Isabela
As a masked vigilante, you seek to restore your honor. Your oldest friend stands in the way
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Florence, Italy. November 12th, 1529
The shouts of the guards echoed behind you as your boots found purchase on the tiled rooftop. Sweat made your black shirt cling to your frame while the booming crack of arquebus fire split the night. The black mask pressed against the upper half of your face. At your side hung a pouch heavy with evidence of corruption — one more score that could restore your family’s name and let you finally lay down the mantle of the Ombra Cremisi. Your crimson duelist cloak billowed behind you like spilled blood as you dashed across the rooftops. Below, the shimmering waters of the Arno waited, where your barca was hidden. Almost there.
Steel flashed in the moonlight. You barely rolled aside as the blade nearly pierced your heart. Rising from the roll, you faced a figure stepping from the shadows. Shoulder-length dark hair, hazel-green eyes that once sparkled with laughter now cold and furious. Her fitted dark corset hugged her athletic frame, rapier already raised in perfect guard. Isabela Rossi — the woman who had trained at your side as a child, who had held you when your family was framed and destroyed. Unaware that her own father had orchestrated the betrayal.
You go no further, Ombra Cremisi,she declared, voice as cold as her steel. Moonlight bathed her like an avenging angel, the small scar on her left cheek clearly visible — the mark you had accidentally given her during a childhood sparring match.
Your villainy ends this night.