The assassin waited on his perch. Beneath his grey hat were two, large, searching eyes, with two, black scars, that told of experience, slashed over them. He was the picture of malice.
"I must wait," he muttered to himself, peering down where the victim would present themselves, "Patience is a virtue." But he could not wait. He was agitated. He was restless. Every muscle, every bone throbbed with life and energy. At that moment he could not care less about the murder; he desired to tear apart everything in sight. Slowly, he took a few deep breaths, calming his rage slightly, but not extinguishing his determination and bloodlust. Impatiently, he emerged from his hiding place, disguised among the branches, hovering, anticipating the moment he had been waiting for. Desperately, he searched and searched, for what seemed like years, while the sun sank lower and lower, until... he saw and heard movement. With all his effort, he launched himself towards it, plummeting to the earth, weapon in hand. Had he struck true?
"Aarrgghh!" he cursed in annoyance. He had not pierced flesh or bone, he had only created a divot, a memento of his failure. The wind had tricked him.
"Blasted wind!" he spat and as if to mock him it began to howl and pound him with great force. Mustering as much dignity as he could, he resumed his position furiously scanning for his target. Crack! Instinctively, he turned towards the direction of the noise. By the light of the moon, he could just make out the gloomy silhouette of his victim, helplessly blundering towards him. With a grin of menace and relish, he attacked. Screech! Tear! Blood. Flesh. Darkness.
"Simple." he sniggered.
The blood-dripping rodent lay limp in the kestrel’s powerful talons. Victoriously, he took to the air gracefully, clutching his precious kill. Above the treetops he soared, until he came to rest on a telegraph pole, ready to devour his hard-won meal.
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