67th of Frost, 120
Arkash watched with pale eyes while the citizen cried before him. The human, a man who must have been something in his forties, bawled and sobbed before the rathor in his true form. He was an otherwise refined gentleman with trimmed facial hair, good hygiene, and fine clothes. Arkash had learned to size up his mark in his own lessons of refinement and recognized the human as someone more classy than the average citizen.
So, despite his plea, Arkash had to take care to get the most he could out of the deal. A deep sigh saw him draw his dagger where he stood, then place it on the table between him and the human that had poured their heart out to him. "...Killing a Knight is no mean feat," he warned with a more refined accent, though it was still rough around the edges. "Every time I've fought one of those monsters, I've wound up injured... Badly."
Arkash's teeth were set on edge by the man's continued sobbing. The display of weakness was both appealing to his appetite and revolting in the same brush. "Anything you need," the human choked, and wiped away at his tears. "Please, I'll pay you anything, sir..." He spoke above the ambient sobbing. It did amuse him that the tone with which people addressed him had changed so drastically over his journey. From freak to newt, to lizard, to sir.
Arkash bowed his head to nod, then motioned to the dagger on the table. "Calm down; I didn't say I can't do it. I can, but I expect to be compensated duly." Arkash's reputation reached far, it seemed. In Astoria, people knew him as the rath to have spilled blue blood. What was killing an Argent next to killing a Celebrant? "If you make it worth my while, I'll promise to put saw his head off with this dagger," he explained with a push of his claws so that the Savant could better see the weapon in question.
The human stared for a moment, then looked across the living room to glance above the fireplace that dimly crackled in the corner of Arkash's vision. There sat a large portrait of him, his wife, and daughter, all sat and posed to gaze upon whoever had painted the piece. "Okay," he agreed, then took a step away from the table. He moved to the safe in the corner of the room and entered the code with a few easy flicks of his wrist. "Anything for my Annabelle," he spoke under his breath, and Arkash watched the human carefully. He couldn't be sure the man wouldn't produce a gun from the safe, after all.
In place of a gun, however, he found a bar of gold, which the man set upon the table. "This is yours if you can bring me his eyes," the savant spoke with a nod. Arkash grinned a little, though it was meant to reflect his sincerity. A bow of his head relayed his acceptance. "...Good," the human spoke with barely-restrained wrath in his eyes. "How soon will you work?"
The heart of a grieving man was a dark place indeed; he knew the pain in Sir Elric's eyes. "The moment I step outside, I'm on the clock," he assured, then collected Brodie's dagger and hilted it at his hip. The rathor straightened his back and rolled his shoulders to ruffle the feathers of his hefty cloak.
"Okay," Sir Elric returned with a nod, then withdrew to sit in his seat. "...I'll not soon forget his eyes, Rathor. Don't think I'll be fooled."
Despite his warning, Arkash still smiled. "I have no such intentions; trust me when I say I take pride in my work," he spoke with a turn of his claws beneath his feathered cloak.
Silence fell between them, and the human spoke up a brief "...Like with Lady Florent?"
"Especially with Lady Florent," he returned with a bow of his head. "Lorien will one day thank me for my service, once all the darkness in the hearts of the Celebrant and Argent is exposed, more people, such as yourself, will come forward asking for their dues." Arkash paced back and forth while he explained his skewed sense of justice. "After all... Who else will bring justice to your wife and daughter? How many others have lost their families to those monsters in the riots? I'm proud of my work because I bring justice to those who think they're untouchable by birthright."
The Savant watched him with uncertainty, then bowed his head. It was clear that he had more to say, but thought better than to provoke the hired blade. "If there's nothing else," Arkash spoke with a turn of his claw and trailed off into impressionable silence.
"Go," the Savant spoke, defeated. "Bring justice to my Annabelle and sweet Maria. Slay the monster that took them from me, I beg you..." Arkash bowed his head at that, then shrugged to re-assume his cloak, and proceeded out of the Savant's home onto the snow-less streets. The station was nearby, he just had to scout it for a description of the armor.
Beneath the pale light of the moon, Arkash breathed the temperate frost air and sighed deeply. Then, with a spin and a thrust of his legs, he threw himself to the wall and began to scale the home of Sir Elric. He climbed to the roof by kicking off bricks and windowsills with his claws, then traversed the moonlit city by rooftop, where he made his way to the Argent's station.
There, Argent came and went to restock, rest, turn in damaged hollows, and the like. Criminals were occasionally captured and held there, but such occurrences were rare. The knighthood didn't often take prisoners; most criminals were killed on the spot or were sentenced to execution by a hollow hunting party, like Arkash. He took a knee atop the building and produced his spyglass to look over the reinforced building from where he stood. Of course, he used his one transplanted human eye for improved vision and watched the bars of the windows and the lights that flickered within.
He was in it for the long haul, it seemed. So, from his perch, he drew his rifle from the sling of his back and began to open up the various levers and locks that held the golem in place, and began to clean it from the inside. Alchemical bullets made quite the mess on detonation, which was especially true inside the barrel of the gun.
Did he care that he was in the open while he maintained his gear? No. The cloak he wore, made of black raven feathers, helped break up his shape in the night sky. To those that spotted him, he appeared to be nothing more than a misshapen lump on the rooftops, so he didn't worry for whoever might have set their gaze on him.
Knights came and left the station at their own will, but none were Arkash's mark. How could he tell the difference? Sir Elric had described a knight dressed with wolf-like ornaments to their armor. That was perhaps his favorite and most hated part of the Argent; their armor. They were allowed to commission whatever they wanted upon achieving their full indoctrination into the cult, and some stood out more than others. Of course, the armor was custom fit and designed to be nigh impossible to pierce in melee combat, but a couple of rounds from his rifle were enough to buckle and break their plate most of the time. The pistol he carried had almost no effect.
Finally, his mark made itself known. The wolf-plated knight emerged from the station and Arkash picked up his gear and finished loading his rifle while he focused on the man's heartbeat. His eyes fluttered and his nose tingled at the scent of Argent strength, his mouth began to water. He had to control himself; he couldn't eat the whole knight, just most of them. Sir Elric requested the knight's eyes personally, and though Arkash didn't care for the gold, he did want to leave his customers satisfied.
So, Arkash took off and began his journey across the rooftops while he followed the scent and sound of the wolf-plated knight. Along the way, the bottomless pit in his stomach grew heavier and heavier, and he found himself yearning for their flesh. His thoughts became clouded with the thought of tasting their marrow, and the feel of their warm, thick blood running down his throat. When the moon was at its highest, he decided to descend upon the knight... only to stop above them when another knight passed by.
His hunger stayed; he couldn't take two of them on; it was suicide. The knight the wolf-plated target spoke with had two hollows in tow, and Arkash listened to their conversation at full, clear volume. They discussed the terms of exchanging custody and where to drop off the golems. The realization then hit the rath; the target was taking the hollows with him from that point on. The other was an overseer tasked with completing the performance survey of the two golems, and after passing inspection, they were deemed fit for patrol purposes.
Arkash swallowed hard, then withdrew from the edge of the building. He couldn't fight them, he couldn't best a hollow. He'd been able to the season prior, but since then, he'd grown so afraid of them. The sounds they made shook him to his core and froze him solid. He could do naught but cry in their presence.
Even so, the hunger in his gut urged him to continue. His dranoch curse had locked on to the scent of the knight, and would not be denied. Could he somehow... Let the hunger carry him to the knight's heart? Could he overcome his trauma at the promise of a filling meal? Arkash looked to his wrist then, drew his knife, and pressed the edge of the blade to his scales. He breathed quickly and deeply as he psyched himself up for the harm, then slashed into his own flesh and squeezed his palm to make himself bleed. The blade's bite rang through his nerves, but he didn't cry or loose a sound of pain. Instead, he focused his ether to blood shape a shortsword with the payload of his veins, then suffused the property of extreme sharpness to the blade's edge.
The weapon was more weighty than his usual blood weapons, but he imagined such a thing was due to the thickness of his blackened bile-like blood. Was it also stronger? He wasn't sure. Either way, he had to put the blade to the hollows if he wanted to eat that night. With a hiss, he wrapped his wrist, then took off across the rooftops to catch up to the scent of the knight.
