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Before the Nautiloid, there was an assassin. Well regarded in his field, the assassin knew the power of a name, and thus kept his hidden. It may not have been the best for brand-recognition purposes, but if someone really wanted to hire this particular assassin, there were ways to find him. The assassin enjoyed his work well enough. Lots of travel, constant intellectual stimulation, and you get the meet the most fascinating people!
In fact, that last fact was the best part of the job. True, this assassin, like most, had made use of the bread-&-butter of assassin tools. Cloak and Dagger, lock-picking, the classic bedroom stabbing sort of deal, but that was never his favoured approach. Each target was a unique animal, and each offered interesting challenges and tidbits that can help make each kill a more satisfying story overall. To kill should not be a rote process, it should be a work of art.
Do not misunderstand, this was not the ravings of the psychotic murder cultists of Bhaal. This assassin did not make the murder more gruesome, nor place the victim in intricate poses to maximise shock value. Such things detract from the sort of art in which the assassin took pride. The artful kill is one that respects the victim, minimises collateral damage, and ensures the 'artist' always escapes. How do you best respect the victim of a murder? You get to know them and allow them to enjoy the process!
Each assassin has their own preferred way of doing it. In those rare moments when one gets to 'talk shop' with another, it was common to compare and contrast, swap techniques, playfully argue pros and cons of each method. Our assassin held strongly to the belief that the best means to kill another person was through pure and simple poison. After all, what is something more universal and more bonding than a meal? Humanoids, despite their many shapes, sizes and cultures, often come together and share meals. The intake of sustenance, ritualized to nourish body and soul together. If you ever truly want to know another person, start with a shared meal. Watch what they eat, how they eat it, what they talk about! Pay attention to the lulls of silence, see what they do with their hands, their utensils (if they even use them!). So much can be captured in a meal.
It was the meal, at which our assassin most often performed his craft, and he always made it a show! In this line of work, it becomes easy to determine weaknesses in your opponents, and a shared weakness that plague most (even the assassin himself!) is the desire never to dine alone. Given the chance, and made to feel comfortable, most of us would gladly share a meal with a stranger. Who better to eat with, than one that is new to you? One who brings new stories, new gossip, new song? Especially during travel, many find themselves pleasantly delighted by sharing kind-hearted laughs around a fire at camp with complete strangers they happen upon along the way. That is why our assassin only needed a few disguises, and a few different 'characters' in order to gain access to his targets.
Hapless entertainers of various stripes, a noble courtier (often named 'Ludwig'), even just a sympathetic nobody. Adopt a fun persona, and most will be inclined to enjoy a meal with you. Our assassin reveled in enjoying the final meal of his target. Proper etiquette is essential when your meal-time companion is so close to the end. They are always right! (Unless they want a debate, then they are a devilish opponent that convinces you by final wine). Their musical taste is paramount! They get the best and the most of all the foods and wines available. Some may say this is wasteful, but all this goes towards the fundamental goal of 'respecting the victim'. The poison may be slipped into their drink at any time (so long as you ensure it is the sort that does not trigger until the next day!) but if you want to be artful, always administer the poison after a few drinks, and propose a toast! Ensure it is something for which your target cares deeply, and mean it when you toast it! Make it a prayer to the Gods, asking them to grant the last desire of this target.
Enjoy their company above all, and truly know them as much as possible. Bid them good night, and, if possible, offer something to any of the target's companions. Nothing as trite as a physical object, or incriminating evidence, but a joke, a song, a scrap of wisdom. Leave them with something gained in exchange for something lost.
And so, our merry assassin performed his art, and each work honed his skills, and sharpened his wits. Sometimes, a client would ask: Why do you do it? The question was most often an attempt to assuage their own guilt by placing it upon the assassin, but he would gladly answer. Assassins are seen as bringers of death, and rightly so, but rarely are they seen in their true light as the savers of lives. Every being in Faerun should know a simple fact: people will want to kill other people, and for a myriad of reasons. Most often, this takes the form of a battle between the participants. Like meals, no one wishes to fight alone, so many others who are not directly involved are brought in. A simple struggle that should result in a single death can spiral into wars! So many lives lost in the pursuit of one person. The skillful assassin is the cure to this. You cannot stop the conflict, you cannot expunge the murderous heart of humanoids, but you can temper it. Instead of a battle to decide who dies, simply go to the source. Take the single life, and many are saved the troublesome battles that would otherwise happen.
A simple answer, but our assassin was no great scholar. It was the answer that sustained his craft. And so, one day, he was contracted to eliminate another target. He was paid an unusually large sum of gold for this job, but he was not one to ask many questions. There is a certain game in attempting to find out the motive of the client from the target themselves, after all! And this work of art went off without a hitch! With a private prayer to Talona before the meal, a toast to Tyr later on (at the request of our esteemed target), and a quick petition to Shar on the way out, the job was finished. He had met the target on the road to a nearby town, a ways away from Baldur's Gate. He had been dressed in magnificent armour. He had great tales of battles fought, and he had a certain confidence. He knew the Gods were on his side. He had faith and conviction, valour that our assassin could not help but admire. It was painfully clear this man had made many enemies, and no doubt had plans on making many more! But, despite his battle prowess, despite his divine favour, despite his many companions, he died the next day, like so many.
Our assassin was paid by his mysterious benefactors, and paid handsomely. He rarely felt anything but a certain satisfaction after a job well done, but this one began to trouble him slightly. He made a critical error, one only the most innocent or most sadistic assassins ever make. Against his better judgement, he asked his client, as they turned to leave, 'why?'.
Some clients show their faces, others use intermediaries. Some wear masks or cloaks. Others magically change their appearances. This one was hard to figure out. He could not tell their race, nor gender, nor any significantly defining feature. Its voice was chilling to hear, and, while it had a face, it was often obscured by a hood, emotionless. That is why it unnerved our assassin even more as a large smile spread across the only bit of face left uncovered.
The figure simply uttered that he was the first domino to fall, and continued on their way. Clients love their little euphemisms, and normally the assassin would leave this be. But in this instance, he made his second rookie mistake: He continued to investigate his target, after their demise. Like returning to a masterpiece portrait after it is dry and hung at the gallery, this rarely leads to any improvement, and most often ruins a work! He ended up at a small shrine to Tyr, the target's patron God. The assassin simply wanted to find record of the man's deeds. He no doubt could have asked for it, but no sense revealing himself here. He infiltrated the place, and found their archives. Amid the dusty scrolls, he found one, carefully maintained document, set apart from the rest. A prophecy. Upon reading it, it clearly referred to the target. Dashing hero, paladin of Tyr, destined for great things! He will slay the dragon of Burdusk, Cure the Grandfather Tree, and on and on... He will save Elturel in its moment of peril...
The settlement he was headed towards. Our assassin let it be and returned to Baldur's Gate, only to hear the news. Elturel fallen into Avernus! A city thrust into the Hells! Calamity! A new sense befell our troubled assassin. Surely this was not his work? He is a simple assassin after all. He does not meddle in the affairs of heroes and Gods, he does not affect the fates of cities. He is a simple assassin. He kills a wastrel here, a noble there. He felt again that sensation. Panic? An assassin saves lives! And who puts stock in some scrolls in some shrine anyway? One man cannot save a city! One death, therefore, cannot doom it!
He would have died by another hand, if not by our assassin! Another would have surely killed his companions too! He had done an artful job! No one but the target, just like the very best of his assassinations. But the panic remained. And something far more insidious grew, day after day as more news came in from Elturel. Guilt. The death knell of the assassin. A guilty assassin is soon a dead one! Guilt. Panic. He had accepted the job, after all. He had gone into it unthinkingly. The payment was too high, one should never accept that much for such a simple job!
Who was his client? Why would he EVER accept a job from someone as scary-looking as that?? Where was Tyr? If this was a God's 'holy warrior', why did the Gods not protect him? How could a simple assassin, with simple poison, extinguish one so important? The assassin would try best he could to grapple with this, but it consumed him. Guilt. Another horrible thought entered his mind, as word throughout the city spread that Duke Ravengard had been lost in the fall of the doomed city. This was the result of one job. What other unknown, unspeakable horrors had been occurring all across the Sword Coast as a result of every other job he had done? Panic. Grief. Oh, this realisation, and the constant hours ruminating on it brought about this third distinct emotion. Amazing how different Guilt and Grief feel, yet both harmonize so masterfully through a chorus of ever-present Panic! This was unlivable. Inescapable. It was not long before another job was offered to him, assassinating some artist. A jilted lover situation. Our assassin would have loved this case just a short while ago, but he was sick at the meeting with the client. Guilt. He was shaking too much to even work the thieves' tools at the target's house. Panic. He spent an entire evening with the target at a tavern, discussing the victims of the Elturel disaster, and never once thought to poison her drink. Grief.
She reminded him of one of his first murders. Everything so fresh then, but even the fondest memories grew sour as he wondered about each victim. He had at least respected them, right? That was another mistake. One of his earliest mentors gave him a cliché lesson about 'never getting to know the target' out of fear of that tormenting devil, Guilt. Never before had it been an issue, but now, with the floodgates open, each little detail of every life taken would flow unbidden into the murderer's mind. Inescapable! He had another conversation with his contracted victim soon after. She had painted a rendition of the 'Fall of Elturel'. She had never been there, but the details didn't matter. Everything the murderer felt was captured by this awful image. The Panic of the citizens, running out of flaming buildings! The Grief of the mothers, as their children are ripped from them by winged devils. And the overwhelming Guilt that emanated from the whole work!
She laughed at the reaction of her new friend and potential killer. She said Art is supposed to be an escape, but something compelled her to depict this scene. The murderer considered this carefully. Art was an escape. Consider of course, the third quality of the perfect kill. The escape! If the fundemental quality of Art is the act of escape, then the Artist must be the master of escape! The master of escaping into another world, another feeling, another life! After that conversation, the artist would never see that man again.
The client who had contracted her death never saw the man again either. He would then have to turn to a newly growing cult of Bhaal instead. The assassins that would associate with the man never saw him again, many assuming his poisonings had finally caught up with him. The local Pantheon to the Gods never saw the man who anonymously donated a large sum of gold to honour the God Tyr.
Soon, a new show appeared in the Lower City of Baldur's Gate! The show, panned by many Upper City critics but gained a small following amongst the drunken swills, promised a sweeping tale of redemption, folly, fun! It featured music reminiscent of a recently deceased artist, but all new verses, and even an animal act! Despite its reviews, many who would see the performance would come out saying that, if nothing else, it provided a necessary diversion, a meaningful escape from the pressures of life in the bustling city. The show was called CandleCats, by the noble Pavel, the Poet!
(Depiction of a Performance of CandleCats in the Elfsong Tavern, Pavel Pictured Here with Lute)
