I don't need Ascension.
Ascension, to me, is similar to names. I do not need a name. Harboring names is harboring a weakness, and I have no weakness. Some call me Hunter, others Force. I prefer neither of these titles.
Titles are like names. They harbor weakness.
But you want something to call me, so I'll give myself one, for now. Varastaja. In a very old language, one that most choose not to remember existed, it means 'The Thief.'
"Varastaja," Silas said, allowing the name (title?) to roll off of his tongue. "Varastaja is the name of the man." Silas stood at a comfortable six feet tall. His brown hair was worn in a shaggy fashion, framing his emerald, gold-flecked eyes, bangs stopping at where his full lips scowled. A single, chain-clad hand shut the book and placed it into his sack.
Silas stood in the sweltering heat of Shimmersand. The Mathosian wiped a bead of sweat off of his powerful brow. Why would a northman come to Shimmersand? To hunt the singularly infamous Rogue in all of the land. "Varastaja," he murmured again.
"Yes?" Silas whirled, and there behind him was the oddest man he'd ever set eyes on.
Standing there, about an inch shorter than the bounty hunter, was a swashbuckler looking man. His black hair was pulled into a romantic ponytail, showing off his unusually high cheekbones and Cupid's-bow mouth. He wore a long, black leather trench coat, and boots up to his knees. His eyes shown with a manic energy - be it psychotic or inquisitive, Silas would soon learn.
Silas drew a quivering bastard sword and a shield (a testament to his immense strength), then, settling into a defensive stance ordered, "Surrender now, criminal."
"You people never do have anything original to spout, do you?" Silas grinned. The order had said dead or alive, and this man was definitely unarmed. With that thought in mind, he bull-rushed the smaller man.
"Oh," the man said, then threw something to the ground. Silas fell to his knees as a formidable cloud of smoke roiled around him, entering his nose or mouth. Struggling to his feet, Silas rasped, "Fight me, coward!"
Silas' vision cleared just in time to see a single fist crash into his jaw, followed by a cupped slap to his left temple. "I expected more of a challenge."
"Fight me like a man," Silas hissed.
Silas looked up to see the man standing five paces back, a longsword in each hand. Varastaja grinned, sliding one foot back and bracing that leg, making his lead (left) leg bend at the knee. "I await you eagerly," he said, and Silas couldn't tell whether he was taunting or simply reveling in his cat-like faux-lethargy.
But who would want a cat such as this?
Silas rose and dropped his weapons at the same time. In a fluid movement, he drew out a claymore. "Meet your doom," he cried, charging the man. He swung his claymore in a decapitating horizontal arc, which Varastaja dipped under. The Rogue slid right behind Silas and hit him in the back with the pommel of his offhand.
Silas spun, slashing wildly at the thief while driving forward with a single, hulking pauldron. "Away!" Varastaja yelped, spinning away from the weapon but taking the pauldron to the chest. He lay there on his back, eyelids fluttering. Silas chuckled, stepping towards the fallen criminal.
"You weren't as powerful as they all liked to say," he said, lining his sword up with the man's jugular vein, insuring he wouldn't escape.
"No, but I'm doubly as tricky," the thief grinned a toothy Cheshire grin. Silas quirked his brow, then raised his sword, preparing to bring it down. And then the thief was off, rolling to the side before Silas could make his fatal thrust; Varastaja scooped some sand up and threw it in the other man's eyes, and Silas reeled, crying out in pain. The thief punched the man one time in the throat and then it was over.
Silas choked to death on his own blood, unable to take a single healthy breath in.
With that, Varastaja strode into town, a confident smile on his face and a gait in his walk that suggested a cat that got the pet canary.
But who would want a cat such as this?