only my own peril. This time he had leverage. He had shown me a recent contract up for his approval. Try that I might to ignore the name upon it, there was a reaction. The first thing that had come to my mind was, ' Who will bury me next to my brother when I die, if not him ?' , I had swallowed a very bitter pill. The first had my full attention and he knew it. It is every Killers right to refuse contracts. It is considered heinous to refuse an in house Writ of Execution. He would ask me to commit treason, of sorts. I could not deny my loyalty to him, or the Caste, its full fruition. This had changed everything, wickedly stripping away any refusal on my part. It would be done, this trade of life for death. The life of the Poet for the blood of many Scribes, and in most likelihood, my own. From the whispered description of it, the task would be a zealous act. The catalyst of a new Ar would be forged in Red and Black. So the agreement was accepted. So shall it be done.

Here on the street below, I remember that day well. All is seemingly quiet, for now. I have left the cloak of Blue at the base of the stairs along with a skein of green rope used to strangle the two men. Both were barely bloodied. Tomorrow they will find the bodies of the corrupt politicians in their respective offices, with graffiti on their walls. Tomorrow the streets shall be flooded with criers who will shout "Two Councilmen found dead in the Magisterium at the hands of Cosian dogs! Hear all about it!"



After all, Tomorrow is another day.

Buying the Stairway to Heaven

The strange thing about delusions is that if they go unchecked they become reality. Oman functioned well in her psychosis. The tea she used for quelling the visions worked well enough. For that, she seemed to be in control of the matter. And still, they came to her in times of crisis or high stress. Perhaps this was one of those times. The mentor vision, Fire, painted her back with a broad soft brush. She could slowly see the birthmark there disappear under the golden paint. In the mirror she watched him, arms crossed over in front of her chest. He was tall, this memory. His strokes had delicate attention to detail. There were chance glances to her in the reflection. Beloved. She was comforted in his presence. She longed to reach out and touch him. This was good. For it would not be easy for her this act against her nature. It challenges everything she is, truly. But, coin is coin. A contract would be fulfilled. The order undertaken.


Before the looking glass, all that glitters is gold. Oman donned the golden chain skirt, and top. She admired herself, thinking how much she looked like a statue in the square. Imagine if you were apprehensive of being beautiful? What if society rewarded great beauty with slavery and defeat? Such is the lot of a Gorean woman, Oman was no different. Normally, the disguises she chose shed the invisible cloak of plainness or marred ugliness. Tonight she would be seen for what she was, breath taking and beautiful. She had to find Her, that creature within. Long ago tucked away, and hidden even from herself. The act had to be believable, real. She had to get close to the dais. Close enough to kill a man. ' I wonder if he can feel me? I am closing in, Peacock', she whispered and fitted the bracelet on her wrist. There was a click as she checked its mechanics. Ibrahim was a skilled jeweler indeed.


After the nine veils, they garbed her in a black haik, so that Ibrahim could enter the tent. He was courteous, and turned his back. " She, I will signal the lights for you, " he had said with a nervous tension. " You have the strong box, and seating near him?" she asked quietly. " Yes I do. You will be safe, " this assurance was strong even though he dared not look at her. The giant exited and headed towards the House of Bonnane. Oman smoked and paced the carpets underfoot,' Where is She? She, that will come and take my place. A self long since dismissed, a part long suppressed.'

The nine men of Black took her to the house. It was not quite the dinner hour, so they were readying the room. From the ceiling hung two lengths, thirty five feet each, of golden fabric. When yanked on it had some give, or stretch on the bias. She told the men to face away from her. It had been ordered that they not gaze on her directly. The First had been adamant. The nine would not have the privilege of seeing her in this predicament. It is the only reason she acquiesced to the order, aside for the debts she was paying.

Oman lay in the cradle of gold, checking its length for safety. She began to wrap it around her waist, turning, hoisting herself up as she went until she finally was near its rigging. Like a giant golden cocoon, she would wait for the lighted signal and be born anew.

" I am here Peacock, you shall know my scent. My face will be the last you see. For him. For the glory of Ar. "

The Order

" I will not."


"You will," the First had said succinctly. There would be no argument strong enough to dissuade his decision. This was not the Caste of before. No, this was a Caste of new ways and new rules. She would do what was necessary to hunt the target, for the Brotherhood. Amongst all of her faults and idiosyncrasies' she was nothing if not loyal. " You will take a guard of nine, of your choice," he added as if this would soothe her. He had won. She would be painted.

Since coming to the city of Ar her life had taken a turn. No longer could she travel as she pleased, nor was her time her own. With high profile work came a consequence of constant vigil. She no longer felt the ease of anonymity. This price for reputation was greater than anticipated.


Sitting in front of the great mirror at her vanity she contemplated her fate. Was she going to be able to pull this off ? Once she took this path, would she be able to veer off it again?
Antollicus rapped on the door. " Miss, it is smelted down and I mixed it up with the paint base, jus like you asked. Shall I leave it 'ere for ya? "

She heard him going down the wrought iron stairs. No tea tonight, she thought.

On the Catwalk

Night grew along the watchtowers. Their ivory shade exchanged for a rosey dim. Soon the time would be near. It was cold, much colder here than her previous habitat. Breath came like freezing fog from her lips. Two Brothers had come with her summons. She could not do this alone. The three waited patiently for the black of sunless skies. It must be dark, for they must go unseen. On the rooftops of the Magisterial Offices they crouched low against the catwalk around the building. Intrepid in their silent vigil.

It was only a week ago, Ibrahim of Tor had returned the iconic dagger of Josephus the First of Firsts. It once again rested in its velvet nest in the libraries of the Black, safe. Now she was charged with finding its thief. Somewhere below her, in a locked desk the answer waited nestled amongst other prized documents.

Sundown came and went, leaving in its glory a wake of darkness. She felt overwhelming peace. The two men in her company signalled. Oman fitted a woven silk harness around her legs and waist with carabiner's and locked them into place. The larger of the Brothers, Basle, wrapped the rope under his thighs, and brought it round his forearm. He nodded his ready, and leant back some. She went over face first, gloved hands guiding a path between the windows. Four floors down from the top she halted, taking out a spike to pry at the window. Somewhere in time it had been painted shut, making it difficult but not impossible open. Its give was louder than she would have liked it, the crack of paint peeling apart making her wince. She peered into the darkened office room to be sure no one had heard and if they did, they were not on the way. The two came down after her, following her path against the smooth concrete. Both were larger, encumbered by muscle and weight making the task more difficult and less graceful.

Once inside Basle stood ready at the door, while Oman and the other Brother took to searching. Hours ticked by in quiet. They went through file after file until their eyes became dry. On the desk had been a guest list for the upcoming celebration. She noted most of the names, pausing at one in particular. A smile pressed her lips. Finally, in the false bottom of a drawer, the killers found what they had come for. One receipt for the sale of a jeweled dagger and a personal accounts journal of the Peacock, Arpaeus Bonnane. The latter she would take and stuff down the front of her shirt for safe keeping. Perhaps it would be enough to buy forgiveness. The receipt would be returned to her First.


" I am only a day away, Peacock, " she whispered to herself, " Are you ready for me?"

Ibrahim of Tor

I am coming for you.



It was not talked about much, dirty deeds done by lowly men. Occasionally someone would request inquiries into certain unspeakable acts of nature. Predators who hunted the most delicate of treasures. Children were a beloved future for the men of the Deserts. However unimaginable these types of treacheries were, there were times when fact and proof were needed. Oman would be the Sister usually sent when discretion's were of utmost importance. States could not accuse without proof. Contracts could not be taken without fact. She had met Ibrahim of Tor while on one such mission. His first born son had been involved in such a case. For Ibrahim, she had become a vengeful wrath. An eye for an eye. Ibrahim's payment for a Killers service were more than adequate. Her silence on the matter had made trust between them. So when this merchant of the Kasbah had written telling her that he was in possession of the jeweled dagger of Josephus the First, she knew it to be true. He had offered to bring the dagger back to Ar, for a price.

Ibrahim had arranged to meet her at the Players den called the Golden Beetle. She was agreeable, for in truth she enjoyed the games. In exchange for all of the documents of his fulfilled contract, he had agreed to sell the Caste the name of the Merchant who had brought the Black Castes Icon to the Kasbah. The papers he requested would be, aside from Oman herself, the last link to the ugly truth. In the mind of the man Ibrahim, the whole sordid act would now be erased from history. Dust to dust.

In the den of men she might stand out, so Brother Basle had accompanied her. Basle had been set upon her for her own protection. He was young, New Black, but had a steady sword hand. She took a seat at the bar and ordered black tea. Talk of salt was heavy around Ar, and especially thick in this Den. The eyes upon her burned wholes in her back. A twitch of paranoia came over her.

Ibrahim of Tor had arrived to take away the bore of eyes. A giant of a man filling the entirety of the small alcove doorway. Carefully she rose from the bar as entered. Her gloved hand signaled him of the close watchers. Ibrahim, in a show of courtesy had allowed her to sit first at the Kaissa table. When he took his seat opposite her his hand rested on the hilt of a gleaming scimitar. " Tal Woman, " his voice had boomed over the din of the busy den, " set the pieces and we shall play."

As was custom she lay her wager to the left side of the board, nearest the wall. It was a small parcel kept with a hemp tie. Ibrahim too, had set his wager down, a folded slip of paper was placed under one of the pieces on his side. She would have to win it. He cocked a grin towards her, before his deep voice rung out, " Bring drink, for I fear this Woman will best me ! " , he was mocking her gender but not her person. A black slave girl brought a tray. She had a graceful gait and powerful lines. Though she was not blond or blue eyed, the man of Tor took an interest, for she was a beautiful creature, and he was a Gorean man, after all.

In the end, Ibrahim of Tor had allowed her to win. Oman had taken the piece of folded paper and opened it. The name on it had brought her concern, as well as inner elation. A smile pressed her lips against the veil, and for a moment she was lost in the revelation. The paper had been stamped with the name Arpaeus Bonnane Magisterial Accountant. This was the man Oman called the Peacock. So shall the Seas tides turn at the winters full moon. She hunts you, Peacock.

Ibrahim took from the table the parcel she had brought, tucking it in his sash. As they said there goodbyes he shook her forearm, leaving behind a letter in her palm. They exchanged the polite thanks of Free People, as Oman and Basle left the establishment. The great giant had outdone himself, they were now even.


She,


There is to be festivities at the home of Arpaeus Bonnane, two nights from now. I have been invited to attend. I have responded that I will most happily bring a gift of entertainment for the affair. Enclosed is the invitation you will need as securities will be high.


May you always have water,

Mechamet El' Ibrahim of Tor

Hand to Mouth

Grave Dust

" This was unexpected, Oman," the First had said coolly, " You almost killed him. "

She took a deep breath, still weary from the two days she spent blacked out in some gamblers den. She poured herself a glass of water. " But, my First, I did not kill him. Just as you requested, " there was pleasure in her voice. It had been as much a question as an statement. In truth she did not know if the Poet was dead or alive until just now. Were he dead, she would have to suffer consequences for her actions. Face the Music as it were.

" Do you think there will be repercussions? " she asked. The First paced behind his desk, his hands joined behind his back. " I do not," he offered simply. She had hoped for more detail with this question, but settled for the good outcome. Oman stood and moved to the window. Relieved. Slowly she remembered to breathe. It was not her place to ask. A Killer needn't know the details. One question did burn her for an answer, but did she dare to ask it? Wait, she heard in her ear.
" What news of the theft, Sister? " he was watching her. Here was her second test come to fruition. The First was elected to the Leaders seat while she was away. They were not well known to one another except on a casual basis. He was trying her loyalties this time now that her skills were known.
" I know where the goods are, my First. With a retinue I could retrieve them if that is your wish, " she drank her water, handed him a slip of paper and continued, " I do not think it is a job for one. " To be a good judge of body language one must invoke all of the senses. He seemed pleased, but unsure how respond. His pacing though steady and with even strides was without purpose. He was pensive. The name on the paper must have troubled him.

Oman waited. Ever the patient inquisitor the time for her question would soon come. A talendar scented slave girl brought them tea. The First spoke as she began to serve it, " You shall have what you require, but She Killer beware, this is delicate a matter. Justice for our own could provoke war."
" More than killing the voice of the Lower Castes, the People ? " she had struck her question with a cunning caress. " Yes, " he answered.

Tar and Happiness

On A Bender.

Ice cold. Through the haze of lashes stuck together she peered. Her mouth was dry and yet tasted as if she had literally licked the bottom of an aged barrel of paga. There was a sickly sweet smell that clung around her head like a fog. Her eyelids peeled apart rather painfully and she looked around. White curtains billowed with the chilly autumnal breeze. It was after dusk or maybe before dawn, at the moment she couldn't tell. Oman lifted off the white marble floor she was sprawled over to perch on her elbows. Her fingers were blackened with sticky tar. 'Damnit', she thought, 'how in nine levels of hell did I end up here.' Her answer sat before her on a lounge chaise of white brocade. There lay a man in black. He was young, fair haired, and full of himself.

She pushed up to sit. " Who the bloody bosk are you, and why, please tell me why, you are in my personal home? "
He puffed up with pride and stretched out on her custom chaise. The taste in her mouth was becoming most foul. " I am Basle, Sister. I found you and brought you here to safety, " he had jumped up and posed like a temple statue. Oman was stunned by this dramatic explanation. Pushing herself to her feet, she swaggered off towards the facilities.
' You have got to be kidding me. I have been rescued by Herakles,' she thought as she stared in the large mirror. The sight of her was shocking. She was in quite the state. Certainly she didn't look like a beautiful maiden needing to be saved from anything. Her eye kohl was smeared to her lips. He wasn't the picture perfect Heraklean monument either, really. In fact he looked familiar. She washed her face and mouth and pondered where she knew him from.

Now more or less come-round, she went back to the main room of her Apartment. For not being home in more than seven years, it appeared clean. Perhaps the Cylinder's manager was taking care of that. " Did we have relations then? " she asked rather frankly as she whipped her hair into a knot. A look of shock and awe struck his features. He was handsome but not really her type. 'Not bad for a night on the bends, ' she mused to herself. " Sister I would never, " he stumbled for the answer, " It would never be my intention to, " he rambled on, her head was throbbing so much she could no longer hear him. When he had stopped blathering about honor and pride she asked soberly, " Do I know you ? "

" He wishes to see you, " Basle had said moving for the door, " I will wait until you clean up and escort you through the Anbar. "


' Fuck,' she turned around to go change.

The White Castle

The path to self righteousness.

A day is just a day, even for a killer of Ar. Most of it spent on the daily duties necessary to afford her comfort. Oman was pensive, tense even. She busied herself with filling jars and brewing more tincture for the itch.

The boy apprentice now known as Paes came with more water for boiling. He was a good boy. It seemed too that he had an understanding of her mood swings. Impressive read for someone not versed in her ways. He kept quiet this day, offering her a smile or two for his own comfort. Certainly not hers.

The small Kiosk was packed, its tent folded down for the night. She sent Paes on his way with a bucket from the grocer for his mother and a coin for his days labor. His mother might be worried, it was late. Picking up the push-handles Oman headed for the colonial home she'd recently acquired.

The man Antollicus had been working steadily on the homes repairs. His companion Antiope had proven to be a good learner. They were enjoying the purse of a Peddler just fine, for she was not without mercy. Moments of justness were good for her. They reminded her she was not an empty vessel (or vassal as the case may be). She was doing some good in the world after all.

Oman entered the homes gates, and turned to re-lock them. Antollicus came and put away the kiosk for the night. " I greet you, Madam, " he had offered before taking her burden. She turned to him, " I am not feeling well Antollicus. I wish to be left alone for the evening." Nodding solemnly she hobbled up the stairs to the residence, and locked herself in its newly painted white walled glory. The White Castle of a Killer. White was clean and peaceful. Murder after all was a chaotic act of nature. Night would be upon her soon enough. In the respite of this place she garbed herself. Tensions often causing her to drift off and see things not truly there. Sometimes the herbs she used for calming nerves helped her, tonight however she might need her invisible comrades. Hallucinations. She decided to forego the tea and bring them along.

The one known as Air was the first to come. He of the shadows kept lookout at the window and listened intently to the streets. She smiled to his reflection in her vanity mirror. Perching on the trunk at the foot of her bed came The Earth into view. His feet clung like talons around the domed lid, he watches only her. Next to her, as always, her Mentor, Fire. His hands were steadily fitting her weapons belts. He was as ever, beloved. They were all here as guides. Simply a torment that had afflicted her with time, and the acts she had committed therin. They would show her the way. Keep her safe in times of need. Give her guidance when none could be afforded by her alone. "Stay with me tonight, " she had said aloud to her delusions.

The night had seemed ordinary enough. The rooftop she had laid upon, was warm from the days sun, penetrating her. She observed the Free People who mingled with a carefree banter. The gathering appeared happy, no pretenses for disquiet. Distant the stalker fitted bolt to bow. Prone against the top of an office building. Fire the Guardian beside her, leant her his strength of will.

Leather creaked as the butt of the bow was nestled to her shoulder. Her mood was reposeful, her breathing even-timed. Concentration heavily on her as she lowered the sight. The wind blusters, she must wait. It is the essence of her to be patient, she of the Sea. The gathered below will soon name her a target. The shot will be taken and coin will be had. She felt the figment of Air's cheek beside her own. His eyes pierced the target. A gloved shadowy hand aimed the bow for her.

Her heart stopped in utter disbelief. She looked to the visage she called Fire confused beyond measure. Limbs wrought with a pain so deep she could almost not bear to feel it. A moments pause catches her off guard. She holds her breath and tastes blood on her lips. So succumbed to the task and yet so faltered by the true deed now to be done, she had bitten herself. This is not happening to her. She has been used as a pawn in her own spiral. The crossbow trembles. The cool night air has drowned her, gulping for breath. Decide now Oman, Fire had demanded. She had been sent to kill the Poet, Szol.

One decision to change her life. Take the shot and all would be lost.

'Resolution, Absolution, Joy. All found in one pull of a sharp trigger. Steady my skill, Resolution. Make this shot true, I pray to you for Absolution. Aeolos be sedate and Joyful, grant me this. '

The wind relented on cue. She had taken the opportunity, and fired. The Magistrate of the People faltered. Szol, the Poet of Ar bled much. She saw her fate ahead, the consequence of this act of treason. Be true my skills, let him not suffer death.

Earth's ashy hand came down and helped her up, there was relief on his face. She crushed a clove-root wrap on the ground with her boot leaving it where she had laid. Drawing the hood up once more to cover the Mark-born forehead she took a route away from the scene. Quietly leaving behind a piece of herself. Her heart had beaten like a drum. It was done. She had chosen. The truth to never be known.

" I'm not here, this isn't happening."

Truths and Consequences

Plausible Deniability part II

It had taken her quite a while to walk to the Anbar District. All around her the seedy shades of life happened. She was no longer invisible to men. Their eyes were upon her like thieves. If anyone dared too close she would lift her head, the mark was now her protector. It was not fear that electrified her, but the thrill of being home. Her blood teemed with it. Her limbs pulsed with it. Ahead she could see the alley of her destination. The street lamp on the corner flickered. The great gates before her were flanked by men in black.

She approached with caution and handed them the seal. They bid her entrance and afforded her respectful nods. Once inside the compound a cavalcade of killers followed her in escort.
At the stairs she stopped in her tracks and turned to the Brother behind her, " I was followed by a man in a brown tunic. He is still at the flickering lamp. Dispatch him."
The young killer, in fact the same who had been paid at the office of the magistrate on her first day in Ar, nodded. " Yes Sister Oman so shall it be done. I shall do murder for you, " he put one fist in the other hands palm and bowed slightly. She handed him one copper as was custom.

Before her lay the doors to the office chambers of the First. It had been long since she had seen their carved ebony glory. Beyond it she knew her task awaited her. A voice commanded, "Enter," she did so with reverence. He was First, and she his myrmidon. He stood for her behind his desk. She kept a regal pose though the shock and surprise of this act made her mouth dry. To his left, was a man dressed in the usual fluff afforded the high of caste. The purple brocade tunic he wore sparkled gold, matching the glinting of many trinkets on his fingers and wrists. He was balding, and rotundas. She bent at the waist not deterring her gaze and spoke low, " I was summoned to the First and to the First I have come in service." The ceremony had ended.

The First took his seat, and the man near the fire and gave her a perfunctory smile. " Sir, you cannot tell me that this is your sure shot," he had said incredulously, " a woman, seriously, " he scoffed at her, laughed even. Anger welled up from long forgotten depths. Who was this fat peacock to question her? She is Oman Fucking Khan. Her skill-set aside, she was a killer for hire who could basically do as she pleased, especially in this office.
" I assure you, " the First said with quiet conviction, " She of the Sea is as gifted as she is relentless. "
Oman turned to face the man full on. Held tall by pride of station she stared at him, the ghost in her loosed. The man she now thought of as 'Peacock' ruffled some and stared to her with skepticism. She wanted to walk out but the First caught her by the eyes. The Peacock watched the unspoken and frightening conversation that happened between the two killers. He who was First stood up and leaned on the desk, his eyes held Oman with forcible regard. She turned up her chin, and folded her arms before her. A moment of tension filled the room when he brought a fist down with gritted teeth. Her apparent denial acerbating the situation.

The First spoke, " Sister it is my Wish that you, and only you, secure this contract, " he was not going to yield. She relented, her fealty winning this argument. The First had told her without words, take this or else.
The Peacock spoke now with a more agreeable and somewhat fear-filled tone, " I am sorry I questioned you with, ehh, errhmm, it was not my intention. I apologize for my disregard of your station." The First nodded to Oman, an unspoken cognizance between them.
" What is your fee, Woman of Black? " the man had queried with a jovial pat of his own round belly. This attempt at cordiality masked by sciolism on matters on murder for hire.
" What is your task? " she had returned the volley, albeit bitter-sweetly.

" It is my wish, " the peacock spoke with the pretension of his ilk and dramatic gesticulations, " that you kill the Magistrate of the People. " The peacocks forehead glistened with sweat. It was no wonder the First had been so adamant. A Magistrate would bring half an Ubar's price. The coffers would fill for both the Caste and the Killer. This news stole all the spite she was brewing, and like so much dust in the wind, it blew it away. She welled with pride. He Chose her.

She looked to her Leader and nodded. Moving towards the bar leaving the men to the discussion of compensation. She poured a modest glass of wine. The First wrote a number on a piece of fine linen paper, folded it and handed it to the man. The man bit his lip and turned a sure shade of grey. The sum must be very large. Her countenance exchanged itself for exhilaration. She finished her wine in one gulp. Oman returned to the desk of the First when the discussions of compensation had finished. He took a salt-pressed tablet from his top drawer, it was embossed with a dagger and half dipped in red ink. He handed this seal to Oman, who held it out for the affluent Free Man, now forever thought of as the Peacock. He held onto the inked half. She broke the tablet with him. The contract now sealed. "I shall do murder for you, man of Ar."

To thine own self be true

Plausible Deniablity part I

Business was good. The markets were exceptional here in the Great Square. The stable boy, once paid well watched over her wares. His family was given groceries along with his stipend. She found trust in this boy for surely his family would reprimand any foolishness on his part. This boy was not yet a man. He could read and write, and he was kept clean by someone who cared for him. Not a typical urchin running the streets. Every day since his hire, she had taken to teaching him a recipe from her books. Today she would teach him a tincture for the itch, her best seller. It was not a difficult task as he seemed eager for apprenticeship. The stall or slip as it was called here, was well kept. Shelves on the kiosk were freshly painted, the boy had been busy.

"I am not to be disturbed under any circumstance," she warned the boy with a glare. She entered the gypsy-esque covered wagon and closed and tied the flaps. " Bring me water."

Oman's task was upon her. It must wait for nightfall, she reminded herself as she scrubbed her arms and face with the water the boy had promptly brought. There were things she would need to acquire before heading for the Anbar. Things to gather without this escort that had been set on her for the last few days. Some non-plussed fellow in a hand-made rough linen tunic that hung around the street corner opposite her wagon. At times he even followed her so close he had stepped on the back of her robe. He should have been more careful.

She folded her grey cloak of silk gently and put it in a trunk. It was prized and she treated it with delicate care smoothing it down along its folds. To wear in its place a heavy robe of black fine linen which had lay dormant in the trunk for an eon. The scent of it caused her pause. Black richness with a hint of myrrh, she lifted it to her nose. It was necessary for the change of persona, this ritual. In the trunk under the robe she had found her leathers. They were made of Verr-kid skin, soft and buttery with an earthy scent. Her mind reeled and her mouth watered as she fingered the gloves. These gloves had made much coin after all. Last out of the box of life was a long bloodstained dagger. This she held like a lover. Taking it from its sheath and tracing its blade fondly along her neck.

The mirror reflected a half naked, moon-glow of a woman with black shining hair. She admired the powerful lines of her body and the scars she had earned like badges born on it. Most were very old and all but invisible. The one which most heavily marred her was between her breasts. This scar was darker, wider, and more thick-skinned. She had been cleaved there. Along its edges were the small dots where she had been sewn back together. It reminded her of life, of the deep desire to live. She caressed its roughness with a slightest of fingertips.

After bathing, she applied her garments of Black. Oman sat down before the vanity table and assessed her face. She pulled out her own guise amongst the makeups, powders and glues. Her eyes should be lined in kohl soot and her hair should be tied back sleek. Affording herself a deep look into the cheval glass to daydream, she lit a clove-wrap. In this reverie she saw her Mentor standing behind her near the door, his visage framed by the mirror. She smiled to him, and took weed from the tip of her tongue. He came in closer and took a seat beside her on the vanity bench. Though he was but a figment, she could feel the warmth of him. She admired this mirage with a softness and deep seeded respect not usual to her nature. She loved him. Not in the way a woman loves a man with lust, but more the way a Sister loves her Brother. He took the paintbrush from the inkwell before her. She craned forward and he painted her forehead with the mark. He was deft and gentle with the calligraphy before handing her back the brush. His thumb outlined her cheeks hollow. He was only with her for a moment and the moment was gone. When she looked back to the reflection it was simply Oman Khan, a vacant and pale eyed killer marked for murder. The paintbrush in her one hand still pointed at her brow, and a cigarette in the other. At last glance she found inner quiet. She put away the face of a killer behind its hooded cloak.