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Ochriese had achieved fame among assassins, noted for killing with such grace that it hardly seemed like murder at all, but rather a tribute, a sacrifice to the gods. It was whispered that she lived with one foot in the world of the living and other in the Shadow Keep with the Lord of the Death, Aranan, touched by his favor. This rumor had at first created a wide berth around her, but fame is never good for one in her business and eventually the fear of Aranan’s displeasure had faded leaving her perched on a pedestal primed for toppling.

They had caught her on her way to the apothecary. As they spread around her in the razor wing formation Ochriese supposed that she should be flattered that four had been dispatched to take her on but all she felt was irritation. This fighting formation was only effective if the attackers were equally powerful in their various disciplines. The idea was to make it impossible for the mark to defend herself from more than one attacker at a time.

Ochriese felt the air warm as one fired up their grax vere, flames dancing in their hands, and the earth tremble as another tapped into their thea vere. The shadows thickened with dras vere and she smiled at the distinctive clink of metal coming free from a scabbard accompanied by the smell of ozone from a ras blessed guardian sword. All the while wondering at the nature of fame.

She allowed them to slide into position before she reached up and released the clasps of her hooded coat stepping free of the heavy fabric, revealing for the first time her face. The two that could see her flinched and groaned when they saw the green flames dancing where her eyes had once been. She felt confusion from the other two.

“Fleit, what?”

“Foressteri. She’s Foressteri!  Run!”

Ochriese smiled letting Aranan’s grace fill her and went to work.


Inspired by Trifecta’s word of the week:

GRACE (noun)