From above, the view was flawless.
Spires rose up, piercing through to the crisp, cloudless night sky. Their curves glinted in the silver moonlight, as if they might have held the secret to a gate between the world of the living and the world of the ancient ancestors.
The buildings were all various in their tops. Golden domes sat atop the temples like hats, those glinting, encircled, detailed spires shooting up from them. The homes of the aristocracy had roofs that were a variety of colored, tilted rectangles, one for the left side, one for the right. Spires rose from their fronts and backs, smaller and simpler than those of the temples. Those abodes of the others, whether middle class or peasant class, were flat topped. No spires rose up from them, as if the gods themselves refused to acknowledge them and their own humanity.
Balancing on the side of the golden dome of Temple Shira, holding onto a spire with a grip so tight one's knuckles would turn white, was a darkly clothed figure. The moonlight glinted silver at the edges of the figure's clothing. A hood concealed the face of the figure. Baggy shirts and trousers concealed the gender of said figure. Quickly pressing against the spire, making themselves flat against the surface, the figure disappeared from view.
Glancing down at the world below, the golden and sapphire glowing of rectangular and square shaped lanterns was apparent. The town of Marakan was at the Festival Estrella, a festival that celebrated Asteria, goddess of the stars. Everyone was at the docks on the far side of town. In fact, the well balanced figure on top of Temple Shira could almost see the distant glint of silver moonlight on the navy blue sea.
Almost, but not quite.
Carefully sliding down the golden dome, the figure let go of the spire and let their grip falter. Feet landed firmly on the smooth portion of Temple Shira's roof. Quietly, the figure moved along the shadows, first walking, then jogging, across the closely placed roof tops. Whispered into the air were the words, "What a wonderful place for an assassin--for a Trigger."
The so-called Trigger leaped across the roofs of middle class houses, silent but for the soft landings made whenever a new roof was reached.
The sky above, with it's twinkling stars like pinpoints of light shinning dimly through holes in a dark fabric, winked at the Trigger, as if the gods were wishing luck on the duty they would soon fulfill. The house the Trigger needed to get into appeared on the horizon.
It's slopping, slanted rectangular roofing signified the position the owner of the house held; one of aristocracy. For sure, the Trigger knew, the owner would be in the house. What with Esh Beona's hermit-like nature, he was always home, always counting his Plata, Plata being the currency used by the people of Marakan.
Finally reaching the slanted roof and landing with some difficulty, the Trigger stood upright, studying the surroundings for a moment. Then, actions were made, backing up a few paces and slowly, crawling backwards, the Trigger threw most of their body off of the edge of the building. They hung onto the edge of the building only by their fingertips. Moving quickly while hissing through their teeth, the Trigger reached an open window and, swinging back and forth to gain the momentum enough to get to the window, catapulted inside.
The room was the exact room the Trigger needed. A smirk etched into the shadowy face hidden within their hood, and with a spring in their step, the Trigger waltzed over to the bed in the room. Esh Beona lay asleep, swaddled like a baby within the white sheets of his bed.
He was not as old as the Trigger had expected. Early wrinkles dotted his forehead and crinkled at the edges of Esh Beona's eyes. His skin was beginning to grow papery and translucent, as the elderly's skin becomes. Lines of graying hair were left sparingly on his head; a large bald spot was centered on his skull. He seemed a man of great bulk, as his skin sagged from being stretched with eating often and in great portions.
The Trigger's teeth ground against one another in rage. People were starving while this fat, high class pig sat, stuffing his face and hoarding Plata from the people! What disrespect this man had directed toward Hamasu, creator of the world, god of justice and honest. Clenched fists were shoved into pockets in the baggy pants and a breath was taken. The Trigger was calm once more a moment later. It was no use getting angry at the man right now.
His life would be over soon, anyway. It was the will of Hamasu and everyone knew it.
Gently, the Trigger climbed up onto the bed and straddled the man. There was a moment's hesitation, to see if the man might awaken before the proper moment. Esh continued to sleep undisturbed by the movement that had occurred.
The Trigger turned their head toward their waist for a moment and quickly unhooked a flap of leather from the holster held there. The soft rustling sound of the weapon being removed from the holster, believe it or not, was what awoke the man. As the Trigger looked back at the man, the wide, bright cerulean eyes of Esh Beona fluttered open.
He studied the Trigger before him, the dark figure holding something metallic, something that glinted in the moonlight of the open window. He studied the figure as if he could not figure out what the person before him was, exactly. And then, he knew and his eyes widened.
He almost screamed, but the Trigger quickly slapped a gloved hand across Esh's mouth. Esh's scream was lost in the warm, slightly sweaty palm and he began to wriggle beneath the figure. "Shh..." The Trigger mumbled, leaning into Esh's face just enough so that Esh would see the hypnotizing, silvery eyes glinting out at the world from within the darkness of the hood.
Esh's body was still. He stopped screaming, swallowing the noise so that it sounded like a dying animal, which the Trigger supposed that Esh was, indeed, a dying animal. Slowly, a glinting, cold, platinum mechanism was lifted to his temple. The man knew it was a gun, a pistol to be exact, immediately. Esh's cerulean eyes watered and he shook his head. She could feel the words he wanted to say, breathy and hot against her palm.
"Don't kill me!"
"I'll pay you more than your employers ever could!"
"I swear, I'll change! I'll give money to the poor! I'll be honest! I'll live as the great god Hamasu says!"
But the words were all in vain. The Trigger never faltered in their mission. Only one satisfaction to those about to be killed. Slowly, while keeping the barrel of the gun pressed to his head, the Trigger's hand was removed from Esh's mouth. Esh did not cry out. He watched in curiosity as the hand went to the hood concealing the face of his soon-to-be assassin.
The hood was pulled back and Esh gasped. The Trigger smirked with satisfaction.
The trigger was pulled. It was surprising how silent the fatal blow was now that the Trigger had gotten an upgrade on the gun they carried. There was no need to run away instantly after the kill. The Trigger could savor the death of one so cruel as Esh Beona, as they did now.
"Yes," the Trigger whispered, placing the gun neatly back into the holster at the waist and brushing a strand of dark hair out of their face. "I am a girl."
The Trigger removed herself from the corpse of the man, pocketing her gun and quietly slipping out the window. The tan skin of her face glistened and her silver eyes gleamed in the moonlight. She disappeared without another sound.
A few moments later, there was a knock at the bedroom door of the late Esh Beona. "Sir Esh? Is everything alright? I thought I heard a noise..." The soft, sweet voice of a young maid was muffled by the large door. Gently, she entered the room, tiptoeing inside. "Sir?"
When she saw the horror atop the bed, the spray of blood soaking the white sheets, the, cavernous, blank cerulean eyes of her master, a shrill scream left her.
Far away, balancing on a roof top, the Trigger heard the scream and smiled.
"May the creator Hamasu find one shred of kindness and save your soul, Esh Beona."
And she was gone.