Zothar
08-29-2010, 01:41 PM
this is the beginning of a story/book i am writing (depending on how long i can make it). tell me if you think it needs work and what to do.
Zothar walked swiftly down the darkened streets. The mission was clear. Kill the Christian family, and with the least amount of resistance possible. He felt to see if he had his knife. Yes, it was there, a gift from his master for many jobs well done. He pulled his cloak tighter around him, and adjusted his hood. Many assassins wore masks, but Zothar refused. If you wore a mask, you expected someone to see you. And if someone saw you, then you were a poor assassin. He turned a corner and continued in the darkness. The master would be pleased with this performance. He had not yet lost a victim.
Turning another corner, he suddenly jumped, swinging himself onto a rooftop, and continued his journey, never making a sound. His golden eyes peered out from under his hood, and his breath came in short, quick paces.
As the thoughts ran through his head, he remembered once again when his family used to pray for protection from assassins. Zothar closed his eyes momentarily. Every time he was on a mission, it would return. The prayers did them no good.
With a shudder, he remembered the day his parents were killed. It was the night before they were to visit the synagogue. He was about to go to bed, when suddenly the door was broken down. Pushing him into a closet, Zothar’s father grabbed his sword. Though he wasn’t supposed to, Zothar watched, in horror, as his future master killed both of his parents. As the man was looking for some valuables, he came across the scared four-year-old boy shaking in the closet. For an instant, the man raised his blade to kill Zothar. Then, when he saw the boy’s build and figure, stopped, studying him a bit. Holding out his hand, he offered to help Zothar. Zothar slapped it away, the terror still in his eyes. “If you come with me, I will not hurt you,” the man said gently. Slowly standing, and with no other choice, he took the man’s hand.
Zothar was then taken to the assassins Catacombs, where they began to train him as an assassin. That was all twenty years ago, but he remembered it clear as day. “It was for my own good,” he repeated the words his master had told him over and over so many times before. “Had they not, I would be living as one of those Christians, and would have been killed sooner or later. Besides,” he smirked, “if there truly was a God, he would have kept my parents alive.” Zothar then pushed the thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the mission.
He saw the house a few minutes later. Slipping from the rooftop, he moved over to the high window, barely peering in. The children were playing on the floor. Too old to salvage, Zothar thought. They could remember, and become vengeful. It had happened before. It was a wonder that, even at four, his master had taken him in. Many of the older assassins still viewed it as a mistake. Moving to another window, he saw the parents in the other room talking. Zothar didn’t need to hear them. Everyone was talking about the same thing. The assassins. It was easy to see the difference too. So far he had seen three Roman guards pass and heard several others. Steadily, he slid to the back of the house, his movements like that of a cat. He crept closer to the door and sat down to wait. He would attack as soon as the children went to bed. Because of his experience, he didn’t want any of the children to have to see or hear any of it.
As he sat, the thoughts of his family praying together crept back into his mind. Tired, he closed his eyes. He couldn’t let himself think about this. Not on a mission. He needed to remain emotionless. He started to push them away again. But they wouldn’t go, instead getting stronger. Zothar tried to stop thinking about it more and more. Suddenly, he got the impression to simply listen. Zothar stopped. Where had that come from? The impression continued. Zothar paused, then shrugged. Couldn’t hurt? So he put his head to the door and listened.
At first, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be hearing. Then a soft noise caught his attention. He heard the little girl, no more than three, praying for God to protect her in the night. Zothar glanced down, eyes shifting. It was always discomforting when he had to kill children. He was a trained fighter, and he saw it as weakness and cowardice to kill helpless victims. But he knew better than to question his master about it. Even though he was rarely ordered to kill the families, it was a job none the less, and one that he dared not disobey. He might be one of the most skilled and dangerous fighters in the land, but he learned all from his master.
The praying stopped, and Zothar shifted positions again, waiting. Perhaps he could wait until the whole family went to sleep. Then he wouldn’t have to terrorize them. His master had ordered him to give them a slow death. Zothar’s eyes narrowed. The man hated Christians, and he wasn’t sure why. But he had no intentions on following his master’s orders in this case.
After several more minutes of silence, Zothar crept into the house. Outside, nothing moved, save a bird crossing silently above the house For a moment, there was nothing. Then a muffled scream came, and was cut short. Again there was silence.
Inside, Zothar stood over the bed of the little girl, her scream still echoing in his mind. She had been the last one, and she had woken up. Zothar felt sick inside at the sight of her terrorized face, but he had done his job, painlessly and quickly as possible.
That didn’t make him feel any better about it, though.
Zothar tried to salvage any expensive clothing or riches, but found only a few small shekels. Not surprising, he thought to himself. These Christians never have very much. Looking around the room again, he sighed. Although he hated to, he really should burn the place down. His master hadn’t ordered it, but it was still custom. Walking over to the table, he looked around, seeing the crafts and pictures of the children strewn about.
One caught his eye, and he picked it up. On it was the family, obviously drawn by the little girl. They all had smiles on their faces and were holding hands. This was all normal. But then something unexpected happened. At the end of each side of the family was a different figure. One was a roman soldier, sword sheathed. The other, with his mask discarded, was an assassin.
Zothar looked for a moment, then turned toward the door. To hell with customs. He couldn’t burn this place down. He couldn’t explain why. But he knew this house was to remain standing. Slowly, he exited the house.
On his way out, he ran into a Roman patrol. The man raised his sword. Immediately Zothar flipped around and dug his knife into the man’s back. Then he ran as the guard slumped over, without a sound, and died. That was too close, he thought. I’ve got to be more careful.
Looking around for any more enemies, he slipped onto a nearby rooftop. Running along the roofs, he dropped into an abandoned shed, and flipped the rug over to reveal the catacombs. Staring at them for a moment, he soon ducked down and entered, pulling the rug back over him as he went.
Zothar walked swiftly down the darkened streets. The mission was clear. Kill the Christian family, and with the least amount of resistance possible. He felt to see if he had his knife. Yes, it was there, a gift from his master for many jobs well done. He pulled his cloak tighter around him, and adjusted his hood. Many assassins wore masks, but Zothar refused. If you wore a mask, you expected someone to see you. And if someone saw you, then you were a poor assassin. He turned a corner and continued in the darkness. The master would be pleased with this performance. He had not yet lost a victim.
Turning another corner, he suddenly jumped, swinging himself onto a rooftop, and continued his journey, never making a sound. His golden eyes peered out from under his hood, and his breath came in short, quick paces.
As the thoughts ran through his head, he remembered once again when his family used to pray for protection from assassins. Zothar closed his eyes momentarily. Every time he was on a mission, it would return. The prayers did them no good.
With a shudder, he remembered the day his parents were killed. It was the night before they were to visit the synagogue. He was about to go to bed, when suddenly the door was broken down. Pushing him into a closet, Zothar’s father grabbed his sword. Though he wasn’t supposed to, Zothar watched, in horror, as his future master killed both of his parents. As the man was looking for some valuables, he came across the scared four-year-old boy shaking in the closet. For an instant, the man raised his blade to kill Zothar. Then, when he saw the boy’s build and figure, stopped, studying him a bit. Holding out his hand, he offered to help Zothar. Zothar slapped it away, the terror still in his eyes. “If you come with me, I will not hurt you,” the man said gently. Slowly standing, and with no other choice, he took the man’s hand.
Zothar was then taken to the assassins Catacombs, where they began to train him as an assassin. That was all twenty years ago, but he remembered it clear as day. “It was for my own good,” he repeated the words his master had told him over and over so many times before. “Had they not, I would be living as one of those Christians, and would have been killed sooner or later. Besides,” he smirked, “if there truly was a God, he would have kept my parents alive.” Zothar then pushed the thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the mission.
He saw the house a few minutes later. Slipping from the rooftop, he moved over to the high window, barely peering in. The children were playing on the floor. Too old to salvage, Zothar thought. They could remember, and become vengeful. It had happened before. It was a wonder that, even at four, his master had taken him in. Many of the older assassins still viewed it as a mistake. Moving to another window, he saw the parents in the other room talking. Zothar didn’t need to hear them. Everyone was talking about the same thing. The assassins. It was easy to see the difference too. So far he had seen three Roman guards pass and heard several others. Steadily, he slid to the back of the house, his movements like that of a cat. He crept closer to the door and sat down to wait. He would attack as soon as the children went to bed. Because of his experience, he didn’t want any of the children to have to see or hear any of it.
As he sat, the thoughts of his family praying together crept back into his mind. Tired, he closed his eyes. He couldn’t let himself think about this. Not on a mission. He needed to remain emotionless. He started to push them away again. But they wouldn’t go, instead getting stronger. Zothar tried to stop thinking about it more and more. Suddenly, he got the impression to simply listen. Zothar stopped. Where had that come from? The impression continued. Zothar paused, then shrugged. Couldn’t hurt? So he put his head to the door and listened.
At first, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be hearing. Then a soft noise caught his attention. He heard the little girl, no more than three, praying for God to protect her in the night. Zothar glanced down, eyes shifting. It was always discomforting when he had to kill children. He was a trained fighter, and he saw it as weakness and cowardice to kill helpless victims. But he knew better than to question his master about it. Even though he was rarely ordered to kill the families, it was a job none the less, and one that he dared not disobey. He might be one of the most skilled and dangerous fighters in the land, but he learned all from his master.
The praying stopped, and Zothar shifted positions again, waiting. Perhaps he could wait until the whole family went to sleep. Then he wouldn’t have to terrorize them. His master had ordered him to give them a slow death. Zothar’s eyes narrowed. The man hated Christians, and he wasn’t sure why. But he had no intentions on following his master’s orders in this case.
After several more minutes of silence, Zothar crept into the house. Outside, nothing moved, save a bird crossing silently above the house For a moment, there was nothing. Then a muffled scream came, and was cut short. Again there was silence.
Inside, Zothar stood over the bed of the little girl, her scream still echoing in his mind. She had been the last one, and she had woken up. Zothar felt sick inside at the sight of her terrorized face, but he had done his job, painlessly and quickly as possible.
That didn’t make him feel any better about it, though.
Zothar tried to salvage any expensive clothing or riches, but found only a few small shekels. Not surprising, he thought to himself. These Christians never have very much. Looking around the room again, he sighed. Although he hated to, he really should burn the place down. His master hadn’t ordered it, but it was still custom. Walking over to the table, he looked around, seeing the crafts and pictures of the children strewn about.
One caught his eye, and he picked it up. On it was the family, obviously drawn by the little girl. They all had smiles on their faces and were holding hands. This was all normal. But then something unexpected happened. At the end of each side of the family was a different figure. One was a roman soldier, sword sheathed. The other, with his mask discarded, was an assassin.
Zothar looked for a moment, then turned toward the door. To hell with customs. He couldn’t burn this place down. He couldn’t explain why. But he knew this house was to remain standing. Slowly, he exited the house.
On his way out, he ran into a Roman patrol. The man raised his sword. Immediately Zothar flipped around and dug his knife into the man’s back. Then he ran as the guard slumped over, without a sound, and died. That was too close, he thought. I’ve got to be more careful.
Looking around for any more enemies, he slipped onto a nearby rooftop. Running along the roofs, he dropped into an abandoned shed, and flipped the rug over to reveal the catacombs. Staring at them for a moment, he soon ducked down and entered, pulling the rug back over him as he went.