Lord Turos D’amanien had held control of the town’s politics for more than three tendays now. He had an influential role to say the least, and he also had no intention of losing such a role. With it, he could do as he wished and have as he wished; only a madman would be willing to forfeit such a thing. The only resistance he had faced this far was the paladin “savior” Anemas. He had defeated Anemas’ previous attempts at overthrow, for his superior magic had given him a decisive upper hand, but the paladin was now becoming too big a threat to ignore. He had survived numerous assassins that Turos had hired; but the dark mage was convinced that this one was different.

Turos stood slowly from his chair, dropping his spellbook heavily onto the desk. Bringing a gloved hand to his flowing, black hair and side glancing suspiciously around the room with an ever-present sneer, he pulled the long strands behind his head and transfixed them, magically, into a ponytail. Turos absently smacked his dry, cracking lips together and let out a murmur of displeasure. Sneering further now, he muttered the words “Call forth” and an ear-splitting pop rang around his study chamber, echoing off the bare stonewalls before disappearing. Instantly, the thick wooden door that was the entrance swung open on creaking hinges, revealing a guard stood to attention in the doorway. The dim light enchanted on the study desk caused pale glimmers on the guard’s polished black half-plate, flickering along the metal as he moved. Turos gave the guard a scrutinizing glare, almost suspicious in his manner, before speaking in a low hissing, yet commanding tone.

“Fetch me some water.”

Without a word, the door guard nodded his helmeted head and took leave to complete the task; he did not wish to become ‘just another number.’ Turos returned grumpily to his study desk, glancing down at the books, scrolls and quills spread over the weirwood surface. A domination spell had been eluding him recently, and as the time passed by that he had not learnt to understand the complex patterns of the spell, the worse Turos’ mood became. Looking through the papers on his desk for his most recent research on the spell, Turos tossed quill and scroll aside. It wasn't there. He began to become frantic as he searched for the work, emitting an aggravated hiss.

"Where is it?!"

"Looking for this?"

Turos whirled around quickly, his silver cloak swirling about his waist. The mage half-sighed and half-growled as he became face-to-face with a slender moon elf, clad from head to toe in black leather, holding his parchment aloft.

"Give that to me..."

Di'thang shrugged off Turos' demand, running a hand along his tied, ice white hair, his small golden eyes locked on the mage, displaying an obvious lack of fear or compliance.

"We have come for our payment."

Turos narrowed his beady eyes, absently clenching his fists. He examined the calm posture of the elf, and the parchment gripping in his pale fingers and set his jaw.

"He is dead?"

"As promised."

Turos didn't doubt his words; he had expected this one would be the one to rid him of Anemas. On the other hand, he had no intention of paying the elf for his services.

"How do I know you do not lie to me? Tell me that."

Without saying a word, Di'thang held out his free hand to reveal a necklace, and on the end of it was a small pendant of silver, shaped like a gauntlet; the symbol of Torm. Just in case Turos did not know the meaning of what he held, Di'thang explained.

"His necklace. He never took it off, are we right?"

Turos sneered and nodded his head numbly, slowly sweeping towards Di'thang as if to examine the necklace.

"You are right, elf. It seems then you did complete the task."

"Our payment…?"

Turos nodded his head and put his withered hand to the moon elf's shoulder, the two men's eyes suddenly locked. Di'thang did not flinch from the touch; he did not feel it through the armor either way. An odd smile came to light Turos' lips now, as he turned his head and murmured an incantation under his breath. The finger he had placed on Di'thang's shoulder instantly began to glow white... but the sudden flash of a blade ended the spell, and removed the mage's finger completely.

Di'thang swept to the side, frowning at the close call he had just had with the Finger of Death. Turos looked down at his pale finger lying limp on the floor, and then to his now three-fingered hand, where there was now a gaping wound bleeding freely. He looked up at Di'thang quickly, his jaw clenched in a burning rage. A new incantation slipped freely off his cracked lips as he brought both palms together, facing Di'thang, and instantly a ball of white-hot fire shot from his hands. Di'thang swooped to the ground and rolled on his side, narrowly avoiding the Fireball as it soared overhead, singeing his hair before colliding with a bookcase and igniting it.

Turos shot a horrified look at his burning books and, releasing they were lost he cursed beneath his breath before turning his attention back to his new adversary... who was no longer there. A panic swept over Turos like a black cloud, as he took a troubled step backwards, his gaze darting from left to right in bewilderment. Only when he felt the dagger at his throat did Turos realize where Di'thang was.

"Fortano Fordiguma"

Di'thang felt the energy drain from his body unnaturally and the dagger dropped from his hand as he fell to his knees, groaning. He had not anticipated a burst of Negative Energy. Turos staggered forwards, swallowing heavily the lump that had arisen in his throat. He turned quickly to see Di'thang prone on his knees, trying desperately to recover his lost energy. The dark mage had no intention of allowing it, and he raised both hands over his head, chanting once again some words of the Art, and from his raised hand shot a ball of energy, which hit the floor before Di'thang and expanded into a cloud of red gas.

Turos sneered coldly as his study was filled with the red Incendiary Cloud, masking Di'thang's energyless form. Imagining the moon elf choking to death as his every muscle became limp under the cloud, Turos let loose a menacing chuckle of triumph. Anemas, the thorn in his side, was eliminating and the bothersome elf that had brought it to be had choked to death on his study floor. Things were working out well for the dark mage.

The cloud cleared as the spell expired, and Turos' eyes scanned the floor for the body of the elf. But it was not there. The mage was hit with a sudden wave of dread, his small eyes searching the room in a vague hope of finding the assassin dead somewhere in his study, gasping for his last breath, his muscles trembling with his last shot of energy. Only when the blade had pierced the top of his skull did Turos realize where Di’thang was; stood behind him on the study desk, more alive that he had ever been thanks to a skilful Evasion, the hilt of the dagger in both hands.

A shriek of agony echoed around the study as Turos fell limp to the floor, the warm blood flowing down from his skull, highlighting the jagged contours of his face. The guards outside heard the cry, swiftly charging into the study to aid their fallen master, their scimitars unsheathed, ready for combat. Their eyes lowered to look to the unmoving body of Lord Turos, the dagger still protruding from the top of his skull. Scanning the area quickly for signs of the killer who had done this to the dark mage, they found only the charred remains of a bookcase; the assassin was nowhere to be seen.

They did not notice as Di’thang slipped past them, concealed by the shadows around them and carrying in his armor a pouch of gold pieces and magical items; the spoils of his efforts.