Deep in North Forest, among the silent trees and thick foliage, two men converse in hushed tones. Lerimus Dublin, a middle-aged senator of Calatian descent, arrived on this scene only moments ago. The second man, Barlum Avrum, is hardly distinguishable from the trees as he smears a camouflaging paint on his face. His cloak remains black, as it will still retain the ability to be unseen in the darkness of the forest. The young sniper has mastered what he refers to as an art: Invisibility. While in his disguise and surrounded by a suitable environment, Barlum is able to to avoid being seen in any setting.

The young man was born in Byrna, but was transferred to Calatia as a child, where he befriended the many sadistic people that would later form Killtactic Assassinations. Barlum's only ace for making people like him was his ability to kill an impressive amount of people with so little effort. In the old days of his unit, he was often referred to as Ghost, or sometimes Chameleon. He is able to survive in any weather conditions and can stay awake for days at a time. He can also boast the longest period of time without sustenance: two weeks.

... and you are to report to me when you have removed Reg's head. Won't be hard for you, killer.

Maybe I can warm up by removing your head first, senator. Anyways, this fight is in the bag. What's the drunk going to do? Fire random spells in the direction that he thinks he's being shot at from? I'm almost insulted to be faced by an unworthy opponent such as himself.

In Barlum's hand are five empty carrying cases from the weapons that he has brought with him to the Forest. All five have been set up at different points in this area of North Forest. The sniper can easily jump from one to tree to another to change weapons at any time. Each is the same: A large metallic crossbow fitted with hundreds of barbed arrows. Barlum's weapon of choice has never missed its target. Just by having five with him, the man expresses the importance of this mission.

Dublin has disappeared. Barlum does not mind this, as the old senator is hardly welcomed by any of the seven remaining members of Killtactic Assassinations. Barlum heaves himself into the trees and waits for the drunken Reg to show himself in the forest prepared to wait for days on end for his query.

Drink in hand, Reg takes his evening stroll through Hyrule's mass. The bulk of his weight swaying in the midnight breeze as is his drink that sloshes in a rythmic fashion. Darkness adorned his every facet as did the lass he carried in his free arm. 'Women and wine.' his motto, his philosophy, his life in three words. He has no need for the whimsical and foolish notions of adventure, money, a lavish abode...just the simple pleasures of a drink and a lass to keep him standing rather than on the floor.

"Luna, dearest, how have you been?" He says, amazed at his own soberness...or atleast to some degree. Reg, always prided himself in his ability of fashioning himself a straight blade in the company of a girl. A talent he's currently exploiting for a certain sniper laying in the depths of the darkness.

"Well Reg, as much as I enjoy taking a walk in the moonlit forests of Hyrule, I do have a favor to ask of you?" She says, coming into the precarious silence of a clearing...the soft scent of the ocean sweeping over the field and the moon finally laying its alabaster gaze on the form being carried by Reg's arm. She was a fit looking a girl, adorned in simple clothing but all the more attractive. Piercing blue eyes, porcelain skin, the thickness of her hair painted in the light of the moon and it was surely coincedence that misses' surname was moonshine. Miss Luna Moonshine...it has a ring to it don't you think?

"But of course, dear. You know that it's always a pleasure to serve a girl in need." Reg said, his familiar grin slowly stretching the sides of his mouth and you can see the darkess overcome his pupils but the intensity of his smile breaking forth. Reg was a catch in any woman's case, he knew that and he made sure to use that simple fact whenever he could. Built with broad shoulders, rough black hair, and sun burnt skin that has left him with a tan. His eyes black as a dog's and a smile just as sly. His attributes go on and on but it's simply summarized in a god given form...but like every mona lisa and masterpiece...if you look close enough...you can see the flaws.

"Heh, sorry kid...but not that kind of favor." She says with a giggle, miss moonshine always loved taunting reg's self proclaimed irresistible charm. "You've got to talk to Jack for me." She says, her arm provacativly sweeping over his shoulders as she nears him, obviously playing with his emotions for the shear drama of a night like this and for her own enjoyment.

"Now miss, what would this conversation entail." He says, leaning in for his payment in advance. "I don't do much without knowing there's something in it for me, you know that, dear." The seriousness in his eyes contradicting the humour in his voice as he flips the wisps of starlit hair as he can now see every facet of her countenance.

"But of course, Reg...I'd be a fool to not be aware of that"she replys in friendly banter and just as they were about to embrace lips, she smiles and stops him. "Did you hear that."

Reg stares at her for a long time, the smile no longer in its familiar form, his eyes lacking the hint of humor and a dead mask plastered on his face. With a sigh, and a long copius take of his drink he murmurs in his silence..."damn it."

OOC:I love that last part, heh, heh...

High above the drunken mage, in the covetous assortment of leaves and twigs, Barlum eyed his prey. The odd man was perfectly befitting of his physical description... as well as the description of his behavior.

Barlum had once been somewhat the same. Now, nowhere in "the same" did the sniper qualify as "raging alcoholic" or "intoxicated vagrant," but he had always had quite the fancy for a good drink. He almost wished that he could come down from his hiding place, shake Reg Nocturne's hand, and become great friends with the query, forgetting about his duty to his unit.

Almost. Barlum Avrum's haunting six-letter word. He had almost stopped himself from practising his precise methods on the crowd of innocents below him on that fateful morning. He had almost considered descending the spiral stairs of the belfry and putting his crossbow contraption back in the basement of his rustic Calatian home. He had almost pursued a normal life; an office job, with a wife and children. But his classmates were cruel. They had driven the poor man of Byrna descent into a desperate hope that violence may win them over. And he had killed for them.

As the drunk walked about below him, Barlum shrugged these dead emotions from his mind and focused on his prey. For the first time in hours, he spoke, letting his prey know that care is of the essence. His voice was hushed and low, but not difficult to hear. Even a drunk could be distracted by the warnings in this dark forest. "The predator eyes his prey with his sharpened glass eye. Soon you will sleep," came the eerie message from the trees.

The trigger was pulled. The menacing arrow was coming.

Its an odd feeling, the blunt of an arrow protruding out of your body. There’s a sense of lucid dream like motion as if time slows down just to see the projectile hit its mark. There’s a strange mixture of cold anxiety and warmth as you can see red spread like a plague through your body. I used to think that if a person has enough will to live and something to live for…he could overcome the physical limitations of a human cadaver, atleast in its animate state.

Reg stands cold, the shrieking of Luna drifting away like a lost memory. Red paints his outer torso but there’s an odd smile plastered on his face has he caresses the wood of the arrow. The texture is fine, made of red oaks near by. It’s smooth as the glass of a lake but there is a rough feel to it in some places, the product of a man made arrow.

“Luna, do you mind shutting your trap for a brief moment.” His legs break wind to the emptiness as he crashes onto the soft of the greens. Hands embracing the cold touch of the arrow, he stares at its origin with a wicked smile. The clench of his fingers tighten on the hold and his hands slowly move outwards, pushing the air between him and the cold touch of the arrow. ‘This…’

The arrow takes its leisurely time escaping the cavity in his chest but his smile stays frigid. And as the last bits of the tainted head are removed from his fallen body, he blows a kiss to the shadows from wench the arrow came, the mocking gesture asking for a better fight no doubt.

“Luna…do you mind running back to the bar…I’m going to need a drink after this.” He shoos her away, his bloody hand pointing towards the tavern. He was merely being polite but that statement was as cold a demand as anyone may be in receipt of. Without further notice, the lovely lass runs out of the clearing and into the depths of the woods to not be heard of until this fray was taken care of.

“Show yourself coward…I still have two servings worth of gin with me…you might as well come down for a swig with a dying man.”

OOC:Sorry for the long wait...but erg...lots of things outside HA...lets hope that this doesn't end up with me dying soon.

OOC: Let's hope indeed. That would not be the greatest thing
IC:

Bullseye, thought Barlum as his custom arrow struck his target in its intended position. A disturbing pleasure crept through his head as Reg's blood flowed openly and quick from the impressive wound; he could not deny his lust for bloodshed. I'm going straight to hell, he thought, smiling as the drunk's maiden disappeared into the foliage. It had been a sight that he had long since forgotten about: a helpless target, powerless to stop him. Barlum was not a big man, lacking physical build, confidence and book smarts, and so the only thing that boosted his self esteem was watching his enemies grovel under the danger that he brought to the party.

Not insulted in the slightest by Reg's mocking demeanor, Barlum readied his crossbow with a second arrow. A smug grin made its way from corner to corner on his ghastly, painted face. Surrounded by leaves and trapped in a humid position, the sniper began to sweat profusely. The dampened face paints smudged as he lay there in complete silence, eyeing his target. The perspiration made him incredibly uncomfortable; a lesser man would have given in to the temptation to wipe the annoying liquid away, but Barlum was intent on victory, and would never allow himself to be seen. It was in this focused trance that something quite unexpected happened.

A raven, a black bird representing grim misfortune and death, landed silently behind the still form of the wily assassin, curious as to why its dwelling had been blocked by the man. It hopped about the tree that Barlum had chosen to wait in, without the sniper even realizing. Had he noticed the raven, fear would have gripped him like a Goron miner clutching a pick axe. Ravens had appeared in his dreams simultaneously towards the dissolution of the famed Killtactic Assassination unit, a symbol of omen. The haunting, winged creature had also been seen during the downfall of the unit; It had been Fort Raven in which the Disaster was enacted.

Now focused on Reg, preparing to shoot again, Barlum cast a blind eye to the presence of the ominous raven. Pulling the trigger on the incredible crossbow, he released the dangerous shaft with a sickening thwap sound. The sharpened arrow pierced the ground not an inch from Reg's head, shaking the ground directly around it. It was at this moment that the raven, frightened by the crossbow, squawked in fear and fled from the tree. It would never be difficult for Reg to see where the raven had been perched; it would also seem obvious that the assassin had chosen to nest in that general area.

A cough spills out of the drunks mouth, an ill sounding regurgitation of alcohol tainted in a red hue. He mumbles something through the intervals between his spouting. It was orchestrated with the sounds of malice and some kind of chuckle that could only escape as another deathly cough in the dead air tonight. Removing his cloak, he begins to swagger over the grassy clearing leaving a blood trail in his wake.

"So...*cough*...that's where he is...*cough*..." The words might as well have been thoughts since they came slurred and inaudible to the sniper laying hidden in the trees, surely having his laugh at the lowly figure struggling towards him.

Reg was not one to fight, he threw away most of his knowledge of the dark arts in his gin and tonic as well as his memories. His mind was now a barren archive of spells that once were. All he had now was the small list of weak spells that not even he could control and a bottle of almost gone alcohol...but it was enough to take out a sniper in the trees.

With a deep gurggle o the fowl drink in his bottle, he moves onward like a snake writhing through the grass. For some unknown reason the drink sloshed in his mouth, refusing to go down...and you could almost see Reg holding back a smile.

And as the lowly bartender came close enough to the shadows of the canopy he dropped on the floor...idly removing a pipe from his satchel. The low sparks kindling in the midnight air and painting his face in the red hues of blood and the orange tints of the flame...

He held it a good foot from his mouth and as the grin in his eyes began to show he spewed out all the alcohol in his mouth. The spray evolving into a mass of fire as it kindled in the flame of the pipe. It truly was a massive explosion of flame and alcohol as it went into the night, lighting the tree aflame and all it's dead or now dead leaves.

A chuckle could be heard after his spew of fire...a sickly sound of sadistic humor.

Barlum had not expected a raven to be watching over his battle. As it squawked, two thoughts circulated through his mind. The raven is an omen of my opponent's downfall, and The raven is an omen of my own downfall. Barlum doubted it to be the former. The piercing cries of the black-feathered bird of death mingled with the sounds of Reg's slurs down below. Barlum could not make out the fact that his cover had been lost from the bartender's words; rather, he knew it was so by the departing raven. A silent curse escaped him, and he gazed in shock at the arrow stuck in the ground near the now vertical target.

Barlum had not expected a drunk to think of a technique so clever, and so he was truly amazed when his opponent extracted he pipe. He's smoking? In the middle of a battle? Fool; that certainly won't help to prolong his life. thought the thin assassin, peering into his customized scope once more to fire off another arrow, aimed directly at Reg's pipe. The following attack would not simply knock the object out of the drunk's hand; it would sheer the pipe in half and proceed to silence the man forever. No more drunken ramblings, and that wound'll make it easier for me to behead him afterwards, thought Barlum, pleased that such an elegant opportunity had arisen. He squinted through the scope, watching the man, examining him. His smug expression quickly gave way to horror.

Leaping towards him like a bat out of hell, a whirling torrent of flame could be viewed from the scope. It demolished the crossbow, and sent Barlum flying backwards out of his tree, alight with the horrible flames. A thin cry escaped him as he plummeted to the ground, landing with a dull thump!, accented by the resounding crack. The sniper looked at his left leg. Broken. The fire had been nullified by the fall, but that did little to please him now. Behind him, his sniping point riveted with flames, his valuable equipment lost in the blazing mess. Bits of ash and falling, burning debris would hit him constantly, and all he could do was roll away from the mess. Unfortunately, this brought him closer to Reg.