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[Dymm Crowley]

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He has never felt younger – never more fit than at this moment. His feet seem to take him an extra stride and each time they touch the floor, the moist ground propels him forward, further, faster. The ocean mist in the air cools his face and the wind keeps his hair afloat above his shoulders. He maneuvers the dark trees in the night forest as skillfully as any of its residents. Light appears on the horizon: a camp. The hunt is on.

His running stops on the spot and he approaches the camp, slowly, skillfully, silently. He spots the mark – a lone, hooded figure tending to the fire. His heart picks up a beat. He is aware of the blood pumping through his veins more quickly and more intensely. The only sound he can hear is the slow, steady breath of the man before him. He moves closer, completely undetected. A dagger flashes silver against the light of the fire. And then the cold sets in. All of the blood in his veins turns to ice water. It is the cold of a murderer. It is the cold he lives for.

He relishes the moment – standing right behind his unsuspecting victim, he dares a maniac grin. Raises the dagger to the level of the ribcage, ready to plunge inward and upward. His arm pulses with strength. He holds the position for a moment, watches the flames dance in the metal of the dagger, only inches away from flesh. His dagger begs for the taste of blood.

Unable to contain itself any longer, his arm thrusts forward in the way it has done so many times before when it has claimed the lives of others. But this time, there is no flesh to be had. His dagger flails stupidly into thin air and the man is suddenly gone. At that moment, he feels another type of cold: the sliding of metal fiercely into his back. His breathing becomes shorter, louder, more desperate. He can feel his precious lifeblood begin to trickle down the side of his mouth. He feels his lower back become warm with it. With eyes of disbelief, he stares down at his useless dagger and sees that it is covered with blood.

He falls to his knees. Black smudges begin to cloud his vision. He falls to his back, staring straight up at the dark, night sky. His youthful, muscular figure lay wasted on the forest floor, like raw meat. He musters the energy to peer into the darkness of the wood, needing to know who it was that did it – who managed to kill the killer. Who was more silent? - more skillful? - who could possibly have snuck up on him?

Alas, he glimpses only a black hat, the swoop of a cloak, and the mysterious figure is gone. But, he left something fluttering behind, something drifting down with the wind. The item sets itself down right beside his head. His vision has nearly failed him now – everything misty and blacking out. Knowing it will be the last move he can make, he wills his head to flop over onto its side. He has to know. What is it? Who had done this?

He squints his eyes, urges himself to see for just a moment longer. His eyes widen in terrified disbelief as he realizes what it is. Impossible, he thinks to himself. But there it is, right before his dying eyes: a card, the ace of spades.

Everything goes black.


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“Git yer arse outta here, Crowley!”

He becomes aware of his own body again. Opening his eyes, he is greeted by the sight of a large, balding man. His entire body aches, especially his head. He means to ask, “Where am I?,” but all that comes out is a grunt: “Huh?”

The balding man speaks. “Yeh passed out agin, Crowley. An' I sayed, git yer arse home, yeh bum.”

He's in the tavern. In Vesper. Just a short walk from home. He musters the strength to pick himself up off the bar counter and stumbles out of the building. He rubs the side of his face, trying to coax the headache away. His fingers run through his poorly kempt facial hair. He feels old – older than he has ever felt.

It's early morning. No one is out yet, saving him the embarrassment of the disheveled walk home. He is grateful for his long-brimmed hat, blocking the harsh sun from his eyes. He manages it home, locks up the door and closes all the blinds. Not willing to brave the staircase, he plops down on a seat in front of his first-floor desk. In years past, the same seat that held clients, passing dirty gold coins across the table, signing contracts for blood, whispering the names of those whom they sought vengeance against.

But, there was no one on the other side of the desk now.

“Where are all my friends?” Dymm breaks the dead silence of his house, surprising even himself with his inquiry. The question lingers throughout the solitary confines of those wooden walls. He can already hear the answer echoing back: “You never had friends.”

His eyelids feel heavy. He can hardly hold them up anymore. He blinks. He blinks again and decides to rest them for just a moment...


His chair falls backwards, creating a hellishly loud crash reverberating throughout the old walls. Dymm is forced awake, his back hitting hard against the hardwood floor. His headache is triply worse, his equipment scattered all about him. He does not move, though very aware of how pathetic he looks would someone enter the house at this moment. He knows no one is coming.

He is aware of a mess of his belongings all about him but does not have the energy to care. His head, feeling too heavy to control, tilts sideways until his eyes become level with the floor. Amongst feather pens and ruined bottles of potion, Dymm notices something else. Just before passing into another deep slumber, he notices his calling card, the ace of spades, and a chill strikes through his heart.

And the old assassin has no recollection why.