Post by JezusBagels on May 2, 2010 17:43:21 GMT -5
Mort would have preferred to join his comrades in Gallica. He loved working with them. The planning, the preparations, the perfect synchronization of their actions; It invigorated him. But alas, he could not be with them on this occasion. After his run-in with one Gregory Sykes (a mole in Araluen, leaking information to enemy contacts), he'd spent weeks uncovering the traitor's web of informants and allies and killing them, one by one. He was getting closer to the top. To take a break now in pursuit of other endeavors would only give his targets more time to build their defenses... or to escape. In any case, both outcomes would be unacceptable.
On this particular night, Mort sat on a rooftop adjacent to a wealthy nobleman's estate, in the square of a trading town in Eastern Drayden as he had almost every night that week. He'd sat motionless for hours, blending into the scenery so well that a guard with a torch two buildings away wouldn't be able to tell the difference between him and the bricks. He watched people go in and out of the large building during the day, and watched them go about their duties inside at night. This nobleman had no doubt received word of his associates' unfortunate demises, as his home had guards and patrolmen stationed all around and inside it. The last defense of a desperate man. It wouldn't save him.
It was time to act. Mort dropped down into a back alley and used the dark passageways to make his way around to the back of the building. From there, he scaled the wall, digging his fingers into what tiny crevices he could find. He reached a low window and slowly pulled himself up and inside the estate. Crouching, Mort looked around. He was at the end of a long hallway, lined with doors on each side. Not even the boy he'd bribed to help carry groceries into the building could investigate the contents of every room. He would have to check all of them.
Footsteps. He swung himself back outside, hanging from the windowsill.
"Who left that damn window open?!" a powerful voiced demanded. "Don't you idiots know that Lord Marshall wants all windows closed during the night? You never know what kind of thief--or worse--might try to get in." A series of low apologies were said. "You! Close it!"
The footsteps started again, but disappeared down another hall. All except for one pair of feet that came nearer and nearer to the window. 1... 2... 3... Mort pulled himself up again and grabbed the guard by his shirt, pulling him out the window and throwing him to the ground below. He snapped his neck on the dirt. He was dead. Mort whispered a quick prayer and apology, not knowing, after all, if that man had been a guilty soul or not. But he was a necessary casualty. Entering the home again through the window, Mort skulked down the hallway, opening each door a crack to see what was inside. Some were the bedrooms of Marshall's family. Others were studies and offices. None held Marshall. He turned left at the end of the hall, knowing that turning right would force him to deal with the other guards from before, and kept searching.
On this particular night, Mort sat on a rooftop adjacent to a wealthy nobleman's estate, in the square of a trading town in Eastern Drayden as he had almost every night that week. He'd sat motionless for hours, blending into the scenery so well that a guard with a torch two buildings away wouldn't be able to tell the difference between him and the bricks. He watched people go in and out of the large building during the day, and watched them go about their duties inside at night. This nobleman had no doubt received word of his associates' unfortunate demises, as his home had guards and patrolmen stationed all around and inside it. The last defense of a desperate man. It wouldn't save him.
It was time to act. Mort dropped down into a back alley and used the dark passageways to make his way around to the back of the building. From there, he scaled the wall, digging his fingers into what tiny crevices he could find. He reached a low window and slowly pulled himself up and inside the estate. Crouching, Mort looked around. He was at the end of a long hallway, lined with doors on each side. Not even the boy he'd bribed to help carry groceries into the building could investigate the contents of every room. He would have to check all of them.
Footsteps. He swung himself back outside, hanging from the windowsill.
"Who left that damn window open?!" a powerful voiced demanded. "Don't you idiots know that Lord Marshall wants all windows closed during the night? You never know what kind of thief--or worse--might try to get in." A series of low apologies were said. "You! Close it!"
The footsteps started again, but disappeared down another hall. All except for one pair of feet that came nearer and nearer to the window. 1... 2... 3... Mort pulled himself up again and grabbed the guard by his shirt, pulling him out the window and throwing him to the ground below. He snapped his neck on the dirt. He was dead. Mort whispered a quick prayer and apology, not knowing, after all, if that man had been a guilty soul or not. But he was a necessary casualty. Entering the home again through the window, Mort skulked down the hallway, opening each door a crack to see what was inside. Some were the bedrooms of Marshall's family. Others were studies and offices. None held Marshall. He turned left at the end of the hall, knowing that turning right would force him to deal with the other guards from before, and kept searching.