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Political Drama (With Assassins!)

The jingle of coins echoed as the servant held out a bag, and Dinwain heard a soft clink as they landed in the assassin’s hand. Glancing over, he saw the two cloaked figures part ways. Feet sliding silently on the wet cobblestone corridor, he snuck after the assassin. The information he’d already gathered was good, but if he could just get one more piece –what guild the assassin worked with– then the contessa –

Crack!

Instinctively Dinwain ducked, and not a moment too soon. Two darts, probably poisonous, zipped over his head. Drawing his dagger, he gave up on the information. Getting out alive was more important now. Pulling on his feral form, he heightened his senses. Scent and sound clicked into place, and suddenly the near deserted alleyway was alive and humming.

He felt more than saw his opponent move towards him, probably realizing that the Crack! of that stupid branch wasn’t any normal adversary. After all, he didn’t get hit by the darts, didn’t scream, and wasn’t dying slowly, in utter agony. Dinwain was definitely not the helpless victim that his opponent was used to fighting. After all, he was trained to fight back. The cold handle of the frost dagger in one hand, he shot out from behind his corner, sliding on the slick cobblestone, and keeping low. 

The assassin, preparing for a frontal assault or perhaps to chase a fleeing opponent, didn’t even sense Dinwain’s shadow-like form, until the icy hot bite of the dagger shot through his lower left leg. The assassin smelled his own blood, and pulled out his full feral form.

But he wasn’t used to a fair fight. Much less one where the odds weren’t in his favor. He was wounded, slipping on his own blood, surprised to fight against someone with a similar style. Dinwain could feel it in the way he moved, how unsteady he was, how he was a second slower to block than he should be. He was weakened, and Dinwain made full use of that. 

By the end of the battle, Dinwain had stabbed his opponent seven times and been scratched twice in return. Hot blood flowed from a wound on his forehead, dribbling into his eyes as he stared– no expression on his face – at the assassin’s fallen form. He wasn’t pleased by this outcome. Not pleased at all. The duchess would scold him for losing the opportunity to gain such valuable blackmail material.

He kicked the body once, and walked away. 

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