Kalt smiled to himself, pristinely cared for blade turning over in his gloved hand. It was a remote place in the ruins that he made his hunting ground, rather his playground.
A man was shackled to the wall with chains that Kalt had made brand new with a little magic. As far as the assassin was concerned, there was no name attached to the figure hanging against the wall. Breath came and went from the man’s bare chest, as Silver Wing watched, glancing at Ashe and waiting patiently for his toy to awaken. He stirred against the chains occasionally, telling Kalt that it would be soon.
And soon came. Dark eyes flicked open, fear the first emotion displayed, replaced by anger as the man struggled against clattering chains and finally saw the uniformed assassin sitting on a stone with clear blue eyes locked on his prey.
’Human minds, frail and scared
Freed by death, and death is fair.
Hopeless souls, play a part
In my wicked work of art.
Such relief, every time
Taking life, to take what’s mine.
At the end, here we lie
Here we’re killers, or we die.’
Approaching the chained specimen, Kalt lifted a brow, reaching out and grabbing his face tightly, not letting him escape the grip. ”Tell me,” he said quietly, fingertips digging into the man’s cheeks, “do you think you deserve to live?”
“Yes,” the man spit out between ragged breaths.
Kalt nodded slowly, releasing the man’s face with a slight huff. “I think your wife would disagree.” He turned his back, eyes flicking once to Ashe as he absently examined the knife in his hand. His subject was a murderer who killed his adulterous wife. In all truth, Kalt didn’t care who he had under his blade. He had killed countless in Northwind, many in Northaven, some innocent and some not. The god of death had no discrimination and neither did the assassin. Ashe, however, had standards... No killing innocents. While Kalt wouldn’t care to uphold that rule, he knew she would refuse this if he didn’t, so a murderer was at least fair game for his twisted games.
He listened to the muffled cries of the man, as a rag was stuck in his mouth. It was becoming obnoxious. They hadn’t even started playing yet.
’Play the game, paint your scene
Taking this to the extreme.
Masterpiece, dark design
Your last moments, only mine.
It's a need, here in dust
Kill the world that stole from us.
Take your place, let it be
In my crimson symphony.’
A lively whistle lived on his lips, that same whistle that his only living torture subject would be aware of. He enjoyed working to music. The assassin sharpened his blade idly, ensuring the perfect edge for his artwork. That’s what this was, after all... Art.
After a little while, he removed the rag from the man’s mouth and frowned. ”Please, don’t scream yet,” he muttered. ”Ruins the mood if it comes too soon.” Kalt tossed the rag onto the ground and lifted his knife, moving the edge across the man’s cheek, drawing blood from his wincing face. A flicker of a grin was displayed on Kalt’s lips.
He stepped back and began his work.
’I feel it in my bones, a need to be your god
A need to strike you down.
When order disappeared, and madness took control
The conscience in me drowned.
I want to be your guide, into the afterlife
It's a gift, look past the pain like I do.
I want to see your eyes, just before your demise
When only fear remains inside you.’
His work was masterful. Never the slightest stroke out of place. Screams of pain graced his ears, and he was absorbed into the moment, a feeling of ecstasy flooding his body with each movement, each sound, each agony-filled jerking movement from his victim.
Blood dripped down the man’s torso, as skin was peeled away and severed with such fluidity that it may as well have been cutting through butter.
It was such a beautiful thing.
An ethereal symphony of rattling chains, bloodcurdling screams, hyperventilating breath, and the gentle drip, drip, dripping of blood on the ground as it slowly drained from the man’s body. He hadn’t had this feeling in far too long, that beautiful darkness he willingly welcomed into his soul. Had he not been taken into the Guild, that darkness wouldn’t have touched him, but gods, he couldn’t live without it now.
Kalt listened to the heavy breathing, the pleading from the man in a voice that almost seemed muted and drained. He couldn’t tell if he was begging for life or death. Either way...
’When the world was turned to gray
The hatred wouldn't go away:
Resentment in chains.
In the coldest of all hearts
A voice descends, the light departs.
Madness remains.’
He stepped back, listening to the subtle shaking of chains and turned his back to his artwork. Removing his gloves, he tossed them aside and grinned, approaching Ashe and gently touching her cheek. ”Your turn.”
(Lyrics: “Remains” by Aviator)
kalt
give into the night.
|
