. So please don't move it to Crows as the non alliance cant read it there. Enjoy, and join at will, we want a war! 
))She pulled her dagger out of the corpse with unnecessary force. She glared down at the vacant eyes of the whorehouse master lying in a pool of his own blood atop his bed, a fatal wound to his chest. She would not even give him the honour of drinking his blood, not a drop passed her lips. She sneered in disgust and got off the bed, wiping her blade clean on the silk covers. He would never hurt another girl again anyway, she thought wryly. Sheathing her dagger, she casually left the room and sauntered down the hall of the only home she knew in her childhood. The familiar sounds of the women’s ‘work’ from behind closed doors, each recognisable to her. No one noticed her, there was no one to do so.
She stopped outside one room and listened. Hearing no sound she opened the door a little and peeked in. The room was different from the last time she had been here and the scent was different too. A dusky haired Tier’Dal woman slept on the bed, a bare leg hanging out over the edge. This was not her ebon haired mother. Where could she have gone? Udariu had been here for years and was one of the favourites, she would have had no reason to leave. Kalsari had begged her enough times but to no avail. Frowning, she pulled the door shut again and continued on her way out, unseen by the dozing receptionist.
She stepped out into the coolness of the streets and started upon her way home, though was toying with the idea of finding a meal. She kept a casual pace, knowing fine well that no one would notice her handiwork until the morning. But she began to sense someone following her. She did not look back, for that would alert them to the fact that she knew they were there. But she could hear their heavy and somewhat clumsy foot falls, whoever it was did not have the silent grace of a trained Assassin. Then the smell hit her much more sensitive then before sense of smell. She wrinkled her nose but kept walking, turning a corner, then a few yards down, turned again and stopped. She heard the other enter the street and pause at her apparent disappearance. They began to move again, and Kalsari reached out and grabbed them as they passed, slamming them against the wall with such force as to stun them momentarily but kept her hand on them. She looked up at her stalker, a good three feet or so taller than her, and glared at his Trollish face.
“Care to explain why you are following me Troll?”
“Iz been told to! Julk always do what his is told!” She almost laughed at his expression, obviously not used to being manhandled by a young Tier’Dal female.
“Who sent you?” she demanded.
“Uhmz…Lord Ham…Hali…Halsieth! He be one of dem dragon men.”
Kalsari frowned. “What would a Drakkin want with me?”
“Mez not know, him jus tell mez to keel pretty darkie lady Kalsaaree.”
“Well how did you know it was me, there are many ‘pretty darkie ladies’ in Neriak.”
“Mez ask people, dey tell me what you look like.” His eyes drift down to her neck where hideous scarring covers much of it’s right side, down as far as the top of her collarbone. She scowled, while not ashamed of it, annoyed that the scarring marked her so easily. She would have to wear more high necked clothes. “Fine” she snapped, causing him to look at her face instead, almost mesmerised by her purple rimmed intense blue eyes. “Tell me of this Lord of yours, where might I find him?”
“Mez find him in da Kinsblood Inn, it be in da Commonlands. Hims only go dere to hire people.”
“Does he hire often? Does he have a list of random strangers to have killed off?”
“Hims only told me you Kalsaaree.”
She digs her dagger a little further into his stomach (not quite having the height to reach his throat), a trickle of blood running down and soaking his ragged pants. “I did not give you permission to call me by name Troll.”
He winces. “Don’t hurt me, mez no want to die!”
She grins wickedly, and rams the dagger right in to the hilt. He slumps to his knees with a strangled cry, effectively slicing his own stomach open as he goes down for she holds the dagger perfectly still. Kneeling, he is the same height as her and she leans forward slightly, despite the smell and his guts spilling out over her feet. “Then you should never have been born.” She whispers and pulls the dagger out and slits his throat.
A few minutes later she leaves the alley carrying his grizzly head by its sparse hair, her armour glistening with blood in the neon lights of the city. A trail of blood shows her passage home as she wonders about the one who hunts her.
((to be continued in the morning))
ahem, anyway...))