"The living death" they call her, in hushed tones on the streets of Florence, and never anything else. Before she was known to the peasantry of this town, the people laughed or cursed, openly drinking in the streets. They were fat, they were lazy, and they were loud. Worst of all, they were wrong.

Months ago, she was La Vulpe: a young assassin renown throughout the entirety of the brotherhood for her stealth. If any assassin was invisible to the naked eye, she was invisible even to the eyes of God. Each month, she bound her paws in fresh suede, dyed her fabrics dark again, and clipped each of her claws. She slept every night in the open air to blend with her surroundings, never indulging in perfumes or oils like the sloven masses she slipped silently through. Instead of love, she had purpose.

Those who trained with her, and would never claimed to have known her, say that no one deserved what happened to her. Most think she'd have been better dying with her comrades than the live she was given. Maybe she did too.

The Brotherhood couldn't keep her, after it: none of them even knew what she was any more. She had no friends; she didn't even have living enemies. All she had now was the code, and those who turned their backs on her. Those that left her to live in un-death.

Those that left her alone.

So she started anew. She'd already grown accustom to the cold night air dancing on her flesh. She'd forgotten the taste of exotic foods. She had nothing else to return to, but the code. If the brotherhood wouldn't have her, than she would become an assassin of her own. After her first few judgements, word spread through the streets until all but the most pious man looked behind him as he walked. "The living death", the ghost who walks: she now embodied everything she'd ever wanted to. She was fear; she was riotousness. She was an assassin.

Art ©  brenbonez8

Story by  Rayes