He silently stalked his victim, wary of his surroundings. The Prowler was not one for mistakes. On his left bracer was the Templar's attempt at a hidden blade, unconcealed, waiting for its activation and rich blood to cover its metal. His amber eyes scanned the crowd for his pursuer; the daunting whispers in his ears were increasing in volume, and he could almost smell the blood reeking from his pursuer's clothes-
He whirled around and slammed his fist into the Executioner's cheek, exerting little energy yet temporarily paralysing his pursuer. He grinned wolfishly and carried on, acting as if the incident had never happened. The Executioner groaned and dropped to his knees, holding his head, and the Prowler noticed a man dressed as a marquis approach the Executioner and prepare to end his life.
The Prowler continued his path, sniffing the air, and then turned a corner. Venice at night, with its dark beauty and secret-hoarding canals, was the prime spot for civilians to mill about and relax. Tents had been erected, brightly coloured and illuminated by torches. A woman, possibly a thief, crouched upon one of the tents, viewing the throngs of people for her target. His instinct for death peaked and he forced it down. He had his own target. He couldn't interfere. Perhaps, if she proved a target, then he would hunt her down and rip open that smooth neck of hers, staining her blonde hair.
The Priest's bald head glinted in the moonlight. How the Prowler wished he could thrust his switchblade into the man's torso! He could almost imagine the feeling of resistance against his weapon as he plunged it through the Priest's heart. Ah, but he had to concentrate. If his attention wavered, he would lose his prey. The Prowler was not one for an unwarranted chase. He preferred a quick, clean, efficient death.
A man, wearing a garb blacker than obsidian and an aquiline mask with an ivory beak, brushed against the Priest. The Prowler scowled. Then the Doctor rotated and jabbed his syringe into the Priest's neck, inserting the unholy green concoction and watching emotionlessly as the Priest gagged and toppled. The Prowler clenched his fists and reined in his anger before it consumed him. His prey, stolen.
Still walking, he came forward to observe the kill. However, the Doctor jerked at the sight of a possible pursuer, and fled before the Prowler react. He growled as the Thief dropped beside him; she hastily made her way out of there. Sensing no one with a weapon, he knelt down and checked for signs of the poison. The Priest was completely dead: that there was no doubt.
Instinctively, his ears twitched - a natural response that occurred whenever he detected a new victim. He glanced over his shoulder, and regarded the Marquis hungrily. The man was paranoid, and assassinating him would prove a cinch. The Marquis sauntered along, too aware of his surroundings. He was looking for someone, but that someone wasn't the Prowler. No. The Prowler recognised the Executioner in the darkness, no doubt furious and seeking revenge. Well, he was about to have his prey snatched from beneath his nose.
The Prowler didn't bother to blend between the crowds or sit passively on a bench; he crept up to the Marquis and rammed his switchblade into the man's neck. His victim spluttered on his blood and then collapsed. The Executioner ran forward and glared at the Prowler maliciously. The Prowler simply left the scene, merging with the shadows and out of sight.
Soon there would be another victim, and the carnage would continue.