He sits motionless on a roof top in the snall town of Three Forks Divide allowing the shadows to cover him like a lover’s caress.
Always in the shadows.
It is the only place he truly feels himself.
Patience.
It was one of the first lessons he learned.
It was the most important lesson for an assassin.
He has tracked his target all the way from Kempo to this backwater town.
His patience was to pay off.
A man was going to die.
He sees his prey; the dim light of the moon gives more than enough light for his keen eyes. Just as it appears his deader will go a different route than usual the man pauses, turns, and as usual, heads down the same side street. He smirks as the dagger leaves its sheath. Things just seemed to go his way more often than not, and on the rare occasion it was not he still managed to come out ok. They didn't call him "Slanter" for nothing; things just always seemed to slant to his favor.
He moves like lightning, his legs pumping as he pushes out of his readied position. He lands behind the man and the dagger easily finds its mark. The deader didn't know what hit him; they rarely did... unless he wanted them to.
Later that night he finds himself in a local tavern. He stands off to the side, in the shadows. He likes it in the shadows. For the most part folks pay him little mind, which is how he likes it. It makes it easier to listen when people pay you little mind. He hears them talking about the dead man all ready. He knew it wouldn't take long in a small town like this. A mugging they say. Well, that is what his employer asked for... discreet, make it look like and accident, or a mugging... just make him dead.
He steps away from the wall, from the shadows. They almost don't want to let him go... or is that just his imagination? He shrugs it off the way he always does. His hand comes up from beneath his cloak where it was resting on the hilt of his kukri, he strikes a match and lights his cigarette as he makes his way to the bar.