"What I am is no business of yours." Athran growled, staring at the man from beneath his dark hood. It wasn't often that strangers talked to him like that, and he disliked unnecessary attention. He crossed his arms, covered in hard archer's gauntlets and bracers, on his chest.
"What do you want off me that you ask?" His eyes checked the old man, but his face remained like a mask of stone. It was an unusual stranger - at least as unusual as he himself. Old, withered man in dark clothes, whose grey hair was hanging from his hat, and he had a terrific, wide grin on his face. Zantaric was, however, full of those strange existences, and when he visited, he was no different. It's not everyday that one meets an elf, after all.
Athran had his own dark business in Zantaric, and didn't want anyone to find out about it. He was just slowly passing the shops and streets, hiding in the shadow of his black cape, and waited for nightfall to get back into the routine. One paid well, very well for an assassin around these parts. Especially a silent, skilled and quick one like him. Nobody cared who or what he was, what secrets he bore, as long as he did his work well. That was most important for the paying customer... A dead body and unsuspected knife.
