102. Deepwinter, date unverified.*Those with the ability to pass an -investigate check with any given one of the peacekeepers of Andunor, before the current in-game month is up, may recount some, or all of what is documented here. How much, to the judgement of the player I leave. Nowhere past the month, of course... at that point, it'd doubtlessly be seen irrelevant and fall from public record.
It is also not conducted, neccesarily, in the form of any actual report such the peacekeeper may give or bother with, merely in third person. Respect accordingly*
Zod, all-watcher as proclaimed to the name "Shadow Quartz", made his way about Andunor, a city that he, alongst his kindred had made their place. The city where he gained his rank, the city where such the tribe splintered, wavered, and fell to obscurity. Conductive in usual business of standard pedestrian form. This did not appear irregular... nothing more than the average day of the resident of the deep depths. It's known his position, and considering his swearing to looking to find more on some matter of relevance to his kindred, nor odd did appear the glances he'd make about the town... a vigilant sort, always watching, those deep sapphires.
He seemed odd this cycle, though, in the nature of composure. Something burdened them, and something, still, seemed to be locked within the depths of his mind. A thoughtful eye wandered over the wares of each shop, barely managed. Exhaling with himself, he'd have come to a snap of gaze the way of a sudden notation of his peripheral.
The huntress would've made themselves clear at that point, formed their observational posture in their lean to the kiosk of wares. The contact maintained for a time, little showing beneath either's cowl when the kobold came to a close on the store and allowed their glares merely to lock. Arms would fold, the shadow but stating a single word, rather, a set. That uttered to be documented "Your end shall be no different."... and little there further. With the kobold's own dismay of curiosity to what was said, they near felt the need to question, yet apparently made nothing forth before their presence was no longer...
... his browsing continued, though his eye careful, and he made his way ever carefully to the hub, the center of city commerce, where neither district nor origin held reign. A tenseness plagued them, if but for a time, reflected with deep exhales every some odd ten minutes or so. His pacing's calculated stance, his thoughts, his glances, all unhindered. One may almost imagine he expected something where, thereafter a wander to the board, the assassin made return behind. The single whisper rung against an ear beneath the hood once the decent upon him was made, one no other would be to hear "Goodbye, Zod". The watcher's arms at fold... a single hand's slow shuffle toward the buttstock, all that could apparently be made. A brief struggle threw him prone, and a pincushion, he became thereafter.
... the arrival of the acolyte all which saved him from death then, sat bleeding out, many an arrow riddling his notably incapacitated form, and a staggering, visibly receding slip of life away in his exhales and breathing made it's return barely and shaking... a series of pants, huffs, and a hissking and incomprehensible murmur later, one never to be known... one of what was, in essence, not to bother with him, and the word that he'd not soon be to forget that which was given. All the same still, a hand rose, falling at the one to his mid, in complete disregard of the ones at his feet which bled no longer, and with a stumble, a bloodied trail behind.
His way was made, as may be recounted, about a corner with a fast slip. A leave through the gate of the city's steps was made, and where beneath the eye he passed, he seemed to bid a farewell to it as watching. One to the city. A look away and back at what the seemingly last-legged form was making a destination-less wander from... a pilgrimage, without known nirvana.
Never, thereafter, would he return.
Never, an investigation mounted. The assassin is one paid of profession, and thus, not of the peacekeepers' concern. It is by mere circulation that this would be stated to any at all...
...though ne to visit the bonefields may find the apparent remnants of a kobold not asimilar. One of low pulled cowl, of plated eyeridge, and darkened robe. Picked away in a pool of it's lifeblood by the inhabitants of this cave. Gone to this realm, to never return.