Every journey has a beginning. The first step that sparks the emergence of change and upheaval. A spark that can make the ground quake and the skies rumble.
***
The Gnott Clan's territory was shrouded in darkness as the sun set behind the distant mountains and the moon's emergence snuffed out the dying rays of sunshine that vivified the lives of many. The enormous moon shown in the darkness of the night sky, its presence overshadowing the pretty stars that wove patterns around it. It was unusually big, its colossal scars, wounds, and recurring valleys blatantly clear to the naked eye.
People on the streets could be seen stopping and staring at its gigantic body, whispering to each other, their faces carrying a tinge of anxiety, for the moon, unlike its normally soothing white aspect, was drenched in crimson, its scarlet moonlight casting sinister shadows on the ground below. Although some might not be aware, they were rightfully scared, as it represented a ghastly premonition.
***
Near a human settlement, the howling of feral beasts occasionally filled the air, scaring the wits out of any poor soul unfortunate enough to hear them. It was a small town near the border between the Gnott Clan and the Tremaorin Empire. It wasn't the most well-guarded nor the most well-to-do place which made it a haven for criminals, mercenaries, and the like, who would do anything to make a quick buck.
In said town, in a gloomy and drab room of an equally deary inn, stood a shirtless man, shadowboxing, his greasy body glowing an ominous ruby in the moonlight. Remanents of past injuries littered his muscled body, with every jab and punch bringing into the scarlet light another lesion.
Hatir breathed out slowly, sweat dripping down his face, which was decorated with a long diagonal scar. His black eyes gleamed as he looked out of the only window in his room and a blood-red moon glared back at him. His eyes narrowed as he remembered its significance. The blood moon had adorned the night sky thrice so far in human history. The first time was 450 years ago, another 10 years ago and the third time was today. Other than an odd red tinge, it was an otherwise normal night, but the reason why people were so restless was that it was one of the worst omens. No,' THE' worst omen.
Every time the blood moon emerged, suffering and chaos would ensue, and blood would drench the lands, not unlike its own appearance. 10 years ago, Aldrich Harald, that demon, lost control over his emotions in a clan meeting in the city of Sigle and in a fit of rage, massacred everything that moved. Men, women, and children, none were spared, and instead were rewarded with a painful and gruesome death. When the news reached the Empire and the surrounding Clans, it sparked immense outrage. Although Sigle was a part of Harald territory, the act of butchering an entire city on a mere tantrum was unforgivable.
The Empire, which preached justice and righteousness then took up arms against the Haralds, but the world was once again reminded of the monstrous might of the Djinn. The Empire had held the upper hand at first, for they boasted a greater number of soldiers and better weapons, but all that changed when the family of the Djinn decided to take to the battlefield. The 'Mad Butcher''s fists painted the night red, his lust for blood and his sadistic personality reminding everyone why he was given his title. His brother, Sveroth Harald did no less than him, his sword slicing and dicing his enemies like butter. He was even seen repeatedly stabbing at a dead body, chuckling at how it flopped about. Yet, the brothers alone weren't enough to push back the assault by the Empire. Although they were superhuman, they could still fall in battle.
It was then that Aldrich Harald, the Dragon of the East entered the fray, his every move carrying enough power to topple legions. The earth trembled every time he swung his arms, his relentless attack only slowed down by the Empire's crossbow bolts and catapults. And after 3 years of grueling war, both sides eventually ceased battle for the death count had skyrocketed to dangerous levels. The Clans who hadn't participated in the battle took over those whose military might had been crippled by the war inducing a gigantic political upheaval memorialized by a sea of blood that was seared into people's minds. No one would ever forget that day. The day Aldrich Harald was called the 'Slaughterer of Sigle'.
Hatir gripped his hands in anger as he was reminded of the Djinn. He had lost someone who he had treasured to one of their tantrums and he wanted them gone. He wanted them dead. But he knew he was but one of many who yearned for their demise. Half the world had fought against them and they were humbled. What could a lone mercenary do?
He wrenched his gaze from the crimson moon and looked around the dirty room he was in. He sighed and walked to a bucket in the corner and washed the grime that coated his body. The water was icy cold, but that was the best that one could get around here. It was considered lucky if you could get a mere meal, let alone a bath. He then slipped into his mercenary outfit, adjusted the insignia on his chest, and sheathed his recently oiled sword back into its sheath before strapping it on his back.
He made his way down the stairs, the wood creaking under his weight, to the bar. He pushed the door open, walked in, and was met with the sight of burly men chugging large amounts of alcohol in equally large mugs. They seemed cheerful and merry, but he knew that almost everyone here had killed someone or the other. Their weapons and postures showed that they knew how to handle themselves at the very least.
As he walked in, numerous eyes carrying malicious intent turned toward him, latching onto his sword, but once they took note of his gold mercenary insignia, they turned back to their drinks, some now eyeing Hatir with fear. He scanned the room taking in all its details, a habit that saved his life on multiple occasions, and spotted some fellow mercenaries, sporting similar insignias of silver and iron, who nodded to him as a sign of respect. He then sat at the counter and waved to get the attention of the barkeeper, who was a thin, gaunt man, whose greyish hair hung loosely down his forehead.
"Something strong. Enough to make me drunk", Hatir mumbled slamming a gold Tron on the table causing the barkeeper's eyebrow to twitch. The Clans and the Empire used the same currency. It consisted of Kones, copper coins that were of the lowest value, Srots, silver coins whose value was 10 times that of a Kone, and finally the Tron, large gold coins that held 100 times the value of a Srot. It was easy to say that Hatir had drastically overpaid for a strong drink.
"I believe you are in need of something else as well?", the barkeeper replied, expertly whipping up the bar's best cocktail, his hands as steady as they could've been.
"Information. Anything worth noting"
"Information sir? I could tell you about Princess Natia's birthday or the Harmur Clan's recent business investment. Please be a little more specific.", the barkeeper grinned and placed a colorful drink before Hatir.
He sighed and looked around the room before leaning forward, "Anything related to the Djinn". His voice was barely audible, for it was taboo to even talk about them in the Gnott Clan. He didn't want to stir up any trouble.
The barkeeper froze but soon regained his composure. He now understood why his customer had paid so much. Although it was taboo to speak about them, money would make anyone open their mouths.
"Hmm. The Djinn, huh. Well, have you heard of the incident in Frysta?", Barkeeper asked Hatir while cleaning a few dirty glasses with an equally dirty towel.
Hatir's mouth jerked up, 'Isn't Fryta in Gnott territory?'
"Go on", he said, his eyes betraying curiosity. This was new to him.
"3 days ago, Almost half of Frysta's population were killed. All of their throats were sliced open in their sleep. Women and children included. Only the areas surrounding the City Mayor's residence were spared. It caused quite an uproar mind you. "
Hatir frowned, that was indeed unusual.
"That could have been any clan. Why the Djinn?", he questioned.
"That's the most important part, sir. The slums in the city were razed to the ground, with only a crater remaining of it. Let me remind you that no human could've done that. Only them devils have that power", the barkeeper replied, his gaunt face showing both fear and envy.
"A crater? Hmm, you are right. No human could've done that.", Hatir nodded, understanding why the barkeeper thought it was the Djinn. But he knew the Djinn better than most. He had worked for them after all. He couldn't understand why they decided to randomly attack the Gnott Clan. Did the blood moon make them want to sow chaos?
"The strangest part was that the crater was a perfect circle. Either the person had perfect control or it was.."
"Contained", Hatir completed the barkeeper's sentence and his eyes glinted with an indiscernible emotion. He looked out of the bar's window with anticipation. It seemed that he would take to the road sooner than he'd have previously thought.