"Do you really think that his time is approaching?"

Qumo tried to keep his fingers from tapping on the dark lacquered desk. It was an old habit of his, surfacing when he was distressed. That didn't happen often nowadays, but yesterday's events had him on edge.

He wanted to wave the question away, but it was no use. The question had been on repeat since yesterday, and he still didn't know what to answer. Sinking down in his seat, he glanced out through his window, watching N'aians praying around the central tree. He wasn't sure if a little note should be allowed to stir their hopes for Io's return. He doubted if it would benefit their progress towards a safer world. His heart hoped, but his mind held him back. This question had been asked before, and each time he dared to hope -- when others dared to hope -- he had been forced to see his friends and allies sink even further into despair when Io didn't come.

He looked into Leiwen's expressive eyes. "Let us be patient," he replied, just as he had said to each and every one of the others. He saw how the tender spark of hope slowly died in her green orbs. None of them had wanted this answer; they wanted him to assure them...but he couldn't.

She left the room, left him alone to his thoughts.

-----

Milo navigated through the dark streets of Bankor, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder now and then. His skin prickled, announcing the presence of someone watching. He hated this city. It was a nasty place, full of Magisters and miscreants: too many eyes.

Bankor was a young capital by any standards, reigning over the Southern Lands by using their position at the mouth river Embra to collect ridiculous tolls and taxes. It was a place that had grown too large, too fast. Houses popped up as weeds, badly constructed and poorly maintained. Outside of the city wall, the situation was even worse. He hated the slums and its dwellers, but foremost he hated the men and women who allowed them to exist. Even Humans deserved better than that.

He peered at a street sign and continued, grumbling under his breath at the presence behind him that refused to go away. It didn't matter very much, it wasn't a critical moment: he wasn't going to kill anyone just now, but it irked him.

He was headed towards the Singing Woman: a small tavern close to the bay. It was the sort of establishment he wouldn't enter unless forced to, but he had someone to find and therefore someone to meet. The Bloodhound was a vile man even by Milo's standards, but for a piece of coin the man would dig out information that no one else seemed to find. If anyone knew who Qumo was, and how to find him, it was him.

A putrid stench of rotten fish reached his nostrils, a sign that he was getting closer to the water. The only thing missing was the piercing sounds of seagulls. The night held them silent, silent like the streets around him. Actually, when he came to think of it, the whole city was too quiet for his taste. Too few traveled these parts at night, too few to become invisible in the crowd and too many to stay out of sight. The Magisters scared people away with their sharp swords and unreliable tempers, and if he never met with one again, he would die a happy man. Better yet, if he got an assignment to kill one of the bastards, he would make it slow and painful.

He looked up at yet another street sign latched onto a crumbling, two-story house, changed direction and slunk into a dark doorway. Glancing back at the intersection, he finally saw the lithe man that had tagged along for a while. He was pissed that he had allowed the man to catch him like this. It was a beginner's mistake. However, now was not the time, nor the place to be angry. He had to shake this stalker off, not throw a fit. The only problem was that he had tried to get the man off his trail, but in vain. He didn't like to hide, but the remaining option was confrontation, and he hoped it wouldn't come to that. A fight always drew attention, and he hated attention.

He stood in that doorway for more than three quarters of an hour -- becoming increasingly impatient-- before he saw another movement. The man left his own hiding spot to search. That the man hadn't done it before now spoke volumes; he wasn't easily fooled, very patient, and most probably cunning. Step by step the cautious man got closer and closer. Finally. Milo slowed his breathing and concentrated on blending with his surroundings. His stalker was a professional, perhaps in the same business as himself, and he didn't want to take any chances. A slight tremor ran down his spine and he clenched his jaw. This man, whoever he was, wouldn't stand a chance.

The stalker finally started to move away from him, and he allowed the shadow to drop. The strain of keeping it around drained him of energy, and he couldn't afford to become tired.

Ten minutes later he couldn't see the man any longer, but he decided to wait another few minutes before continuing towards his goal, partly because he wasn't ready to move around just yet. Not that he would ever acknowledge that, least of all to himself.

When it was time he scanned the street once more. The houses stood close to each other, but there were still more than enough hiding places in narrow alleyways and behind dark corners for him to feel uneasy. He saw no one, but he could be fairly sure that someone could be watching. He had been...

After another couple of minutes the tension across his forehead loosened. His body had recovered, and he knew it was time to go. He managed to take one step before he crouched down. He heard it before he saw it. A slight disturbance in the wind announced the dagger flying his way. Damn it! He slid away and heard it twang, hitting a metal street sign not far behind him. He took cover behind a cart and fixed his eyes on the approaching man and his daggers that glistened in the fading moonlight.

Milo unhitched one of his stars from his pocket, aimed and threw it. The man deflected it with one of his daggers and continued his pursuit. Lucky, Milo thought. He threw another star, but it met the same fate. Lucky again...but this time there was little truth behind his thoughts. The man really was a pro, and he was running out of options that would keep them both alive. He decided to try one more thing.

"You are skilled," he said, keeping his voice down to avoid attention.

The man didn't answer, but he held his stance. Milo sighed. He really didn't want to kill the man. Dead bodies were highly inconvenient.

"You must know who I am, and therefore you won't take it lightly when I say that I give you one chance to back away. Otherwise I'll make it excruciatingly slow and painful."

He didn't expect any reply this time. However, the man didn't walk away, he didn't flee.

"You are Milo, I am Vigilante. We will meet again," the man wheezed, before turning his narrow back to the confused Nyx. Milo watched as the man walked away with assured steps, visible in the middle of the street, sauntering. It almost made him laugh. The man had a lot of nerve.

Milo started to collect his throwing stars, plucking them out from wooden beams or snatched them up from the cobblestone street. The night was still young and he might need them again. While he cleared the place, he realized that he should have asked the man who sent him. Not that it mattered, he had quite a hefty price on his head, but still. Waving the thought away, he searched the scene one more time, careful not to leave a trace behind before he proceeded straight down to the bay.

Soon he mingled with the city's worst scums and saddest whores. The streets weren't silent anymore, they were crowded and left to their own demise. It wasn't as bad as out in the slums, but it was close. He hated everything about this vile city, and cared nothing for its people. He belonged in the Darkwood Forest, not here... If only his boss would let him leave for good, he thought, but dropped it right away. He knew it was his own fault that he was trapped in this occupation.

The bell hanging above the door to the Singing Woman chimed softly when he walked inside. It didn't do much good: it was barely audible in the general ruckus from the guests. These were sailors and foot soldiers rather than merchants and warriors, and their fringed clothing and lack of behavioral skills told him that they were the ones spending their money on drinks rather than providing for their families. He sighed again, idiots!

His foster mother had tried to teach him to love all things, but he couldn't love this, he couldn't rejoice in the ruin he saw in the eyes of these men and women. If he was honest, he loved very few things -- a life as an assassin didn't necessarily show you the nicer sides of life -- but he still heard her disapproval whenever his thoughts turned dark.

A piercing shriek reached his sensitive ears and he shot a nasty glare on those around him. He hated screaming. He searched for the source but found none. Instead he let his eyes land on the burly man sitting in a shrouded corner surrounded by a fair number of lackeys. The Bloodhound.

He made his way through the crowd, bending his head every few meters to avoid the wooden beams supporting the low ceiling. The big room was dimly lit, but thanks to his night vision he saw more than enough, too much in fact. The tables were stained, the windows completely clogged with dirt, and smoke billowed in the air. The only amending fact was that the guests moved away from him as he crossed the room. Sometimes it wasn't that bad to be a Nyx, even if their reputation stemmed from a bunch of lies rather than facts. They were feared everywhere.

"Greetings Nyx, to what do I owe this honor?" The man's voice was merry, but danger played in his eyes. Milo knew better than to rise to the bait. Better to bait the man himself.

"I'm looking for a man, or not a man," Milo said, taking out his wallet and showing off a fair amount of bills. He forced down a smile as he saw greed glisten in the other man's beady eyes. The Bloodhound reeked of lust until Milo removed his wallet from sight.

"If you give me the name I will see what I can do."

Milo allowed the smile to surface, throwing a note with the name towards the man, certain that he would have his directions in the next few hours. However, he never got that far. The doors to the tavern flew open with a thunderous crash and he quickly drew himself to the side, determined to stay out of trouble.

Five large men entered, each carrying a crude make-shift weapon. A club, really? Milo thought, chuckling under his breath. He held his position behind the noisy crowd, tall enough to see more than enough. He heard a whimper and then that devastated shriek again. It howled throughout the room, making his insides crawl. There was something very heart wrenching about the sound: agony and despair in a harmony. He shook his head; he should get out of here. He would come back in a few hours to collect the information, so there was no need to loiter.

He saw her then, and he felt an unwelcome tug in his gut. She was a pitiful sight: totally defenseless. Her un-kept hair was coiled around one menacing hand and her arms were held by the other. Her slight frame bowed beneath the pressure as her soft cries called out to him. He locked it away; he couldn't do anything. She was not a mission.

As the five men dragged the girl between the scattered chairs and tables, the guests averted their eyes or stared shamelessly at the scene. When they finally were out of sight the tavern soon reverted back to its previous state of drunken misbehavior and general disgrace, as if nothing had happened. Milo reflected that it must be a fairly common occurrence, or a feared gang. He left the place with a bad taste in his mouth, and it wasn't from the ale.

As he stepped out into the humid night, his irritation grew. Typical! The five men and the girl were just outside, and her state of undress told him more than he wanted to know. He started to walk away, but her desperate eyes found his and her pain became his to share. Anger took over, and reason was pushed away towards the back of his mind.

He stepped forward, making his presence known. He smirked as the men's eyes locked on his figure, looking up and down before they took a brief step backwards. In spite of their apparent hesitation, one of them spoke up in a raspy voice, "I've always wanted to beat one of you scums."

Milo didn't respond, he didn't smile; in fact he did nothing of the kind. He remained where he was, which he knew would anger them further.

"What are ye starin' at idiot?" another one said, taking a step towards him.

As if it that was their signal, four of them threw themselves at him, weapons flailing around them in reckless movements. They looked like rabid dogs, snarling and baring their teeth. Milo grinned and drew his long daggers, meeting their attack with his own. His sharp blades sliced through their worn leathers, maiming their bodies, drawing blood that sloshed down to meet with the cobbled street.

They fell, one by one, and he met the stare of the last man, breathing out his contempt. The man was holding the naked girl in his arms, eyes wavering: clearly debating with himself. A moment later he pushed her away and ran for his life.

The dirty girl landed in the puddle of blood, screaming as she accidentally touched one of the dead men. Milo scooped her up and moved away, leaving the pile of bodies behind. This was exactly the thing he had wanted to avoid.

His mind caught up just as he passed the corner. What was he doing? This would only mean trouble, surely more trouble than the girl had been in to begin with... He looked up at the few windows that weren't dark, growling when he saw a curtain move to the side. Someone had seen him.