Snippet #1485214

Slowly, the number of assailants thinned, and those who remained realized they were encountering far more resistance than they had thought. Redoubling their efforts, the rogue assassins felled the last of the guards and focused their attentions on the targets that chose to fight back. Amon knew it looked grave; there were still just under twenty-five men left, and he personally was powerless to do anything about it. His broken wrist screamed at him, but not a trace of that pain showed on his face, the man deeming it better to continue holding it as though he could use it than sparing himself the pain and making his weakness apparent. Ambidextrous, he was, but he did not need to present any targets to his opponent.

The one-eyed man was someone Amon knew well- a master assassin by the name of Gerard Bordeaux. He had been one of the strongest, most vocal opponents of the Guildmaster's ascension to that title, though not because of Amon's relative youth at the time. Gerard had been even younger, and still more ambitious than his present adversary had ever been- and that had continued past the official appointment. His missing eye was a punishment for insubordination, after which Amon had thought his hatred had subsided to at least a grudging respect. A gross miscalculation, it would seem.

Gerard, armed with a hand-scythe, swung at Amon's legs, but the older man jumped, twisting himself to the side in midair to slash at the dark-haired traitor's shoulder. It grazed, but barely enough to draw blood before Bordeaux dove to the side. His recovery was slower than the Guildmaster's landing, however, and in the next second Amon was upon him, pressing his advantage. The hand-scythe barely blocked a downward sweep from the shortsword, but without both hands, Amon lacked the strength to wait to out-muscle him. Instead, he delivered a heavy kick to the side of the downed man, leaping away nimbly as his opponent rolled away from the blow, throwing a poison-tipped needle over his shoulder in the process.

The projectile embedded itself in the wall some distance away, but Gerard was on his feet once again, and the two men circled each other, looking for all the world like two predatory cats locked in some invisible stalemate, each looking for the involuntary twitch, the unnatural intake of breath, that would betray the other's next intention. It was as much a battle of wits as of arms and armaments. Were they younger, more foolish men, they may have been trading insults or banter as they went, or even trying to gain information, but both were eerily silent, not even the footfalls of boots on carpet making enough noise to be audible over the clashes some distance away.

It was a waiting game, a matter of patience, and in this, both had been trained, but only one had achieved mastery. It was in this that Amon alone could be considered the victor, and it was in this that the outcome was readable to those who knew the language. Gerard tensed, coiled, and sprang, but the Guildmaster was ready. The slash was wicked, but a minute movement set it whistling centimeters from the target's ear, and in the scant seconds before it would lash back to embed itself in his shoulder, Amon stepped forward into Bordeaux's guard, sinking his blade to the hilt in the other man's chest. Stepping to the side to avoid the reflexive return of the scythe, he pulled the blade from the other man's flesh, watching with the same cold indifference he gave everything else as his colleague crumpled to the ground.

---

Her first opponent fell, and Loki felt something behind her. Instinctively whipping around to guard, she watched as Eos's fist connected with the would-be assassin's jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. How... efficient. Loki was rather fond of efficiency, and so when he spoke, she answered. "Probably about the same time we discovered that hired swords can develop their own ideas," she replied in a deadpan. It was a joke- sort of. The truth of the matter was, she had in fact learned to fight because she didn't really trust anyone else to do it for her. It also helped to be armed when journeying into Delta, just for precautionary purposes. She had a tendency to poke around in business that some people thought wasn't hers, and not everyone was appreciative of that fact.

Two new assailants stepped up, and Eos flattened one of them, but was forced to duck the second. Loki shrugged mentally and used the space created by his absence to hurl another knife. This one hit exactly where she intended it to- the man's left eye. He fell without another sound, and she turned back in time to parry the assault from yet another black-robed figure intent on playing regicide a few years too soon.

The two of them were soon surrounded by a group of at least seven opponents, both armed and unarmed, and she sighed, adjusting her position so she was back-to-back with the ex-Hand and thus probably a little less likely to die. "Hmm... seven. I'll wager you upkeep on that girl's clinic for a year I get four before you do," she challenged, still in the same flat voice as ever. Whether she would succeed was largely irrelevant; the sum was a pittance, but she liked to keep things interesting, and she was also admittedly a bit curious if it would mean anything to him. She would not have picked a mage-healer to associate with Eos... or maybe that was the other way around.

Whatever his answer, she was soon occupied, beset by two men at once. A quick glance from the corner of her eye told her that another was joining the woman currently engaging Zade, whose weapons were now quite literally on fire. Loki had known she could do that, but hadn't been certain it was practical. From the look on her opponent's face though, it was at least psychologically daunting. Still, the girl was not trained to kill, and two assassins at once would be difficult. Another two slipped past the group and towards the door, and Loki cursed under her breath. She'd have to hope Taylor could hold them off; as far as she knew, he could use that epieu of his, so it should be fine.

The talkative doctor was confronted by three, but he was somewhat near the scientist Vernazza who was only dealing with one at the moment. Of course, that still left a fair number that hadn't picked targets yet, so that could change at any time. Loki bent sideways to avoid an incoming knife, but hissed when it scored her a shallow wound across the cheekbone, warm blood already dripping down her impassive face. With a steely glare, she thrust forward at the offending attacker with the pommel of her knife, breaking his nose, her second weapon blocking the crude axe swing aimed at her side, though not without effort, and her arm trembled with the continued strain of holding it there. That one clearly thought he was going to overwhelm her with brute force. Broken-nose staggered backward, which gave her enough time to kick at axe-man's groin. He jumped back, but the new angle of his hold was bad enough that she could shove it away. Her last throwing knife found purchase in his esophagus, and she turned back to the man with the bleeding face. Karmic, if she did say so herself.

She would have probably chosen this moment to sweep his legs out from under him, but present circumstances (in the wardrobe sense) prevented this from being a decent idea, and so she swept her combat knife low instead. Instead of jumping back like a smart person would have done, he simply stood there and took it, which placed her in a rather poor position if he managed to get his own dagger around in time to stab her in the back. So instead of trying to yank her knife out of his leg, she let go and grabbed his wrist, grappling with him for a few moments, as he had returned the favor and eliminated the possibility of her simply stabbing him with her second blade. He was larger than she was, but Loki was more... well frankly, she was a little more unpredictable, and so when he tried to twist her around so her back was to his chest and he might be able to work the knife into her gut, she jerked her head backwards, slamming the back of her skull into his already wounded face.

He let go then, and she ripped his own knife from his grip and slid it into his chest cavity, picking her own up from the floor where it had fallen in just enough time to surprise the woman who'd thought to take advantage of her imprisonment and make an easy kill. It was never any bloody fun when they ran straight into your knife, now was it?