Hangover Tavern (Harris/Morti)

He was not the same man he had been a year ago, of that there was no doubt.


The guild had been his idea. There were a few men who were in on it originally, him and a few of the men who had been doing the job when he was a young man. Deep down, he hadn't trusted them. He had thought it was a bad idea. But as things went, as the guild blossomed, he was sure that it was a great idea.

Now he was regretting it. All because he had left, he knew what had to come. He was going to be hunted down by an assassin who was going to take him out.

Yes, the life of an assassin wasn't a glamorous one but it was the life he had led since the age of seventeen. Now, at forty five, he was a man who knew his death was soon to come.

The question was who and the question was when. Every time he saw someone in the corner of his eyes, he wondered if it was them. Every voice across the tavern was something that drove him into a frenzy.

At least it had earlier in the night. Now here he was, four tankards of ale into the night, and wondering.

Just wondering.

Mortisha Rose. That name had struck fear into the hearts and minds of many villagers across the unfolding Kingdoms. Rumors rose and fell throughtout the court life about her, even dubbing her name to be The Deathly Flower. No one knew where she was from, appearing so native that no one could even guess, but the spoke of her unparallel beauty, notioning that is what caused most men to fall at her feet. But very few knew what her real purpose was; an assassin of the Guild. Nowadays, she was considered one of the best. That is, she was, after Delacroix had left. It had been a disturbing amount of time since she had last seen her astranged trainer.

Her next target.

At first, she refused the order, demanding that it was unethical for a student to assassinate their very own teacher. They had spent too many years together, training and sparring, him preparing her for the worst, as always. He had looked after her, his well-taught student, approving and disapproving accordingly. Scorning her when she made mistakes, and offering a brief and rare smile when she surprised him by her growing skills. How could the Guild possibly expect her to carry through with it? Eventually, she had to accept the order, knowing she couldn't refuse any longer. There was no way around it, and it cracked the edges of her sorrowful heart to do it...if he didn't kill her first. He was the only one she could never beat. He rarely faltered, always calculating her next move even before she made the decision herself.

This night was dark. The luminescent moon hovered overhead with a hostile glint, and for once, Mortisha was nervous.

She had found herself sitting at the far end of a meaningless pub. She cared not to know the name, for she rarely wandered into places such as these. Men sat around drinking themselves into a stupor, women whoring theirselves to the drunk men. It was truly a pitiful sight to behold. Half-clothed, laughing and gambling. Disgusting. These villagers clearly had no self-respect. But her icy red stare ignored all of it, remaining on thatof the only male in the room sitting alon, without making an ass of himself, or a wench by his side, even though as the time passed on he had drank a considerable amount.

In actuality, Morti was surprised that he had yet to notice her. But then again, her cloak had shrouded her to blend in with the impending darkness the corner of the bar had provided. The fur hood covered her face right down to eye level, long silver hair tied into a fishtail braid that hung over her right shoulder, fastened by the first strip of leather he had sliced from her armor during their first spar. It seemed ironic to keep such a token, but Mortisha harbored a secret that no one knew.

She stood, pulling free his golden dagger which he had forgotten that night so very long ago, when he abandoned the order. It gleamed with a brilliance unknown and fit perfectly to her slender fingers. A ruby connected the blade to its hilt, and truly was sharp enough to slice through bone. Lithe steps brought her to the chair across from his position at the oh-so-lonely table, littered with empty glasses. She pulled out the chair and sat neatly, crossing one leg over the other, planting the dagger on the table in front of him. She quirked that familiar half-smile she had always given him.

"Harris," she spoke softly, no ounce of emotion on her face besides that tender smile that didn't reach her eyes, "long time, no see."

As Harris drank, he noticed the area around him. It was full of the usual rowdy crowd, whores and the miscreants that filled up society. All his life, Harris had felt more at home around these people than he had ever felt at home with his family. These people were those who didn't have a care in the world, who only wanted to have fun and never worried about the seriousness of society.

It had been because of people like them that he had became an assassin. In his youth, he had lived in Breena as a the apprentice to a blacksmith. At the age of 15, his brother Joseph had been sent away to war. Harris had lost everything that day. Joseph had been the only one who cared if he lived or died in Breena, his own parents much preferring to look after his siblings than him. Joseph was a kindred spirit, they had talked about leaving to see the world together. But when he was whisked away to war, a part of Harris' heart told him that he was never going to see his brother again. He had left in the night from Breena, looking for a way to make his fortune.

The job of an assassin had come purely by accident. He had been in Luminiege and had been recruited by a mysterious benefactor to kill a high ranking lord who was hurting a young woman in town. Now that he thought back on it, the mysterious benefactor may not have existed. That may have been a lie he told himself to justify the murder of a duke. The young woman had been so lovely and they had fallen in love. For a year later, Harris made a name for himself as an assassin and would return to Luminiege to court her.

He had eventually settled down. Their first child had been had, which brightened Harris' dark soul. Then the second....the third...and finally the fourth. With each child Harris found himself missing the man he was when he was younger more and more. He left. He knew it was not the right thing to do but he had left.

Though he had left when he had his own daughter, when he met her it was like he had another daughter all over again. He remembered the order to kill a small child, a princess. He had ignored it. With golden dagger in hand, a dagger he himself had crafted, he took her from the wreckage that was her home and began to raise her as his own daughter. Mortisha Rose, Harris called her Morti for short. He had started teaching her everything he knew. How to kill, how to not get caught, he even taught her how to track a subject without being seen.

That's why he wasn't surprised when the same dagger, like a memory long since forgotten slammed onto the table and stuck there. He looked up, a mischevious glint in his eyes as he looked at her.

"Morti," he said, the smile on his face as fake as the women around him, all except for her of course, "come to kill me?"

Time was something that consumed people's souls, something that tore through families all across the ages. Here, it remained no different. Age had taken a hold on Harris Delacroix, suffocating the man that Mortisha knew he had been. He had saved her from a darkly fate, when he had been in his early thirties. Mortisha had been seven or so, or at least she had figured around that age, considering those years had melded together, making it hard to determine what happened and when. She had been so little, and Harris had been a harsh teacher, training her from the start. He had seemed colder now, just about as biter as he had been all those years ago. She knew in her heart, he hadn't wanted to care for her, and now she regretted everything he had taught her, for maybe she wouldn't be in this position.

He understood where it was that she had come from. He knew the rules that she couldn't break, which had surprised her when he left. He knew it meant death, and had drilled into her mind since day one...'Once an assassin, always an assassin. Or your death will come sooner than you expected'. She remembered his words, as always. Her mind drifted to those damnable long nights he had kept her sparring, wearing her out until the point of total exhaustion.

"Mortisha, pay attention! You're slacking yet again!" Harris yelled firmly in her direction.

"But Harris, I'm exhausted, I just need to rest. We've been at this for hours now. Please." She was half bent, hair frayed in that long braid, and panting like hell, trying to catch her breath, sword dragging against the ground of the Guild's training room. She had been seventeen.

"Do you think your targets will let you rest midst battle? Raise your sword, now! That is an order, Mortisha!" He yelled closing in with a raised blade.

With the last of her strength her blade slammed forward to meet his, blocking on the offensive. He had pushed her form against the wall, his blade barely grazing her neck, as she tried her best to push back. "Harris..." She swallowed. And with that he had lowered the edge of his sword. She sighed, dropping her sword at her feet, and as soon as the metal hit the smooth floor, he was back, the point of the blade directly at her throat, drawing an insane amount of blood from the tiniest of wounds.

"Trust no one, Mortisha. Not even I. Or it will be your downfall." He whispered, looking at her in a way that was strange even for him, and then left her standing there blank faced.

Now, that he sat right in front of her, she knew she had missed him, missed the way things used to be in simpler times. But that was long since passed, and she had no idea how to come to terms with the Order she had to carry out. It would be terrible, and she knew it.

"So you've been expecting me, Harris. Or at least the likes of us...the Guild." She sighed, folding her hands in her lap. "Why did you leave me...? I wasn't ready...and you knew it. I don't want to do it. I fought it, and had been denied. And now here I sit. If front of the only man I've ever cared for in any way, and they expect me to kill you. It's sad to think that you would think I would."

Once an assassin, always an assassin...

The words that he had taught Mortisha when she had been a girl rang through his ears as he looked over the young woman in front of him. She had matured, of that there was no doubt. Before him sat a woman that, many years ago, would have clung to a small stuffed doll he had made her from cloth and straw. One of the few talents he had left from his days as a young man in Breena, pleasing people with the things he made. The doll had stopped the young girl from crying. That was one of Harris' fondest memories.

He had stole his way into the room of the young princess, in the castle of a great family. It had been heavily protected but years of training in Ulfur had taught him how to blend in with his surroundings and they had never seen him coming. He stood over the sleeping frame of a child, Gods, a small helpless child who couldn't defend herself. Judging by the shape of the room, her parents loved her. Not as much as the child whose room he had first found himself in, a young mans. He had almost confused targets. Never again would he let that happen.

As he stood over her, raising a gold dagger embedded with jewels that he had crafted his self, she awoke. The young girl sat up to look at him, fear in her eyes.

He didn't know how it had happened. His own children hadn't been enough for him to stay. But perhaps that was why he suddenly cared about this girl. He lowered the knife and smiled, trying to look the part of a thief from a story book. "How would you like to come with me, eh? Does a life of adventure suite ye?"

Of course the child had nodded and he grinned again, "I'm Harris. What is ye name?"

"Mortisha," she sleepily replied as he picked her up in his arms, laying her head on his shoulder. "Mortisha Rose."

He had never told her the truth of how they had met. She was too young to remember.

Now here sat a young woman who could turn any mans head and then probably take their lives from them. No, not probably. He knew exactly what she could do. After all, he had made sure that she could.

"Course, I've been expecting you...well...someone from the Guild," he began to lie smoothly. He hesitated and then spoke again, "No, no. I did expect you. The Guild has a habit of trying to use your worst fear against you. You coming to kill me...that's what would make a good show for them."

He listened to her question, "Weren't ready? You knew everything I could teach you. Teaching only means so much. If you don't get out there and experience things for your own you never would have become great as you undoubtedly are now."

He handed her a mug of ale, "You must do it. If you don't, you'll be in the same place I am. Trust me, a young woman doesn't need to spend most of her life running from the things that will harm her."

It seemed like no time had passed at all between their entwining paths of fate. Harris was just as stubborn and pig-headed as before, causing Mortisha to roll her eyes skywards in exasperation as he politely handed her a mug of ale, which she distastefully placed in front of her without so much as a sip. A clear head was a responsible one. Just another thing he had taught her over the years, but now here he sat, drinking himself into oblivion. She found it quite pitying, yet she never stated such, because the tension had already risen between them. She could feel it, yet it didn't seem to bother her in the least. He had changed, of that there was no doubt; colder than usual, and absurdly more distant than he had ever been before...but she had come to kill him. He knew it. She knew it. What else would she expect?

"I'll be fine, Delacroix. I can more than hold my own nowadays. Things are different. Have been since you left. They wouldn't be wise to hunt me, just as I am unwise to hunt you." She stated, oculi befalling the rowdy crowd that lingered in her peripheral, removing her hood accordingly. "Since when do you keep company with this sort...?"

As if she had requested, in which she had obviously didn't, a drunken male pawned at her shoulders, resulting in another eye roll at the stupidity of men. His breath wreaked of booze, nauseating her stomach, coiling slightly though not quite enough for her to gag.

"Sir...I suggest you remove your filthy palms from my person. You will find yourself without a hand in the morning if you refuse." She stated in utter calmness.

"Come on, girl. I'll give you the time of your life." He slurred disgustingly in her ear, attempting a whisper, but failing miserably. "What do you say?"

Mortisha snarled under her breath, her hand flicking upwards in the bare hint of a second, to snatch one of his mud covered hands off her shoulders, her other free hand jumping forward to retrieve the golden dagger from the table top to bring the blade to slice across the softest part on the inside of his wrist, barely blinking as the sound of crunching bones filled her ears. Blood splattered against her face, adding color to that perfectly pale tone, the male screaming in agony below her feet. She dropped his newly detached limb, uncaring as his whimpers blended in with the noise of the crowd. No one had turned to glance once. No one bothered to approach her out of fear. All the while, her legs remained crossed, a picture of ease.

"I had warned you, sir. Now you would do best to go and dress your wounds before you bleed out everywhere unwanted." Her tone was neutral, if anything a bit hostile. Murmuring under her breath. "I hate when Valentine skips out on the Tavern...people turn his bar into a damnable hell on Earth."

"Still not one to drink on the job I see," Harris mumbled as she passed on the glass of ale he had given her. Of course, he knew that too was his doing. She had been taught to never drink while on the job. Then again, he hadn't taught her everything. Like how to hold her liquor. While it seemed that he was a drunkard, slouching and slumming it with some of the worst dregs of society, he had a keen eye to all ways of escape. If she was going to kill him, Harris wasn't going to make this easy for her.

"No one was ever wise to hunt you," Harris replied, giving her the dashing smile that had melted many women's hearts, "even as a seven year old girl I couldn't kill you Morti."

Looking around him, Harris was aware that this was not his usual crowd. Then again, he had no usual crowd. He did his best work while he was alone. These drunkards and whores were just people he surrounded himself because, deep down, he did feel a bit like them. When he was just a young man, he would have fallen in line with people like this. As he aged, he realized what was right and what was wrong. He kept himself from all of it. Now, he only sat in the tavern because it was the best place to have ale and forget memories.

Harris saw the man running his hands over Morti's shoulders and snorted to himself. Obviously the fellow was drunk and didn't know exactly what he was doing. Just like he had taught her, after one warning, the limb was severed and she seemed uncaring.

He knew what was coming.

In the uproar of the bar, panicking to get away from Morti and her "friend", Harris learned over and whispered in her ear, "First rule, don't let them see you coming."

With that he took off into the fray, knowing that running and escaping was his best shot at this point in time.

Mortisha barely even flinched at his unexpected, yet assumable actions as he indeed fled the bar amongst the other persons in the overtly large crowd that had gathered over time. They now abandoned their games and wish-wash to flee in terror at the crime she had committed and still felt no remorse. Some tripped over one another, trying so hard to get out of the small tavern doors, obviously thinking they were next on Mortisha's list. They didn't know how wrong they were indeed.

Her legs remained crossed, only now she leaned back against the support the chair provided and sighed, pulling forth the mug of ale Harris had just not moments ago offered to her, and took the smallest of sips. Gently, she set it down and began to stand, eyes searching for Delphine, who was undoubtedly running the bar tonight, and when she couldn't find her, she decided to call out instead.

"Delphine! You better clean up your brother's bar before he returns to find it like this!" Along the far wall, distinct movement was made, pink hair poking out of the confines of a table, but before Mortisha allowed Delphine to respond, she picked up the golden dagger from the table and grumbled under her breath as she made way outside, coming to a halt right outside the Raven's Tavern door.

"Okay, Harris. You want to make this a game of cat and mouse...? It's on.."

Harris had made no effort to run much farther than the roof of the pub. He would watch as she came out and would jump down to tackle her. After all, disarming her was the name of the game at the moment. He watched patrons flee the bar, growing bored as he waited for his friend.

Could he call her that at the moment? The woman had been sent to kill him, had been sent by the ones that he so trusted in his youth to make sure that he would never tell the secrets of the guild. Not that he ever would. He understood the sacredness of bonds, most of them, and that's why this broke his heart.

When she finally did exit the bar, Harris jumped down behind her, landing in as graceful a crouch as someone who had been drinking ale and was an aging man could. To put it mildly, Harris fell flat on his face. It was not his best move and he knew that he had just opened himself to the worst attack a man could possibly recieve.

Groaning he rolled onto his back, looking up at her, "Make it quick Mort."

Upon hearing the thud, Mortisha turned to find the great Harris Delacroix upon his arse, something no one ever saw, or saw but never lived to tell. And what a sight it was. His face seemed to be a mixture of pleading and fear, and that was everything Morti wished to live without. She had grown to make him proud, and for once in her twenty-seven years, she broke the sacred rule that she knew would condemn her to her death. Not that she really cared. As long as Harris was safe. And in that moment, he was very much the latter.

She sighed upon hearing those heart-breaking words. He really had lost his faith in her. Finally, after a few passing minutes, Mortisha gathered her wits and wrapped an arm underneath his shoulders, hauling him to his feet deftly. She had lost words for what she had wanted to say and right then, nothing came to mind. Hopefully, he would sober in a couple of hours.

"Come on, Harris." She gently sat him against the bench just outside the door, groaning with the effort; someone tiny like her hefting a large man, very unusual. And when he was placed, she sat gingerly next to him, halfway slouched. "I'll kill you one day, Harris...but not this day, or the next." She lightly placed her head in the palms of her hands.

Right and wrong. There was a very thin line separating the two at a constant rate, and Mortisha knew the aspects of her assignment. In all, assassinating people at the wave of an order was wrong. A living, but still wrong. And it took her until now to realize that all the people she had murdered over the years had families and loved ones, but that had never stopped her. Until now. She loved Harris. Not that she would ever speak a word of it, but still the same. She knew of his family, never met them personally, but on rare occasions, Harris would tell her stories of them. He missed them at times, she could see it in his eyes. But now it seemed he had no home. Surely the Guild was watching them, maybe even threatened Harris' family in a way to get to him.

But things were different for her. She refused to kill her family. Or at least the only family she had ever known.

"Why are you doing this?" Harris muttered as his former pupil helped him to sit on a bench outside of the pub. His arm hurt, probably having broke it during his none to graceful "jump" from the top of the building. "I taught you right, I taught you how to behave when the time came to take out a target. I'm not a noble man Morti, I'm not someone who should really be living after all the despicable things I've done. And now they'll come after you. I don't want them to kill you. Your like a daughter to me."

He leaned back against the bench, looking up at the sky. "You know, as soon as I left the Guild, I regretted it? Yeah, they neglect to tell people that part of the story. I left the Guild and wrote you letters. Bet they didn't deliver those either. It's a shame to think that no matter how much you work for the Guild, they never want to hear about you leaving for your own good. It was time for me to seek my fortune elsewhere. I couldn't do much more as an assassin."

Sighing deeply he rolled his head over to look at her, "So how have you been? You and Valentine get hitched yet?"

Mortisha once again rolled her eyes against his protests. If he were sober, no doubt she would get an hours long lecture on the importance of loyalty...yada yada yada, he would scorn her for being so irresponsible and reckless...yada yada yada. Even drunk as a jester, he still had a little bit of authoritizing tone in his voice. It truly made her want to slap him. Seriously? Could he truly be that dense all these years?

"Let them come, Harris. They'll be in for a rude awakening. I'll wipe out their entire guild in a cinch, and they would even see it coming." She kept the bile out of her throat, swallowing hard. "I shouldn't be alive either, Harris. At least we have that in common."

Confusion hit her like five fingers saying hello to her face. She had received a single letter, not one, from Harris. No word of how he was doing, nothing. It had been like he had disappeared off the face of the earth. And she hated the Guild for taking her letters. They belonged to her, but it was not uncommon. They had done it to others so many times before. How she could possibly think she was different, she had no idea. They were cruel in their own way.

"I never received any letters, Harris." She sighed. "And Valentine." She snorted. "He is definitely not on my list of interests. A friend. But nothing more."

"Let them come," Harris chuckled, shaking his head as he tried to sit up straight, "you certainly haven't changed since you were an impetous youth."

He hit her on the back of the head with his palm, not hard enough to hurt her but hard enough to get the point across, "It's foolish Morti. They have so many members, not only in this land but in all the lands. They know what they are doing. They have plans for the both of us, certain of it. Once they find out that you refused to do the job, they'll send out someone even better than you. Hope you had no friends in the Guild because that's who they will send out after you first."

He nodded, standing up shakily on his feet before falling flat on his ass on the bench again, "Lets see, I sent you a letter every month and it's been four years since I've seen you. You do the math on that one."

Laughing about Valentine, he shook his head yet again, "You love him and you know it. Why deny yourself something like that? The little things in life are all we have."