Paris stood on the second story balcony of his home, his arms crossed over his painted leather vest. It had been nearly two weeks since his meeting with the thief known as Tiger, and it ended very badly. Tiger saw the young man as a threat to his operation, and he knew it. Since then, Paris had a short blade commisioned for himself as a means of protection, now laying not more that ten feet from him in a simple leather sheath. The bracer-sheath containing his dagger still rested on his arm, his own personal protection if he couldn't get to the gladius.

A cool breeze blew through the night air, disturbing the faint sweet-smelling incense that burned in his bedroom. Many of his things from his homeland had finally come, and his bedroom and study looked more like a settled home that a resting place. It felt weird to him, settling down, but he needed to stay for a while.

A different smell entered his nostrils, a smell of sweat and camel dung. Pivoting sharply on his left heel, he threw his dagger, impacting with a resounding thunk in the chest of a black garbed man holding a strange curved blade with the sharp end on the reverse side. Without thinking, Paris lunged for his blade, grabbing and tumbling behind a table while he unsheathed the blade.

The assassin charged, Paris's dagger still in his chest, his blade held high for a downward strike. Tumbling backwards, Paris barely dodged the blade, bringing his own blade now to meet his asailant's blade. Now that the sound of a fight had reached the ears of others, Paris knew that city guardsmen would soon reach his home. With his free hand, Paris reached and grabbed hold of his dagger hilt, wrenching it free from the man's chest.

Paris ducked under a high attack, crouching low and striking out with his dagger, puncturing his assassilant's leg effectively slowing his attacker's speed. Now bleeded from two wounds and the element of suprise lost, the black-garbed assassin sped towards the balcony, jumping over the railing. Paris ran to see the man limping away, clutching his leg while still holding his blade. Returning both his short sword and dagger to their sheaths, Paris waited for the guardsmen knowing full well who had sent the assassin. And it wouldn't be long for him to feel his wrath.