OOC: This is going to be narrated just as the others. My meaning: Double posts galore. I don't want to edit my initial message every time I update, and I believe that the experience for each post is deserved. Not to be arrogant, but this one especially will consume my heart and soul, it being entirely my topic. That being said, voila.
IC:

Larson Zachrian, a veteran of Killtactic Assassination, was born in a far away land. Holodrum, if ever anyone cared to hear its name. He had lived there for seven years, understanding and learning everything there is no know about the country. He was then transferred to Calatia for special schooling. His best friend's name: Daemon Flint, the head of K.A. Larson had been behind all of the paperwork. Namely, political sanctioning from the Calatian Government. Aside from this unwanted task, Larson was a profound member of the unit, his explosive weaponry a hit amongst the ranks of his murdering colleagues. No one, save for Daemon, was more disheartened when the sanctions were revoked and K.A. was disbanded.

Now he had been given new light. The unit's glorious return was in broad sight. He could feel it returning. Only the leader was more excited. And then there was the Boss, who was also interested in the return of the unit. But Larson had chosen to forget about that man for now, at least until the task at hand was completed. Blank Fireside. The name of his target, a nomad born in Hyrule but raised in Calatia. By Moblins. Larson knew the stories. Red Haired Kid. The thief was the only man to be spotted in a Moblin tribe. Larson had witnessed it long ago. He was not scared to be assassinating this Hylian; Blank had been involved in the destruction of Zachrian family property.

Lerimus Dublin had passed by hours before, baring the same news as he had told to the rest of the remaining assassins. Larson, like the others, had shrugged the senator off in the same fashion, expressing great dislike for the man. He had been happy when the green-coated politician exited the mountainside. Now ready to eradicate his target, Larson waited in silence on a ledge far above the usual traveler route. The red hair would be the indicator of his target's appearance.

Blank marched gallantly towards the mysterious Rito City: New Peaktop. He knew not why he was drawn to the home of the winged ones', but it was a place that he rarely visited. Being a wanderer, the nomad had spent most of his time traveling across North Hyrule in a state of boredom, endlessly searching for challenges and quests that he found suitable. He had found very little. Always an avid believer in the notion than the wingless men of the world would one day be enabled passage to the esteemed upper levels of the Rito City, he checked on the town every so often.

Today, however, he did not expect to be in the company of Larson Zachrian. He had never considered his red hair to be a very prominent target, and so he would never have guessed that that was precisely what the bomber above him was waiting for. Blank strolled casually across the Highlands, oblivious to the fact that he was being watched. He fidgeted with his only remaining flask; his last drink. He didn't believe that a tavern existed on the lower levels of New Peaktop, and so he was worried that he would be caught in the middle of nowhere with nought but water. A shame, as Blank would call it. He opened the flask anyway; nomads have as high a necessity for beverages as anyone else. In a somewhat relaxed state, Blank left himself open for an easy kill.

Far below, rocks and other miscellaneous debris crunched beneath the feet of a passing traveller. Although small, the sound carried upwards into the ears of Larson Zachrian. His eyes snapped open, and he rubbed away the droplets that had formed while he had been resting. The assassin yawned deeply and crouched on his ledge, slipping into a lowered position so as not to be seen by the man of whom was striding about below.

The bald man scanned the ground beneath his current location, searching for signs of the nomad. Raising his sunglasses above his eyes for a brief moment, he almost gasped at the shocking amount of sunlight that had seeped into his vision. For a moment he lay there, blind. After a minute or two, he could make out the blue sky and the brown earth. Larson blinked a few times to adjust his eyes to the bright sun's rays, and then peeked over the ledge to find signs of his target.

Not far below him walked Blank Fireside, walking slowly and carelessly across the mountain range towards the nearby city of the Rito. From his perch, Larson had gained an excellent advantage over his foe. He reached into his dark cloak, producing a thin, cylindrical device. It was a faded blue in color, resembling the seas of Hyrule. This particular explosive did not have a wick, or any other means of ignition. Rather, it was plainly a concealed cylinder loaded up with several chemicals and other explosive materials.

Larson grinned to himself, pushing his sunglasses back over his eyes and feeling the blinding force of the sun retracting. Watching the Hylian below, the man of Holodrum descent stood and leaned against the rocky cliff wall. He examined the direction of the wind, and the temperature in the region. Satisfied with the elements of the mission, he pressed is thumb into the top face of the explosive, setting a triggering mechanism off. Now, not being the foolish type (in fact, he was actually quite intelligent), Larson immediately lobbed his weapon of choice down the cliff-side, directly in front of his opponent.

Blank could not have imagined being so surprised. A small, blue cylinder had just landed by his feet. His first instinct was his usual: examination. He scarcely had the chance to lean over and look at the object before realizing what had to be done. Letting out a frantic yelp, the brown-eyed grunt leaped away from the bomb, throwing his arms over his head to protect himself and closing his eyes tightly.

And so he was shocked when the explosive went off. It wasn't the loudest of explosions, and Blank wondered if it had simply been a faulty bomb - a dud. Standing up, he brushed his clothing off and shook his head. And then, he opened his eyes, staggering backwards at what he saw.

He had become immersed in a realm of pure white, like the thickest of fogs. He couldn't see anything, save for his own body. He began to wander around the bright flash zone, but stopped, realizing that he could easily step right off the mountainside. There was nothing he could do, and so he just stood there. Instinctively, he drew his swords, preparing to lash out at any signs of movement.

OOC: I realize I promised to update this regularly, but I had severe computer problems. Without further ado, here is another portion of Blank vs Larson.

IC:

Larson was thankful that Blank was the only traveller choosing to wander up the mountain range that day. Barlum, Sloan and Daemon had all chosen wooded regions for their operations, and were safely concealed in the shadows. Martir had perched high atop a mountain, unseen by the naked eye, and Feris had chosen a harsh desert, devoid of almost all lifeforms and interferences.

Only Larson's and Andrea's chosen termination points were interpreted as risky. Andrea had wandered off into Hyrule Field, a region literally swarming with travellers, adventurers and patrolling Hylian Knights. Larson had chosen a road leading to the Rito City, which seemed to be more of a tourist attraction nowadays. And with that attraction come tourists. Larson was fortunate that his target was the sole wanderer below.

He watched the nomad become encompassed by the shrouding white mist, pleased that the flash explosive had performed suitably. It was not often that such an uncommon technology held up. It was merely the result of long planning that enabled the bomb to work properly; Larson had spent days assembling, testing and perfecting the few that he now carried. From his vantage point, the assassin could easily see Blank stumbling about in the artificial fog, and he laughed outwardly when the Hylian stood still. For someone apparently so dullwitted and unattuned, Blank Fireside was showing either a hidden wisdom, or a developed degree of common sense.

With his opponent standing dumbfounded and stunned far below, Larson was prepared to progress the "battle." Extracting two slender, ellipsical bombs from inside his cloak - which were aligned on an ammuntiion belt beneath the uniform - he carefully held the destructive objects and felt their weigth in his hands. He was amazed thats omething so small could cause so much damage. He felt that his methods were undoubtedly the easiest to perform of the seven surviving mercenaries. They may have been the messiest - they would often leave unrecognizable remnants of targets behind - but Larson had perfected his skills with the explosives on a personal reflection.

The smallest shock to the grenades would cause the ignition spark, and to light the fuse Larson simply touched the two explosives together. A whisp of smoke drifted upwards from the bombs; they were lit. Of course, holding them for even one second too long would result in the assassin's own undoing, and so they were tossed almost immediately afterwards. Larson watched the deadly weapons fall downwards towards the unsuspecting nomad below.

A sadistic grin crossed his face as Blank yelled out in pain. By the soundso f things far below, Larson's bombs had both hit their intended target. Looking down on the Hylian, the bald assassin saw that the diversionary fog created from his flash bomb had dispersed. His grin did not falter in the slightest as Blank collided with the ground face-first, having been sent flying from the sheer force of the explosive. A mound of churned up dirt and rock covered him.

He stood and brushed himself off, then quickly scurried towards New Peaktop. He would be safe there. Blank had no idea why anyone would be trying to kill him on this day in particular. The sun blinded him as he gazed upwards, unable to tell the difference between the black-cloaked mercenary and any darker toned rocks. If he didn't know any better, he would almost believe that the explosion was his imagination.

As he ran for cover, he suddenyl felt overwhelmed by a brilliant rush of fire and rock. At his feet, another explosion had gone off. A bomb set to a timer, or one set to blow when its desired target gets close enough. Either way, Blank was sent hurling backwards yet again, cursing as his face was pelted with debris, and wincing in pain as the explosion blasted at his feet, destroying his boots. The Hylian was incredibly fortunate that his legs were not blown off entirely.

High above, Larson was unable to notice the man standing behind him, as he was currently far too busy laughing at the unsuspecting fool below. A scarred Zora rested his hand on the bomber's shoulder, and if Larson had hair on that shiny bald cranium of his, it would surely be standing on edge.

Selerovisk Barret pressed his mouth towards the assassin's left ear, whispering menacingly into it. "That's quite enough, Larson. You know who that is. You know how important he is. Just stop. No one will have to know about this, and you can return to the castle."

"Leave me, Zora. This was the intention the entire time. Blank Fireside is to be terminated, and I don't give a damn about the Apostles' commandments." Larson spat off the side of the cliff, clearly showing contempt towards the organization in which he had been serving in. He watched the nomad struggle with the motion-detecting bombs.

"Very well..." The Zora stepped back into the shadows from whence he came, leaving the devoted explosives master to his battle.

The hooded Zora stood in the shadows. A salty tear ran from a bulged eye, down his face. In the time the Zora had known the bald assassin on the ledge before him, the two had become comrades. Selerovisk had never killed a friend. He glanced back at the other man standing in the shadows with him. The Zora's scarred lips seemed to spell out a simple question. “Must I?”

“Yes,” came a silent response back to him, in the form of a nod. He nodded back, as another tear came from the normally unemotional man's eye. The unidentified man bowed his head in shame, while pointing a gloved finger in the direction of the crazed bomber standing in the light. Larson bombarded Blank with yet another handful of standard bombs, and more of his cruel proximity devices below could be heard exploding, followed by the yelps of a nomad in serious pain.

Selerovisk sighed and stepped out of the shadows, back into the light with the man he had called friend. The only man of that type, to be honest. Placing his gloved, barbed hand on the other's back, he could feel his sharp scales digging into the soft black cloak that was a standard uniform piece amongst men of his organization. This instantly aroused the attention of the assassin, who was in mid-throw when he felt the prickly feeling a scaled hand touching his spine.

“Piss off, Barrett,” he spat in a rough tone. “This show's been over for ages. The Apostles can rot in their dark hole, for all I care. Now stand back.” The hand did not relent, however, but Larson took no note of the imposing threat; after all, he was the only known friend of the mentally unsound Zora. The possibility of what was about to commence was not even considered.

The Zora pressed his scarred face up to the assassin's ear once again. With a malicious grin, he hissed his response, and his concluding statement. “Yes, they can.” Larson fell easily; a simple prod of his hand was all it took for Selerovisk to commit the heinous act. He watched as his only true friend hurtled to the ground below.

Larson could be heard screaming as he fell. It was a hollow, confused yell that seemed to amplify as he fell. Blank looked up, dazed and confused, and in a dire state of disrepair at that moment. What he saw did little to rectify his confusion. A cloaked man plummeted towards the ground ahead of him, and Blank could only stare in awestruck terror as he watched the man who had obviously been the culprit bomber plunge to a certain death.

It was a great misfortune that Larson had planted his well-engineered motion-activity explosives at the base of the cliff. Selerovisk looked on in horror; the tears had grown to about four in total; he was not showing great emotion, however. An Apostle such as Victor Vir, or possibly Jett Ericson, would have bent double and cried for hours if they had thrown a great friend from the top of cliff. The tears were beginning to penetrate the Zora's scars; the addition to sodium to a wound, or even to the skin of those who thrive in water, was unbearable. He turned in disgust as Larson was virtually shattered by the impact with the bomb - nothing remained of the once proud mercenary.

And yet one last thing had caught Blank's eyes. Those sunglasses. He flashed back to that day, around half a year before; Denning had encountered him at the inn in Rauru... they had seen that man, and his accomplices. Blank had known he was in danger... how could he have forgotten? He prayed silently to the goddesses that his dear friend Denning was safe, and ran from the scene. Ran as fast as he could, away from the grotesque, haunting remains of the assassin; because the bomb had not destroyed that one last vital thing. Larson's blood stained the ground, and Blank had no desire to see it any longer.

Higher up, Selerovisk returned to the shadows of the ledge. The other cloaked man was gone. Probably back to the castle, he thought. Very well then. Larson, your death may have been in vain in the aspects of your goal. But I swear that in mine, you will truly be avenged. The Zora closed his eyes, and relaxed his senses. In an instant he was gone; the scene of the attempted murder turned murder had been deserted.