Destiny of Fire: The Normality (WotP)

Chapter 3: Indigo Patton

Adrogale, Iucan
February 23, 1004

WARNING (IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE):
This chapter is all about a hit-man's life. There is violence and death in this chapter, and it's also incredibly dark. I do not support homicide or homicidal actions, or in other words I do not support the murder of innocent people. This person does this for a living and the only reason for this is so that the character has a messed up backstory. Thank you, and sorry for such a dark chapter waiting ahead.

-~•~-

I wiped the blood of my sword and put it in its sheath after killing another victim.

I reached into a pouch on my belt to find a wrinkled note that I had made not long ago — a list of people that were better off dead. All of the names on the list were dead men walking, as you could call them. They were dead men walking because they couldn't escape their fate, and they couldn't escape me. I crossed the first name off the list, Gerald Herania. I smiled as I remembered holding my blade up to his throat and how he begged for mercy.

I was a hitman, people paid me to kill people, and currently, business is booming.

Now, I had to kill Sarah Underwood, Mark Scotch, and Daryll Hop. But that would wait until later dates. I had a plan, a well-thought out plan if you asked me. Sarah Underwood would be dead on February 29. Mark Scotch will be dead on March 1. Daryll Hop would be dead on March 3. I had to space out my killings so that it seemed less like a murder spree and more like accidental things, such as burning the house down by putting too much fire in the furnace or a suicide or some other assassin. Also, I need a break at points, being a hit man is freaking hard, you never get a break.

In the night I could blend in, so one could really see me that well. But, I carried a lantern around with me, and if you looked at the exact right time, you would see a face almost identical to someone who people loved to talk about whose name was John Paraskeve.

It turns out this Paraskeve man, around seventeen years ago, had made history in challenging the King to a duel and failing. The funny thing was that the King was the one who should've failed for the King deserved to die, he ate at lavish feasts while others couldn't and he grew fat on his selfishness.

I heard stories of such feasts where everyone would end up being drunk. The King would have had a whole ten or so bottles of beer that he finished himself, and the Queen would be annoyed and exasperated of him, as she drank one too many glasses of wine. Even the city guards somehow managed to get drunk by the end of it, maybe they snuck a glass or something once the King fell asleep, no one really knew.

They feasted on turkey, chicken, ham, steak, mutton, any meat that one could wish for. They feasted on salad, vegetables, and fruits too for anyone vegetarian. It caused quite the ruckus among rebels, why should they let this pig grow fat on food while the civilians starved to death on the streets? The man who had challenged the King, John William Paraskeve, was one of these rebels. His defeat hushed the rest of the lot, and no one dared tease the King again.

There were almost no differences between what John William Paraskeve probably currently looks like and me. We both had that thin black mustache, neatly combed and greasy jet black hair. The only thing that could be easily described as a difference is that my eyes weren't amber like Paraskeve's. They were extraordinary, beyond special. I had grey eyes, which was quite the oddity, but then again, what about me was not an oddity?

I wore a long dark grey sweater duster that laid behind my back, flowing in the night breeze. I had a midnight black hat that you could barely see in the nighttime, but it was there, and it made me look quite ominous and as if I was going to get into trouble, I looked dodgy and mischievous. I also had a small dark brown kerchief tied around my neck.