His quarry is jumpy. Twitchy.
As he quickens his pace, ever turning to glance behind him, senses in panicked overdrive, an assassin watches calmly from a nearby rooftop with a clear view through the warrens that populate the civic quarters of Tarkeld.
The quarry pauses – the powers of his imagination creating sounds and shapes in the darkness. With so much information racing through his mind, he cannot decide between that which is real and that which is imagined. He no longer trusts his own senses. Too long he has been hunted. Pursued. He knew this day would come but upon its arrival he cannot think, cannot plan as much as he cannot escape the fear that dwells within. It is in control now.
In contrast, akin to thin cloud passing fleetingly across the light of the moon, the assassin crosses rooftops, a flash of greys above the now still man. The assassin, whilst knowing he has disturbed his quarry, knows not to underestimate him. A killer he is, and when cornered, despite the fear, a killer he remains.