The lightning crashed around him, ever a hostile threat. The Marquis covered his head in his hands as he staggered on, groaning to himself as a mariner would when fighting the angry sea. That was how he felt now; fighting for his life against the powers of a furious Mother Nature. Only now did he realise that a man brought up on the principles of etiquette and manners was not in the slightest qualified for doing business with the likes of men that he had these pasts days involved himself with. He was a higher class than that, the Marquis had thought; and yet apparently he was not.

He tripped now on a rock breaking his route, and hit the sopping surface with a dull thud. Bitterly, the Marquis reminded himself of the deals that took place just days ago. The feared buccaneer had wanted the guidelines for the treasure galley that the docks would be releasing, and who better than the man who had signed such intricate details to give him such facts? The information would have a hefty price on it, of course. All would probably have gone smoothly if the Marquis hadn’t been fool enough to fall foul of the man. It had been a poorly executed attempt at swindling the swindler. Slowly the nobleman dragged himself up, looking quite the opposite of that which his status would suggest. “If Vivian could see me now, she would be aghast,” he sobbed out loud, his voice drowned out by another roar of thunder. But the thoughts of his loved one at home did nothing to aid the undesirable situation he found himself in.

The Marquis chanced himself a glance back at the place he had left. The sea looked black under the starlit sky, the reflection of the whole moon giving the surface an eerie appearance. The docks rose around these waters, menacing in what they meant to the Marquis this night. They now housed his every nightmare, the cause of that nagging pulling at his gut like a heavily weighted anchor. He half expected to find a score of rogues heading in his direction, cutlasses and scimitars held between their teeth, muskets drawn ready for the gruesome execution. This was not the case. The night exploded around him as it had the moment he had turned tail. The constant pattering of rain accompanied the sound of slopping mud. This changed then to the crunching of gravel as he found himself stumbling out of the marshy riverbanks and onto the horse trail. This seemingly bore a significant turning point for the Marquis, who allowed himself a moment to catch his breath and attempt to untangle his individual collars. With the undergrowth of the marsh behind him, the Marquis began to move at no more than a quickened walking pace. Despite the darkness, the clearing now granted him a much clearer view of his surroundings, allowing far less chance of a surprise attack. The Marquis had a fleeting hope that he had indeed escaped his foe unscathed and that there might be chance of returning to his quarters before either of his children awoke.

Continuing his pace through the precipitation in the direction of his home, the Marquis considered the possibility of escaping this fiasco unscathed. He had anticipated the man he had conned would not let his actions go unpunished. Yet the moment his scheme had been unravelled, the Marquis had barely expected to make it out of the warehouse. Many a time had he pulled the proverbial wool over another man’s eyes and reaped the benefits without consequence; perhaps this was all to end in much the same way. Perhaps no man would dare mess with a man of such nobility and authority. The Marquis allowed himself a small, conceited laugh. Despite being muddied, soaked and sore all over, he would live to con another day.

From the path on which he trod, the shadow rose behind him like a supernatural, uncoiling snake. The first sign came on the end of his short chuckle. The Marquis felt the cold steel press against his neck from behind. His body froze, every aching muscle motionless in fear. He allowed yet another whimper to leave the pit of his endangered throat, reminding him unpleasantly of a man at sea in these weathers. The angry sea had got its mariner.

“P-Please, please…” he stammered almost incoherently, “spare my life.”

The request was met with a jeering snort and a mocking laugh from behind him. The Marquis involuntarily surmised that apparently the barer of the dagger did not feel pity for his victim. The reply came in a cold, monotonous voice, akin in whole to a whisper.

“Life is a privilege you have not been granted.”

The Marquis could little ponder the callous philosophy before the dagger slit the swindling nobleman’s throat and cut short his attempt at a scream. The gravel was painted red; blood red. The unnatural elven assassin Di’thang withdrew his dagger. The corpse found its final resting position in a puddle of its own blood. Another kill, another pay packet.