2 First blood {1}
Standing motionless as if a dead man, her posture perfect body was hidden away by a black velvet cape draping from her shoulders; a hood tucking her golden, short-blonde curls against her flawless cheeks.
Crimson eyes aligned with the target, the arrow tip in her possession mirroring her solid glare.
The bow, held steady in her gloved, nimble hand, groaned as she pulled painstakingly slow on the string to take aim. Gently, the fletching caressed her chin as the nock slotted perfectly into place.
Her breathing remained calm, rising and falling to its motion, as if one. The upper and lower limbs of the bow moaned into submission as her face lit up with a grin; bringing her focus off the target, peering to the moonlit sky.
The final moment before a kill. The final moment before an exhilarating rush. She could feel her blood run cold through her veins as adrenaline consumed her body from head to toe.
Re-adjusting her arms to align with her squinting eye, and with no hesitation, she exhaled; releasing the arrow with it.
Slicing the air from 82 yards away, the arrow tip punctured its target perfectly, ending a life in a heartbeat.
It had done its job.
She had done her job.
Staring at her demeaning victim, her eyes opened wide, glistening; as blood, so striking sprayed in her vision.
She watched, silently, patiently; crouching, to view her handy work.
To witness the man fall and stagger back sat nicely with her, warming her insides at a job well done. His body didn't even put up a fight, merely convulsing for a short wasted second before his soul left the lifeless vessel.
Tingles were sent like waves through her nervous system, a flourishing sensation of heat. The thrill of the kill was something she could never tire of. She enjoyed it, was enthralled by it.
People who were near him screamed as they witnessed the shaft enter his body. She merely laughed to herself as she saw the commotion she caused. Fools. Satisfied by her work, she hung her pitch-black bow onto her back. The string strung around her front; holding it in place.
She turned, under the cloak, a black skin-tight top hugged her excellent curves, marked with buttons and strips of black leather trailing from her hip to over her left shoulder.
Hung from it, blunt blades dug into her stomach; there simply to stoke grimace into the fires of people's fear.
Although, no one ever saw her kill, or remained sane and alive to be able to recall their encounter to the authorities.
All they only ever saw was her pitch-black cloak as she walked away like a shadow retreating to the darkness.
Another belt wrapped itself around her waist, but dangling to her hips were the weight of two refined daggers that lay sheathed.
Twins.
Both engraved with the initials of SH.
At the pommel, a lion head doused in steel remained, symbolising her power and entwined with a cloth that was held around the grip for stability.
It's wears were worn and snagged, used diligently throughout her accursed life.
Parallel to the daggers, 4 arrows strung down; tips very much sharpened but hidden by her cloak.
Her trousers, black, worn and torn, yet crafted with immaculate care and a fine material melted into her boots.
They appeared as if they were covered in what looked like dragon scales. Dark as the night sky, while being incredibly robust that it could block a stray arrow.
Her boots engulfed her trousers as the grew from her ankles, and crawled up to her knees; allowing her, when crouching, protection for her legs.
Though she never needed it. No one was better than her. No one. Trained reluctantly from birth, the only thing she ever associated herself with was killing.
The pleasure it brought her was frightening to behold. The satisfaction... No one should have enjoyed it that much. No one.
Her body hardened as she jumped from the rooftop with ease. Landing solidly on the bruised ground, she inspected the back lanes, opposite to the Main Street; ensuring no one saw her even under the midnight sky shrouding away forgotten areas.
Her boots dug one by one into the mud, chewing up the soil, as she walked round the back of the houses. Her cloak was full of wind as it swept behind her, masking her silhouette.
She ran with stealth embedded, fast and out of sight. No one dared to look at her, no glances out of curiosity, because If they did, it would cost them their life.
The dark sky showered over all, covering her tracks and leaving no trace of her presence. She was known as a shadow, always lurking, trailing and waiting, watching like predator to prey. The most feared assassin in all of Caswor.
