He jolted out of his reverie, scanned the streets for his target. The king's procession was not hard to spot, of course. It trailed people behind it like slime off a slug. And it was just a few streets away. Slinging his crossbow across his back, he flew across the rooftops, flitting between chimneys, gliding over gaps between houses. The wind tugged at his cloak, a pair of giant raven wings flapping behind him. He was free, free as the wind, stoppable by no-one. This was the feeling of being able to change the world. He could see his quarry, the pitiful king, surrounded by pomp and idiocy. Sweating in his ceremonial robes, his crown pressing down upon his dandruff encrusted head. The king sat, bored, the adoration of thousands bouncing off his blank slate face. He was totally oblivious of everything, let alone the figure reading a crossbow on the roof above him…
