Thomas cursed under his breath, the pain from his right side spreading like the webs of a sinister spider consuming his strength and numbing his senses with agony. He took a bottle out of his bag with his left hand and bit the cork to take it out, his neck hurting from a single cut under his right ear as he drank the contents of the potion, too weak to leave the roots of the tree he was taking refuge in.
He could feel the poison starting to spread from the wound, using his beating heart and his pulsating blood as means to little by little drain his vitality. A smirk appeared on his lips upon the irony, and he would have laughed had he not been in mind breaking pain from the Widow Maker poison. Then he thought about the young master of the Janus Family, with his terrible pussy ass fear of the tiniest spider trying to resist the poison and he started laughing, the satisfaction of imagined vengeance triumphing over the bitter pain from the bleeding.
He took a big breath and got up in an agile movement, the laughing or the pain killer he drank before taking root in making the pain tolerable. God bless his master and curse the day he accepted that fucking coward of a noble as one of his apprentices. God bless his master. God bless his master... He started to lose focus and balance without even taking a step as the corners of his vision started turning black even amid the darkness of night. He took a few steps losing ground, then fell to one knee and tried to use his left hand to keep balance, gasping for air, before the futility of the act was felt by him, and with a defeated sigh he rolled so that he could lay in the cold wet ground of the forest.
He looked forward from his lying down position, up and above towards the starlit sky, through the holes in the mist and leaves of the forest. The pain was light now, numbed down, but weakness started spreading in its place, paralyzing its prey so it could be consumed by the beasts of the forest as soon as something found him. It could be worse, for as long as the Janus and his bitches didn't find the body, he would be happy just from disturbing that motherfucker dreams with thoughts of being alive and telling his master what happened in the forest while he was gone. God bless his Master.
Thomas started crying. God bless his Master, God bless him, the only person who ever believed in him, the only person that ever gave him hope. He didn't want to die, not when he was finally in a life that was worth living. His body started to shiver as his eyes turned into waterfalls and he cried for the first time since he was a baby, since before he realized that the streets of the royal capital were no place for crying babies.
What had he ever done to deserve this? Being better in magic than some noble brat that spends more time chasing skirts rather than studying the great mysteries of the world? That didn't even have the balls to take him on without 10 mercenaries? Without opening daddy's purse because he couldn't handle the fact that a bloody nobody picked from the streets by an archmage who felt like it and that just barely could read was doing better than him by the simple fact he BLOODY TRIED? THAT IF HE FAILED IN MEETING THE OLD MAN EXPECTATIONS, THE ONLY MAN IN THE WORLD WORTH MORE THAN BREAD, HE WOULD RATHER JUMP OFF THE BELL TOWER OF THE CATHEDRAL???? God bless his Master, for poor Thomas would never be able to bless him again when he sneezed at the dust-filled old books.
God bless his Master, for The Almighty had never blessed him.
He heard voices from his right, and he quickly dried his tears, his eyes moving to the red light coming from further into the forest, and fear filled him like cold water. He rolled over left and stood crouched trying to hear any of the mercenaries voices. But the voices flowing through the mist of the forest didn't sound familiar to him and were far too filled with merriness to be the voices of people that were searching for a mage apprentice. He gulped.
Things far worse than death followed those that went in the direction of unknown lights in the Iron Beast Forest, but the voices made his fear even worse. What kind of people would camp in this cursed woods? From dark gods cultists to the bandits all myriad of people and groups, any worse than the other before it combined flowed through his mind. He looked to his right arm, covered in red blood, and felt the weakness in its ever spread. He gulped.
And decided to follow the light.