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 Musicology Anthology Entry |
| Notes ▼ Wren studied the soldiers from her perch in the open rafters. She was balanced comfortably on a thick oak beam high above the tavern’s floor; her back against the truss post, legs stretched, and ankles crossed. The light cascading from the oil sconces dotted around the common room did not reach the eaves. A fact she used to hide her presence from the inebriated patrons. This was her favourite part of the process – stalking her unsuspecting prey. It allowed her to look beneath the surface and see a person's true face, the monster they kept hidden from the rest of the world. Everyone had one. Some people were simply better at burying it. William Barrow, however, was not. His demons lay just beneath his skin and came out to play too often. The heavy-set man sat at the table in the corner of the room. It had been three years since she had seen him. A night she would rather forget. Unfortunately, her nightmares had other ideas. Time had not been kind to him. Deep crows' feet furrowed the sides of his eyes, which were sunken beneath heavy lids, and his blonde hair had thinned at his crown, no doubt from the mandated slouch hat tucked into his side pocket. She watched and smiled as he schooled the subtle tremor in his dominant hand each time he raised his cup to his lips; this was something she could exploit. “Two stripes,” she observed, “still a Corporal.” His lack of promotion was not a surprise given his extracurricular activities and lack of composure. The man talked with his fists and thought with his dick. He was as predictable as the tide. It made him easy to follow. “Another round!” Barrow bellowed to the passing waitress. He wrapped a thick hand around the girl’s wrist and tugged harshly to get her attention. She winced and stumbled towards the table, but he took little notice of her discomfort. “I don’t want that piss-pale ale either,” he barked, “Bring me the good stuff.” He took a gold coin from the pile that lay haphazardly on the table and handed it to the girl with a wink. He had been lucky with the bones tonight and would be leaving with a good chunk of the tables' coins. Barrow was the last name on her list. Ten blackened souls whose elimination served as Wren's final assessment, and a demonstration of her skill, creativity, and resilience before she was granted permission to take her place amongst the other Guild assassins. The elders had been gracious and allowed her to submit two personal candidates for consideration. A concession granted only to those who showed exceptional aptitude and promise. William Barrow and James Kisp had made the cut. At five-foot four, Wren did not stand out as tall and her slight frame disguised the threat she posed. It was a trait she used to maximum effect when she needed to blend into her surroundings or disappear into the crowd. What she lacked in height and build, she made up for in speed, agility, and stamina, and with lean muscles and reflexes that were honed to impeccable precision. She was silent, ruthless, and deadly. The perfect student. She had dispatched Kisp last week. His death was underwhelming and thoroughly unsatisfying, but it had met the Guild’s brief of death by poison; a sprinkle of bintaro seeds and dried aconite on his morning porridge had induced acute heart failure. It was less than he deserved. A mistake she would not make with Barrow. Her target had been sat with his men for the past hour. The roast chicken at the centre of the table greased the men’s fingers as they shared the bird amongst the four of them. She did not recognise the others. In comparison to their supervisor, they were young and baby-faced. Not yet tainted by his influence. It was this that saved them from becoming collateral damage, though that could change depending on how the evening unfolded. The waitress returned with a freshly filled jug of house ale and fresh cups. The soldiers were three rounds deep into the start of a long evening. The alcohol flushed their faces and loosened their tongues, providing false bravado. Each man was desperate to impress Barrow and gain his favour. It was pathetic really. “I need a piss,” Barrow announced as he stood and ducked his head. The backdoor stood on the other side of the common room, across the sea of wooden tables, benches, and sawhorses. He slowly meandered his way through the crowd, bracing his hand on a man’s shoulder as he stumbled drunkenly over his boots. “Finally!” she muttered. Once he had disappeared through the doorway, she stood and gracefully walked across the joist, weaving her way around the struts that braced the ceiling, to the skylight. The window was narrow, but large enough for her to slip through. Her steps were light and surefooted as she navigated the gentle slope of the slate tiles and climbed to the ridge of the rooftop. Winter was well on its way. The temperature had dropped since the sun had set and the first silvery threads of frost had begun to spread across the dark grey tiles. Wren’s chestnut hair whipped around her jawline in the icy breeze. She pulled up her cowl and raised the gaiter over her mouth to block out the cold. Hiding her identity was not a priority, she had no intention of leaving any witnesses, but until she had passed the point of no return, discretion was always advisable. She crouched at the edge of the roof and peered into the alleyway, looking for signs of movement. Barrow leaned against the wall, oblivious to the danger he was in, one hand braced against the stonework, the other holding his dick as he tried not to piss on his boots. He was alone. A malicious smile graced Wren’s petite features. There was only one way down. She turned to lay flat on her stomach, swinging both legs over the gable, and scaled down the side of the building silently. Her nimble fingers and arrow-point boots found easy purchase in the aging mortar. She landed softly and crept quietly down the alley, using the shadows to manoeuvre closer to her target. As she drew near, she stood to her full height and straightened her shoulders. Posture denoted confidence, she would not allow him to intimidate her. She stepped away from the wall and into the dim light. “William Barrow,” she called, her voice steady despite her thundering heartbeat. “Who’s askin?” he quipped, tilting his head in her direction. “You don’t remember me?” Wren asked, feigning offense. She continued to saunter towards him at an even pace, only stopping when she was close enough to see the flecks of red in his otherwise grey eyes. He turned towards her, taking his time fastening the buttons on his trousers, and casting a deliberate, lurid glance over her body. “Don’t believe I’ve ‘ad the pleasure.” “Oh, you have. You might not remember me, William, but I certainly remember you.” He grunted in response. “You and Kisp made quite the lasting impression.” A spark of recognition flickered across his face and was punctuated with a sneer. “Aah, I see! You’re that little rabbit from the night of the Beltane festival.” He stiffened but held his position. His eyes narrowed and tracked her form, assessing the threat. His stance remained open and relaxed, yet his claws started to elongate and break through the tips of his nailbeds, as the predator beneath the surface raised its head and paid attention. “I should really be thanking you William,” she continued, “Without you and Kisp I'd probably still be that wide-eyed girl. I'd never have discovered my talent for rage and revenge..." she paused, her lips curling at the sides, "I mean just ask Kisp... He got to see it firsthand.” A snarl left Barrow's throat, and his eyes shifted to their Lycan form; the thick, red ring bleeding into the dead grey of his irises. He lunged forward and gripped the coarse, black fabric of her shirt, pinching the fleshy skin just above her heart. She had forgone the standard issued leather breastplate, opting instead for her corseted belt which offered less protection but allowed her to carry more of her silver kunai knives. Despite the inevitable bruises that would be visible tomorrow, and the torrent of abuse that Joss would levy her way at her reckless behaviour, it was still the tactical choice. A tremor wrecked Barrow's fist, weakening his grip. Wren coiled her fingers around the juncture of his wrist and squeezed, twisting it as she wrenched it away from her body. She rotated, slamming her forearm into his throat and sending his windpipe into spasm. She pivoted, as he gasped for breath, and reached around his neck to place him in a choke hold, flipping him over her hip and taking him to the ground with a heavy thud. She drew a mercury-dipped blade from her belt and sliced at the flesh between his hip and ribs in a deep, sweeping motion. The edge of the knife tugged against his shirt as it ripped through the material. “You... Bitch!” Barrow screeched. Each word laced in pain. He rolled away and clutched his side. The particles took mere seconds to circulate through his bloodstream, flooding his system with the debilitating substance. The telltale blue hue of his veins pulsed against his ashen skin, as the combination of alcohol and poison started to affect his coordination and prevented his transformation. “It's poetic don’t you think?” she giggled manically, “The rabbit… that’s what you called me, right… a rabbit? ... Has turned its tail to show its teeth and hunt the wolves.” “You’re unhinged,” he spat. His breath was laboured. The tried to stand, but his muscles strained under his weight, and he collapsed to his knees, falling onto the palms of his hands. “What 'ave you done to me?” “Me? Nothing… I mean other than the silver and mercury.” She twirled her blade between her fingers, “but you really shouldn’t have upset Maggie." She rolled her eyes at Barrow's blank look, "The barkeep...?! She was only too happy to slip a little wolfbane in your drinking cup.” Barrow leaned back on his haunches; his neck strained as he glared at her. Blood was seeping freely from his cut and had begun to pool in a deep maroon puddle. Wren stepped forward and circled the wounded animal with careful and deliberate steps. She slipped another kunai from her belt and palmed both blades in her hands, the weight familiar and comforting. “I confess William, I'm disappointed. I was expecting more." she pouted. She stepped to the side and flicked her wrist. The small knife hit its mark and buried itself in his neck. He gurgled. Blood rising to his lips. She leaned in close. "Welcome to my darkside, arsehole," she whispered, "I'm glad you got to see it before you go, you're its architect after all." The final blade slid effortlessly between his ribs, piercing his lung. "Say hello to the dead for me...” She twisted the knives and pulled them free, pushing his body forward with a swift kick to the back. He was still breathing, but it would be short-lived, there was no saving him. The metal glistened as she inspected both weapons for damage. She leaned down and wiped them clean on the fabric of his shirt, slipping them securely into her belt. The alley was still deserted, but it wouldn’t be long until his body was discovered. It was time to leave. With a final look at the monster that had shaped her adult life, Wren turned and walked away. **** Lyrics ▼ |
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