<blockquote><div><cite>Victor Vareen wrote:</cite>The cold eve caused his breath to rise as would smoke in the late hours of the evening. A few alleys over in the square that donminated the town, people could be heard milling about. But that didn't matter at this moment in time. The guards gave chase relentlessly, why him of all people? Assassin's ran free among the streets, especially at this time, but the guards focused on <span style="font-style: italic">him?</span><br/><br/>He'd never understand. Victor felt his legs begin to wear down as he tried in desperation to keep up his frantic pace, the coin purse that was lined thickly with coin only served as drag as did his black cloak that billowed behind him. The purse belonged to Veldro, a grease encrusted man who swildled the ignorant and charmed the weary. He diserved it, honest. His 'luck' was beginning to bleed into overload, the ever grey of the streets, be it day or night it mattered little to his 'luck', began to no longer blur as it had been a few moments ago. He was tiring and fast. His lungs burned, the stale bread he scavenged from the back alleys of taverns no longer sufficent, as if it could ever serve as a proper meal. But the motto of the streets is strictly "It will have to do" mixed in with the knowledge that another fleeting meal may not present itself. <br/><br/>Slower and slower and with the red figures of the guards now beginning to gain on him Victor knew he'd have to start climbing. The familiar and all too welcome glow of yellow lit up the dark grey of his world, on the right of him. A ledge was proffered to him by his 'luck' more fool he not to take it. Running to the end of the alleyway Victor near flung himself to the ledge and continued onwards, yellow here and there picked out hand holds in an otherwise blank and grey world. He was so close to the top when pain suddenly blossomed in his left hand. So much for luck. The now vivid red of the protruding nail was spotted too late, Victor could <span style="font-style: italic">feel</span> the blood running down his hand but as he hoisted himself over the rooftop with his uninjured hand, collapsing with relief on top of "The Doormouse" Victor could not <span style="font-style: italic">see</span> the blood. But the hot liquid and burning pain was no stranger to him, nor was trouble as he spied from his vantage point the colour of the guards change from a bright and angry red to a softer, confused marine blue. He'd gotten away at least. That was something.<br/><br/>The sun began to break the once clouded night, but it was lost on Victor who remained until the threat of discovery had negated. The bright orb was naught but an outlined grey, from what Victor could see, but the greens and blues of people beginning to stir and rouse and beat back the stream of assassin's and theives with their daylight and false image of perfection that needed to remain in place, so that they flourish as they have been for so many years. He was ashamed really, to admit that he could be counted among them. Nothing but a common pick-pocket, right? A blind one at that, it was a wonder as to how he always escaped the patrols and guards with such a handicap. People knew so little.<br/><br/>It took a while, and a bit more energy than he would have liked to return to ground level, his left hand bandaged crudely with a strip off the end of his cape. The blindfold itched, the coarse material irritaing his ever so ensitive eyes. But he dare not remove it, especially in the face of the people who now wandered the streets. Gods know what happened last time. He was getting closer to his goal, the purse in the coin told him as much, but he'd need some more supplies and some more bandages, the gap in his cloak felt keenly when he moved off into the square, to see what else he could garner. The merchants were no about, fat, insolent pigs that hungered for the feel of coin in their meaty palms, revealing in their greed. Victor was more than happy to part them from their 'hard earned' coin, for his own cause. The light weight of the pendant whispered of just why his was more worthy theirs, and also held a promise. But with a promise came questions. And Victor could plainly see newer people milling about the locals, they clearly weren't from Artoria. Would they aid him? Could he aid them? Only time would tell, and if anything the virtue of patience was his, he was waiting for sixteen years, sixteen long, painful years. He can wait a while longer if need be.</div></blockquote>