"I swear I didn't mean to. It was an accident!"

Currently, Vikk, a thief from Jüjar who was no good at thieving, was following a rogue assassin. Normally, he would be running the other way, especially considering this particular assassin wore the badge of the Crux, but he didn't have much of a choice.

He had been attempting a heist beyond that of his skill level (even though it was on an abandoned house) when he had tripped a wire. It had been a simple, old trap, firing arrows at him until the long-gone owner arrived.

Unfortunately, he couldn't find where the arrows were coming from, and he just ended up causing a scene. It hadn't been until the assassin showed up and stopped the barrage that the noise had died down.

Vikk was, needless to say, extremely embarrassed.

"Mmm, we all make mistakes, I suppose," the assassin sighed. "That just happened to be a rather impressive one."

Feeling his face heat up, Vikk hung his head. "I guess..."

"Now, where am I taking you, thief? I do have a schedule," he continued.

"I don't know... Anywhere, really. I'm supposed to be looking for a group of travelers, but that's no fun. Peace will only cause more problems," Vikk grumbled.

"I can think of more reasons than that," the assassin laughed. "But, I do believe I'm part of the group you're looking for."

"You?!" Vikk stared at him. "Why?"

"I represent the League and the Crux. My name is Mitchell. Perhaps you've heard of me."

The Head's apprentice... They would risk him? Are they crazy?

"Yes, of course I've heard of you..." Vikk studied him for a moment, looking at the assassin apprentice. He wore nothing more than jeans, boots, and a jacket with the hood up. It was light wear, but it marked an assassin well. Most Primitives wore simple, non-complex clothing, and most Superiors wore robes and high fashion. "I'm more ashamed of the fact I didn't recognize you."

Mitchell laughed. "Don't be. I keep my head down for a reason, beautiful." His head tilted back and he winked at Vikk before picking up his pace.

Dumbfounded, the thief stumbled after him.

+

He headed their little group, moving back towards Jüjar. Rob had said that's where the last two should be.

He held no promises.

Jerome shook the thought out of his head, instead letting his mind wander to the assassin. There was no doubt that the Crux's intentions were not as innocent as they had pressed. The League didn't have a sparkling history, not towards anyone. The only thing good about them, Jerome thought, was that they didn't discriminate.

They killed just as many Primitives as they did Superiors.

"Do you think he'll be civilized?" He heard Lachlan whisper.

"More civilized than you," Preston growled from atop his undead abomination.

"Preston!" Rob hissed, and Jerome heard the dull sound as he cuffed the necromancer.

"He'll probably be an utter gentleman," he continued, his voice carrying over Jerome's head. "Very sweet, very respectful."

"Until he puts his knives through your throat or poisons your drink," Jerome muttered, shaking his head. "Do you know his name, at least?"

"Mitchell," Rob supplied. "Mitchell Hughes."

"So he really is the head's apprentice..."

"I heard r-rumors he killed every bounty hunter that came for him," Lachlan stuttered out. "Just... Aimed and threw. They were dead w-where they stood."

"He is supposed to be one of the most 'promising' assassins the League has ever seen," Rob shrugged. "It honestly wouldn't surprise me."

"Still scum... Vetris scum..." Preston swore.

Jerome saw Lachlan's eyes flash, but neither Primitive lashed out.

The slurs were starting to work their way under the Asumén's skin, though. They were rude and crude, swears that rung from every Sup town. Jerome had heard them so many times, he thought he had become numb to them.

He didn't have time to think it over or contemplate, though.

"I think we have a puppy," Rob called. Shifting only his eyes, Jerome looked to where the horseman was pointing.

There was a lean shadow of a man, one eye half visible. The silhouette seemed to be shaking, and the ground around him seemed darker than the rest.

"Come out here," Jerome barked.

Slowly, the figure moved forward. It was, in fact, a man. A primitive. He held a spear in his hands, the tip shattered. His skin was pale, blood staining his clothes, which were in tatters, and his lips. His chest looked like someone had simply reached inside and tore it apart.

"What's your name?"

Rob was climbing off his horse, but Jerome held up a hand to stop him. He wasn't sure if this man was to be trusted - he wasn't an Asumén.

"T-Ty."

A coughing fit suddenly wracked his body. The crimson liquid splashed all across the ground in front of him.

"Th-The League has a m-message."

The League.

"Don't t-trust the Blood Tide."

Rob suddenly surged forward as Ty broke off into coughs, slowly sliding to the ground as his eyes began to glaze.

"The Blood Tide? What's the Blood Tide?"

Lachlan was staring at the dying primitive. His expression was one of fear.

"Who," he corrected softly. "It's who."

"Huh?" Preston finally tore his gaze away, looking up at Lachlan. "Who?"

"Death. The Blood Tide is death."

As the Nguŷen scout spoke, Jerome finally felt something within his frozen heart.

Fear.