Tales of Limlin: Andorian's Heart

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Tales of Limlin: Andorian’s Heart Andorian, master assassin of Dghahari City, waltzed down the narrow alley. Upon reaching a scarred, pockmarked and bloodstained door, he tapped four times with well-practised movements. A mountain of a man greeted him at the door, grunting his approval to enter. The guildmaster, Tanwar, stood upon a lofty perch, no more than an inch across, and was twirling with amazing feats of acrobatics and skill. Jumping down the nine metre height and landing lightly upon his toes, he nodded his head to Andorian, and spoke three simple words, “Yestfer talin waro,” The noble is dead, he had said in the ancient speech of the Elves. Andorian merely bobbed his head in reply. For another target was awaiting his death. Pinned upon a wall was the listed names of those who had been hated by someone enough to have the Blovenhayen performed, a ritual that in the common tongue means the Bloodspilling. The Blovenhayen was like a call to the assassins, and once performed, it was impossible to remove the curse of death from a target. Andorian meandered through the broken and bloodied training equipment, and upon reaching the wall, put his mark next to the highest profile target. As Andorian left the hideout, Tanwar spoke, “You choose to kill the king?” and then Andorian froze, before again nodding to Tanwar, and he set off towards the palace keep.

A thud was heard in the palace that night, the following morn, the dead body of one of the king’s elite guard was found upon the floor. Thinning the herd, thought the man in the rich robes who was hiding in the shadows, blending in with both the crowd and his surroundings. The following night, Andorian was plotting his next move, when another guard walked below him, and looked skywards. The man died before he could utter a word, a small silver disk could be seen through his punctured jugular. Many nights and men followed, some stabbed in the back, some with slit throats, yet more had arrows or knives turning their bodies into morbid pincushions. Scarlet stains decorated the castle even more than the plush white rugs that were lain in winter to keep the warmth from dissipating quite as quickly.

The king lay in his bed, bodies plaguing his mind. While he stared at the ceiling, his door opened and a servant brought fresh fruit to his bedside. After thanking the man, the king turned and delicately ate a slice of peach, chewing well, for the season brought tough food to his table. The servant had yet to leave the room, and a small knife slid into his hand. The king realised that something was going to happen to him, but the servant, no the king realised, assassin, was pointing the knife towards his child, who had lost her mother in the days after childbirth. The realisation that a man so heartless as to murder a child was in his room shook the king to his very foundations, steeling his nerves and drawing a breath, the king whispered, “None may harm such an innocent life, take mine and leave hers. I will not scream nor cry out in pain, but mercy be upon your soul if you commit such a heinous act as to kill one so young.”

The assassin walked towards the king saying, “The child’s life is spared, if willing be you to forfeit your own.”

“I am, for her,” the king said, no tremor nor quaver shook his voice as he spoke the condemning words. The knife sliced down, and an artery in the king’s neck was severed, blood pulsing out. Never did the king’s eyes move from Andorian’s own, and no glimmer of fear shone within them. With the king dead, Andorian paced towards the sleeping child in her crib, for an assassin tends to lie. A bloody knife poised to strike, tears brimmed in Andorian’s eyes, and water cascaded down his cheeks...