The sun’s scorching rays beat down relentlessly on Rane as he made his way through the street, sword held loosely in a gauntleted fist. His plate armour seemed particularly heavy in under the heat. Any other day, he’d have opted to be less conspicuous, but the task at hand would not be particularly difficult; besides, nothing parted the filthy, stinking throng like a bare blade, glinting maliciously in the sunlight.

The bustling street was lined with an assortment shops and buildings, and littered with peasants and craftsmen of all trades. The air was filled with a heavy stench of unwashed bodies and horse droppings. Beggars and hawkers gave him a wide berth upon seeing his sword. Those who were brave enough to approach him were sent scurrying away with a cold glare.

The few guards that dotted the streets lumbered about with their chests puffed out and weapons held high. The sun glinted off the rusted pieces of chain armour that dangled off their shoulders, framing an offensively bright symbol on their chests. Ridiculous pointed helmets sat atop their heads, giving them the appearance of a grounded flock of birds. [i]Canned chickens[/i], Rane thought.

Regardless, he sheathed his sword and turned his head whenever a group of them strutted by, beaks in the air and arses dragging on the ground. He had no doubt he could kill them all, but his employer had not mentioned them in his instructions. No need to tarnish his reputation over a scuffle like that.

“Sir, spare some gold,” a voice croaked from behind him.

Rane turned around, and found himself face to face with a short beggar. There wasn’t a single word that could adequately describe the pitiful excuse of a man hunched before him. A few wispy strands of white clung on to a sunburned head, sitting atop a body that resembled a leper’s skin stretched over a bundle of sticks. His face was covered entirely with bruises and wrinkles. A few colourless rags were draped over his sagging shoulders in a failed attempt at decency. His long, thin fingers clasped on to a worn leather pouch that had most likely belonged to someone else at some point. It was a surprise the beggar had not keeled over on the spot.

“No,” Rane replied. He turned around and continued walking, paying no more mind to the beggar.

He only made it a few steps before the voice chimed in again. “Sir, honour’ble, noble knight, surely, ye must have some gold in yer pocket for a poor soul,” the beggar rasped.

“No. Go away.”

Rane continued walking. The beggar followed him. He wasn’t sure if the man was brave, or just insane. Whichever one, he certainly was persistent. He would have continued ignoring him, until the beggar latched on to his elbow with his bony hands.

“Sir, please, sir, a man needs to eat,” the beggar piped up, “I’d be etern’ly grateful for some gold, sir.”

He continued walking, but the man pulled at his elbow, his incessant pleading an assault upon the ears. Rane tried shaking the man off, but his grip only tightened.

Rane sighed. “Tell you what,” he said grudgingly, “I may have a few spare coins. Let’s get behind this alley, I don’t want some thieves getting any ideas.”

“Oh, of course, noble sir,” the beggar exclaimed in delight, “There ain’t no thief brave ‘nough to steal yer gold, good sir, gen’rous sir, kind and noble . . .”

Rane brought the man between two buildings, quickly glancing around to make sure they were alone. He looked at the beggar one more time, and reached into his pouch, rummaging about. The beggar’s eyes followed with barely-concealed ecstasy, his mouth spread in a wide, toothless grin.

Without warning, his hand shot up and latched onto one of the beggar’s rags. The man looked up in surprise and indignation. Before he could speak, Rane jammed the rag into the beggar’s mouth and pushed his head into the brick wall, crushing his skull with a sickening crunch. The beggar’s scream was cut off by the rag. Slowly, he lifted the man’s head, peering at his bloodied face.

“S-sir, please,” the beggar mumbled between coughs, his voice stifled by the makeshift gag. Before he could finish, Rane tightened his grip and slammed the beggar’s face back onto the wall. He systematically repeated the action several times, until the beggar’s muffled wails quieted to nothing.

Rane let go, and the limp corpse slid to the ground. He picked the beggar’s pouch off the ground and opened it, to reveal a few bent coppers. He tossed the pouch beside the man and scattered the coins around it. Anyone stumbling upon the scene would believe the beggar had been mugged.

Calmly, he removed the saliva-covered rag from the what was left of the beggar’s mouth and wiped the blood off his gauntlet, careful not to leave any in the chinks. He cast the tattered cloth on the ground beside its owner, and left the alleyway, blending back into the busy streets.