"Stand an' deliver: yer money or yer life. Either way, I get th' goods." A young man jumped in surprise as he felt powerful arms grab him and hold him still, but his struggles ceased as he heard the hiss of metal sliding against metal. He gulped. A dagger pressed itself against his neck. Its touch chilled his skin and sent shivers down his spine — and not just from fright.

A cold chuckle sounded from behind him, sending beads of cold sweat down his face. Reality hit him, as piercing as the moonlight on his waylayer's dagger. Its luster was cold, but soft at the same time. A hellish divinity. He shuddered to think that such beauty could kill so easily — but he didn't. This was not a situation he wanted to make any sudden moves in.

P-please, sir!" he stammered. "I'll do anything!" He heard no worded response — only another cruel laugh from the man behind him. That man laughed. In amusement. It worried him that he dealt with a man who found a game in killing. He worried for his life, now, as much as he worried about his property.

And then the man behind him lowered his head and whispered into his ear, "Good boy. Now jes' be nice an' go over there." His head was turned to a thick tree. "I need some private time with yer wagon." He could imagine that his assailant was smiling.

The man's ragged voice hinted at inhumanity. There was something odd about his voice, about how he enunciated his words. But whatever he was, he wasn't human. After all, how could someone retain humanity when eking out a rugged living like this?

"Move along, already — but try to run, an' I get yer money and yer gold."

He obliged, beginning his walk to the tree. Its bark repulsed him. He had better things to do that night than stand, facing a bug-infested tree, while a highwayman robbed him of his possessions. But he did not dare voice his anger. Even after he felt the dagger release his neck — he let himself relax for a moment, but felt its pointed tip press against his back. He picked up his pace.

"Now, jes' stay there an' keep yer face to th' tree, an' well get along jes' fine."

He heard footsteps leading away from him and then mumbling as the man rummaged through his belongings. But a second pair of feet approached the first, announcing its presence with confidence. Compared to the gentle padding of the first, the second carried himself with a royal fanfare in his step.

"Rychaeth Leithyr!" the newcomer called out. "It's about time we met." The sound of Rychaeth looking through the wagon ceased. But he wasn't startled. He could tell from the lack of any sudden, startled movement. That man was collected — then again, he'd have to be in order to survive as he did.

He heard the swish of fabric as Rychaeth spun around to confront this new arrival. "So?" he responded. "Wassit to ye?"

"My name is Achasund. I come as an ambassador from King Darron Damantium, the Fourth." The traveler stiffened. First a highwayman, then a man sent from the King himself. This night kept getting stranger and stranger...

"Ambassador?" Rychaeth snorted. "So, yer 'ere fer m' head?"

"How could you have guessed?" He could imagine Achasund smiling a cold, businesslike smile. Rychaeth wouldn't be the only one grinning in amusement.

"Stab in th' dark," Rychaeth replied.

"Like how you killed Randall?" Achasund countered. He could hear it: the tension as steeled minds parried mental blows and verbal jabs. A slow creak sounded into the night as Rychaeth leaned back against the wagon, undisturbed.

"Somethin' like that," he replied after some silence. "Th' name's wrong, though."

"Really? Enlighten me."

"Yeah. Th' name of th' dead guy is Achasund."

"Wha—"

There was a dull muted thump and a cry of pain. Achasund shouted in surprise, but protests became gurgles as another sword was drawn. There was a swish. A gurgling cough. A gag, a last gasp for life. The thud of a falling body. Then he heard the sound of two blades retreating back into their scabbards. Rychaeth chuckled.

"Give that message to yer king, will ya?"

There was the rustle of moving items. Then footsteps. And then he heard nothing. He remained against the tree for a little while longer, but when it became evident that the man was long gone, he let himself relax. Fearing the worst, he turned around.

There was blood. A dubious but official-looking man, Achasund, lay on the ground, dead. His clouded eyes stared up at the sky, asking the heavens a silent question. Blood poured forth from both a stab wound and a slit throat. Both his and Achasund's belongings were missing.

A full moon gazed down on the carnage in the center of the road.