Tales of Endasia: The Beginning of Alexandrea SIlverhart

How did the SIlver Assassin come to be? Alexa's childhood isn't as posh as some might think...
*Cover by Sophia Fletcher*

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11. Sartorian Nater

When I exit the shop, I’m wearing my new knives strapped onto my thighs, and the pack on my back, smiling like an idiot. My smile is erased when I see a very worried and angry werewolf stalking the streets.  

"Where the suns have you been!?" He screams when he spots me.

"In that shop." I say, pointing behind me. "I got bored watching you play with blades so I went and got my own. Didn't know you would be so worried. Sorry." His anger seems to be unending. Must be a werewolf thing...

"You got bored so you just walked away without telling me!?"

"Well, I didn't expect you to be so worried. Relax, your attracting attention." I glance nervously at the people who are beginning to stare. I hate attention. Well I hate people in general, but I especially hate attention.  Lawson doesn't seem to care at all, and continues to yell at me.

"Don't tell me to relax! You nearly gave me a heart attack! I thought you were caught or dead or something! Do you know what that does to a man? It takes years off of his life span, Alexa!" I roll my eyes. What a drama queen.

"Okay first, you are no where near a man. Second, I was right across the street!" I hear a snicker behind me and I whip around to find the culprit.

A young elf boy and his friends are laughing at us, and my frustration and anger gets turned on them. "Who do you think you're laughing at, huh? You think this is funny!? Well let me tell you something buddy," I start to stalk towards him, fist raised. "I could kill you in ten seconds flat, pointy-ears!" I raise my clenched hand to deliver on my threat, when another hand wraps around it.

"Leave them. Let's go." Lawson starts to pull me away, and I throw one last death glare at the boy, though I’m sure it loses some effect when I have to push my long curls away from my face. .

"I will come back!"

"No, she won't!" Lawson calls back. I smack him in the stomach with my free hand. He grunts and laughs quietly to himself, his anger seeming to melt away just like that. "Are all Achilles feisty, or is it just you?" I glare at him and he smiles. "Just you then."

We walk hand in hand back to the pub, Lawson half dragging me part of the way, the other part pulling me away from interesting vendors. When we finally reach the pub, we go back to our room to relax for the night.

 

 

The next day and a half goes by in a blur; pacing a hole in our room floor, anticipating our first assassination, rehearsing our game plan, and worrying about all the things that could possibly go wrong.

When the time finally comes, we pack up our bags and head down to the pub, taking seats at a table in the back, keeping an eye on the door. I keep my hood up, hiding my face, but not escaping the waves of hair that will not stay in place. Lawson plays with a knife he brought, dragging it back and forth across the table.

"You're making marks in the table, Lawson." He looks down and shrugs.

"Not my table. Not my problem." I roll my eyes. Typical. I watch the door, constantly blowing my hair out of my face. I hear Lawson laugh and turn to face him.

“What?”

“Your hair, we have to do something with it.” He looks down at his knife. “I can cut it for you, most female assassins have short hair.” He gets up and makes a move to grab some hair, but I shrink away.

“No! I am not cutting my hair!”

“Well, ok.” Lawson frowns for a moment before lightning up. “I have an idea.” He sets the knife down, to my relief, and pulls the hood off from behind me. I feel him gather up my hair, and I'm surprised when I look around. I can see clearer, no cloud of hair blinding my vision. I flinch a little as he pulls my hair, but soon feel it fall against my back. I pull it across my shoulder and see that Lawson had braided it.  I look up as him with a raised eyebrow.

 “Where’d you learn how to do this?” He shrugs, a sheepish smile on his face.

I laugh, but it dies down as I notice the man sitting at the bar.  Red hair tangles at the back of his neck, and a blue robe flows around the stool of his chair.  I motion a waiter over.

“Who is that man?” The pixie glances at the man and smiles.

“Thats Sartorian Nater. He’s a crazy old drunkard. Don't pay any mind to him. He might occasionally shoot sparks from his hands, or turn Syide,” she gestures to the wearcat, “into a rabbit, but he means no harm.”

I watch as the man loudly proclaims his love for the bartender, who seems to be used to this, and just gives him another drink.  

“Thanks for the help.” She nods and returns to her tables. I look across to Lawson, and he gives me a small smile.

“You ready?”

I grin, feeling oddly excited. “Ready.”

 

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