"I don't know much days have gone and pass, don't know where I should go and who should I seek. But my flesh tells me to head north, to a city wreathed with a sea of abhorrence and bones. So I must."
Sun and moon; dawn and dusk; he felt not the passing of time. Every time he looks around the lonely trees, a reminder of his family's murder is etched and distorted by the lines of the wooden barks. Their contorting and spiral illusions, he thought. The moon's wind blew each tree with eerie gentleness. As if a deceiving sea, it conveys a feeling of solace and fear. Each time it chafed Darion's skin, a sharp yet comforting pain resonated in every crevice of his body. Every time the chilling breeze entered the holes of his tattered, ragged cloak, a vision more painful than his wounds flashes in his psyche.
And then, the moonlight's gaze was not the only piercing, bright eye — Another reveals all in the darkness. Orange phosphorescence wedged itself among the tree leaves, exhibiting itself upon his stern eyes. He reached the precipice beyond the forest and saw a wooden-clad city; wreathed in green-ish murky water. Its noxious fumes bolstered upon his nose, being carried by the wind. Something is unsettling about the summer's blissful breeze laced with rot and bane, he thought. "Be wary, swordsman, for all things... from beast to men... finds their comeuppance... in the city of liberty..." The voice trailed weakly with the foul wind, disappearing entirely. "I have gotten mad," he murmured as a reply.
Every crevice was dank and rotten: the wooden walls that surrounded the city of thieves and cheat were wet, the soil was muddy and filled with writhing worm, and the men comparable, comparable to pigs, reeks of stale ale and warzones from a bygone era. A perfect place to blend in, he thought to himself as he kept his head down, looking only at the grimy path as his feet led him to the tavern. The ragged voices of men of fortune and wrenches left the wooden housing; their voices reached the streets, and their filthy song filled with cheers. Darion entered, and everymen looked physically miserable, yet everyone enjoyed the ambiance but him. He found no joy in mortal thirst: of alcohol, temporary love, and another manner of vice, but spilled blood of anyone who dares obstruct his way. He only wished to find the cause of his misery. Nothing more.
Every mouth spewed jovial mucus bound with ale and strings of microscopic strands of flesh that the tavern served. Though, two lads sat solemnly in the chaos. Eye-catching, he thought to himself before approaching the men. The two trembled as the giant body of Darion obscured the lamp's light, his silhouette etched upon the table and their body. Lies in the center of all was a small leather pouch that the lad on the left dearly clutched in his fist. "Hail blackguard, We wish no trouble. We'll be abroad by nightfall," The boyish man on the right spoke calmly. "Ain't no blackguard... boy," Darion sat on a chair beside the shivering lad. "Then... what it is you want?" the nervous boy jawed, "... you wish to harm us, don't you?" A pair of eyes ogled upon the boy's trembling visage.
"I's a trailin' a general by the name of Antonius Kyner Nero."
"You ween 'e look like someone who 'sociate with a knight?" A drunkard, who bolstered an effluvium with weeks of sour sweat, grabbed Darion's shoulder. The two lads flinched before standing up, facing their backs towards the wooden walls. Teeth met fists; flesh met protruding bones. Darion's primal prowess showed itself; violently. The drunkard was met with dread as he felt his cheekbones crumbled to mere dust. Darion mercilessly pounded upon the drunkard until his face hilled beneath. Until his face became indistinguishable from man to a beast bearing a macabre visage. The jovial sonance inside the tavern turned into fearful gasps and parlous looks. But Darion cared not. He merely stood up after wiped his bloody fist upon the drunkard's soiled shirt. "Come with us..." The two lads walked to the living quarters, atop the tavern, and Darion followed without uttering anything.
"Such power... who are you?"
"Nothing but a deadman." The three exchanged information until dawn.
"It has been hours of trading rumors..." the calm lad leaned his side upon the wooden frame, "... we have not told you our names. As a trade, we like to know yours."
"Darion... Darion of Westewald."
The air in the room changed as he uttered his name as if it was slang for something malign. As if his name is a curse spat to the gods by heretics. "The Kinslayer?" It seems the guards of Westenwald knew that Darion was alive. No one would forget a kinslayer, anyway — for it is the most severe mortal sin one could err.
Their blurry hued eyes sparked in awe, and appalling rumble festered in their stomach. Darion did not answer, merely he just stared at them with illuminating sights. "I-i'm Gestas..." the closest lad stammered as his index finger pointed to the other person in the room, "... That's Dismas, my younger brother." The two continued talking. Darion knew the two, the pair's name gave most Westwaldian aristocrats' headache. Treasures vanishing in thin air, jewels meticulously stripped, and purses swiftly drained of Drachoin. All of it was doing of a seemingly ethereal and mysterious visage only known as 'Dismas.' And Gestas? He was known as a traitor by few brigands that worked with him and lived to tell-tale. A fierce swordsman, yet his skills were overshadowed by his ill-natured morals. "Been tryna tail the two of yous when I was a guard... thousand gold drachion... each head. That could feed a small village for many moons-"
"Look, sire, we wish no trouble. We wish to start a new life, a peaceful one. One without stealing or murder," Dismas looked at the two, wishing to escape this rotten place since he and his brother got in this equally sickening place. His shivers, the fear he once portrayed as trembling knees was a clever ploy — an act. The appearance of a child, but the guts and wit of a sharpened larcener. "Actions produce outcomes, must face what you made," Darion looked at Dismas's blue eyes. And behind the mesmerizing hues, a craving for solace shows itself. "Then why did you run away, kinslayer?" The guilt-sharpened dagger question of Dismas stuck itself in Darion's heart. And the room fell quiet, and the cricket's cries reigned the whole city. "Well, I think I'll just catch some game for tonight, the lot of you, rest," Gestas tipped his hat before leaving the room. And the sun finally came, illuminating every putrid crack and crevice of the molding city. The fog, thick and obscuring, never cleared, even when the sun pierces its shade. And as the day came swift, the night took over faster. The stars lit the eerie streets. Both Dismas and Darion sat by the window sill.
"Why did you do it?"
"Did what?"
"Your family, why did you slay them?"
"I didn't... someone made me do it. Tricked with illusions."
"Illusions?"
"Yea, in my sleep?"
Their mouths were sewn shut as a cold air embraced their flesh and bones. "...Xydas." A name of a void-one egressed Dismas's lip. "The Dreamer?" Darion's eyes widen upon the accession of bright rays in his orbs; his iris widen, contracted upon this realization, and the sun's sparks. Equivocal odor loaded the breeze. Is it the sulfuric redolence of the lantern? The decay of walls? The rancid vomit of drunken trifles on the muddy street trails? Both pondered, devoured by this irritating miasma. This odd air dissipated upon the realization that the sun had gone up and down. Night fell upon the land once more, and Gestas wasn't back. Where is he? Dismas thought while focusing on the rambling drunkard at the street.
Arrows whistled in the skies before falling at the earth, a sound Darion is too familiar with. Iron laced with blue flare, each tip brought a miniature drought and severe scald, singeing every flesh and grass. The rambles of the drunkard turned to confused screams; as he saw the scintillating stars fell, piercing his grotesque skin. Only ceasing to push itself when it stuck between his ribs. His inebriated maunders turned into his last breath. Darion, with his instincts, fell to the ground and pulled Dismas over; Crawling to the back door to escape.
"They're upon us!"
"This is no place to die!"
"Save for yer lives!"
Shouts of the vile and villains echoed every crevice, every crack, every surface. The two scuttled calmly, though haste; no fear showed in their eyes. "Out here," Darion kicked the back door, letting Dismas go first. "Wait for me in the woods, east of here. I'll look for some food." Darion went down — to the tavern floor. If not for knocking punches he struck to every ragtag, he would've been stranded there. Jarred berries, stale bread, and other herbs lie beneath the counter. All he stole, only a few alcohols left untouched. Before he rose his head, a fist struck his cheek. Two battle-hardened bandits stood before him.
"Ye led 'em doncha?"
"That he did!"
"Ye'll die 'ere, you poltroon!"
A rusted, dull blade plunged upon his shoulder. A monstrous groan made the two tremble; the other continued to stab him. "And even in strange eaons, even dead may die," misty words flew upon his ears, a vox that reminded him of the same fleeting whispers from the woods before. A cold grip found its way around the bandit's neck. A maddened veins etched itself on Darion's skin as he raised the bandit's head upon the ceiling. The other scoundrel fell to the ground — frightened of this beast's visage. Darion threw the corpse of his mate at the bandit. Before stepping on his skull. Fleshy particles clung upon brown leather boot, and as he walked, blood followed his trail.
Darion went out the back door of the living quarters. The ambiguous air wafted beneath his nose, carrying a scent of blood, smoke, and rancidness. The lad, Darion, looked at the legionnaires raiding the village. "Brother..." Devastation tore Dismas's heart as he saw Gestas, the only family he knew, leading the men. Darion's heart clenched in anger and sadness. To see a young lad's world — crumbling before him. A fatherly touch weighed upon Dismas's shoulders.
"Come, Nestor, we must go."
And they fled to the eastern forest, but Dismas's eyes fixed upon the flames, thinking that he saw only an illusion. It must be, he thought.
"What'll be your next step, kid?"
"I... don't know."
"Then let's stick together."
"O-okay." Flames reflected upon his darkened eyes, contracting and expending his iris' hues. Of orange and gray; Of the blaze and ashen dirt.