1 A.M
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Heavy hooves strike the mud in a steady rhythm as a horse pushes through the darkness. Its beautiful coat is black enough to swallow the darkness itself. Astride it, rides a man wrapped in a dark cloak. His face can barely be seen, but if one looks closely, a faint red glow can be sighted… is that one of his eyes? If not for the sound of the gallop, a walker would certainly miss them both entirely in the night. Slowly, but surely, town lights appear ahead of them.
"Let's rest you up, boy," the rider says, with a monotone and still voice.
The town of Flemdale lies deep asleep, its streets empty save for the few drunkards. The town itself is big, with a good six hundred houses or so scattered besides a rather small cliff which towers it to its left. However, compared to the king's castle and the surrounding villages which are further north from there, Flemdale is small. The air smells of wet hay and ale. At the centre stands the tavern, its roof slouched with age. Orange fire bleeds weakly through its glass panes on both sides of the door. A stable leans against it, unremarkable in size, timber fading and rotting away.
An ostler wearing a white tunic with brown trousers is sitting just in front of the stables, he is wide awake and can be seen hunched beneath a lantern. He is of a small stature, about 5 '4, sadly some townsfolk take a cruel pleasure in calling him a 'dwarf'. He is middle-aged, as dark circles lay beneath his eyes. Presumably due to lack of sleep guarding the stables, someone has to mind the horses, even at this hour. His hair, once thick and black as a raven's wing, is slowly turning white. He has a crooked nose and big, dry lips. His beard is quite big compared to his face, and his eyes are an average brown, nothing special. One of his two front teeth is slightly bent, likely from a punch to the mouth. Overall, his face is thin, a bit triangular. His body, also thin, it is clear he isn't getting enough food.
"Oi, you there!" the ostler calls out as the dark figure approaches, "What ya doin', Sneakin' around like that!" he shouts and gets up as he sees the dark figure and horse approach. Thinking the two are some kind of dark demons, he takes out his little dagger, out of fear, of course. "STAY BACK YOU FIEND OF THE NIGHT!" and who could blame him, it really is a scary sight to behold.
"Relax..." he smoothly dismounts his horse and says, "I'm here to put him in the stable."
"Oh... I wasn't scared, just... just- yknow" as he quickly sheathes his dagger.
"I'll be back early this morning to take him," the stranger replies.
The ostler squints at him, then grins. "Names McCarth. Nice to meet ya, laddie. And your name is…?"
"Take good care of him."
McCarth blinks twice. "Oi, don't ignore me, lad. I'm the best stable hand you'll find, I swear it. I'll look after this beauty proper, don't ya worry." He runs a hand along the horse's neck, admiring, "what's his name then? If you won't tell me yours. I Gotta know a horse's name. Helps me get to know 'em lad."
"You talk too much," He says frankly.
"And you talk too little lad," McCarth lets out a big old laugh, then says. "C'mon lad, Fuckin... everyone's mysterious nowadays, look at what the world's come to, anyway... Horse's name?"
"K."
McCarth frowns, "Fuckin' what?"
"K."
"Who the fuck in their right mind named this beauty that?"
"Me."
Mccarth scratches his hair, then shakes his head and scoffs. "Alright lad, whatever floats your boat."
He loosens the saddle with practiced hands, checks the horse's legs, then murmurs something low to himself.
"How much?" The man asks for the price.
"Hmmm y'know what…?" McCarth pauses.
Silence.
"What." the hooded man, forced to say something or else suffer an eternity of silence.
"2 silver coins, only because I like the horse!"
He slowly takes out a pouch from beneath his cloak. Then takes out exactly two silver coins and throws it at McCarth.
"Now that's what I'm talking about lad," he looks at the two coins with precision, making sure they are both real.
The black-clad one then starts walking towards the tavern.
"Oi! See ya." he shouts, "First some scoundrels come threatinin' me, and now this, Fuckin'... men can't even say a simple goodbye now, world's gone to hell," McCarth mutters to himself.
He walks without haste, boots sinking into damp earth, the cloak perfectly matching his height, not touching the ground even once. Narrow alleys can be seen in front of the tavern, where some filth and sadness sleep. He walks for a few moments, then he arrives in front of the tavern. It is quite big compared to the dwarfish stable to its right. 'ZY's Tavern' is nailed above the door. He opens the door as it creaks loudly. As soon as he steps in, the warmth lunges at him, hugging him from all sides.
The man shifts his hood back slightly. The tavern's lanterns reveal his brown skin and mismatched eyes. The right one is bright red, God has placed a crimson moon in his iris, the left a dull, lifeless grey. His face is expressionless, not to be mistaken with sadness or anger, but something emptier, devoid of love, one would assume he's never smiled in his life. His skin is smooth, no lines running down or across his face, his black hair falling down to his eyebrows. Using his different coloured eyes, he quickly inspects the room. One girl, One man, Four monsters, he thinks to himself. He then walks up to the counter and sits on the stool closest to the tavern entrance.
"Water," he says to the waiter. "And Bread with meat."
The waiter is older, shoulders slumped from years of carrying more than plates. He nods a sad and slow nod, his eyes keep drifting towards the tables at the back.
Four men sit there. Brigands, plain as day. They wear rotten leather with nicked blades worn openly, most likely stolen. A girl stands trapped in by them. Her face, nearly perfect in symmetry, her smooth skin, once glows with luminous whiteness now fading under the shadow of dread. Her large hazel eyes are beautiful as ever, the only imperfection which can be seen are tears, beginning to form up in the helpless eyes.
One man grips her shiny golden hair, her most striking feature without a doubt. The hair is quite long, stretching all the way down to her waist. Her lips, delicate and soft, are now starting to tremble. She is both slender and tall, around 5'7. She is wearing a simple dress, light blue with pink flowers all over it. One of the crooked men, still seated, drags a finger along her arm, slowly... disturbingly, while the other two stare at the girl.
"Please..." she says. "I've work-" eyes tearing up even more than before.
"Your work's right here," they all laugh with a disgusting laughter except one of them. The corners of her mouth slowly turn down helplessly. No one notices the man who has just entered. They are too busy with other things.
"Oi, Gareth, stop being a low life and have some fun," one of them says to the other who is sitting down.
"Nah." he says. Gareth is sitting down but looking the opposite way, nor is he interacting with the girl. His face is unexpectedly pleasant, freshly shaved, and his hair is swept upwards as if he is a flamboyant knight.
"Don't make the boss angry again, you fool!" the one standing up reminds Gareth.
The waiter returns with the water, bread and meat as requested, his hands shaking as he puts them on the counter. Then he leans in close.
"Please help," he whispers. He then nods to the brigands, "I don't know who these men are, it's definitely their first time in this town. They told everyone in the tavern to get out," he says quietly to the cloaked one. "That girl's my daughter. They said If I interfere they'll burn my daughter and this tavern, in front of my very own eyes" His eyes slowly water, sadness and sorrow more visible than lanterns can be seen in his eyes.
The cloaked man sips on his water calmly then sets the cup down, "Call the guards." he says plainly.
"I can't," the fragile father whispers, bowing down a little. "If they catch me gone... they'll-" He glances back at his daughter, trembling. "God, I can't leave her with these monsters for even a second. Please, I'm old." He pleads and looks down then lets out a faint smile as if remembering his young days. "I was once like you, y'know. Had broad shoulders, was a tall and strong kid," he pauses for a moment, then continues "Now I can't even defend myself, let alone my own daughter, time kills everyone…"
The all black figure lets out a sigh of pity and says, "I'll handle it after I finish eating."
The waiter, eyes darting to his daughter, quickly says, "Thank you, but you don't even have a weapon." He is mistaken, very mistaken.
The man suddenly puts down the bread he is starting to eat, then looks at the father straight in his eyes.
"I always have my sword. But I won't use it on them, they're not worthy of dying by my blade. Besides, it'd be too easy for me." He says in a serious tone.
This man's confidence in himself is crazy, the father thinks to himself. "Please.. You don't understand, they're good at fighting." he finally says out aloud. The cloaked one just smiles faintly.
He then finishes his food as if nothing is amiss. Unstraps his scabbard, in which he keeps his precious sword, which is hiding underneath his cloak all this time, and proceeds to put it on the counter.
"Keep my sword safe." he orders the helpless father. Just like his horse, his scabbard is beautiful, it is black too but sprinkled all over is a white pattern. Then he stands up. He walks over to the four unlucky beings, two of them are still disturbing the girl, not letting her go. Three of them are sitting on the bench, while the fourth is standing beside the table.
"I'll give you five seconds to apologize to the lady, then I'll let you run out of this tavern," he says, speaking in a normal tone.
The brigands slowly turn their heads towards this man, then they all laugh except Gareth. The one standing, spits on the floor in front of the black figure.
"Or what?" he sneers.
"Five," He starts his count.
"Who do you think you are?!" another says shouting.
"Four."
"Look at what he's wearing as well, what a freak."
"Three."
"Boys we got a psycho on our hands don't we, I'll carve out that red eye of yours boy. If you don't back away!" says the one who was previously gripping the girl's hair.
"Two," Noticing the man in the cloak is not at all scared by their threats, the brigands look at each other. All their attention is on this man now. The girl quickly runs to her father, who is behind the counter.
Suddenly, the one standing up throws a punch aimed at the cloaked man's face. Dodged. The girl's saviour easily moves his face out of harm's way. He is quick. Very quick.
"One."
"KILL HIM!" one sitting down shouts.
"Zero."
ALL three of them rise together. The one who had already missed a punch, embarrassed, tries striking again. This time, the girl's saviour doesn't dodge. Instead, he grabs the incoming punch and twists the fool's fist to his left. The father and daughter watch in relief.
"AAAAA!" he screams, a twisted arm must definitely hurt. He drops to the floor, writhing in pain. Another one tries to unsheathe his sword.
"Oh, you want to grab your sword? Fine." But it is futile, the cloaked figure is just too fast. He shifts behind the brigand, so quickly the human eye would mistake it for teleportation. Then he seizes the brigand's sword hand, guides the blade out of its sheath using the brigand's OWN grip, and drives it backward into the brigand's stomach. He angles it carefully, making sure the blade doesn't pierce all the way through to where he stands behind him. The once cocky brigand drops on his side with his own sword inside him. One dead.
The other two are left horrified, "No.. Micah!" one of them shouts. Eyes widen as their deaths approach. Their comrade in crime is dead while another is on the floor shouting humiliatingly. The two left standing already have their swords out, at least they've gotten further than poor old Micah who can't even manage that himself, they both attack at once. Raising their swords to strike the man who has just killed their friend. The cloaked figure smoothly backs away, the swords are out of reach and hit the floorboards with a THANG. Without waiting, he moves back in, rips the red steel out of the now dead Micah and thrusts it in the man's head. The one with the broken arm now has a broken head too with a sword stuck in it. Two dead.
The daughter, who was now behind the counter, vomits. The cloaked man who was silently eating his food moments ago, has now brutally just killed two men right in front of their very own eyes, like a knife running through butter. The two brigands who are left are now too shocked to even utter a word. One finds some courage to attack again, this time a blow swings horizontally aiming for the cloaked head. It's hopeless.
The savage killer bends both his neck and head backwards, arching low, his hood comes off, his nose can practically smell the steel sliding over his face. As the steel passes him he swiftly moves his head back up again, the cloaked hood comes back onto his head perfectly, then he uses both his left and right fists to continuously punch the foolish brigand in the ribs.
The other criminal standing next to him is too scared to even move now, he doesn't want to share the same fate as the other dead two. He lets his blade go, drops on the floor, backs away and starts crying, he's too petrified to even run. But the tears won't stop his friend's ribs from being shattered.
Seeing his daughter's condition, the father rushes her into the kitchen where she doesn't have to witness the savagery unfolding, but it doesn't change a thing, she can still hear the ribs cracking. In just the first hit, the brigand lets go of his sword, the pain is too much to hold onto anything, let alone a sword. The strikes are fast, precise and powerful. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. His punches are only going for the man's ribs, the shattering of his ribs can be heard from even outside the tavern. CRACK. CRAC- his final blow drives through the man's chest, ribs crack inward. It drops to the floor, the thing lying with twisted ribs isn't a human any more… It's something else entirely now. Three dead.
Now there lies one last wretched figure on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably as tears stream down his cheeks. He's just witnessed three of his closest companions die like it was nothing, and the sight leaves his breath ragged, eyes wide, mouth opened in disbelief. Gareth is the last left, he had known Micah, Roderick and Thane for more than two years. They were harsh to each other, but through it all they are brothers, now they're all dead in a heartbeat. Corpses.
"Please, I'm sorry! Girl- I'm sorry! I'll leave this cursed town-" the girl can definitely hear him from the kitchen, shouting.
"Didn't I give you five seconds to apologize and run?" he questions the whimpering man while looking over him with a senseless face.
"You did! I'm sorry-, I'm sorry I can't die-" The pitiful criminal starts begging for his life.
He then picks up the sword which Gareth had dropped moments ago and attacks…
"I HAVE A SON!" he exclaims. "If I die, he won't survive, he's nine! His mother died a month ago, he has no one except me!" he cries painfully.
Suddenly, the hooded man stops in his tracks, sword mid-air. If I kill this man, what will become of his boy? He thinks to himself.
"Why do this... when you have a child?" The man holding the weapon demands an answer and fast.
"I'm sorry-" he chokes on his own words "I needed the money or else my boy would have starved to death by now!" The tall black figure looming above him does not know whether he is lying or telling the truth.
"Where is your son?" he demands.
"Not far, I promise-"
"Location."
"North of here, the town's called Fenwell-" he runs out of breath, then continues "Please.. That's where I live, I'll leave right now! No more stealing, no more gangs- I'll get a good job, anything! Just don't kill me... he's all I've got left!" a cry of a broken father can be heard.
"Gareth... I'm going to let you go. But if you've lied even once to me today, I will hunt you down, even if you run to the deserts edge of Oshra. And I will kill you." he pauses, voice dropping even lower than before "I will visit Fenwell soon, and if I don't see you there..."
"I PROMISE I WILL BE THERE AND- AND I WON'T TELL ANYONE ANYTHING OF WHAT HAPPENED TODAY!!" his voice shaking.
"Good." The red eyed one's voice calm and steady.
Gareth gets up and runs out the tavern doors, never once looking back.
Did I make the right choice? The bandit killer asks himself.
By now the neighbours had awoken, hearing the deafening screams of the battle, no it was a massacre, not a battle. This massacre was sure to attract attention. The father frantically emerges from the kitchen, face sweating and pale, eyes darting between the bodies that lie in his tavern.
"The town patrol is bound to be here any moment, you'll be caught if you go out now, take this key." The father fumbles with a key ring, hands shaking. "Go upstairs to the end of the hall, room three. I'll tell them these bandits turned on each other." The tavern keeper had heard he let the last one go, he doesn't know what to feel. But he has more pressing issues on his mind right now, like the noise getting louder from outside the tavern, anyone could come through the doors at any moment now.
"Sorry for the mess." his still and unwavering eyes point to the blood spilling out of the three dead men. His breath calm and still, nor was his face or hand's sweating from what he had just committed, as if this was a normal occurrence for him.
The man then casually turns and starts walking slowly, as if he hadn't just killed three men in cold blood. Both his fists are now engulfed in blood, mostly from shattering the ribs of Thane. He cleverly makes sure no blood drops on the floor, the guards will be here any second, he wouldn't want a trail of blood droplets leading to the room he's about to go to. He grabs his shiny black scabbard and walks up the stairs, opens the lock with his bloody hands, and into the room he goes. Meanwhile, downstairs the tavern keeper looks at the three bodies, his floorboards are covered with blood. Each corpse eerily looking up at the ceiling.
The tavern doors burst open, "THE FUCK HAPPENED HERE?!"
1:34 AM