The lights upon the streetssparkled as diamonds crowning the neck of beatuiful bust that was the city of London herself. Young women were fitted in brilliant dresses and tall ballroom shows that glittered beautifully while their male counterparts walked along astride them in lovely suits with ties and snow white ruffles. Cuff links on their wrists sent flashes of light from reflections with the candle light. It was a home that should have belonged to a king or queen, but instead...it was his.
A man stood on the edge of the cobblestone streets near a tall building with marble colloums and gas lamps that lit up the glass door entryways. His eyes were almost glowing in the night, a stark electric violet that stood out from the dull eyes of the commoners or the egocentric eyes of the royals. His hair was cropped black just above his eyes and looked like sharp separate daggers for his bangs. Light golden olive was his skin which radiated the same brilliance as the street lights themselves. "Waiting for something?" A carriage driver asked as the black vehicle pulled up and the horses pawed at the stone agitatedly.
The chestnut manes of the beasts whipped as they tossed their heads, the man smiled, moving to their sides while patting their necks. It was as if a spell had fallen over the animals, they were silent suddenly and both looked at him lifting their heads as if in respect. "Just a friend," his liquid mercury voice replied as he stepped back up onto the corner, his shoes making a slight clack noise like the horses hooves. The driver smiled and tipped his tall top hat, lashing the reigns and starting off again to head down the street to a nearby theatre. Again the man waited, minutes passed before the glass doors opened and a portly gentleman with a long grey mustache and thinning white hair.
He was waddling down the steps laughing and hiccuping, obviously intoxicated on the champaigne from the party inside. The noise of laughter and roaring cheers died away as the doors fell shut again. The man stumbled over to the street corner and looked around, wiping snot on his sleeve collar from a bright red running noise. "Hot night eh?" the violet eyed man commented to the drunk who nodded and grinned dumbly back. "Don't sup..suppose you've got...a carriage...ol...old boy?" the drunk asked the man who already knew who he was. The drunk man's name was Leroy Alverson, a very important man within the Ministry of Defense. He was an aide who handled interesting documents that would be of great value of his employer.
The man shook his head at Leroy and rolled his neck, shifting his shoulders and looking over Leroy noticing he was completely unaware. A small beautifully designed stiletto slide down the mans sleeved and the handle become clasped in his hand.
"Sorry good sir, I have no clue but it seems as though your tie is loose. Let me fix it for you." He smiled venomously but Leroy didn't notice. In a flash the thin, tall blade slid into Leroy's jugular and tore through his spinal cord making his body fall limply into the man's arms. The same Carriage driver drove his horses back down on the opposite side of the road, his route finished. The man whistled, signaling the carriage over to the roadside.
"It appears that the alcohol was to much on my friend," the man chuckled, removing the blade with speed and stealth so that it went unseen. Leroy was dead and he took the lucky dice from his pocket coating them in blood and clasping them in his hand. "Mind taking him to the Ministry of Defense?" he asked while loading the body into the carriage making the vehicle rock to one side and then leveled out. The drive, not noticing a thing and giving the violet eyed man a toothy grin.
"A'course." the driver said in his cockney accent, letting the man shut the door and started the horses off again. The man watched the carriage and his dead mark disappear then whipped the blood on a kerchief tucking it back into his pocket and tucking the dagger into his suit jacket. It was a perfect night, his target dead...no witnesses, and his pay was assured. Why had he done such an act, kill a man on a street corner he had never met before? Strutting off down the street, he reviewed everything.
His name was Malik Caceus Antonius, twenty years of age, his job? He was as an assassin. Taking out anyone and everyone he was commanded to do so by whoever he chose as long as they payed him or gave him generous compensation. Tonight he had taken out Leroy, last night was another of Leroy's co-workers. Malik moved to his house on a hill overlooking the majority of the dazzling city, his home a mansion all to himself with a butler, a nanny, and a cook.
He had his own library, alchemy laboratory, and many more oddities that most of london didn't even have. At his home tucked into his secret compartment in one of the bricks upon his house, Malik removed his pay and tucked it in his pocket also taking out another note. The gist of the lengthy note read that his next target was a man named Peter...Peter Rosehall. It warned that he had a sister and a father who owned a shop in town and that Peter who unknowingly to his family was secretly in town, hiding in a local hotel room and dealing with some very unsavory business with a loan shark for gambling issues.
Malik smiled brightly and walked into his house, moving to sit in his overly sized dinning hall and eat his meal which was already prepared as ordered earlier in the day.
"Peter Rosehall..." he hummed taking a bit into a delicate piece of cooked deer. His eyes moved over the picture of the boy who was young, smiling promisingly. Next to him was a beautiful young woman, elegant and pale with long flowing black hair. Malik tilted his head. His brows fell together and his eyes narrowed slightly, this woman...he couldn't place his finger on it but he had a feeling that she would be terribly imortant or something close to that in the future.
"Hazel..." he murmured her name, deciding to speak with her tomorrow at her family shop, perhaps get information on both her and her brother in case the family became a target by order or getting in the way with his original assassination. But the letter with his instructions was signed as always by his handler. Follow Thy Bidding, Amat Victoria Curham