I stood behind the crowds, hilt grasped and the blade tightly rubbing against my wrist. I used my other hand to pull my jacket closer around my stomach, covering up the two other knives I had strapped to my stomach.

I kept my head low and proceeded to move forwards, using my free hand to move past the figures until I saw my target: Victor Wolcott. He was responsible for the slums and the murder of my father.

I watched him drink with his comrades - all rough and tall men. I had no fear - as long as Wolcott died, I would have fulfilled my purpose. He was just drinking - no care was evident. It was as if he didn't think twice about killing.

As I drew closer to the table, lit up by the blazing lanterns all around the tavern, I was near enough to hear snippets of his conversation, although I was too determined to listen to him. I had one singular thought in my head - to kill Victor Wolcott.

The tavern became silent, as if everyone was anticipating what I was about to do. I grabbed the hilt more firmly, and Wolcott looked up at me - his eyes bore into me, as if he knew exactly what I was intending to do, as if he knew who I was.

His eyes narrowed.

In an instant, I dropped the hilt, catching the end of the blade and drawing my arm back to launch the knife at him.

"For Nathan O'Connell!" I yelled loudly, throwing the knife through the air, and towards Wolcott. I saw the knife spin off, glancing his shoulder. I then stuck my hands into my coat, pulling out the pair of knives as I sprinted to jump upon the table, intent on impaling him.

I felt an excruciating object penetrate into my side, and looked down to see the blade of rapier protruding from my stomach. I let out a gasp, then a loud groan, collapsing backwards as another set of arms wrapped around my chest.

I let out more groans of pain, and in the haze of crippling agony, I saw the armour-clad doctor walk towards me through the pathway now being formed by the entranced patrons within the tavern.

"Ladies and gentlemen," He said in his elaborate British accent, "It is my pleasure to introduce you all to the son of the late Nathaniel O'Connell: Nathan O'Connell Junior. Another Irish runt come to attempt to end my life - a member of that rag-tag group of crusty micks and even stealing from me: a man who saves lives." He drew closer to me, nodding towards the swordsman beside me. No... a swordswoman.

"Very good Eleanor." He grinned widely, showing his impeccable white teeth. He turned towards me with his disgusting and anger-invoking smirk. I hocked up the blood in my mouth and spat it all out at the man, getting some upon his pure white teeth. His grin faded, and he produced a hankerchief, wiping off the stains and brushing his beard with it. "You know," he glanced down through his tinted spectacles, "I would say that was impolite." He moved around to replace Eleanor, and grabbed the hilt of her rapier. "But then again, a mick worm like you," he twisted the sword around, making me yell out in agony, "wouldn't know any better. Would you now?" I groaned, and he sharply withdrew the sword from my torso, wiping it down with his hankerchief and handing it back to Eleanor, who sheathed it.

"Chiseler." I groaned defiantly, looking Wolcott in each tinted rim. He burst out into a laugh, as did his comrades.

"Chiseler?" He chuckled, and turned around to a sight of beauty behind him - a woman with fiery-red hair and an emerald dress - eyes matching. "Gillian, have you ever heard of a chiseler?" She smiled seductively.

"I don't associate with the thieves and gangs." She said, her voice an epitome of class.

"Not even the younger McCarthy?" A man in behind the woman said - he wore a large, circular hat, but was clad in a missionary cassock, and in his arms he cradled a large pilgrim's staff. "I heard he too engaged in heathen activities." The priest advanced towards me, holding my chin up with the spear-like edge of his staff. "These Irish coming over and spreading their false God..." he muttered, examining my face. I groaned out again as the edge of the staff began to dig into my shin. He sharply dragged the staff across my face, scarring my lip. I hung my head low, groaning in pain as I was thrown onto the table.

Wolcott came towards me, holding a hand out.

"Davenport. If you would please." Another redcoat, standing next to Eleanor. The man withdraw a small knife from it's scabbard and handed it to Wolcott, who proceeded to examine my face. "Oh I wonder what I could find out about your mick brain... that is, if you do possess a brain." He smiled. My anger raged and I saw Wolcott's face near mine. I launched my head up, smashing my forehead into his nose. He let out a yell of anger and proceeded to punch his gloved hand into my face repeatedly, then scratched the blade along my torso repeatedly, making me yell out in agony.

As my vision faded into black, I heard vague voices.

"What now Victor?"

"Throw him into the frontier. Let the wolves have him."

My sight went to black as they tossed me out of the tavern.

Not the best start I know, but it's just a prologue to what happens - the real story starts now!