3:30 AM, Wednesday, Dec. 18
'Come on, any minute now. This shouldn't take more than--' BANG 'Perfect.'
The pouring, pitter-patter of rain shrouded an otherwise suspicious form in mist and grey; hiding the quickly-dismantling sniper rifle above the scene of what would be, in a few hours, yet another unsolvable mage death. As it was now, however, there would be no commotion in the deserted alleyway until dawn-- no investigation or crowd to mourn the death of a rank three wizard of some circle or other. 'They've all got targets on their backs, anyway.' But nonetheless, danger (ha.) or no, the drenched, cloaked figure slipped away from her stake-out rooftop; leaving behind, almost absentmindedly, the corpse on a cobblestone path. Her M.O. was as commonly known as any for a skilled hunter, well enough to speak for itself.
Freyja had spared many the expense that night-- the target had been weak, completely unsuspecting of the hit that had been placed on him. A minor pawn in the game, so to speak. And as such, she found herself walking a ways home after having ditched her unlicensed and rented car in the suburbs; an uncommon enough occurrence to only happen after the simplest of jobs. It was cathartic, a way to expend the excess, coiled anxiety and paranoia that came with every solo hit. In theory, the laws of the universe were stereotypically ironic enough for her to get home safely...
Read: 4:30 AM
Indicators and artificial swaths of grey cut through the visual interface of Frey's contacts-- 'I'm starting to think that stumbling into things is way overrated.' -- denoting, in short, the presence of magic. 'And no, not just any magic, it has to be a high-ranked mage. Brilliant.' Frey's cloaked figure melted into the shadows in record time, her duffle bag-rifle slung across one shoulder. No sense in giving away her position, after all, when the sound of panicked footsteps leading away from her was distraction enough.
"Oh god, is he still following us?"
'Nope. Not my screw-up, then.' From her silent stand in the veiled, nondescript corner of the street, Frey could only catch a glimpse of the two soon-to-be-dead hunters-- not that she knew who they were. But from the sound of their conversation and the sudden round of running again, they were definitely done for. It didn't take a genius to figure out who ruled these parts; Frey poked wolves and lions for a living, but not even she would willingly mess with monsters and dragons. 'Or at least, in part, not alone. Or with a team of amateurs. I wonder, who paid them?'
But, in any case, it was only when the coast had been clear for at least fifteen minutes that Frey continued her trek home. (There's never sense in following a lost cause: curiosity kills the cat.) There were no other incidents on the way back, this time around ('Thank heaven. Or whatever.'); and a turned key, keypad passcode, retina scan, and fingerprint test later ensured entrance to her humble apartment complex. Then, after a shower, change, and the routine rifle clean-up, Frey promptly (tiredly, efficiently) fell asleep.
Early Morning, Dec.18
In her studio space downtown (of which is conveniently placed in an area on the outskirts of typical mage activity), Frey prepped another canvas in the midst of others much like it before settling down with a sketch and coffee (black). Although she shared the space with two other artists, neither of them had arrived as of yet-- leaving it to just Frey and the muted sound of the news coming from her laptop, set in the corner of the room. She was, then, absently doodling some lovecraftian monster when she heard a particular story from the air--
"Just a few hours ago, the police found the body of a rank three wizard in the outskirts of the suburban district-- yet another account in the recent string of homicides. Sources suggest that this is again the work of the Hunters, an anti-magic group thought to have disappeared. Citizens are urged to stay safe, be careful, and not to leave your homes past midnight. The Police have yet to identify any known members of the Hunters..."
--the studio doors opened, letting in the forms of Lynn and Chesa. Frey, unruffled and indifferent in the perch of her seat, waved a quick hello; bearing Lynn's customary glomp from behind with a long-suffering sigh. "Hey, Frey! We got caught up this morning with this really amazing..." Quite as usual, Frey tuned out of the conversation-- giving a few key nods and non-committal "uh-huh"s until Lynn ran out of steam. It was only when a different news story, one detailing the arrest of a seeker the night before, broke in through a moment of silence that Frey gave an actual contribution to the conversation.
Chesa, among her corner of sculptures, gave a sigh and a shake of her head; "Really, what's happening to this city? All of these things, with hunters and seekers... it's just like, all of a sudden we're in some dystopian novel or something. What's going on?"
Frey spared a glance at her sketch, fully drawn as it was, before crumpling it up and throwing it in the trash. "I don't know. Strange people playing dangerous games, I suppose."