Please excuse any grammar/punctuation errors, since I wrote this a really long time ago and haven't had the chance to go over it. If you see anything, feel free to leave a comment with the correction and I'll go in and fix it. Thanks!
The moon shone high in the sky, although it was just a small sliver of white in a sea of black. A cloaked figure stalked the night, heading towards a bright and loud tavern just down the street. No one walked in the poor excuse for a street, not this late at night. The residents knew better. Lock the doors, bar the windows, and let no one in. But the cloaked figure was not concerned about the dangers that hid in the shadows, for he was looking for one in particular.
As the figure approached the tavern, a drunken couple staggered out of the door and saluted him before stumbling on their merry way into the night. The tavern was bright and cheerful, with people singing drinking songs and laughing and playing card games. It would have been the perfect place to hole up for the night and relax. But the cloaked figure had no time for relaxation. His purpose for coming to the tavern was not to have himself a drink, but to find someone whom he intended to hire for a special job. He strode to the bar and motioned the bartender over.
"I'm looking for The One Who Kills," the cloaked man said in a low, gravelly voice. The bartender nodded and pointed down the back hallway.
"You'll find the one you seek behind the last door on your right," the bartender answered, and then resumed cleaning glasses.
The cloaked man nodded his thanks and strode down to the end of the hallway. He took note of the worn wood of the floors and the cheerful framed pictures on the walls. The hallway was narrow, but not claustrophobic. The last door on the right of the hallway looked no different from the other doors he had passed, but that meant little. He knocked firmly on the door. A voice from within called, "Come in." The man did as he was told and opened the door, stepping into the room.
It was dark, illuminated by a single candle. Sitting in a chair in the far corner of the room was a young girl. Placed on the table next to her were spools of different colored yarn. In her hands, she crocheted a six-sided flower. The man cleared his throat to get the girl's attention. She looked up at him, but her fingers never stopped moving, weaving the yarn back and forth.
"Can I help you with something, sir?" she said. Her voice was light and innocent, and the man was sure he had heard the bartender wrong and entered the wrong room.
"Excuse me, miss. I must have the wrong room," he said, and turned to leave.
"Who are you looking for, sir? Perhaps I can be of help." Her hair covered her face, shielding her eyes from him. It was eerie to look at and so he took to readjusting his cloak when he answered her.
"I am looking for The One Who Kills," he said.
"Ah," the girl replied. "Then there has been no mistake. What can I do for you, sir?"
"I'm sorry, miss. You must have heard me wrong. I am looking for The One Who Kills, not a young girl crocheting flowers."
"Do you know how many ways you can kill or maim someone with a simple crochet hook? I can't imagine any of them being very painless, considering the blunt nature of the hook. You could stab the hook into someone's eye and shove it into the brain to kill them. You could dig it into their throat and sever an artery. As for means of torture, you could heat it in a candle flame or fireplace and use it as a branding rod. You could cut them open and use the hook to slowly pull back the skin and remove the internal organs. Then there's always-"
"That's enough, miss," the man said, cutting off her words.
"There has been no mistake, sir. Do you require me to give you more proof?"
"No, miss. That will not be necessary. I just did not expect The One Who Kills to be a lady."
"Most do not. But I assure you, sir, I am anything but a lady." The girl put down her crocheting and brushed her hair away from her face.
Two ice diamonds stared at the man with such intensity he was strongly tempted to look away. But he could not. Those eyes both captivated and scared him. There was no mistaking her identity now.
The moon shone high in the sky, although it was just a small sliver of white in a sea of black. A cloaked figure stalked the night, heading towards a bright and loud tavern just down the street. No one walked in the poor excuse for a street, not this late at night. The residents knew better. Lock the doors, bar the windows, and let no one in. But the cloaked figure was not concerned about the dangers that hid in the shadows, for he was looking for one in particular.
As the figure approached the tavern, a drunken couple staggered out of the door and saluted him before stumbling on their merry way into the night. The tavern was bright and cheerful, with people singing drinking songs and laughing and playing card games. It would have been the perfect place to hole up for the night and relax. But the cloaked figure had no time for relaxation. His purpose for coming to the tavern was not to have himself a drink, but to find someone whom he intended to hire for a special job. He strode to the bar and motioned the bartender over.
"I'm looking for The One Who Kills," the cloaked man said in a low, gravelly voice. The bartender nodded and pointed down the back hallway.
"You'll find the one you seek behind the last door on your right," the bartender answered, and then resumed cleaning glasses.
The cloaked man nodded his thanks and strode down to the end of the hallway. He took note of the worn wood of the floors and the cheerful framed pictures on the walls. The hallway was narrow, but not claustrophobic. The last door on the right of the hallway looked no different from the other doors he had passed, but that meant little. He knocked firmly on the door. A voice from within called, "Come in." The man did as he was told and opened the door, stepping into the room.
It was dark, illuminated by a single candle. Sitting in a chair in the far corner of the room was a young girl. Placed on the table next to her were spools of different colored yarn. In her hands, she crocheted a six-sided flower. The man cleared his throat to get the girl's attention. She looked up at him, but her fingers never stopped moving, weaving the yarn back and forth.
"Can I help you with something, sir?" she said. Her voice was light and innocent, and the man was sure he had heard the bartender wrong and entered the wrong room.
"Excuse me, miss. I must have the wrong room," he said, and turned to leave.
"Who are you looking for, sir? Perhaps I can be of help." Her hair covered her face, shielding her eyes from him. It was eerie to look at and so he took to readjusting his cloak when he answered her.
"I am looking for The One Who Kills," he said.
"Ah," the girl replied. "Then there has been no mistake. What can I do for you, sir?"
"I'm sorry, miss. You must have heard me wrong. I am looking for The One Who Kills, not a young girl crocheting flowers."
"Do you know how many ways you can kill or maim someone with a simple crochet hook? I can't imagine any of them being very painless, considering the blunt nature of the hook. You could stab the hook into someone's eye and shove it into the brain to kill them. You could dig it into their throat and sever an artery. As for means of torture, you could heat it in a candle flame or fireplace and use it as a branding rod. You could cut them open and use the hook to slowly pull back the skin and remove the internal organs. Then there's always-"
"That's enough, miss," the man said, cutting off her words.
"There has been no mistake, sir. Do you require me to give you more proof?"
"No, miss. That will not be necessary. I just did not expect The One Who Kills to be a lady."
"Most do not. But I assure you, sir, I am anything but a lady." The girl put down her crocheting and brushed her hair away from her face.
Two ice diamonds stared at the man with such intensity he was strongly tempted to look away. But he could not. Those eyes both captivated and scared him. There was no mistaking her identity now.
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