White light shined.
He shook himself awake within a dusty room.
Roosters cawed, breakfast bells rang, and the inn was crowded for as early as it was in the morning.
He leaned up in bed, flail, armor, and shield leaned against the wall by the door. Without a moment's pause he gathered his equipment, what little it was, then made his way outside and down the hall.
"Greetings weary traveler!" The innkeeper, a lanky young red-haired woman said. "Two pints and a chicken?"
He nodded.
"Are you ever going to take that thing off?" She asked, pointing at his head.
He shook his head, then made his way to a table.
She frowned, then retrieved a pair of black ale filled mugs from the bar. Between a bustling morning crowd, she yelped, and stumbled, thin as bones trying to reach him with a smile. He finished both mugs before she even returned to her desk, welcoming other inn goers or anyone else who was waking up from a long-fought battle.
An hour or so later, he couldn't care to tell as he ran every move through his head, she brought him a pair of roasted chickens with a warm loaf of honey glazed bread.
"Enjoy!" She said, winking at him. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're getting taller."
"I've only got enough for one," he said, reaching for his coin pouch.
She put a hand on his shoulder, waving a finger. "On the house, hun."
She trotted away, waving at new customers, taking orders with a smile, and laughed with a few of the better-rounded adventurers.
After scuffing down a chicken, he stuffed the other away, drank another tall mug dry, then made his way outside. The innkeeper wished him farewell, but he was halfway out the door without a thought for anything other than the graves.
So he walked, for over an hour, within a foggy morning woods. Moist grass became a moldy sour whiff, cackles overtook birds chirping, and he readied his flail upon sight of several shadows. Within the fog four silhouettes appeared, two with weapons drawn, and he began to spin his flail.
"Wait!" A young man shouted.
A dozen or so more paced forward and he found the would-be enemies instead to be a small party.
Two warriors, a young man and woman in leather armor, a ranger with an oak polished longbow, and a priest bearing grey robes. Blood stained their faces, and one warrior held up the other who was coughing. The ranger's quiver was empty, though a dagger was hidden behind her back, and she kept a hand on it.
"You're not one of them?" The ranger demanded, tightening her grasp on the dagger.
He was silent but kept his flail hand steady.
"Not one for conversation?" The ranger asked, and the coughing female warrior put a hand on her.
"Leave him, Allison," she said, looking at him with one eye, the other bruised.
Allison glared at him as the others made their way past, then she hurried onward from the growing darkness beyond.
Where they fled was his call home, a dance of fire, death, and thrills.
Minutes into the Grave of the Woods skeletons surrounded him, some with fresh blood on their swords. Two rolled his way, a spiked wheel lodged within their torsos, an uncomfortable predicament he figured would only be bearable by a poor soul already cursed. Yet he was a curse as well, a steel wind of destruction, and he obliterated skeletons by the dozens.
Giants with axes, spears, swords, and hammers tried knocking him back, but he plowed them over with a barge of his shield. After shattering the last of a boulder sized skull, he chased down hordes, screaming like a banshee.
"Where are you?" He shouted. "Quit hiding dogfucker!"
Darkness took the woods, and not a hint of light came from above.
He ignited a lantern, strapped it to his waistbelt, and pressed onward through bones, tombstones, and fresh skewered adventurers. While knelt beside a warrior no older than ten, maybe less, he sighed before moving on.
Hours later and still no path.
Skeletons fled him upon sight, and he didn't bother to chase them down, turning back to the mainlands.
Clouds parted, allowing a half-moon to shine over moss covered tombstones, and the ground shook.
Winds rocked branches, old knotted oaks leaned over, and he looked up to see a beaming red light.
The champion swooped down, scimitars drawn. He ducked, rolling out the way, and a tree was severed in half by one cut. As the tree fell over, he kept his shield raised, and the champion slammed down within arms reach of him. Scimitars slammed down, and though he absorbed both blows his head rang. He tried pushing forward but was thrown through dozens of trees at once. He didn't stop bouncing across the ground until his back slammed against a rock.
Eye ablaze, the champion soared up.
He recovered to his feet but was crushed beneath the champions steel studded boots. Crumbled, every bone twisted puncturing his organs, he bled out as a scimitar raised above him.
"Pathetic warrior…."
Black waves hissed, shrouding everything to black.
Caws woke him up, and he shattered the nightstand next to him.
Instead of putting on his armor he stayed in bed, waiting until sunset to don heavy black cloak, a hood covering all but his eyes and make his way into the halls. There was a feast, for yet another splendid escapade of rescuing a princess, slaying a demon, or ending some thousand-year war. Gold trims on their robes, a table of higher-ranking adventurers led a drinking game, singing, and laughing the night away.
He drank by himself, the innkeeper long gone to bed, and was on his twentieth mug before he even felt a light buzz.
The scimitars he could fend off, even if just for a moment, but the champion was fast for its size. If he wasn't being sliced in half, he was burned or crushed, and up until the last few days he'd yet to land a single hit. His fingers tightened round his mug. Two hits broke a dragon's neck, the size of a siege tower. One hit crippled an ogre, who, despite wearing dung armor, was unable to recover before he stumped its head open.
There was the matter of his nemesis, but he was in no mood to give himself a headache.
A tap on his shoulder made him flinch.
"Your liver's made of iron", Allison said, mug in hand after he span around.
He hunched forward, as if it would help him stay hidden. She sat next to him, trying to keep herself from falling over.
"The fuck's liver got to do with anything?" He slurred.
She giggled. "Something wrong? Aren't you usually out bashing everything to death?"
He tried to ignore her, but she kept poking him until he scowled her, and she burst out laughing.
After moving strands of her bright blonde hair out of her face she sighed, "You don't remember anything, like the silent majority in these lands?"
"The fuck do you think?" He mumbled.
"You're an idiot, going into those woods alone."
"I've more sense than you. Those mutts your mates? You'd trust your life with them?"
She shrugged. "We just wake up in the inn a little farther down yonder."
"I'm not here to talk," he said, throwing coins on the bar, then parting through the crowd.
He bumped into a tall, gold cloaked adventurer, who had a clean shave unlike himself, pristine mithril mail and a blessed longsword. Not as pretentious as he'd expected, the adventurer apologized before putting a hand on his shoulder.
"I know you! You're the mad lad who keeps going out to the Grave of the Woods!"
He tried stepping away, but it was too crowded. "Aye."
"That's a tall task even for an experienced party. My best rangers wouldn't try that champion with anything less than three or four fighters such as myself."
He kept silent, looking for any break within the crowd.
"Would you like to join us? We uncovered a hidden trail leading to a river demon that was tormenting the underground kingdom. Took us some time, but we finally mounted its head on…"
At last, the crowd broke, and he hurried through.
Ale was catching up, and he didn't remember how it happened, but he ended up in his room. Vomit stained the sheets, which had already had spots on them, as he woke up, roosters cawing, bells ringing.
Latches felt tighter than usual, and he struggled getting his armor on while his head spun. His flail felt heavier, and he almost forgot to put on his helm.
Perhaps he'd leave it off?
It was as tight as he'd expected, and he felt to be in a spinning bowl while walking down the hall.
"Greetings m'lord! Your usual?" The innkeeper asked, waving to him.
He said nothing, stumbling out the door to a white sun and howling dogs.
On the outskirts of town at last, he took a sip of his flask, and his muscles swelled as he entered the woods.
Grave robbers scuttled behind trees, dragging an overflowed sack full of treasure. They stopped, trembling at the sight of him as approached with his flail drawn. He held out a hand, wiggled a few fingers, and they handed him a handful of coins.
"More," he demanded, his voice slurred.
They handed him two handfuls, and he turned towards the darkness.
At least something worth a damn making the walk back to the graves for the dozenth time in a week. Had anyone important seen him taking coin from folk low enough to loot the dead, he'd be sent back to the swamps without a thought. Strong as he was, he couldn't fight everyone.
He couldn't even make it pass the Champion of the Graves, and so he destroyed skeletons for hours on end until the numbness in his head cleared. It was easier to breathe again, he felt the battle fury taking over and dashed deeper into the woods.
Not a cloud in the sky, the moon waning thin, yet its light gave way to the crossbones around the battle ground.
A plain so clean one would believe it was before a lord's estate, and unlike days past there were fewer skeletons than before. No one else had been inside. At the opening within the crossbones, he sipped his flask and stepped inside.
Fires raised at once, and the champion landed with wings spread, grazing its scimitars against one another.
He threw his shield, the champion knocked it away, though it landed within the arena inches from fiery bones. Scimitars weaved overhead, and he rolled out the way. He shuffled back, parried with his flail, and kept spinning until the champion took to the skies. His shield was too far, though he ran for it anyway. Shadows overtook him, and he swung up, shattering what would've been one of two feet crushing him.
The champion wailed, collapsing with both wings spread on either side its back.
He slammed his flail down on the closest wing, bending it and shattering bones. The champion roared, swinging its scimitar while leaning up to one knee. Fire spread on its scimitars, and he hurried to retrieve his shield as waves ignited the field.
In a sea of flames, he marched onward. The champion dragged itself towards him.
They exchanged steel glittering clashes, sparks brighter than fire, both shouting and cursing one another's names. His shield absorbed many blows, but it was melting, and he'd yet to land the final blow.
Just one hit, and it would be over.
Smoke filled his lungs, and he coughed trying to catch his breath. He may as well have been in a furnace, his armor so hot everything from his head to toe stung with hot steel peeling open his skin.
A missed swing gave the Champion an opening. A roaring scimitar sliced in two, his upper half landing just behind the howling champion.
He flung his flail forward, far as he could, to the champion's foot, which shattered open upon impact.
Down on its belly the champion wailed, but he was losing consciousness.
"No!" He shouted, his flail arm engulfed in flames.
It laughed, dragging itself up, both wings spreading. On its feet, the flames of his death giving it life, he last saw its beaming eye.
Then everything fell black.