Might as well start

The streets of Virindal throbbed with people. The hot sun beat down upon the sweating, shoving population of the centre of the modern world. Nobles on horseback attempted to pass through the hordes of denizens, armed guards shoving in front of them, attempting to part the waters of this sea of humanity. It seemed everyone was out on this day, for the entire city was celebrating the crowning of a new king. And yes, everyone was out, even the reclusive assassin Jahn Moorse. He pushed his way through the market district, past hawkers yelling their heads off in the holy name of 'Hot Sausages!', or 'Fresh Fish!". His hand gravitated to the cool steel of the blade tucked in his sleeve. He felt the sweat running down his forehead from his lank black hair. Breathed in, then out. Pulling his hat low over his face, he reviewed his plans. His hand returned to the cold metal of his dagger, the one thing in this city not crushed by this sweltering heat. He pressed his hand to it as if he could draw strength from its reserves of cold. He carried on.

People shoved past him as he stalked past the city cathedral, past the hordes of people hanging cheerful banners from its dreary stone face. The banners were everywhere, filing the city's usual grey with a mad palette of colour.  It was the day the new king would be crowned, of course. That was why everyone was here. Even Jahn, though he was here for a much more sinister purpose than mere celebration...

People, when will they learn the insignificance of their lives? When will they realise their tiny struggles have no effect on the greater state of things, and stop trying? Jahn thought as he shoved aside a dangerous pie seller infringing on his person. He took shelter from the sun underneath the eaves of a rich merchant's house. Wiping sweat from his brow, he tried to relax in the relative respite granted by the shade. But I, Jahn Moorse, will not be dragged down by this. I have the power to change the world. I am no insignificant worm, merely struggling to keep my own life afloat. They will all see, in the end. He reviewed his plans. So complex, so beautifully choreographed. He could not help but question the motives of those who gave him this contract. What benefits would they reap from his service? But he could not deny his agreement with their cause. The newly crowned king was the son of the last despot, pampered all his pitiful life. He was in no way capable of leading the mighty kingdom.

Yet, in the end, he will see his insignificance.

And yet, so much rests on my shoulders. With great potential comes greater risks, and the risk here is so great...

Jahn's breath seemed to rattle in his throat. He reviewed his plans, fiddled with the clasp of his cloak. His benefactors had arranged for a stash of weapons to be concealed within the attic of a nearby house, so he could slip into the city unarmed, kill the king, and then disappear like dust in the wind. He thought back to memorising the maps of the city, tried to bring them up in his mind's eye. It remained blank Breathe! His pulse raced, a sea of faces pressed around him, his ears filled with the wash of a million voices. He tried to remember the all important details of the plan, but could not. The stress pressed in on him, crushing his brain. The smells of cooking fat from food stalls filled his head with cloying pressure. A bubble formed in his ears, the unbearable pressure pressing his brain against his skull.

Breathe! Think! STOP!!!!! GAAAAH!!!

Reeling, Jahn staggered out through the crowd, people blurring into an amorphous mass, pressing in onto his consciousness. He struggled to keep on his feet, like a ship listing on a wave. The cobblestones of the street lurched up to meet him. His head seemed to make a hollow sound as it struck them. He staggered to his feet, blood dripping from his temple. He struggled through the glares of the people around him, rushed madly into depths of the crowd.

Jahn barged through the hordes of people, pressing his hand to his head, as if to try and keep his brain from falling out. He struggled down a shady alleyway, fighting against the stress that filled him. He thudded against a wall, bringing up the contents of his stomach. Every step he took, the stones below him seemed to extend tentacles to ensnare his soul.  He struggled on. Took a left turn, stumbled into a small courtyard. He looked around him. Suddenly, his surroundings fell into place. This was it! He stared at his reflection inna puddle, battered, bruised, yet a miracle all the same. He truly was worthy of greatness. Somehow, his subconscious had brought him here, to the hideout prepared for him by his mysterious contractor. Someone up there must have plans for him. This must be the proof he was destined for greatness. But… he had let panic overtake him, when it mattered most. He had fallen victim to his own mind. If he wanted to be great, he would have to overcome this. He unlocked the pitted iron door to the hideout with a slim silver key. Dust sneezed out of the gloom. He staggered up stone steps, flopped down in a wicker chair in the attic, and fell asleep, without even checking his surroundings.

Jahn awoke, the warm light of dawn setting the attic's dust aflame. He sneezed, shook his aching head. He looked around him, at the dusty attic, with its ancient wardrobe looming foreboding in the corner. He remembered. Jahn swore to himself. How could he have messed this up so badly? He was so incapable that panic could overtake him at any moment. His failure filled him with despair. Stalking over to the creaky bed in the corner, he wrapped a bandage around his head, and looked out into the warmth of the day. How could I miss my one chance to break free from insignificance, to be someone.

He stopped. Sat up suddenly. Stared, unbelieving, out of the grimy window. The street was filled with swirling colour, in the golden dawn. Trumpets blared, people swarmed to catch a glimpse of the royal procession as it swept past them, jostling to get the best view. And he was going to get the best view of them all.

He rushed to the wardrobe, flung it open. Within, metal gleamed darkly. Brushing through the implements of death that lurked within, he selected a crossbow of ebony and swirling silver. From underneath a folded cloak, he produced a small briefcase. Snapping it open upon the bed, he perused the variety of vials nestled amidst the padding within. Jahn carefully selected a jar of inky liquid, placed it in his pocket. He replaced the case, locked the wardrobe with a slim key, and swept across to the window, a spectre clad in black. Opening the window, its hinges squealing in protest, he swung his legs out onto the windowsill. As he hauled himself up onto the crumbling slate roof, Jahn breathed in the clear air. His cloak flapped in the crisp breeze that seemed to blow away the dirt of the past days, and leave him clean and clear.

He jolted out of his reverie, scanned the streets for his target. The king's procession was not hard to spot, of course. It trailed people behind it like slime off a slug. And it was just a few streets away. Slinging his crossbow across his back, he flew across the rooftops, flitting between chimneys, gliding over gaps between houses. The wind tugged at his cloak, a pair of giant raven wings flapping behind him. He was free, free as the wind, stoppable by no-one. This was the feeling of being able to change the world. He could see his quarry, the pitiful king, surrounded by pomp and idiocy. Sweating in his ceremonial robes, his crown pressing down upon his dandruff encrusted head. The king sat, bored, the adoration of thousands bouncing off his blank slate face. He was totally oblivious of everything, let alone the figure reading a crossbow on the roof above him…

Jahn looked down at the crossbow in his hands. It truly was a murder weapon fit for a king. Say one thing those who hired him, they had style. The slim ebony stock seemed to draw in the light from around him, and spit it out again through the silver swirls of its engraving. He steadied his breathing. Everything seemed to slow down. He reached into the small quiver at his waist, produced a quarrel, shining silver as the dawn, fletched with the wings of the night sky. With movements as smooth as the calm, unstoppable flow of water, he drew back the string of the crossbow, loaded the bolt. Took aim. So much rested on this one moment. He expected to feel at least some tension, and yet here he was, truly serene. This was what it is like to change the world. As his breath calmly breezed forth from his throat, he pulled the trigger. The bow's string sang. The bolt ripped the air in two. It sped forth, arcing like a fish jumping. It glittered silver in the light, appeared filled with rippling energy. The energy of change. He had done it. He had broken free from the cycle of human insignificance. The king's head turned, too late. The bolt thudded home, throwing him from his seat. Screams filled the air, distant, as if heard through walls. Jahn looked down at his work. The crossbow bolt protruded from the king's leg; a non fatal shot. Yet, the poison he had applied to the crossbow bold would slow his blood pressure within minutes, leaving just a cooling corpse… The poison! He had forgotten to poison the bolt!

Panic crashed down on him like a wave. Drowning, his arms shaking, he wanted to scream. He fought against the current. He could still succeed. Guards ran to the stricken king's side. Jahn reached into his quiver, shakily drew another arrow. His breath ripping his lungs apart, he produced the vial of poison from his pocket. He unscrewed the bottle. His arms shivering, he applied the poison to the arrow. He felt a sharp pain in his hand. Looked down, slowly. Strange calm filled him. He saw what he had done. Saw the cut on his hand, where he had nicked himself with the sharp point of the arrow. The vial of poison fell from his limp fingers. It made a sharp crash as it smashed on the ground. His body thudded down after it. As the poison slowed his blood in his veins, he had what seemed like an eternity to reflect. He had failed. His one chance, and he had let mere panic stop him. He had been so close to greatness… Now he was just as insignificant as everyone else. He had made no impact on the world around him. Just another human, just a single swirling mote amidst the grand plan of things. He was nothing. He was nothing.

He was nothing.