Smoke billowed black and gray from the firestorm of the burning barn. It happened in the midday hour when the sun sat hot and heavy like an old, fat king squandering its wealth in warmth to the peasants under his rule. Heat and humidity was trapped between the solid ground of the farmlands and the bright blue of the sky, rending the wind nothing more than idle flicks of a breeze. Trees did not sway, as if they themselves were shocked by the fright of the red-gold flames that licked up along the barn doors and consumed the roof in a blaze. Animals scurried left and right, gaining their freedom from gaps in the smoldering wood fences and whatever escape could be found in the flickering flames. Scorched feathers and fur did not hinder any two- or four-legged races to the open air.

Tink saw the smoke rise high over the hillside. Dropping the hoe from gloved hands, she rushed toward the homestead with Chester, the sleek Doberman giving chase to her booted heels. Not too far behind, Floyd the donkey ambled behind in a slower gait, his aging legs denying him the speed in which to keep time with his constant companion and master.

"No!" she cried out, fear seizing her heart as she thought both her home and barn lost to the raging fire. The second's worth of relief in seeing the stone cottage unscathed could not possibly offer any sort of assurance. Instead, her focus and efforts went into saving what could be salvaged from the barn. It took long minutes of time to fill a bucket from the outside pump, and emptied it on stubborn flames in a fraction of a heartbeat.

"Do not waste your breath," hissed a voice from behind.

Tink whirled around, the bucket dangling from her fingertips, and came face to cowl with an assailant dressed in clothes that were all too eerily familiar. The black and red leathers graced the lithe figure's body from the tip of his head and circled around his face leaving room for his dark eyes and a portion of his mouth. The rest of his attire was shadow-bathed leather, silent as it was dark. Before she could summon a breath, let alone any reply, Chester came barreling toward the assailant. His bark and growl held a menacing foreboding, one that chilled Tink's blood as it coursed through her veins.

The mercenary was prepared, however. After all, he had watched and waited. Waited and watched. Months on end, suffering through winter storms, spring showers, and summer heat, were spent in patient wait for the right moment to strike. There had been several of them on the mission, a couple lost when their impatience won out and attempted to seek the prize before the time was right, and a handful left for better summons elsewhere in the great and foreign realm. But Kaalen waited. And watched. And studied. He had been the lone mercenary to piece the puzzle together, knowing at last just where the old mage was hiding. His long-standing patience and determination came to fruition when Rikhard Falkstead left the farmlands. Several of Kaalen's fellow assassins met their demise at the man's hands --- and he had come to despise the inventor's lover, enough to spare the man's life so that he could live the rest of his days knowing that he failed the woman he loved.

Just as the dog went to strike, teeth bared and snarling, the mercenary turned and unleashed a dark powder from the palm of his pitch-black glove. It circled the lunging dog and captured him in a net born of air, pinning him to place despite how the Doberman gnawed on the restraints. The minute distraction served Tink, however, and she swung the heavy bucket at the mercenary's head. It caused him to stagger back, needing to find stable footing on the third back step on the uneven grass and ground. Blood trickled unseen under the cowl, and his laugh was cold and heartless.

"You really think a bucket is going to stop me, girl?" The question was posed in time with drawing a wickedly curved blade from a sinfully dark scabbard secured on his back by a network of intricate belts. "You have had more than enough time to live, now... it's time to say farewell."

Tink scrambled back but every attempt to put distance between them ended with his long-legged stride. One of her boots sunk into the wet ground by the well pump but her deceptive strength helped her gain some stable edge, especially when a hand gripped the wrought iron handle and pushed it down to send a stream of cold water between them, muddying the soil into a swamp-like quandary. The mercenary's boot went into the mud up to the ankle and slowed his approach by only a span of seconds. Tink put her back to the man and started off in a run, careful not to stumble on any of the terrified animals who had escaped the barn fire. Horace, the white-feathered goose was among the throng of the startled flock -- and he certainly did not take kindly to a masked man destroying his home. The wide span of his wings edged out to the sides, and he darted toward the mercenary regardless of whether or not he was armed. The goose gave chase behind the assassin, nipping at the backs of his thighs where the leather was softer. Sharp edges from Horace's mouth provided enough sting to cause the man pain.

"Son of a bi---" the curved blade angled to the side to reduce the hapless goose into two distinct pieces.

"No! No!" Tink saw the death of her beloved goose, its white feathers reduced to blood splatter and ash. She felt a fury rise from the well of her heart in a sensation that had never before been experienced. It heated her skin despite the rush of icy blood in her veins, and her heart beat a pulse that rivaled a tribal warrior's drum. Her fingers balled together in two fists, brown eyes set on the crimson-stained blade that was now aimed in her direction. If I am going to die, I will die standing my ground....