8th of Frost, 4621
Holding his chest while he walked through the early Amoren morning was an activity he was growing used to. The damage from the gunshots was deep, and though he'd fed multiple times in an attempt to repair the deepest marks and lacerations to the sections of organ that were ruptured in the attack.
He took his time through the light rain and listened to the sound of water droplets on the carapace of autumn leaves, the gentle rapping and tapping on tile and stonework. All the fresh, damp smells in the air of perpetual fall helped put him at ease despite where he was headed.
He paid no mind to the odd citizen to pass him, wrapped in their coats and umbrellas up. They turned their noses up at his ragged self regardless, the burlap tatters that clung to his form had dampened in the light rainfall, but he didn't mind. The rain just helped him wash out some of the stains that littered the fabric. If the good people of Amoren thought him an eyesore, that was their problem. It wasn't hurting them that he walked the wet cobble roads with bare feet, so what did they care?
After meeting the curled nose and furrowed brow of perturbation that clung to the features of an older woman that passed him, Arkash wondered.
The people of Lorien were often bitter, more so than the people of Amoren. He wondered if it was because of their environment; the amber hue of the leaves that clung and fell from the tree perpetually, in compliment to the kindly structures of homes and small businesses that ran along the lane he walked along. Nivenhain was so much larger and grand, but it was dark, cold, with so much less vibrance and color to the citizen's everyday life. Did beauty make such a difference to the culture? Harsh beatings and murder versus disgusted glares, over something as minuscule as the shading of the leaves and the intriguing design of the little homes that dotted the land.
The most color one was likely to see in Lorien was red.
Arkash exhaled deeply and came to stop in the middle of the road. He looked up while the light rain fell over him, then reached up to pull at his curly hair, and pushed it all back to catch all the water that clung to it. Those same hands wiped over his brow and rubbed deeply into his eyes to be rid of the sleep there. His tan skin glistened in the wet when the dirt that clung to him was washed away.
He felt light, clean, almost euphoric while those fresh waters covered him. Why the humans and elves did so much to keep themselves from the rain, he'd never know. It was always refreshing to bask in the soft sky water. Even in a downpour, when the sound receded to the background, it was pleasant.
He could only hope that it would still be raining when he made his way back home, but on the off chance it wasn't, he made sure to savor as much as he could.
Before long, he arrived at the indicated address, as told by the description of the building. Arkash stood across the street and peered at the tall windows that stood in contrast to the alabaster, clean walls. The acacia wood that made the door and the dark iron framing. When a human walked by, dark hair and white coat kept dry through an umbrella, Arkash's gaze was set on him. A raise of his brows was forced when the human met his gaze and quickly looked away as he turned to that same acacia door.
Quickly, Arkash tightened his hold around his chest and began an exaggerated limp across the street. "Doctor!" he called with some degree of urgency in his voice. "Doctor Marcel!"
The man sighed deeply as he turned the handle; Arkash could just about feel the man's frustration from where he stood. "I do not vohrk for shahrity, monsieur," he returned as he opened the door, no doubt judging the disguised Rath by the rags that draped his form.
Arkash took note and reevaluated his strategy. "Not for charity, I can pay," Arkash declared, with a pat to his purse, fat with coin. The man turned to look at the Rath with a furrow to his brow. Arkash handed him the purse and swallowed. "I just need a second opinion on this wound," he said with a gesture to his chest. "My regular doctor says there's no hope for a full recovery, but..."
Doctor Marcel nodded and adjusted the round-rimmed glasses that sat on his nose to get a better look at the Rath. Arkash could all but see the dismissive mental shrug behind the shine of his glasses, and the man nodded his head. "Oui... I'm not sure vehre you got zis money, but I von't ask questions," he spoke with a slight smile and a brief nasally laugh. "Come in, come in," he said with a gesture and lowered his umbrella as he stepped into the practice.
Arkash bowed his head as he stepped in behind the man, and closed the door. It was a short hallway with a flight of stairs leading up to the second floor ahead of them, and a doorway on the right. Arkash didn't care where they might lead, or where Doctor Marcel might take him; he was out of the public eye.
As the doctor began to remove his coat, Arkash drew the black knife from under his burlap shirt and suffused the edge for sharpness. Quickly, he drove it through the doctor's back and into his lung, cutting his scream short. Arkash wrapped his hand over the doctor's mouth from behind and pulled back on his body. A twist of the blade saw him rip it out, reach around, then drive it into the man's chest over and over again. Arkash made sure to stab through the heart multiple times, and tore his lungs to shreds with multiple stabbings. "No," he said while he held the trembling, bloody-lipped doctor close to his chest. "No hope at all."
"Oui... Mon...sieur" said the doctor, strained, dying, and finally stopped breathing altogether as his heart gave out.
Quietly, Arkash pulled the knife from the man's chest, and let him fall with a hefty thud while his wounds bled shallowly, leaking all over the carpeted runway. With a roll of his eyes, he removed the suffusion on his knife and set the blade under his shirt again. A twist of the handle of the practice's front door saw him lock it, then dip collect the money he'd paid the doctor, the money he was paid to kill doctor Marcel.
He watched as the doctor's still body laid, leaking all over the floor, then shook his head. A competing doctor had paid Arkash to kill him and steal his research material. So, he proceeded into the study while he licked the blood from his fingers and sucked the mess from his shirt with sway before eating that too. It was supposed to look like a robbery gone wrong, so he couldn't eat the body. It was meant to be discovered, but who would miss a few drops of blood?
He began to pull the whole thing apart and turned the cluttered study upon its head. Utterly, he demolished the office and threw over bookshelves, kicked up and ripped up generic, printed volumes of medicinal studies. He collected the doctor's personal research notes and stole the tools he used for Briomancy, all for delivery to the client he'd sworn to kill Marcel for.
In his rummaging, he found a lone red apple set on the doctor's desk. So, after setting the research material and tools in a sack he collected from the scene, he took the apple and began to eat the fruit's red flesh. He walked through the clinic, looking for anything else to trash or that might interest his client.
While walking over the various pieces of paper and research he'd thrown all over the floor, he noticed something that seemed to stand out. A picture, more of a diagram, of the human body. Arkash took another bite of the apple while he stared, chewed it up with his sharp teeth, then crouched low to look at the diagram in more detail. It was a featureless human man, toned and heavy in musculature. With a furrow to his brow and a squint to his eyes, he let the bag fall to the floor, then collected the page with his freed hand.
There was a diagram that showed the skin, and the musculature beneath it on both a front-side view and the back. There were several labels all over the different types of muscle and their position on the human body, but Arkash couldn't read common, let alone Gentaverse or whatever language he was looking at. With a furrow to his brow, he folded the paper, then pocketed it before he collected the bag and looked about the study once more.
Indeed, he'd thoroughly trashed the place. Believing his client would be satisfied, Arkash left the clinic through a window on the bottom floor which he left open for whoever investigated the scene, then vanished into the winding alleys that spanned Couronne to deliver the stolen goods.
Holding his chest while he walked through the early Amoren morning was an activity he was growing used to. The damage from the gunshots was deep, and though he'd fed multiple times in an attempt to repair the deepest marks and lacerations to the sections of organ that were ruptured in the attack.
He took his time through the light rain and listened to the sound of water droplets on the carapace of autumn leaves, the gentle rapping and tapping on tile and stonework. All the fresh, damp smells in the air of perpetual fall helped put him at ease despite where he was headed.
He paid no mind to the odd citizen to pass him, wrapped in their coats and umbrellas up. They turned their noses up at his ragged self regardless, the burlap tatters that clung to his form had dampened in the light rainfall, but he didn't mind. The rain just helped him wash out some of the stains that littered the fabric. If the good people of Amoren thought him an eyesore, that was their problem. It wasn't hurting them that he walked the wet cobble roads with bare feet, so what did they care?
After meeting the curled nose and furrowed brow of perturbation that clung to the features of an older woman that passed him, Arkash wondered.
The people of Lorien were often bitter, more so than the people of Amoren. He wondered if it was because of their environment; the amber hue of the leaves that clung and fell from the tree perpetually, in compliment to the kindly structures of homes and small businesses that ran along the lane he walked along. Nivenhain was so much larger and grand, but it was dark, cold, with so much less vibrance and color to the citizen's everyday life. Did beauty make such a difference to the culture? Harsh beatings and murder versus disgusted glares, over something as minuscule as the shading of the leaves and the intriguing design of the little homes that dotted the land.
The most color one was likely to see in Lorien was red.
Arkash exhaled deeply and came to stop in the middle of the road. He looked up while the light rain fell over him, then reached up to pull at his curly hair, and pushed it all back to catch all the water that clung to it. Those same hands wiped over his brow and rubbed deeply into his eyes to be rid of the sleep there. His tan skin glistened in the wet when the dirt that clung to him was washed away.
He felt light, clean, almost euphoric while those fresh waters covered him. Why the humans and elves did so much to keep themselves from the rain, he'd never know. It was always refreshing to bask in the soft sky water. Even in a downpour, when the sound receded to the background, it was pleasant.
He could only hope that it would still be raining when he made his way back home, but on the off chance it wasn't, he made sure to savor as much as he could.
Before long, he arrived at the indicated address, as told by the description of the building. Arkash stood across the street and peered at the tall windows that stood in contrast to the alabaster, clean walls. The acacia wood that made the door and the dark iron framing. When a human walked by, dark hair and white coat kept dry through an umbrella, Arkash's gaze was set on him. A raise of his brows was forced when the human met his gaze and quickly looked away as he turned to that same acacia door.
Quickly, Arkash tightened his hold around his chest and began an exaggerated limp across the street. "Doctor!" he called with some degree of urgency in his voice. "Doctor Marcel!"
The man sighed deeply as he turned the handle; Arkash could just about feel the man's frustration from where he stood. "I do not vohrk for shahrity, monsieur," he returned as he opened the door, no doubt judging the disguised Rath by the rags that draped his form.
Arkash took note and reevaluated his strategy. "Not for charity, I can pay," Arkash declared, with a pat to his purse, fat with coin. The man turned to look at the Rath with a furrow to his brow. Arkash handed him the purse and swallowed. "I just need a second opinion on this wound," he said with a gesture to his chest. "My regular doctor says there's no hope for a full recovery, but..."
Doctor Marcel nodded and adjusted the round-rimmed glasses that sat on his nose to get a better look at the Rath. Arkash could all but see the dismissive mental shrug behind the shine of his glasses, and the man nodded his head. "Oui... I'm not sure vehre you got zis money, but I von't ask questions," he spoke with a slight smile and a brief nasally laugh. "Come in, come in," he said with a gesture and lowered his umbrella as he stepped into the practice.
Arkash bowed his head as he stepped in behind the man, and closed the door. It was a short hallway with a flight of stairs leading up to the second floor ahead of them, and a doorway on the right. Arkash didn't care where they might lead, or where Doctor Marcel might take him; he was out of the public eye.
As the doctor began to remove his coat, Arkash drew the black knife from under his burlap shirt and suffused the edge for sharpness. Quickly, he drove it through the doctor's back and into his lung, cutting his scream short. Arkash wrapped his hand over the doctor's mouth from behind and pulled back on his body. A twist of the blade saw him rip it out, reach around, then drive it into the man's chest over and over again. Arkash made sure to stab through the heart multiple times, and tore his lungs to shreds with multiple stabbings. "No," he said while he held the trembling, bloody-lipped doctor close to his chest. "No hope at all."
"Oui... Mon...sieur" said the doctor, strained, dying, and finally stopped breathing altogether as his heart gave out.
Quietly, Arkash pulled the knife from the man's chest, and let him fall with a hefty thud while his wounds bled shallowly, leaking all over the carpeted runway. With a roll of his eyes, he removed the suffusion on his knife and set the blade under his shirt again. A twist of the handle of the practice's front door saw him lock it, then dip collect the money he'd paid the doctor, the money he was paid to kill doctor Marcel.
He watched as the doctor's still body laid, leaking all over the floor, then shook his head. A competing doctor had paid Arkash to kill him and steal his research material. So, he proceeded into the study while he licked the blood from his fingers and sucked the mess from his shirt with sway before eating that too. It was supposed to look like a robbery gone wrong, so he couldn't eat the body. It was meant to be discovered, but who would miss a few drops of blood?
He began to pull the whole thing apart and turned the cluttered study upon its head. Utterly, he demolished the office and threw over bookshelves, kicked up and ripped up generic, printed volumes of medicinal studies. He collected the doctor's personal research notes and stole the tools he used for Briomancy, all for delivery to the client he'd sworn to kill Marcel for.
In his rummaging, he found a lone red apple set on the doctor's desk. So, after setting the research material and tools in a sack he collected from the scene, he took the apple and began to eat the fruit's red flesh. He walked through the clinic, looking for anything else to trash or that might interest his client.
While walking over the various pieces of paper and research he'd thrown all over the floor, he noticed something that seemed to stand out. A picture, more of a diagram, of the human body. Arkash took another bite of the apple while he stared, chewed it up with his sharp teeth, then crouched low to look at the diagram in more detail. It was a featureless human man, toned and heavy in musculature. With a furrow to his brow and a squint to his eyes, he let the bag fall to the floor, then collected the page with his freed hand.
There was a diagram that showed the skin, and the musculature beneath it on both a front-side view and the back. There were several labels all over the different types of muscle and their position on the human body, but Arkash couldn't read common, let alone Gentaverse or whatever language he was looking at. With a furrow to his brow, he folded the paper, then pocketed it before he collected the bag and looked about the study once more.
Indeed, he'd thoroughly trashed the place. Believing his client would be satisfied, Arkash left the clinic through a window on the bottom floor which he left open for whoever investigated the scene, then vanished into the winding alleys that spanned Couronne to deliver the stolen goods.
