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Short Story by Ahalosniper, in progress. The story is in honor of a friend who plays this game almost as much as I play Halo.

The HuntedEdit

    The man grunted as he dived forward along the downward slanting rooftop, arm outstretched to grab a sliding clay tile before it plummeted and shattered in the street. He landed hard, but he caught the shingle with the tips of his fingers. It would not do to give away his position and expose himself.
    He was garbed in a vest of brown leather over a dull gray shirt, and chaps held by a belt. A scabbard hung from it, a rapier within and its gleaming, artfully made hilt hidden by a flap of leather. He pushed himself around, tile in hand, and crawled up to the peak of the roof. From there, he had a clear view of the market square. He laid the tile on the peak, and withdrew a brass spyglass from a pouch on his belt.
    After extending it to its full length, little more than a foot, he peered through it at a cluster of people in front of a cathedral. One he knew upon sight, a knight still in armor of a Templar, speaking to a priest. There were four guards clad in similar armor carrying poleaxes, not such a threat to him. But the last of them, a man whose eyes seemed hollow despite the smile upon his face, concerned him very much. This one had a bandolier of knives across his chest, dressed all in black. Something about him haunted the man, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.
    He frowned, scratching at his trimmed beard in thought as he put away his spyglass. The man got up and turned around, now for the part he didn’t like. With a running start, he leaped for the next building.
    People in the alley below saw nothing as a leather-clad figure made the jump, going about their business with no concerns.
    Again, he landed hard, but was able to get back up and keep going, sliding down the tiles on the others side and landing on a second floor patio, the sun’s angle shadowing it.
    Sighing, the man relaxed and put one boot up on the short wall, looking over the city of Modica. In his reverie of the place, however, he did not see the person in a black cloak sweep down behind him with a blade at the ready.
    Dagger poised, this mercenary stalked behind the other man, who was brushing dirt from his shoulder.
    The leather-clad man froze as the pressure from the point of a dagger pressed against his back for a split second, then faded just as suddenly as a gasp escaped his tracker and the unmistakable sound of a body crumpling came from behind him. A new player in the white robes of the Brotherhood stepped from the shadows and stood beside the soldier.

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