xenoflare
First Post
Interlude - The House Belarus bides its time
Somewhere close
**
The assassins waited, and frowned.
A moment of vague irritation visited them, as they considered how long they have been waiting for their leader’s signal to strike. Doubt fluttered briefly about the worthiness of their leader to undertake this operation – after all, their so-called “leader” has proven his disloyalty more than once to the House over a similar assignment.
There was an audible -plop-, as a small metallic object struck the Haagen River, its passage leaving minute floes of mud-flecked water to ripple forth in a crazily, rapidly splashing dance, the tiny sound accentuated by the drunken tirade of two tired seekers who had lost their faith.
Dark notions, soiled with malice, rippled in a similar fashion across the noisome minds of the assassins. Unspoken accusations of betrayal, mistrustful glances at one another, vehement suspicions of their orders, their superiors, even of each other within their own ranks and most of all, their own wills…
The passage of these tainted thoughts ran roughshod over their hearts, easily outpacing even the whitewater river’s turbulent rush. Their anger and displeasure supped upon themselves, though, and the growing strength of these unwholesome, self-cannibalizing emotions sharpened these darklings’ killer instincts to a greater edge.
Their thoughts turned to profit, of how they could possibly gain from this, and how if this situation was indeed a set-up, how each and every one of them could possibly turn it for their own individual advantage. They thought of the position that would be open if their leader, the much-vaunted "Antoine", was indeed a traitor, and they thought of the potential for their own promotion in the field if such traitor (or traitors? There's always room for more, on the end of my blade...) were to be exposed and duly punished…
Where strife and discord would have lessened the resolve and morale of normal men, these raptors were not normal men, not by any stretch of the imagination or by any charity of the soul.
They were the scourge-slayers of House Belarus, the hell-harriers of Lucian Belarus himself, whose meat and drink were despair and dissolution.
What the House Belarus marks for extinction… the laughing blade of Nerull the Reaper will soon follow.
This time is no different from any other.
Like a hive-mind, the killers dwelled upon their grim thoughts, each aware that every single other one of them was thinking the exact same thing, and like a hive-mind, they acted in concert seamlessly, upon these dark urges.
The assassins waited, and smiled.
**
Somewhere close
**
The assassins waited, and frowned.
A moment of vague irritation visited them, as they considered how long they have been waiting for their leader’s signal to strike. Doubt fluttered briefly about the worthiness of their leader to undertake this operation – after all, their so-called “leader” has proven his disloyalty more than once to the House over a similar assignment.
There was an audible -plop-, as a small metallic object struck the Haagen River, its passage leaving minute floes of mud-flecked water to ripple forth in a crazily, rapidly splashing dance, the tiny sound accentuated by the drunken tirade of two tired seekers who had lost their faith.
Dark notions, soiled with malice, rippled in a similar fashion across the noisome minds of the assassins. Unspoken accusations of betrayal, mistrustful glances at one another, vehement suspicions of their orders, their superiors, even of each other within their own ranks and most of all, their own wills…
The passage of these tainted thoughts ran roughshod over their hearts, easily outpacing even the whitewater river’s turbulent rush. Their anger and displeasure supped upon themselves, though, and the growing strength of these unwholesome, self-cannibalizing emotions sharpened these darklings’ killer instincts to a greater edge.
Their thoughts turned to profit, of how they could possibly gain from this, and how if this situation was indeed a set-up, how each and every one of them could possibly turn it for their own individual advantage. They thought of the position that would be open if their leader, the much-vaunted "Antoine", was indeed a traitor, and they thought of the potential for their own promotion in the field if such traitor (or traitors? There's always room for more, on the end of my blade...) were to be exposed and duly punished…
Where strife and discord would have lessened the resolve and morale of normal men, these raptors were not normal men, not by any stretch of the imagination or by any charity of the soul.
They were the scourge-slayers of House Belarus, the hell-harriers of Lucian Belarus himself, whose meat and drink were despair and dissolution.
What the House Belarus marks for extinction… the laughing blade of Nerull the Reaper will soon follow.
This time is no different from any other.
Like a hive-mind, the killers dwelled upon their grim thoughts, each aware that every single other one of them was thinking the exact same thing, and like a hive-mind, they acted in concert seamlessly, upon these dark urges.
The assassins waited, and smiled.
**
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