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Musicology Anthology Entry |
| Word Count and Triggers ▼ Wren studied the soldiers from her perch in the open rafters. She was balanced comfortably on a thick oak beam high above the tavern’s floor; her back against the truss post, legs stretched, and ankles crossed. The light cascading from the oil lamp sconces that were sparsely dotted around the common room did not reach the eaves, a fact she used to hide her presence from the inebriated patrons. This was her favourite part of the process – stalking her unsuspecting prey. It was when she could look beneath the surface and see a person's true face, the monster they kept hidden from rest of the world. Everyone had one. Some people were simply better at burying it. William Barrow, however, was not. His demons lay just beneath his skin and came out to play too often. The heavy-set man sat at the table in the corner of the room. It had been three years since she had seen him. A night she would rather forget. Unfortunately, her nightmares had other ideas. Time had not been kind to him. Deep crows' feet furrowed the sides of his eyes, which were sunken beneath heavy lids, and his blonde hair had thinned at his crown, no doubt from the slouch hat that was tucked into his side pocket. She watched and smiled as he schooled the subtle tremor in his dominant hand each time he raised his cup to his lips; this was something she could exploit later. “Two stripe,” she observed, “still a Corporal.” His lack of promotion was not a surprise given his extracurricular activities and lack of composure. The man talked with his fists and thought with his dick. He was as predictable as the tide. It made him easy to follow. “Another round!” Barrow bellowed to the passing waitress. He wrapped a thick hand around the girl’s wrist and tugged harshly to get her attention. She winced and stubbled towards the table, but he took little notice of her discomfort. “I don’t want that piss-pale ale either,” he barked, “Bring me the good stuff.” He took a gold coin from the pile that lay haphazardly on the table and handed it to the girl with a wink. He had been lucky with the bones tonight. He would be leaving with a good chunk of the tables' coins. Barrow was the last name on her list; ten blackened souls whose elimination served as Wren's final assessment, and a demonstration of her skill, creativity, and resilience before she was granted permission to take her place amongst the other guild assassins. The elders had been gracious and allowed her to submit two personal candidates for consideration. A concession granted only to those who showed exceptional aptitude and promise. William Barrow and James Kisp had made the cut. At five-foot four Wren did not stand out as tall and her slight frame disguised the threat she posed. A trait she used to maximum efficiency when she needed to blend into her surrounding or disappear into the crowd. What she lacked in height and build she made up for in speed, agility, and stamina, and with lean muscles and reflexes that were honed to impeccable precision. She was silent, ruthless, and deadly – the perfect student. She had dispatched Kisp last week. His death was underwhelming and thoroughly unsatisfying, but it had met the guild’s brief of death by poison. A sprinkle of bintaro seeds and dried aconite on his morning porridge had induce acute heart failure. It was less than he deserved. She would not make that mistake with Barrow. Her target had been sat with his men for the past hour. The roast chicken at the centre of the table greased their fingers as they shared it amongst the four of them. She did not recognise the others. In comparison to their supervisor, they were young and baby-faced. Not yet tainted by his influence. It was this that saved them from becoming collateral damage. Though that could change depending on how the evening unfolded. The waitress returned with a freshly filled earthenware jug of house ale and new cups and retrieved the empties that littered the cramped surface. The soldiers were three rounds deep into what looked like the start of a long evening. The alcohol flushed their faces and loosened their tongues, providing false bravado. Each man was desperate to impress Barrow and gain his favour. It was pathetic really. “I need a piss.” Barrow announced as he stood and ducked his head to excuse himself. The backdoor stood on the other side of the common room, across the sea of wooden tables, benches, and sawhorses. He slowly meandered his way through the crowd, bracing his hand on a man’s shoulder as he stumbled over his boots. He was well on his way to being drunk. “Finally!” She muttered. Once he had disappeared through the doorway, she stood and gracefully walked across the joist, weaving her way around the struts that braced the ceiling, to the skylight. The window was narrow, but still large enough for her to slip through. Her steps were light and surefooted as she navigated the gentle slope of the slate tiles and climbed to the ridge of the rooftop. Winter was now well on its way. The temperature had dropped significantly since the sun had set and the first silvery threads of frost had begun to spread across the dark grey titles. Wren’s chestnut hair whipped around her jawline in the icy breeze. She pulled up her cowl and raised the gaiter over her mouth to block out the cold. Hiding her identify was not a priority, she had no intention of leaving any witnesses, but until she had passed the point of no return, discretion was always advisable. She crouched at the edge of the roof and peered into the alleyway, looking for signs of movement. Barrow leaned against the wall, oblivious to the danger he was in. One hand was braced against the stonework, the other holding his dick as he tried not to piss on his boots. He was alone. A malicious smile graced her petite features. There was only one way down. She turned to lay flat on her stomach, swinging both legs over the gable, and scaled down the side of the building silently. Her nimble fingers and arrow-point boots found easy purchase in the aging mortar. She landed softly and crept quietly down the alley, using the shadows to manoeuvre closer to her target. As she drew near, she stood to her full height and straightened her shoulders. Posture denoted confidence. She would not allow him any inroads to intimidate her. She stepped away from the wall and into the dim light. “William Barrow,” she called to get his attention. Her voice steady despite her thundering heartbeat. “Who’s askin?” he quipped, tilting his head in the direction of her voice. “You don’t remember me?” Wren replied, feigning offense. She continued to saunter towards him at an even pace, only stopping when she was close enough to see the flecks of red in his otherwise grey eyes. It was the only hint of what he was. He turned towards her, taking his time fastening his breeches and casting a deliberate, lurid glance over her body. “Don’t believe I’ve ‘ad the pleasure.” “You might not remember me William, but I certainly remember you.” He grunted in response. “You and Kisp made quite the lasting impression.” The brief spark of recognition that flickered across his face was punctuated with a sneer. “Ah, I see! You’re that little rabbit from the night of the Beltane festival.” He stiffened but held his position. His eyed narrowed and systematically tracked her form, assessing the level of threat. His stance remained open and relaxed, yet his claws had started to elongate and break through the tips of his nailbeds. It was the only trace that the predator beneath the surface had raised its head and was paying attention. “I should really be thanking you William,” she continued, “Without you and Kisp I'd probably still be that wide-eyed girl. I'd never have discovered my talent for rage and revenge..." she paused. Her lips curling at the sides, "I mean just ask Kisp... He got to see it firsthand.” A snarl left Barrow's throat, and his eyes shifted to their lycan form, the thick red ring bleeding into the dead grey of his irises. He lunged and gripped the thick, black fabric of her ribbed shirt, catching the fleshy skin just above her heart in the pinch. She had forgone the standard issued leather breastplate, opting instead for her corseted belt which offered less protection but allowed her to carry more of her silver kunai knives. Despite the inevitable bruise that would be visible tomorrow and the torrent of abuse that Joss would levy her way at her reckless behaviour it was still the tactical choice. A tremor wrecked Barrow's fist, weakening his grip. Wren coiled her fingers around the juncture of his wrist and squeezed, twisting it as she wrenched it away from her body. In quick secession, she rotated her body to the side and slammed her forearm into his throat, sending his windpipe into spasm and forcing him to gasp for breath. She pivoted a foot behind him, reached around his neck with her other arm and closed the circuit, placing him in a chock hold. Using the momentum, she flipped him over her hip, taking him to the ground with a heavy crash. She drew a mercury dipped blade from her belt and sliced at the flesh between his hip and ribs in a deep, sweeping motion. The edge of the knife tugged against his shirt as it ripped through the coarse material. “You. Bitch!” Barrow screeched. Each word laced in pain. He rolled away and clutched his side. The dust-like particles took mere seconds to circulate through his bloodstream, flooding his system with the debilitating substance. The telltail blue hue of his veins pulsed against his ashen skin. The combination of alcohol and poisons was starting to affect his coordination and had halted his ability to fully transform. “It's poetic don’t you think?” She giggled, “The rabbit… that’s what you called me right… a rabbit? ... has turned its tail to show its teeth and hunt the wolves.” “You’re unhinged,” he spat. His breathe was laboured as he tried to stand. His muscles strained under his weight and he collasped to his knees, falling forward onto the palms of his hands. “What 'ave you done to me?” “Me? Nothing… I mean other than the silver and mercury.” She twirled her blade between her fingers, “but you really shouldn’t have upset Maggie." She rolled her eyes at Barrow's blank look, "The barkeep...?! She was only too happy to slip a little wolfbane in your drinking cup.” Barrow leaned back on his haunches, his neck strained as he glared at her. Blood was seeping freey from his cut and had begun to pool on the ground in a deep maroon puddle. Wren stepped forward and circled the wounded animal with careful and deliberate steps. She slipped another kunai from her belt and palmed both blades in her hands. The weight familiar and comforting. “I confess William, I'm disspointed. I was expecting for more." she pouted. She stepped to the side and flicked her wrist. The small knife hit its mark and buried itself in his neck. He gurgled. Blood rising to his lips. "Welcome to my darkside, asshole," she whispered, "I'm glad you got to see it before you go, you're its artictec after all." The final blade slid effortlessly between his ribs, piercing his lung. "Say hello to the dead for me...” She twisted the knives and pulled them free, pushing his body forward with swift kick to the back. He was still breathing, but it would be short-lived. There was no saving him now. The metal glistened as she inspected both weapons for damage. She leaned down and wiped them clean on the fabric of his shirt, and slipped them securely into her belt. The alley was still deserted, but it wouldn’t be long until his body was discovered. It was time to leave. With a final look at the monster that had shaped the trajectory of my adult life, Wren turned and walked away. **** Lyrics ▼ |
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