The jab of the knife was thrust aside as James struck the attacker’s wrists, first the one holding the knife then the other with the bowl, which went bouncing across the muddy ground as the assailant lunged again with his knife. James dodged to the side and grabbed the arm holding it, pulling his assailant in closer. Two quick strikes with the elbow to the man’s throat sent him staggering back, choking for breath. James noted the man’s eyes as the tattered hood was tossed back with the wind. They shot to his flank.
More assassins.
His hand slipped within his cloak to draw out three small throwing knives hidden beneath his doublet. Two figures wearing dark leather to make them blend in with the night approached him from either side, the glint of steel in their hands. They wore masks, only their eyes visible. Jameson did not need to know who any of them were, but their purpose was clear.
The beggar was a decoy.
The assassin to the right flicked his wrist, sending a deadly projectile Jameson's way. Fast and accurate. James shifted his weight slightly to lean to the left, and the throwing dagger sailed past his head only an ilm away. He heard the rush of footsteps from the opposite side of him, the rain lending even the quickest and quietest footsteps a small splash in warning. Jameson afforded but a glance to both his flanks, that briefest glimpse allowing him to duck the swing of the long serrated dagger that arced for his neck.
Short blade. Close-quarters assassin. The one bearing down on him was already bringing his dagger low, wasting no time. James struck the swing aside with the side of his palm, jutting the butt of his other hand at the man’s underside of the chin. Taeros sprang up as the man’s head snapped back, affording him that precious second to coil his arm around the man’s extended hand with the dagger. His feet digging in, he pivoted at the waist, spinning the man in front of him.
Two more throwing daggers thudded into the man, one on his upper torso, the other on the nape of his neck. Quite accurate, James noted. He glanced to the second assassin over the shoulder of the man who was now gurgling blood by his ear. But overconfident. Seeing the human shield in between them, the second assassin drew a scimitar from his hip. With a slight pivot of his feet, Jameson flung his arm, sending the three knives nestled within the web of his fingers towards the assassin that was rushing him.
The assassin batted two away with his scimitar as he charged forward, though the third one found its mark just below the left collarbone. But that barely slowed him down. James pushed the bloodied human shield between them, the dying man now grasping at his neck in a futile attempt to slow the spurting of his lifeblood. The second assassin sidestepped his partner with nary a glance, his scimitar cutting rain in quick smooth arcs in front of him. Jameson hopped back out of reach of the first swing, sidestepped another, then hopped back away from the third that sought to disembowel him.
This one is quicker, he observed, and in the back of his mind he remembered that the beggar still lived; his strikes had not quite broken the trachea. But he could not spare a glance elsewhere -- the scimitar strokes came fast. He turned sideways to dodge two more swings, though one came close enough to leave a tear on his sleeve and draw blood.
Jameson backpedalled toward one of the deserted vendor tables. In their hurried escape, the merchants had left their goods strewn about. James grabbed a silver plate from the table, flinging it at his assailant. The man brought up his arm to shield his head from the oncoming objects, his advance slowing as he did so. But by the time his hand lowered, James had a brass candlestick in one hand. He turned his wrist, holding the candlestick upside down, lining up the length of the candlestick against the side of his arm.
The assassin with the scimitar advanced again, seeking quick strikes to end the fop. But this time Jameson stepped forward, closing the distance between them. The first swing of the scimitar was parried, metal of the blade scraping loudly against the brass candlestick where it should have sliced into the nobleman’s forearm. A quick and vicious swing of the elbow struck the assassin’s neck; James’ arm then uncoiled to shoot behind the attacker’s neck, grabbing and pushing him downward. James brought his knee up to meet the man’s face, an audible crack telling of shattered nose and broken cheekbone. He brought the metal candlestick down on the back of the man’s skull with a sickening crunch.
The assassin's scimitar dropped to the ground with a wet clang and the body fell away. James spotted the beggar five fulms away. But the man was already eyeing the limp body on the ground. He spun and broke into a full sprint out of the bazaar. James yanked the throwing knife that was embedded in the man at his feet, and launched it at the fleeing figure. The beggar had worn no armor as part of his disguise, which left his legs exposed. When the knife pierced his left hamstring, the man fell hard, skidding across wet gravel and mud.
Jameson straightened, looking about. Undoubtedly there were eyes behind the closed doors, peering through the cracks in the wood and the windows. But he knew none would speak of it; they all knew better than to talk of these kinds of business dealings. He checked the bleeding wound on his arm, one that was now staining his lovely doublet. Even as he strode the distance between himself and the man struggling on the ground, James gave the building he left a sidelong glance.
There was the possibility that any one of his guests within could have sent the assassins. Or that this was a gift from another member of the Syndicate. Or any of the Royalist families. These sorts of treacheries were the norm, hidden--if barely--in the underside of that faceted Jewel that was Ul'dah.
The "beggar" was desperately trying to crawl away with one good leg; the other was sliding behind in the wet dirt, useless. The man's eyes widened when the nobleman reached behind him and drew out a small but wicked looking serrated knife.
“I suppose this means I am going to be late for my meeting.†Jameson sighed. Then he smiled. "I apologize for what's to come, in advance."
Civility was still expected, of course.
More assassins.
His hand slipped within his cloak to draw out three small throwing knives hidden beneath his doublet. Two figures wearing dark leather to make them blend in with the night approached him from either side, the glint of steel in their hands. They wore masks, only their eyes visible. Jameson did not need to know who any of them were, but their purpose was clear.
The beggar was a decoy.
The assassin to the right flicked his wrist, sending a deadly projectile Jameson's way. Fast and accurate. James shifted his weight slightly to lean to the left, and the throwing dagger sailed past his head only an ilm away. He heard the rush of footsteps from the opposite side of him, the rain lending even the quickest and quietest footsteps a small splash in warning. Jameson afforded but a glance to both his flanks, that briefest glimpse allowing him to duck the swing of the long serrated dagger that arced for his neck.
Short blade. Close-quarters assassin. The one bearing down on him was already bringing his dagger low, wasting no time. James struck the swing aside with the side of his palm, jutting the butt of his other hand at the man’s underside of the chin. Taeros sprang up as the man’s head snapped back, affording him that precious second to coil his arm around the man’s extended hand with the dagger. His feet digging in, he pivoted at the waist, spinning the man in front of him.
Two more throwing daggers thudded into the man, one on his upper torso, the other on the nape of his neck. Quite accurate, James noted. He glanced to the second assassin over the shoulder of the man who was now gurgling blood by his ear. But overconfident. Seeing the human shield in between them, the second assassin drew a scimitar from his hip. With a slight pivot of his feet, Jameson flung his arm, sending the three knives nestled within the web of his fingers towards the assassin that was rushing him.
The assassin batted two away with his scimitar as he charged forward, though the third one found its mark just below the left collarbone. But that barely slowed him down. James pushed the bloodied human shield between them, the dying man now grasping at his neck in a futile attempt to slow the spurting of his lifeblood. The second assassin sidestepped his partner with nary a glance, his scimitar cutting rain in quick smooth arcs in front of him. Jameson hopped back out of reach of the first swing, sidestepped another, then hopped back away from the third that sought to disembowel him.
This one is quicker, he observed, and in the back of his mind he remembered that the beggar still lived; his strikes had not quite broken the trachea. But he could not spare a glance elsewhere -- the scimitar strokes came fast. He turned sideways to dodge two more swings, though one came close enough to leave a tear on his sleeve and draw blood.
Jameson backpedalled toward one of the deserted vendor tables. In their hurried escape, the merchants had left their goods strewn about. James grabbed a silver plate from the table, flinging it at his assailant. The man brought up his arm to shield his head from the oncoming objects, his advance slowing as he did so. But by the time his hand lowered, James had a brass candlestick in one hand. He turned his wrist, holding the candlestick upside down, lining up the length of the candlestick against the side of his arm.
The assassin with the scimitar advanced again, seeking quick strikes to end the fop. But this time Jameson stepped forward, closing the distance between them. The first swing of the scimitar was parried, metal of the blade scraping loudly against the brass candlestick where it should have sliced into the nobleman’s forearm. A quick and vicious swing of the elbow struck the assassin’s neck; James’ arm then uncoiled to shoot behind the attacker’s neck, grabbing and pushing him downward. James brought his knee up to meet the man’s face, an audible crack telling of shattered nose and broken cheekbone. He brought the metal candlestick down on the back of the man’s skull with a sickening crunch.
The assassin's scimitar dropped to the ground with a wet clang and the body fell away. James spotted the beggar five fulms away. But the man was already eyeing the limp body on the ground. He spun and broke into a full sprint out of the bazaar. James yanked the throwing knife that was embedded in the man at his feet, and launched it at the fleeing figure. The beggar had worn no armor as part of his disguise, which left his legs exposed. When the knife pierced his left hamstring, the man fell hard, skidding across wet gravel and mud.
Jameson straightened, looking about. Undoubtedly there were eyes behind the closed doors, peering through the cracks in the wood and the windows. But he knew none would speak of it; they all knew better than to talk of these kinds of business dealings. He checked the bleeding wound on his arm, one that was now staining his lovely doublet. Even as he strode the distance between himself and the man struggling on the ground, James gave the building he left a sidelong glance.
There was the possibility that any one of his guests within could have sent the assassins. Or that this was a gift from another member of the Syndicate. Or any of the Royalist families. These sorts of treacheries were the norm, hidden--if barely--in the underside of that faceted Jewel that was Ul'dah.
The "beggar" was desperately trying to crawl away with one good leg; the other was sliding behind in the wet dirt, useless. The man's eyes widened when the nobleman reached behind him and drew out a small but wicked looking serrated knife.
“I suppose this means I am going to be late for my meeting.†Jameson sighed. Then he smiled. "I apologize for what's to come, in advance."
Civility was still expected, of course.
