A long time ago, down in the docklands of the city of Leucret there was a man named Stil.  Stil was a petty criminal, extorting a few gold out of captains who docked along his stretch of the seafront for the privilege of moving goods through his turf and keeping taverns clear of trouble-makers for a small fee. Under him he had a small gang of rough but loyal thugs whom he used to enforce his authority. He never took too much from anyone nor came to the attention of the watch. In short, he was insignificant.

One day, while sitting in a tavern conducting business with his lieutenants, he was approached by a stranger swathed in a large black cloak who wore his hair long and curling around his face. From the shadows of his hood glowed two faint eyes. He moved with a grace that suggested total confidence in his own abilities. A possession of self rarely seen in this part or the city. When the stranger spoke it was in an accent unfamiliar to Stil who prided himself on being able to place any that came into his docks. After all, was this not the grandest city in all of Permidia? And were Leucret's docks not the largest in the world? Even so, the accent was not known to Stil, and this unsettled him more than a little.

"So..... what can I do for ye sir.....?" Stil paused, hoping for the strangers name.
"I prefer to think of it as what we can do for each other," the stranger replied smoothly.  "Dismiss your associates and we shall talk." Stil glanced around the table and one by one his men stood up and left. The stranger continued, "There are certain things coming into this part of the docks in the coming months which I wish..... to, shall we say, disappear? I then wish them to appear somewhere else at a later date. Somewhere that I might more easily access them. Do you understand?"
"I think I do. Ye wish me to acquire these objects and give 'em to ye after. Forgive me for asking but: what's in it fer me? This may be a large risk yer asking me to take."
"I understand completely, how does five hundred gold for your time sound?"
"I dunno about that, sounds a bit small like...."
A bag of coins hit the table. A large bag. "I of course meant upfront, with twice that again upon delivery of the goods."
"Now, that, my friend, is a different story. What do ye need........?"

An hour later, the stranger stood up to leave, the deal having been struck to the satisfaction of both parties.

"Oh," the stranger said, turning back to the table, "my name is Arquinsiel." And then he left.

Stil waved his lieutenants back over to him and told them the pertinent details. After much discussion they decided on the course they would pursue, and went about arranging it. The months passed, the items went missing and the arranged meeting was made. Stil sat alone at the same table. Arquinsiel entered through the same door he had used before and walked over. "I believe you have something for me?" Arquinsiel said, as he sat down across from Stil. "Indeed I do, my friend. But first......"
"Of course, you wish to be paid" Two bags appeared on the table. The same size as the last one. Stil picked them up, hefting them carefully. 
"Well then, I think we're done here."
"Done? For your sake I hope you do not mean what I think you do."
"Of course I do Arquinsiel friend. Now I think ye might like to be leaving," he inclined his head to various tables around which sat obviously armed toughs.
"Friend Stil, you are making a mistake, I urge you to reconsider."
"There is nothing to reconsider, our business is complete."
Arquinsiel stood up and bowed, "Well then, I shall take my leave of you. Do not think this is over, however, for it is not." He straightened, gave Stil a look full of promise, a look that had Stil frozen to his seat, held his eyes rapt for a second, and then left.

The days passed for Stil, and his panic grew. When would Arquinsiel return? He obviously intended to take his revenge sometime. Putting his fear aside, Stil expanded his business.  
Using the money he had made from the deal, his holdings grew. The days grew into weeks, the weeks into months. His confidence grew, based on the continually absent revenge. Things just fell into place for him. Soon he controlled a full quarter of the docks. And the months grew into years, and then decades. His business never really made it outside his quarter of the docks, there would always be some problem with the watch or a courier being waylaid by cut-purses. Despite these set-backs, Stil's territory was extremely profitable. He grew happy and raised a family on the profits of his enterprises, three sons and two daughters. His children had children, and his little empire was stronger than ever. 

Then one day his youngest son died suddenly. A deal gone wrong, and the other party took offence, and one dead son. He was shattered by it, a broken man. But, as he always did, he eventually put it behind him and moved on. Then, a few months later, he lost his eldest daughter to a fever. Again, he was a broken man. But he persevered, moved on and rebuilt. As he always did. Years passed and his life progressed smoothly. Then, his son in law died, in much the same circumstances as his own son. He was again, shattered. This time, he didn't have enough time to gather himself, his family started dying in quick succession over the coming months in a variety of ways. Some suspicious, others not. But all fueled his paranoia, his mounting terror. He began to wonder why this was happening, who it was that would hate him enough to do this. He could not think of a single enemy who he had not left dead. He began to wonder if it was supernatural in nature. He began to pray.

He became paranoid, hiring more guards and screening them all personally. But it was no use. Eventually, after almost five years of constant suspicion, checking every shadow, every corner, it was just him and one of his grandchildren left. She was seven years old, born just before this started. A beautiful blonde child, she was beloved of all who came across her, bringing a smile to Stil's face even in these times. Eventually, one night just before her eight birthday, Stil's door opened slowly, oh so painfully slowly. At this point Stil was not sleeping, spending every night sitting awake in his bed with a loaded crossbow and a drawn sword both within easy reach. As the door reached it's fully open position he fired, aiming for the height at which the chest of an adult would be. He closed his eyes as he pulled the trigger....... the twang of release followed by the solid THUNK of the bolt hitting home in flesh. He slid his hand to the hilt of the blade and opened his eyes slowly.
In the doorway was Arquinsiel, his hood pulled back now, his hair tied behind his head. He stepped into the room, gracefully gliding in complete silence.
"Hello Stil," he said, "remember me? I'm sure you do. I've met your grand-daughter. Charming little thing, for a human I mean. A pity really, but business is business after all." He raised his right arm, showing Stil what he held........ 

The sword dropped from Stil's hand, hitting the floor with a dull clang as a low moan escaped his lips. He looked into the face of his grand-daughter, still smiling despite the crossbow bolt protruding from her left eye. He stared blankly for a few seconds, whimpering quietly to himself before realizing that it was just her head, severed neatly from her shoulders by a keen blade. He looked up, eventually, from the slow drip of blood from her slender child's neck, to see Arquinsiel watching him with amusement, a wry half-smile on his lips. "I told you it wasn't over," he said, "and that you were making a mistake. How unfortunate it is that you failed to heed my words." He lowered his arm to his side.

"Whu.... what are you? A daemon? Some foul necromancer? How are you till the same? After so long.... it must be thirty years..... What are you? WHAT?!? TELL ME!" Stil became hysterical with grief.
"I am neither. And a little of both, I suppose. Really, I often ask myself the same question,"  He laughed a little, a brittle edge to it that would have set Stil even more on edge were he not already petrified. Minutes passed, neither person moved. After a time Stil asked, "Well, aren't you going to finish this?" Arquinsiel laughed again, this time a full laugh, the laugh of someone who finally reached the punch line but can't finish the joke. 
"My dear Stil, I AM finished. This, " he lifted his arm again, "is it, the end. The final act in our little play. I am merely basking in the reaction of the audience."
He turned, made to leave, "Oh, by the way, " he half-turned back, "catch."  The girl's head sailed through the air, spinning madly, her hair a spray of gold, a halo almost. Stil caught it mechanically, then dropped it immediately. He looked to the door again. Arquinsiel was gone.

Stil lived on for a few months after that but he never managed to get back to his old form. The final knowledge that this could all have been avoided, that this was all his fault, prevented him from paying attention to his dealings. Eventually, one of his lieutenants, tired of inaction, slipped a knife between his ribs. As happens, a power struggle ensued. When the dust settled, the docklands that had been Stil's territory were now under the control of an outside group, one which hadn't had a foothold on the waterfront before. A group led by a strange foreigner who cloaked himself in mystery and laughed with a brittle edge to his voice..............
