Assassins Set

Assassins set 32mm.

The Six Blades of the Hollow Masks

They moved as one shadow split six ways—silent, seamless, their twin blades catching no moonlight. The assassins' cloaks, woven from the wool of hanged men, swallowed sound and sight alike, while their wooden masks bore the grotesque visages of forgotten gods: mouths stretched in eternal screams, hollow eyes weeping pitch, jagged horns curling like accusations. Each mask was unique in its horror, yet identical in purpose—to erase the wearer's humanity. Their targets never saw the six become twelve blades, never heard the whisper of steel parting air before it parted their flesh. The guildmaster who hired them called it "the symphony of the unseen," but the corpses left in cobbled alleyways knew it only as the last red note of their lives.

Their origin was a riddle wrapped in blood. Some said they were brothers, their faces carved away by the same vengeful hand; others whispered they'd sold their souls to a wood that grew hungry for screams. The truth was simpler: they were empty vessels, their humanity hollowed out like the masks they wore. When the job was done, they'd vanish into the mist without a word, leaving behind only the faint scent of damp cedar and the echoing click of wooden jaws settling into grins. The city guard burned their wanted posters monthly—not out of diligence, but because the ink would inexplicably darken to the color of old blood, and the masks' eyes in the drawings would begin to weep.