A Game of Rebellion

The setting sun waned in the sky behind effervescent clouds of the deepest bruised purple. Bright tangents of light played softly off of the gilded gold street, the deep scarlet hues melting with the oranges and yellows of the flowers growing untamed in hulking bushes that very nearly covered the road in darkness. Black splotches changed with the sun’s dying motions, playing against the hard gold bricks in broken inky splashes. Vines of lush green with blue bunches of grape-like flowers hung over the steeples of the market’s vendors, now empty except for the scatterings of missed fruit, simple blots of ripe green or yellow or red that caught the eye for only a brief second. A slight breeze blew a hung tapestry with a pattering sound, seeming to echo in the deserted hallway. The sun overhead finally bled out, leaving the once fluorescent city in hues of blue and violet and black.

As soon as the sun had set behind the sandy hills oh so far away, a single set of footsteps began to ring in the pressing silence. Another followed, and soon another. Slow, steady footsteps that were almost metallic against the now blue bricks of the golden street, heading along the side of the marketplace’s wall in the general direction of the looming palace that seemed to dominate the entire city.

Walls of white-washed concrete rough against fingertips, a low, haunting tune whistled into the steady night. These things made the already ghostly marketplace even stranger, more chilling. When a single strand of ebony hair fell into luminescent amber eyes, the man stopped his whistling to breathe it out of his face quickly, continuing his monotonous pace without a single break in step. He never wavered from his path, looking determined to reach wherever it was he was going in his own damn time.

With a slight exhale from the stomach, he reached up and slung himself over one of the marketplace stalls. His fingernails clung to the tapestry wavering in the night's wind, and his face scrunched into a grimace of pain. Covered by shadows, he held his side and pounced from stall to stall, lightfooted but gasping for breath at the end of the long line of color. As he came to the last stall, he stood on his tiptoes on the lime green covering and bounced lightly once, twice, and then jumped over the low wall and onto the small raised dias at the center of the circle. The light landing rang out loudly in the large sandy clearing, now made silver in the haunting moonlight.

Sticking close to the wall, the man snuck around to the palace entrance, his nostrils flaring as he breathed deeply of the humid, honeyed air. The desert flowers had opened to the night air, and he caught their scent on each intake of breath. The high arches and jutting, uneven stones gave his callused fingers purchase as he began to scale the building, his garments flapping loudly in the wind. The higher he went, the colder and faster the wind was. Finally, after what seemed like an endless time spent climbing and a few close calls with the crumbling bricks, his fingers clasped onto wood instead of clay. Hoisting himself up, he let his weight fall onto the balls of his feet and quickly blended into a nearby shadow, surveying the room he was in.

It was lit sepia by a waning flame in the large fireplace, and smelled of incense and smoke. The bed was swathed in hanging drapes, but his eye still alit on the seemingly small lump breathing slowly in and out.
One of the princes of the palace, corrupt and sick. His body was weak and he was heavily guarded at all times for fear that an assassin would take advantage of a seemingly easy kill. He was next in line to rule when his father died, but this could not be allowed.

The blade sunk into the solar plexus easily, and sliced through the layers of fat and tissue as if it were simply bread. The boy sat up quickly and gurgled on a shout, causing the small dagger to rip up into his stomach, then even further as he struggled momentarily.

The man's hard eyes watched all of this, noticing when the fight for life left the murky eyes and the body slid away from the blade, back into the downy pillows. A flick of the wrist got most of the remaining blood off the blade, but such could be handled later. The guards would be coming to check on the prince at any moment.

With no reason for caution now that his target was dead, the man rushed almost noiselessly straight to the wooden windowsill and perched on it a brief while. He was so far away from the ground that he could barely make out the wagon moving below, and he could feel the air whipping his neck wrap around his face. It stung his eyes.

The heavy door slammed open behind him, and he had no time left to survey his surroundings. Without a glance behind him, he jumped, his mind quickly coming up with possibilities- he could grab this stone here and hang, risk breaking an arm, or that banner-staff there, and possibly slip and fll to his death. In the end, he pulled out his dagger and stuck it into a crack, grabbed the banner itself, and dangled briefly and let it creak and strain before letting go. Ten feet gone.

Another ten feet, another post. His foot found a crooked stone sticking out, the other a torch sconce placed over a tiny window. He could hear the shouts of the guards and knew he would not have long before they met him at the ground. The wagon was almost directly under him now, less of a speck and more of a shape. His blood rushed at such a reckless decision, but if he allowed them to find him he'd be as good as dead anyways. In the first time since his early years as an assassin, he let go of the purchase he held and arched his body downwards in an arc, a dangerous move called the hawk's dive that most did not like to resort to. The wind rushed past his face, and he prayed to his gods that the wagon held something soft, like grain or sand.

He landed with a muffled thump and a crack, noticing that it was not grain or sand under him, but rather a huge wooden cart of leaves, linens and flowers. The cart rocked and creaked even before he had come into it, and the driver was singing loudly and did not notice the extra package he now carried. The assassin gave a muffed groan and looked at his arm, prodding it gently. The thick leather brace around it did nothing to hide the fact that it was broken, and the soreness of it was so great that after dizzily covering himself with some of the linens, the assassin closed his eyes and felt the darkness creeping on him. The donkey's braying and the loud man's singing rang in his ears, and he let the pain wash over him and pull him under, sure he could handle the man in the morning.

The cart clacked along the worn crooked stone of the city's road, out the gate, and into the sandy desert night towards the port.

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Not writing too much other than one more chapter until I have some reviews to at least show interest. This is inspired loosely by the Assassin's Creed games, veeeery loosely. Review, please!