The night was stiflingly hot. The setting of the sun did nothing to deter the heat aside from bringing a slight breeze to the valley. A few nobles were seen enjoying the slight change in temperature out in the lawns, but most had elected to stay indoors in the cool air of their stone mansions. Servants and slaves had achieved little during the day, and were relieved at the excuse of evening to retreat inside. Even the animals seemed to be in protest; as the night wore on an owl hooted incessantly within the grounds of the Trovatelli property.

The hooting of the owl did nothing to stir the silent figure in the tree. Dark eyes silently watched the guards perform their duties around the perimeter of the estate. Had any of them looked to the trees these last three days, all might have been lost. Even so, the figure was dressed from head to foot in black, a veil covering all but the eyes, and made it nearly impossible to pick out an outline in this low light. As it was, their gaze was kept to either the grounds, or the high brick wall surrounding the manor. It was near false light; the guards would change hands soon, but not so soon as to provide fresh eyes before beginning the task.

As the last sentry rounded the mansion's corner, the Veiled Fox slipped from the limbs, rolling to a stand after hitting the grass. The Fox's gaze reached a window set several stories up in the stone building. The figure darted across the manicured lawn, skirting around trees and through the shadows, and launched itself towards the side of the structure. Hands wrapped in dark cloth gripped at slender edges in the stone, and the Veiled Fox began ascending.

The window had been left open in hopes to entice the cool breeze into the room beyond. The figure slithered into the room, and crouched against the wall. An opulent rug softened the stone worked floor, several plush pieces of furniture could be discerned in the gloom, and rich selections of art lined the walls. The soft sounds of sleeping came from a large canopy bed dominating the room. The Veiled Fox stood and crossed to the bed, soft soled shoes muffled further by the carpet.

The man sleeping on his side looked like he was in his late forties, well fed, and his head showed a modest receding line. The sheets had been kicked off, and he was bare all except a small cloth covering his essentials. Glistening sweat covered his skin. The figure watched the sleeping man momentarily, observed the even breathing of deep sleep, the twitching of eyes, and the occasional tremble of an unknown dream. In the distance the church bells rang out softly, calling the hour of predawn.

In a fluid motion, the Veiled Fox unsheathed a pair of blackened daggers. The figure shifted to straddle the man, and in the same movement gently grabbed his shoulder. The motion was like a lover's, shifting him to his back as the figure rested upon the abdomen. The man's eyes opened sleepily to look up into the dark ones above him. As the haze in his eyes moved to confusion, the Veiled Fox slipped the daggers into his chest, puncturing both of his lungs. The man opened his mouth in a scream that never came out.

Time has come upon you now,
With the tolling of the bell
Let my daggers taste your flesh,
And send you straight to hell.
Eyes above the veil watched as a mixture of blood and saliva bubbled out of the man's mouth. His hands came up to grab the figure, and were instantly restrained by his assailant. The struggle didn't continue for long. The pudgy fingers relaxed, and his eyes glazed over in the misty death. The Veiled Fox watched those eyes for a moment longer before wiping the daggers clean on the frilly pillow under the victim's head. Without any further regard to the room, she slipped out into night.

Beneath the cloying aromas emanating from the numerous potpourri dishes that had been set about the place, the room smelled of sweat and sex… and blood…

It was this last tang on the air that disturbed him most and, as he lingered a moment in the deeper shadows of Lord Trovatelli’s chambers, his narrowed yellow eyes scouring the place for other signs that his job had, in fact, been completed in advance of his arrival, Nyx scowled. This was not the first contract to have ever been stolen in Drasnia nor was it likely to be the last, he knew that – this was Drasnia, after all, and thievery, even where assassination was concerned, was all too commonplace – but this… this had been his contract and the stolen life by which the contract was fulfilled had been stolen from him rather than by him…

Irksome, the Mith’ganni grumbled inwardly as he stole from the shadow draped alcove to the bedside and peered down at the unblinking and silently screaming Trovatelli, This is not how I imagined the night ending, yes?
“Not what you were expecting, either, hm,” Nyx murmured to the man’s corpse, making note of the still-seeping pair of puncture wounds just below the mark’s ribs. He put a pale hand on the man’s chest and, pushing firmly downward, watched tiny, red-black bubbles collect in the corners of the dead man’s mouth and heard the faintly flatulent sound of trapped air escaping from the twinned stab-wounds. “No,” he chuckled in something less than a whisper, “not what you were expecting, at all.”

Nyx glanced at the indentations on either side of the body, then… And it has only very recently come to an end for you, has it not? Those would be your killer’s knees and toes, yes?… and, his hand moving away from Trovatelli’s chest to come to rest almost casually on the pommel of the khukri at his hip, drew in another long sniff of the rooms air… Cloves, he noted, picking out a set of scents that had been nagging at him since he had, earlier, made the estate’s perimeter, cheap tallow, and… what flower is that?… he crouched beside the bed, then, his moon-hued eyes falling on the faint impressions of feet on the carpet first and his fingertips following close behind… A woman’s feet… and shod… likely not the same woman atop whom you grunted away earlier, then, hmm?

No. I think not. The Mith’ganni’s lips drew into a tight smile as he followed the quickly diminishing tracks (and, to a lesser extent, the ‘foreign’ floral, tallow, and clove aromas) across the room and to one of the opened windows. Your woman likely does not even know you are dead, as yet. The woman to whom these traces attest is most certainly aware of your fate, is she not?
He touched the lone droplet of congealing blood that was left on the sill of that window and let his gaze follow along the other, almost imperceptible, tell-tales that were left in the wake of this other assassin’s retreat. I wonder, Nyx mused as he slipped out the window on the trail of his new quarry, if she is as aware that our meeting is now as inevitable as the severing of your thread had been…