[i]To whom it may concern,

It is of the utmost importance that I have called upon your expertise for a rather malicious but justifiable task, given you have a known reputation for making problems disappear. An intolerable, wretched oaf of a man by the name of Lucien Balford has shamed my wife and my household, but has slipped past the justice of the kingdom, however he shall not slip past my swift hand I send to strike him. No matter the cost, I want this urchin dealt with as soon as possible in the most lethal method imaginable by an ill-famed cutthroat. Make sure this swine Balford is never able to lay hands upon anyone's property ever again.

Signed,

Erick Vaughn Lastraad.[/i]

The tattered sepia toned parchment had written upon it such fiery language and foul utterances towards the chosen target, and at the bottom where the client had written his name lied the mark that forever sealed Balford's fate, the crimsoned, smeared bloody palm-print to mark the man's untimely demise. Having met with Lastraad beforehand as per-custom within the city's dank and dark catacombs, a secluded and indeed sordid arrangement only illuminated by dim, flickering torchlight, the exchange of coin was made for bloodshed as the return gratitude. Such were the blood-soaked contracts, notes left upon a withering, hollow tree of the old cemetery where the ravens perched, their cantankerous caws echoing the arrival of a client to the forbidden grounds soaked with the hatred and agony of dead men festering. There the notes were plucked from the tree as ripened apples dripping with their beautiful nectar, but that nectar indeed held the bite of a serpent's venom, for these were letters unto an evil that forever sealed a man's fate to the grave.

The assassin who handled such dark and grim affairs was Alena. Rolling up the contract, she stuffed it into the crevice of her light and surprisingly flexible armor, emerging from her perch high atop the majestic city of Ardarlan, as beautiful as the day she first laid eyes upon its towering buttresses, it's magnificent and colorful market, its posh and elegant Noble Quarter. This was a city she was indeed in love with, marveling the view with such lustful eyes as though a groom who looked upon his bride on the night they made solemn vow to love each other till death do they part. But the time for sightseeing and awing were naught. Alena had a mission, find Balford within the city, kill him, and bring back the blood rose as proof of her sinister endeavors. [i]I, the wings who guide the Angel of Death, take flight.[/i] It was the mantra of all the assassins of the Coven, the very same that brutish man with the scar across his face had taught Alena when she first learned to [i]fly[/i] as Matthias called it. More-so it was a swift leap from atop the belfry of the hallowed temple and onto the rooftops she sprinted forth, leaping over to the other roof adjacent to her, then another until it seemed the woman was gliding across thin air.

Her hastened stride paused however upon lieu of a commotion catching her ears.  Ah, the royal guardsmen, their armor gleaming as snow freshly fallen upon the cold mountains to the north and clattering as though pots and pans of iron stuffed so halfheartedly in a cupboard.  Twas a sight and sound that made her crimson eyes glint with ill delight, but who be this?  They crowded round a woman, a rather striking lass, hair long and gilded a soft shade of honey and eyes, dazzling sapphires.  Many a tale was heard of a legendary cloak and dagger that fit such an alluring description, even as far as Imperial ruled Karstberg.  Alena smirked under the guise of her hood and with a leap she crashed through the window with a resounding shatter of stained glass.  Her cloak, dark and billowing, it flowed around her slim fitting leather armour, giving a sort of ethereal, haunting presence to the woman and in a flash of her hand, the guards before her fell dead, each with a slender, stiletto blade jutting from their jugulars spewing red.