From atop her perch of a blackened out lamppost she watches. The moonlight reflects off her hair and glints off her drawn blade. It is the only light in the pool of darkness she inhabits between the illuminations of the lampposts.
The soft wind brings messages of her intended. The smell of cheap pipe smoke and the sounds of laughter. The sound rings coarse in her ears. She waits.
They enter the pool of light just before her darkness. It is their shape. Soon she will see their faces and she will know for sure. She wants no mistakes. She waits.
They continue walking with their slow stagger. Her hand tightens on the hilt as she recognizes their faces. Her eyes narrow as she knows this will be the night. She waits.
They walk.
She counts to five.
They stumble into the darkness. Her darkness.
Silently, she descends.
A lone figure calls walks into the next pool of light. Lamplight reflects off her hair. She smiles.
Deadly Troubadour 