There are but three types of humans in this world; those who hate me, those who fear me and those who worship me. All of them are fools.
The guards stood stiff of the cold in front of the tower, waiting for the signal of their lord. How long has it been since he went into the tower? The sun was almost down. Perhaps they should take a look inside, to see if everything was allright. Usually, the visits to Murgin, one of the greatest wizards of all times, took only a few hours. Three, at most.
I said humans on purpose, because it took quite some time before Igot famous with the elves, the dwarves, all of the magic creatures and the demons. Start small, that's what my father used to say and look what he's got now.
The guards climbed the long, twisted stairs. The thumping of their boots echoed through the whole tower. In silecence they counted the number of steps of the seemingly endless stairs. Thirtysix, thirtyseven, thirtyeight. Their lord was probably at the heighest level. How heigh was this tower anyways? From the outside it looked as heigh as two trees, from the inside.. at least ten.
It's kind of funny to see what lame nicknames people come up with if they don't know your real name. The Shadow, the Masked Rider, Son of Demons. Very creative.
Seventyseven, seventyeight, seventynine. The last guard started to pant a little. No wonder, he was wearing his full equipment. And why the hell should they be equiped with the best armor and weapons, just like some enemy army could march in any moment? In the eight years they had served this lord, the most dangerous man they ever met was one with a stick. They could've defeated him without looking. Everyone seems to be paranoid these days.
But what they often don't know is how I turned into the person I am now. Isn't that just typical for these days? No one seems to care anymore about what's happening with others. Untill the others become a burden, only then, we show how good we are at hating.
Finally, the door to the right room came in sight. One of the guards knocked twice. No reaction. Knocked twice again. Silence. Slowely he opened the door. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "but we got worried..." Wait. Was that what he thought it was?
As soon as they know what hate really means, they all come to me. They try to contact me via the weirdest methods; they hide letters inside trees, they seek me out in the bleakest inns in the city, they put gold in front of their doors. And they all seek me out for the same reason; my skills as an assassin.
"God." That's all the guard could say when he saw the two dead bodies. The upper part of their bodies burned 'till their belly, their eyes cut out and nowhere to be found, just like their cut off ears. Everything points out that it's him again. The flames in the fireplace twinkled weakly. The only exit was the door to the stairs. So how could he have entered, without the guards noticing?
Usually there are some special conditions bound to my 'missions'. I should kill them on a certain day or at a certain moment, or with a special weapon or poison. I fulfill all my customer's wishes.
The guards drew their swords and looked around anxiously in the room. Where could he be?
They say my skills are nearly magic! Ha!
There, behind the bookshelf, something is there. A shadow.
Oh, they should know what's actually happenning.
He noticed the guards had seen him. In a blink of the eye he jumped away from the bookshelf.
I should be their hero. But not a hero like those 'mighty' knights.
The mask, the cloak, the two swords. Yes, it was him.
No, I am a hero without honour.
The guards shied away a couple of steps. If they were to believe the rumours, this was no ordinary murderer.
None of them knows about the real war that's going on.
It only took a few seconds before the first throat was cut in a perfect straight line.
At first, I was a puppet as well, but now I'm free.
The other guard tried to escape, but a knife in his back ended that attempt soon.
However, my freedom was expensive.
A couple of weeks later, four unidentifical bodies would be found. No one know Murgin lived here.
This is my story. A story of a hero or a murderer. Because what's the difference between those?
