He stands at six feet and three inches, his hair dark as coal, dark orbs smoldering as he stalks through the night. His form, muscular and slim, slides through the shadows as he comes upon his prey.
His steps are quick and silent, padding along the paved streets in the dim light cast from open windows, a hunter in the night. His target in front of him, it turns suddenly afraid, a glance over its shoulder as its pace quickens, just missing him as he slides into an alley.
He slinks along the alley, coming out on another street, he slides from shadow to shadow, his senses alert as he moves. His fingers slide the slender blade of a quiva from a hidden sheath, moving every closer to his prey. He spots it ahead, and moves swiftly forward, each step silent. There is a flash as the blade moves, a fluid extension of him, it slides easily from ear to ear, no cry coming from the choking prey, its fingers grasping feebly in an attempt to staunch the dreadful wound.
Dead eyes stare up in horror at him, his expression calm, as he cleans the slender blade on the targets clothes, sliding it once more into its hidden sheath.