 Thursday on a Wednesday morn ' Note #30 by Eland at Thu Jan 24 15:37:50 2008 on board assassinsguild It was quiet on the beach beside the endless lapping ocean. Warm and quiet and peaceful and dull. But one scarcely perceived any sense of boredom as one gazed out across the vistas of the great Rim Ocean. I'd arrived late yesterday after a long and eventful trip. Wizards, Priests, ships and carriages from one end of the continent to the other and in the end it was only through the lucky chance of encountering a Travelling Shop while resting in Sto Lat that enabled the journey to this most lonely and isolated of all places. There was a contract to fulfill. As I stand here now gazing over the sea, I wonder who could possibly have a grievance against the poor old shipwrecked sailor who has taken to vending coconuts at no charge to pass the time. One feels a deep sorrow for the poor man and a regret for the deed, yet a contract was accepted and I must proceed. I might have passed up this effort, the fee scarcely covers the tenth part of my travel expenses. Yet I have been informed by the masters that I must complete the tenth annulment before I can enroll for post-graduate studies. Regardless, Guild Honour is at stake and so to satisfy the customer, the old man must find peace. I've been studying the layout all day while waiting for night, a long wait which passed peacefully on the sand. The sand which unfortunately seems to have claimed the last of my throwing knives, drat. It is greedy sand, so soft and deep. That curtails some options as to how to proceed. This contract above all must be carried out with the deepest care to style and professionalism. The very isolation of the contract lends more importance to Guild Honour and the more deeply, I feel I owe it to the old man. Trapped for years and now at last to be set free, he must be taken cleanly. That leaves my daggers out. While the precision of the backstab would prevent further loss to the sand, it is a messy way to go. I have no more knives and will not risk throwing my pen, lest it to be swallowed by the ever rolling sand. So, with grieving heart, but certainty of mind, I very slowly and quietly draw forth the little crossbow from the bandolier across my chest and begin to check the action. I wipe the sand grains off carefully with a silk cloth and gently oil the string before pulling a bolt from a spare loop and loading the delicate machine. There is a soft glow on the horizon as I pull the midnight black cloak from my backpack and slip it on. The velvet cloth wraps my person in shadow as I pass by the palm and mount the small sandhill to gaze upon the client. He is wandering aimlessly along the high tide line and jabbering to himself in the unintelligible language of the fabled Golden Empire. My skills in the tongue are rough and undeveloped as yet, although even with fluency I doubt I would find much sensibility in the hermits rant. I wait patiently with the crossbow held loose but sure in my left hand as the phosphorescence of the water fades before me and the sun rises behind. To use the off hand for the close adds a sense of fair play to the mind, I do not mock him by using less than my best, but offer more the elegance of the worthy hunt. A ray of light bursts over the hillock and Thursday looks up at last, to see the dark figure framed against the sunrise, a black shadow beneath the palm. I raise the crossbow and with the sun bursting over the horizon I take aim and fire straight at his throat. Swift and sure the bolt flies across the intervening space and strikes the old man cleanly through the neck. I gaze sadly at the body and aware as I am of the unlikelihood of anyone ever again stopping this way, I take the time to cover him carefully with sand. Here lies Wreck-Me-Own-Boat Thursday. Lost sailor, lost enemy, lost friend? I look for my crossbow bolt, but the sand has swallowed it, as it will swallow all in time. Alas for this lonely island. I gaze out to the sea for one last time, watching the waves lap the shore and remember Wreck-Me-Own-Boat Thursday. Someone has to. Then with a final last glance, I twist the blue ring on my finger and vanish. -- The sand blows over the footprints of the hermit and the stranger and the coconut rattles in the breeze. Time passes and Thursday rises again, but whosoever will know? The stranger's quest is complete, for him there will never be another Thursday beyond the weekly day. But for others, who knows? -- The End. |