Another one dead this night.
Another life gone. Another obituary that would need scribing. No need to mourn though. Really, who cared" It honestly didn't solve his murderer's deep rooted problems nor did it make this homicidal maniac more willing to embrace a lifestyle based on a core of serenity and pacifism.
Cazgul harshly yanked his cruel dagger from the skewered chest of the dead Watchman. Not just a random member of the "oh so adored Rhydin Guard". No. This little pig owed an important woman a good deal of coin. A lot of coin owed and no more time on his life's clock. Pity. Well, not really. Again, who really cared except the people who wanted him dead"
It was amusing to the assassin how easily blood could be split over some random chunks of a metal labeled either gold or platinum. Who first decided that this metal was worth anything more than a bowl of cat piss? Who knows. There were hordes of devoted monks, however, who swore that a single sentient life was worth the weight of the entire universe. And here he was, ruthlessly spilling blood and inflicting sheer agony for his own sick pleasure and of course...a wealthy amount of gold. Truly, the spoils of murder.
What a sick world! Ever since he had suffered the torture of surviving that immense fiery blaze all of those years ago, Cazgul held fast to a feverish desire to punish and wreck havoc on the lives of those who had it all and who didn't even bother to notice their fortune until they were choking on their own blood and vomit. The bastards begged so much more fluidly, and their streaming tears were sweeter in the long run.
Despite the plethora of peace-centered philosophies and omnipotent spiritual gurus, the baseline of the equation was overtly simplistic: Some people were born good while others were born rotten to the very core.
Cazgul found that his path dwelt amongst the very far end of that latter group. Being a killer, a true shadow stalking assassin, was what gave him a defined purpose. A sense of god. Each dreadful morning, when his sinister eyes stoically opened, this once human abomination embraced the pounding flood of wracking pain that warmed the entirety of his scarred body. From that moment, he will eagerly await the grand opportunity to violently take another human being's life. Destroy it with a shower of blood and pain. It was his purpose. It was his life's work. He was god of his world while assuming his role.
Just ask Mr. Helsing Graham of the Rhydin Watch. That fool made many lavish bets and took substantial loans that his ripened flesh could plainly not repay. The exquisite Ms. Krysria Clayborne was quite specific on this one; it made Cazgul believe that the wicked young lass had a proverbial hard-on for the sappy blood of this pig. No matter. He callously carved out the man's heart as she had ordered, passively leaving Graham's blood spattered corpse to rot as fodder for the larger rodents who prowled these alleys. At least, what was left of the body after Cazgul set it aflame in a smoldering burst of fire and oil.
The stench of scorched flesh rose high to the sky as he walked away into the arms of night. Now, to return this "pound of flesh" to the Mistress Clayborne at the central hall of The Black Wolf Guild. Quite a fortress it was these days. In any event, Cazgul hungered to receive his healthy payment and procure yet another pleasurable assignment. The spoils of murder, indeed.
It was true, The Black Wolf Guild was cunningly ordering the assassination of so many fools this year. Truly taking out the prime garbage here in the city. It was interesting that the grisly guild seemingly arose from the ashes and became quite a powerhouse in the West End in such a short time. Anyone not with them was systematically being wiped out like a bad stain. Good. Very good. Most individuals of his brand, however, were cleverly being drawn to them; to their influence, and to their undisputed, enigmatic leader the young Ms. Krysria Clayborne. A crafty thief herself at one time, so he has heard. A mean and heartless bitch she was without doubt. Cazgul certainly approved.
Hmmm...hopefully the next mark would be a tad more interesting than this plump member of the Watch. A man who dies so pitifully and spinelessly can never really provide the inner-ambiance and eternal rewards that a raw killer such as Cazgul truly longed for.
No need to fret. There was always tomorrow....
Another life gone. Another obituary that would need scribing. No need to mourn though. Really, who cared" It honestly didn't solve his murderer's deep rooted problems nor did it make this homicidal maniac more willing to embrace a lifestyle based on a core of serenity and pacifism.
Cazgul harshly yanked his cruel dagger from the skewered chest of the dead Watchman. Not just a random member of the "oh so adored Rhydin Guard". No. This little pig owed an important woman a good deal of coin. A lot of coin owed and no more time on his life's clock. Pity. Well, not really. Again, who really cared except the people who wanted him dead"
It was amusing to the assassin how easily blood could be split over some random chunks of a metal labeled either gold or platinum. Who first decided that this metal was worth anything more than a bowl of cat piss? Who knows. There were hordes of devoted monks, however, who swore that a single sentient life was worth the weight of the entire universe. And here he was, ruthlessly spilling blood and inflicting sheer agony for his own sick pleasure and of course...a wealthy amount of gold. Truly, the spoils of murder.
What a sick world! Ever since he had suffered the torture of surviving that immense fiery blaze all of those years ago, Cazgul held fast to a feverish desire to punish and wreck havoc on the lives of those who had it all and who didn't even bother to notice their fortune until they were choking on their own blood and vomit. The bastards begged so much more fluidly, and their streaming tears were sweeter in the long run.
Despite the plethora of peace-centered philosophies and omnipotent spiritual gurus, the baseline of the equation was overtly simplistic: Some people were born good while others were born rotten to the very core.
Cazgul found that his path dwelt amongst the very far end of that latter group. Being a killer, a true shadow stalking assassin, was what gave him a defined purpose. A sense of god. Each dreadful morning, when his sinister eyes stoically opened, this once human abomination embraced the pounding flood of wracking pain that warmed the entirety of his scarred body. From that moment, he will eagerly await the grand opportunity to violently take another human being's life. Destroy it with a shower of blood and pain. It was his purpose. It was his life's work. He was god of his world while assuming his role.
Just ask Mr. Helsing Graham of the Rhydin Watch. That fool made many lavish bets and took substantial loans that his ripened flesh could plainly not repay. The exquisite Ms. Krysria Clayborne was quite specific on this one; it made Cazgul believe that the wicked young lass had a proverbial hard-on for the sappy blood of this pig. No matter. He callously carved out the man's heart as she had ordered, passively leaving Graham's blood spattered corpse to rot as fodder for the larger rodents who prowled these alleys. At least, what was left of the body after Cazgul set it aflame in a smoldering burst of fire and oil.
The stench of scorched flesh rose high to the sky as he walked away into the arms of night. Now, to return this "pound of flesh" to the Mistress Clayborne at the central hall of The Black Wolf Guild. Quite a fortress it was these days. In any event, Cazgul hungered to receive his healthy payment and procure yet another pleasurable assignment. The spoils of murder, indeed.
It was true, The Black Wolf Guild was cunningly ordering the assassination of so many fools this year. Truly taking out the prime garbage here in the city. It was interesting that the grisly guild seemingly arose from the ashes and became quite a powerhouse in the West End in such a short time. Anyone not with them was systematically being wiped out like a bad stain. Good. Very good. Most individuals of his brand, however, were cleverly being drawn to them; to their influence, and to their undisputed, enigmatic leader the young Ms. Krysria Clayborne. A crafty thief herself at one time, so he has heard. A mean and heartless bitch she was without doubt. Cazgul certainly approved.
Hmmm...hopefully the next mark would be a tad more interesting than this plump member of the Watch. A man who dies so pitifully and spinelessly can never really provide the inner-ambiance and eternal rewards that a raw killer such as Cazgul truly longed for.
No need to fret. There was always tomorrow....