Three hours, he was ordered. Three hours to kill the traitor Ferinor Rocha and be back at his patron's house by midnight's moon. As the new man in the house, Cerinal Bourge was told that he must clean up whatever loose strings there were out in society that might damage his patron's image. And as Ferinor was a proving to be a problem, well then he had to be dealt with accordingly.

Strict orders were given that Ferinor was to be closely watched and then approached when he was good and drunk.

So into the local tavern Cerinal went. Knowing who to look for, he proceeded to offer a tankard of mead. "A stranger with alcohol is always a friend," he chortled and sat down heavily in the chair opposite, a stained meager table creaking between them.

And one should always have a fresh taste in their mouth before dying, he thought.

Ferinor was a gaunt man of a very pale complexion. His garments ancient, yet neatly pressed with a red flower pinned to his breast. He sipped the offered mead and avoided further conversation by remaining silent. His demeanor was not threatening, yet likewise not disarming. Cerinal actually had a few moments of amusement watching the awkward, gauche behaviour of this supposed traitor. Assumingly, socializing was not Ferinor's forte.

After several tankards were had and the conversation at a standstill, Cerinal felt like playing with his prey; he strummed his fingers thoughtfully. He leaned over across the table to stare Ferinor in the eye. Blue sparking irises gleamed in the firelight as Cerinal crooked the side of his mouth and slowly drawled, "Whot do ye reckon's tha best way ta kill a man, Ferinor?"

Ferinor considered the look on Cerinal's face before hesitantly answering him, "I do not think there is a best way when it comes to killing." He paused and turned his eyes from Cerinal's intensive stare to gaze deeply into the hearth fire.

"It is savage." He finished in a soft yet forcible tone.

"But do ye not think it best ta stare a man in the eye before ye take his life?"

Ferinor's mouth twitched, he looked at the dusty floor then turned his head towards the hearth again.

Simply nodding and leaning back into his chair, Cerinal rested an elbow on the arm of it. He casually tilted his head and studied Ferinor with intent. Through the orange glow, Ferinor's features gleamed; the sharp angle of his nose, the hollowing sunken cheeks from too many missed meals and too much cigar in his lungs. His eyes so focused on the fire that he forgot to try and stop the slight tremble of his bottom lip and light sweat of his brow.

Inhaling and puffing up his chest, Cerinal finally averts his eyes from the mysterious face to look at the blaze to his left. The smoke of the acrid, sparse room filling his nostrils and the dimness around him only made the fire seem much brighter. And as he stared its luminosity increased, filling his vision. He felt the world sinking back. Was it the mead making him this way? But he could not peel his eyes from the flames.

Dancing, there were figures dancing in the light! They linked arms and bowed, skinny legs kicked and dresses flourished. A whole orchestra lifted their instruments and bleated out a tune in the fire! What a glorious site only the heavens could create!

He could not blink. He could not move. His every limb was stiffened at the sight of the life in the fire. The sound of a low thick chink and the drawing of his breath broke his mesmerism. He blinked as if it had never been done before, his eyes so dry they burned.

Opening his eyelids, he glimpsed down at his ribs and at the sharp steel dagger protruding from them.

Dragging his gaze, forcing it upward, he met Ferinor's eyes in a scrutiny so complete and cold he almost convulsed. Ferinor's hand retracted from beneath the small table to rest on the top, his fingers idly strumming as he watched his prey slip into the embrace of darkness.