Varis did not even think. He felt no dread, sickness nor guilt. Nothing but rage, as his body ran forward, yelling as he swung his sword, arcing through the air towards the remaining Smythian.

He did not even conciously command his body to run, nor to attack. His mind merely replayed event over event in his mind. Time and time again he had the chance to stop this happening, to save the councillor, to fulfill what he promised his employer and friend.

The last Smythian fell to the ground silently, a smile stll on his separated head.

In the devastated alleyway, as the stone dust settled, a couple of guards arrived, followed by a few more.
It didn't take them long to understand the situation from looking.
"An'Inglefar is dead. Daaaaaamn," growled the eldest of the group.
"Check the corpses, and the surrounding area," ordered the Captain, who had arrived at that moment with a contingent of guards, "Sweep the city. You lot, give me a recap of what happened here."

The dishevelled mercenaries stood in place, still shocked by the explosion, each hoping another would mention what had happened.

The guards set up fences around the burnt and wrecked area. Mercifully the buildings were still intact, but the flagstones on the floor hadn't survived the explosion.

"I'm listening," the captain growled.
Bon replied, "They had the councillor, this group of six New Smythian knights. We were about to fight them when one misused Magemead. In the chaos, one of them stabbed An'Inglefar. But they revealed that they've sent Barbant to... An'Jantar."
"An'Jantar!" DHarem yelled, "We need to get there!"
The captain frowned, "The other councillors may be attacked at the same time. I'll set extra guards on them, if you think you're capable of handling Barbant... Good luck," he said as he dashed off to give orders.

The weight on Varis' shoulders felt tangible, physical, as he stood. Finally sheathing his sword, he mindlessly dabbed away a speck of blood on his cheek, heedless of the larger patches still on his armour from the decapitation. Without looking at anyone else in the group, he spoke one last statement, running off into a street for the fastest way to An'Jantar. Thank the Lords Varis knew these streets without flaw.

"Let's move."

Whatever went well was a success of the team. Whatever went badly was a failure of the leader. It was a philosophy that Varis followed, leaving all he could do right now was hope that he made it up in whatever was soon to come...

"Well, one thing's for certain, Tithuania will never run out of assassins, or at least men with the impetus or money to hire them." Karrain mutters as the makes off after the rest of the group, reviewing what had happened.

1. The Councillor for magic was gone.
2. The other Councillors were likley to follow him.
3. There were Smythians on the other side.
4. He really, really didn't like Smythians.
5. He was probably too old to be running around like this.

It was textbook, really, get rid of the command structure, leave the city authorities reeling, then take command. Tithuania was too big a city to be taken by force, yet not small enough to avoid the threat of political takeover.

The streets whip by, as the group runs through, following Varis' lead as they eventually reach An'Jantar's manor.

Quite simple on the outside, it really resembled a big house.
A servant stood in front, and seeing the group dashing towards the manor, shouted, "He's at the Council Hall."

Onward and upward, up the hillside leading to the upper part of the city, where stood the Council Hall. Through the giant doorway flanked with rows of huge pillars, through a hall, up some steps and they emerged in an inner cloister.

A round table, surrounded by six chairs, in the middle of the open area. Pillars around, huge and cylindrical, and a roof far above. Simple white stone. In one of the chairs sat the Councillor, perusing a map laid out on the table, before he slowly looked up and noticed the group running towards him.
"Hello again! I-"
He noticed the blood and sweat pouring off of them.
"... what's happened?"

Something felt wrong. If nothing else, the security measures, if they could run in like this. Varis did his best to push aside his paranoia, looking at his friend in the eyes, realizing for the first time how he must look. Bloodied, exhausted...

The four bodies lay around the caravan, though only two in sight. The only bodies that would've been here if Varis hadn't bent down to pick up the well-concealed glimmer of a gold coin in the mud below, would've been the Councillor's and his own. The sword went over his head, and it was luck once more that he drew his sword from his sheath with a speed that was more from a fluke than from experience, slicing into the legs of the guardsman behind him. As he cried out in pain, stumbling, a second hack bit into his neck between his armour, silencing his cries with a horrible gurgle.

Varis was trembling. He just killed Hyneld, the co-worker always fond of a joke and a good drink before sleeping. Varis had never...he'd never killed somebody before. And why-

His thoughts were cut short, standing up straight and swinging a sword instinctively to block the slice from behind him as another guard circled around the caravan. The force of the blow caused Varis' knees to buckle and his body to fall, out of practice with his dueling. From the ground, he kicked at the shin of his attacker, the mud and the blow causing he, too, to flail and fall, giving Varis just enough time to swing blindly from his prone state, cutting through the thin leather armor at his new attacker's chest. His cry didn't end, it just went on...

That was older mercenary in the group, hired to guard the caravan. Jacob.

He heard the bang of wood on the other side of the caravan, the only side where there was a door. Getting to his feet and running across, it was an unexpected sword through the back of one of the traitors. Stensen. Pushing the body off his sword towards the other traitor trying to bash down the door with his friend, he was entangled long enough for that to be the fourth. Reyneld.

And then, when the door opened freely from the inside, all it was was the youthful musician, the only loyal guard, Varis, bloodied and muddy, looking up at An'Jantar.

It was later they found the contracts offering payment for killing An'Jantar. An'Jantar had thanked Varis personally, both at the time and several weeks later. They'd spoken at length, and gotten a much better knowledge of each other than before. At Varis' questions, An'Jantar had told Varis that it had been taken care of, the person behind the attempt on his life.
That was years ago, and now Varis was looking at An'Jantar once again in such a position. And he had not the correct state of mind for diplomacy.

"An'Inglefar is dead. Barbant has been sent after you."

"Barbant?? Are you absolutely sure??" An'Jantar cried, before gathering his things as fast as possible, with an unnatural speed, "We've got to go. Now."

The giant double doors that led to the exit slammed shut, as the others leading to the gardens on the opposite end.
"Now if that's not a bad sign..." Bon growled.
And that was the moment they heard a THWACK!
Thomas was thrown back onto the table with a crash, four crossbow bolts fully embedded in is chest in a square formation, his armour's breastplate having been of no protection whatsoever.
"S***!" shouted DHarem as he ran to check on Thomas. He shook his head at the others.

"Magically sharpened, I'll have you know. Very expensive, but then again, I'm well paid," said a voice to the side.
Leaning against one of the columns, in a pool of sunlight, was an outlandish figure.
Wearing a huge scarlet-red cape, clad in a red tunic beneath, he held a strange crossbow, that seemed to be four separate crossbows, in his right hand.
Along his right arm was a chunky metal bracer that reflected the sunlight at a strange angle. Many tools and objects hung at his belt, none of them particularly recognisable.
"I'm sure you know who I am, so there's no need to get to the introductions," he grinned, as he pulled a set of four bolts from his belt and loaded them into the crossbow(s), "Shall we skip straight to the killing?"

Varis knew what he had to do; forcing his emotional state back expertly behind a Bard's smile. His voice betrayed no anger, nor despisal. Only a geniune, if cold, statement. It was as if his personality had transformed into an uncaring, treacherous oppurtunist, one that cared nothing for watching a friend, a follower, die in front of him, unprovoked.

"No, actually. We won't skip to the killing, despite your treatment of Thomas. We have a counter-proposal for you, vastly more electrum than what you have been offered, Barbant."

It was something Barbant might actually listen to. Varis had no intent of going through with it though. There was no time for grief, he just had to put Barbant off for a second.

After watching Thomas die, Varis hoped the next image his eyes saw was Barbant screaming in agony, on fire. Something he desperately hoped one of his group with a Magemead would manage before Barbant shot again.

Karrain, unless he too was taken in by Varis' ploy, would be in an ideal position to act as well. There's no possible way Barbant would know a centuries old warmage just turned up in the city.

The crossbow levelled itself at the councillor, but it was of course to Varis that Barbant spoke.

"More electrum than I was offered? Oldest trick in the book, might I say. I doubt that you can cough that much up, but I think you know full well that Barbant the Red Assassin has his values. As much as killer can have values. A contract accepted is a contract finished.

"But I like the look of you," the assassin added, "Even though my contract includes you, if you stay out of this I'll spare your life. I'll extend that to the rest of you, because I'm in a good mood. But get in my way, and you'll feel the sting of my crossbow."

He remained silent, as if expecting a reply, before getting to business.

Varis had no doubt that Barbant had overextended himself. Even if he had some way of avoiding or surviving a powerful spell from Karrain, or some method of surviving the force and heat Magemead created, the only thing capable of doing either would be magic, as far as Varis knew. And no enchantment in Tithuana would be able to last both, at least none that Varis knew of.

It was that knowledge that helped him make the decision to step in front of the councillor. He wasn't sure why he felt so confident. Perhaps it was that he would be following his failures of keeping Thomas and An'inglefar alive. Perhaps it was how much it meant to Tithuana if Barbant was killed. Perhaps he wasn't even going to die by this action, with his luck.

Strangely, his mind flitted to the conman who'd Varis bought the so-called 'lucksticks' from, as he waited to feel the crossbow bolts, the heat of a spell or the blast of a magemead. He couldn't draw his own vial before the crossbow fired, for certain.

Come on, Bon. Come on, Karrain.

Damned garish assassins these days, Karrain mused to himself as Varis' desperate words bought him a few seconds to cast, you wouldn't be caught dead in Old Ethros City with a cape like that...probably because Sy'karios or I would have set it on fire...
"Immolate." The word was barely a whisper as Karrain guided the mana up Barbant's cape with a few mental pulses of Anathemum, unless the man's ungodly fasion sense or tools prevented the spell's climax, at the very least the garish cape would be reduced to ash in a brief, ferocious inferno, if the spell did come to some fruition, those same flames should play out accross Barbant's body, the streams of mana acting as conduits for heat like columns of hot air.

There is an almighty roar as flames erupt around Barbant, his cloak setting on fire and his entire body wreathed in crackling flames of mana.

It took five seconds to dissipate. Completely undamaged, the Red Assassin turned to Karrain with a smile, "If I were that unprepared, I wouldn't have the reputation I do now, I'm sorry to say," he said, raising his right arm, showing the bracer.

But he looked at his crossbow, and noticed that it was cracked and broken, threatening to fall into ash and metal shards.
"You owe me a new crossbow, mage. I'm retracting my offer to spare you."

He set off towards the group, dropping his crossbow and calmly walking, and pulling a small hammer from his belt. A metal hammer, very small. A laughable weapon.
"Greatest assassin of all."
A blade of red light emerged from the tip of the hammer, released by the trigger words.

DHarem cried, "That's the Blade of Ranef! It was stolen from the temple of Ranef a few months ago!"

Varis blinked. He was alive, but how long that might last was doubtful. That bracer, whatever magic...

...Magic?

Varis drew his sword with his right hand, reaching into a belt puch with his left as he did so, bringing out the small chunk of catalium he was given so long ago.

The councillor you must defend. When Red attacks, aim for the right arm.
Varis blinked. How could he not have seen it before? He looked up at Barbant, approaching slowly, switching his sword to his less comfortable left hand, clutching the "no-magic" chunk tight in his right as he stepped slowly forward towards Barbant, aiming carefully. Varis was merely average in throwing things, he wanted to know he had the best possible shot at the bracer on the Red Assassin's right arm.

Varis blinked. He was alive, but how long that might last was doubtful. That bracer, whatever magic...

...Magic?

Varis drew his sword with his right hand, reaching into a belt puch with his left as he did so, bringing out the small chunk of catalium he was given so long ago.

The councillor you must defend. When Red attacks, aim for the right arm.
Varis blinked. How could he not have seen it before? He looked up at Barbant, approaching slowly, switching his sword to his less comfortable left hand, clutching the "no-magic" chunk tight in his right as he stepped slowly forward towards Barbant, aiming carefully. Varis was merely average in throwing things, he wanted to know he had the best possible shot at the bracer on the Red Assassin's right arm.