Within any decent thief lays the potential for a phenominal assassin. That precise statement had been a mantra of Nedra's former mentor. Right next to Never hesitate for death, and NEVER GET CAUGHT!! But that's exactly what happened the moment she chose her first high profile target - she was caught, and imprisoned. That was over five weeks ago. The Man whose head she marked for death had decided she would serve as one of His slaves, just as anyone who had trusted or betrayed Him did. Every day she signed up for a job, did it, and went back to her cell. They weren't allowed on or near the ships, even when they moved crates of imports from the shore to the doors of the store rooms. Every day she ate something similar - bread and soup and water - wondering where any of those fruits and vegetables she hauled were being served. From what she gathered her meals were much more meager than anyone who had, say stolen from The Man, since she had tried to kill Him. Even the brutes who claimed to have been bested by Him in some bar tousle or street duel ate better than she. She, who had become comfortably in-tune with the uncertain and unknown of living mostly moment by moment, was now trapped in rigid structure and monotony. It ate at her every day...until she popped.
Just the other morning she had attempted escape, only to be caught once more. She made it as far as the opposite shore, knee deep in the sea before she was lasso'd (nearly drowned) and dragged across the quarter mile of beach. Forced to her feet, she was made to walk and run and trip behind the horses of His men. By the time they brought her back, someone had been put in her cell and her new room was a downgrade. Sand exploded from her clothing when they threw her to the dirt floor, making mud upon her soggy shoes and leggings. It dusted her typically sleek black hair, in addition to the leaves and twigs wrapped up in her locks. She spat at the buff man who had tossed her like some waify garbage, and he responded with a backhand that knocked her unconscious.
Night had fallen by the time she awoke and, once she had stretched out the kinks in her muscles and pops in her joints, she took note of the absence of dinner. Or water.. Or a bed... Pacing the room slowly - four steps back, three across - the woman took a few deep breaths and began untangling her hair the best she could. With one of the twigs, she drew in the dirt. Random numbers and letters and symbols eventually became crude line renderings of trees, sunshine, and eventually food. Without a response from her gut, she looked out the window and rubbed her sore face. An eye and part of her cheek had swollen where that bloated guard had struck her, making her face throb as her hazel eyes settled on a nearly full moon, turning from blue in the shadows to green in the moonlight.
She spat on her finger to mark the first night of her stay in her new cell.
At the third mark she awoke from meditation-induced sleep to the pangs of hunger. Her stomach knotted, gurgled and growled, as she surpressed a moan. Vocalization would be a confession, that they had control of her and could bring her to pleading. She sat in the dust, reserving what little strength she had, and wondered if this was their means of killing escapees. Scenes of men killed on site flickered through her mind, of those who had tried to walk or run out in front of guards. Hers had been planned at least somewhat, and so she presumed her punishment was lengthy due to premeditation. But she remained skeptical, and oh so hungry. No sooner had her stomach quietted than she heard someone delivering meals. Hers was the last keep, and every collection of footsteps and tin-on-wood made her salivate. When her door finally opened she looked up, not to a meal but to a grin.
"Oh sweetheart, you didn't have to paint your face for me! You know how whorish you look in it." The muscle man was back, and making cracks at her bruising eye socket. "Never you mind dearie, you'll get cleaned up before dinner with boss man." It had been a few days before she'd been tossed over his shoulder, and she hadn't grown anymore fond of the experience. But weakened by hunger, she couldn't resist (though every nerve wanted to) as she hung limp over the large man's arm.
The room he locked her in next held a tub, a fireplace warming the last of the water, and three handmaidens who immediately disrobed her. One dropped Nedra's clothing in a steaming basin of bubbles, setting to work by gently scrubbing the cloth. Another wrapped her in a towel, while the last set to the task of her poufed and knotted mane. As luxurious as this should have felt, the woman had trouble licking her lips and attempting to croak a request.
"Water?" Was her near-groan of a third attempt at speaking, but the woman that had covered her dirty body hurried to comply. Since she curtsied as she handed the cup to the woman, Nedra did her best to muster a single nod in thanks.
Before long she was brushed and pre-rinsed of excess filth, then finally submerged in the most satisfying soak of her memory. The women washed her hair and put a salve around her eye; it stank of familiar ingredients known to lessen swelling and soothe superficial tissues. Its cooling tingle brought a complementary relaxation to the bath, her clothes between the window's breeze and the fire's warmth to dry. After her fourth glass of cool water, Nedra stepped from the bath to use the nearest bedpan. The water was cooling anyhow, so the maids set to drying her body and hair, and cleaning her face of the oily paste.
Getting dressed once more, she found her things had been mended as well as soaked in fragrant lavender. Standing just a touch straighter, she pushed passed the nagging vulnerability felt with the absence of her leather belts and weaponry. And after slipping into her newly-shined leather boots, she hoped The Man had a damn good memory.
~~{@ Attempted Murder @}~~
Palpable night air enveloped the small assassin as the rose fell into a pool of her instructor's blood. It streamed from his nose, dripping on the flower and the floor, slick beneath the woman's hand. The inhaled poison had set on too fast, too thoroughly and...completely. A vial from her waist held the antidote and - one, two, three - drops in his mouth should have sufficed. But his heartbeat had seized, stopped, and his last breath escaped his lips as they formed the word, "love."
The greatest assassin and finest man she had ever known had died, nonetheless in her place.
This memory was fresh in her mind as his eyes were burned behind her own, constantly reminding Nedra of the dreams she would never have - the future that had escaped her. The fault and blame that was hers alone...
So many months she had spent, just to enter the circles she might hear His name in, on the off-chance someone wanted Him dead as desperately as she. Of course, there was. For a time after the death of her only friend in the world, Nedra had sworn off their profession until her path could cross His, and took work as a housemaid. During that time she learned not only how to hide and access weaponry beneath a skirt, but that His late wife had suspicions. She was under the impression He intended to have Her killed, had intercepted a letter intended for a bounty hunter...and she had a mind to pull it off first. That night, it was all too easy to find a reason to visit the lady's chambers, and to admit the truer reason.
Once she had the information she needed, and had promised the woman her come-uppance...Nedra struck. Leaving a rose upon the woman's chest, she slipped out the servant's quarters and into the night.
@}~~ Dinner for Two ~~{@
The dark wooden table was laden with an elaborate spread of fruits, vegetables, and various meats. Soups and gravies filled spouted mugs, and fragrant wines sat in chilled pitchers. The plates, platters and forks: all silver. A plush chair sat at the head of the table and where food didn't take up space, the surface was sprinkled with scarlet roses. Where food did reside, roses were worked into the ensemble. Stems tucked in the legs of a turkey, full blossoms were floating in a punch bowl, buds poking from between hunks of cheese and atop mounds of olives. Once she was sat and poured a glass of wine, she realized it had been distilled from roses.
"Please," His voice filled the small room, standing Nedra's hair on end. "Help yourself. You'll need your strength." Every rose her eye caught added to the woman's paranoia, wondering if he'd poisoned everything, if it hurt to die...but she knew for certain the wife's death had haunted Him as much as Sebastian's had haunted her. Deeply she drank from her goblet, snatching greens and biting into whole vegetables. The tomato's juice gushed down her chin, gooey like the blood of a human heart. The lamb rib was warm in her hands and her mouth, pumping red blood cells into her aching body.
A few mouthfuls later, she slowed down and wiped her face on a sturdy cloth napkin. He had been watching and waiting patiently from His place across the room; there was business to discuss, but it wasn't going anywhere. Once she had eaten enough to regain color in her face, The Man began the proposal that would hopefully alleviate both of their bounties and burdens.
The Agreement:
Make the delivery, earn her freedom...or her casket.
