VOLANTIS, ESSOS 292
The life of a sellsword was not as glorious as others told Deckard it would be. Five years as captain of the Long Lances, he and his men were hanging on by scraps when it came to new opportunities. The abundance of rival companies within the Free Cities were a large part of why. Putting poor sods and their pox-ridden families to the sword over unpaid debts can only be amusing for so long until boredom sets in, and the trivial amount of coin earned for it does little to help matters.
No, Deckard strived for what all men strived for.
Power. Prestige. Enough to make his name known across the lands, in his case: Essos. One day, the Long Lances would never again settle for less.
Before, like many of his grander expectations, they did not meet reality.
He had
Mildly drunk, Deckard sighed as his cups were being refilled with the crimson liquid bled from the city of Volantis. While this establishment was one of the more overall decent ones locally, there was hardly anything to be done about the stench.
Deckard certainly could have chosen worse.
Filling his belly with wine, Deckard's eyes roamed the environment, taking in the tables filled with his men, arms wrapped around the local whores. Few of them easy on the eyes, others…not so much.
'Must make up for it in the sack' Deckard could not help but think.
Sighing, Deckard turned his attention to the innkeeper, his hand outstretched against the table with an empty mug in his hand.
"More. Make it fast, will you?" Deckard slurred. The innkeeper stared for a moment before taking Deckard's tankard too. Once it was placed back down on the table, Deckard's hand was about grasp around the tankard before it was pulled away by a milky white hand.
"Darling, if we're going to make our time here productive, I'll need you clearheaded."
He slowly turned his head in the direction of the voice. Feelings of anger and annoyance from having his drink swiped turned into curiosity and apprehensiveness.
Now, Deckard has seen his share of voluptuous maidens and otherwise, from the silver-haired girls from Lys to the few Volantene nobles he came across. Even the occasional summer islanders managed to please his eye.
It would be safe to say that none captured his attention like the woman in front of him.
Extended legs bare right up to the ends of an elegant silk grey dress that was loose enough that it did not leave the figure underneath to imagination. A bare smooth stomach followed by the outline of full ample breasts barely concealed. Long dark violet locks framed a teardrop face, filled with plump lips painted near obsidian and eye lashes that matched her hair. If her unnaturally pale skin complexion did not scream otherworldly, then her pair of cobalt irises surrounding slit pupils certainly did.
Overall, this woman was beautiful.
The dangerous kind of beauty. The kind that men killed and fought wars over.
Deckard watched with raised brow as she took a sip out of the tankard, now wondering who this woman is.
"Clearly you have the wrong man. But I am always willing to entertain a pretty face…even if they down a man's drink in front of him" Deckard replied. His eyes could not keep from examining this woman intensely, something she must have found amusing given the slight upturn of her lips.
"You could say I'm one of a kind around these lands" the woman said, her eyes gazing into his own. Deckard was almost inclined to believe that statement.
She pulled out a wooden stool from beside him and sat down, setting down the tankard before motioning for another drink to the innkeeper. She returned her attention to Deckard.
"Adding to that, I have just the right man in front of me, Captain Deckard. The locals were kind to inform me that you frequent this tavern." He saw her glance behind him, specifically towards the area where his company sat. Green cloths with two pairs of vertical white lances hung from their belts, displaying the insignia and no doubt the source of the giveaway.
"Now, what business would a foreign noble woman such as you want with the Lances? Times where I am not busy are few and far between. Unless you are here for a quick tumble out back" he snorted, then grinned. It would not be the first time he had entertained guests. In response, she gave nothing but a stifled laugh and crossed a pale white leg over the other. Whether she was showing intrigue over the offer or giving a show, Deckard's breeches suddenly felt uncomfortable.
"Funny man. But that is not why I am here. I have a very generous opportunity for you and the Long Lances that involves coin. More than that contract your predecessor negotiated with… Kafreen Jhassar from Yunkai, was it?
Deckard's shocked expression had inadvertently confirmed that information.
"How the fuck do yo—"
"I make it my business to be up to date with all the mercenary groupings here in Essos. While politicking was never my proudest skill, it certainly helped me make friends in high places" she said, leaning back and running a hand through her hair and giving Deckard a generous view of her bust.
"And what would a woman know about being a sellsword, much less counting the coin to afford any?" Deckard sneers at her, frustration rearing its ugly head. Clearly some within the Lances were flabby with the mouth.
She sighs in a very unconvincing manner and reaches behind her back to pull out a rolled parchment. Where she managed to hide that within her dress, Deckard could not determine and did not care enough about it. She placed it in front of him for him to read and Deckard did so.
"The kind of woman that is about to pay your company 60,000 in Volantene honors to oversee a set of important matters for me."
Deckard looked up and furrowed his brows at the woman. 60,000 is nothing to scoff at, of course. That meant better weapons, armor, horses, and other expenses he kept in mind every other day.
That is, if this isn't a mummer's farce. Sadly, getting fucked over on matters like these is common among sellsword companies and has no wish to be another poor example of it.
Deckard sighed and grunted. "If this is not a wad of horseshit, I need to know if your good for that much coin. Otherwise, you can fuck off.
The woman stared at him, her face giving away nothing in response until she turned her attention to the entrance.
"Kassian, if you would please."
Around the corner of the entrance, a tall dark-skinned figure entered the tavern, pushing away the silk cloth that hung there in his way. Bald, clean-shaven, and dressed in deep brown breeches and a black cuirass with golden inlays depicting a bird he could not care to recognize, the 'Kassian' was clearly a warrior of some kind and a burly one at it, if his robust arms and broad shoulders were anything to go by. Two sets of daggers that wrapped around the side of both thighs, followed by the pommel of a great sword strapped on his back.
More than enough eyes in the tavern drew to the newcomer, who most could determine was from the Summer Islands. From the inscrutable expression he had on display, he was not bothered as he made his way to where Deckard sat. In his hands were two large sacks that made clinking noises once placed down. The woman's new guest then stood back silently behind the two, while everyone else's attention reverted to their drinking.
When Deckard raised a brow at her, the violet haired woman merely gestured to sacks silently. Promptly, Deckard slowly opened one and...
Gods be damned…
He obviously was not counting the amount that was filled to the near brim with gold, but it was more than enough. It did not take a guess to know that other sack held more or less of the same.
"That there is 20,000 for recruitment. It should cover the costs of standard armaments and any other toys you boys use at your disposal. You're welcome."
Deckard could only grunt in response.
This woman clearly was either well-connected or the greatest thief in Essos. Life on this continent taught him that anyone one with this kind of coin to spare was someone to be cautious of.
"What you're offering isn't half bad" Deckard stated. He ran his fingers through his greying beard, contemplating.
"But like you said, I am already under contract. Jhassar is not someone I'd like to cross with ease. While the coin he invests in the company is less than we'd like, he is our only benefactor, and can make life…difficult."
Deckard looked at the woman, up and down.
"And no offense meant woman, but you look harmless without that giant islander at your side. I reckon me and my boys can kill him and make you take us to the rest of that gold you spoke of before. You do it without fuss…"
He gave a smirk. "…And we promise not take any other…liberties, if you catch my meaning."
The smug visage immediately disappeared as the Summer Islander stepped forward slowly in defense of the woman, his hand reaching for the pommel behind his back. Deckard was about to stand up and do the same before the woman held a hand towards her guard, which put him back at ease.
All the while this happened, her gaze turned from Deckard and stared aimlessly at the table. She slowly placed her finger on the table.
"Oh, I do, Captain. Your exploits up north in Morosh have garnered a bit of a reputation for you. That awful business with Johann? The fisherman? Especially his daughter" she spoke as she dragged her finger across the wooden surface. "Oh, you did not partake in the activities involved, but you never discouraged your friends from doing so either. No Captain, you have always liked to watch.
Each word she spoke did nothing to relieve Deckard of his uneasiness. He moved his hand to rest upon his own sword pommel, the drink between them all but forgotten. There were only a select few that had knowledge of that event. If this stranger was there unnoticed, she must also have known of...
"…then there is the missing spoils Jhassar paid you to retrieve from the town. I cannot help but to wonder..."
Had Deckard not been distracted by her words, he would have noticed the nail on her finger grow to an abnormal two inches and begun to carve an arc into the table.
"…How does he reward thieves, especially those with a habit of biting the hands that feed them?" Her gaze returned to Deckard's and proceeded to mock him, uncaring of the tightening of his grasp around his weapon. "I cannot imagine he will be pleased when he comes across the knowledge that the Long Lances have breached contract for a pitiful amount of extra coin. Did you think your actions went unnoticed, Captain?" she added.
As soon as the woman finished speaking, Deckard did not hesitate. Forget what he said earlier; this bitch was not leaving here alive, offer be damned. Deckard decided without delay. He stood up while unsheathing his blade swiftly and thrusted his sword towards her chest—
"—ULCK!"
The blade did not reach the desired target as he hoped.
It only took the fully clawed hand around his throat to realize why.
Fully slitted pupils and glowing eyes grasped his attention as the woman elegantly rose from her seat, her arm remaining out outstretched with Deckard in her grasped with abnormal strength.
Strength no woman had any right to have.
Every expectation Deckard had; this woman defied all in one moment.
This did not deter him from his attempts to pry her hand as she lifted him up from the ground, which did little to help matters. The woman gave Deckard an open pearly white smile, which he would have found praiseworthy…
…if her orifice did not slowly manifest into sharpened teeth with a disgustingly long tongue, with top and bottom canines growing pronounced until they resembled that of a damned animal!
His heart pounded against his chest as his previous cockiness gave way to terror.
"Ah, that is what I admire about you mortals. When offered a small measure of power, treachery comes to you as easily as breathing. Ambition is to blame, honestly; it always has been. Mankind's pursuit of what they define as dominion or their approximation of it has been the oldest game since creation; anyone and anything in the way was eradicated swiftly. Always ignorant of their own mortality…until we must remind them what real power is.
The hold on his throat tightened and her voice gradually shifted into something he could not associate with 'human'.
"That power could one day be yours, Deckard. To shape the world as you see fit. But only if you know your place."
Watching her talk through those terrifying teeth and grasping for breath was not a pleasant experience. She had used her other hand to grip the blade aimed at her stomach and then proceeded to snap it in two, before letting both halves fall to the floor. All the while, her dark sentinel remained motionless just a few feet behind. He tried to scream out for his men nearby, but they were drunk to shit or ignoring the two on fucking purpose and her grip on him was tight enough.
Could they not notice their Captain being attacked by this thing?! Just what is going on? He tried to make a sound but ended up sounding pathetic. The woma-no this monster just chuckled, making a truly gruesome sound.
"They are not ignoring you, if that is what worries you. But they will not be able to assist you now either. You will find Captain, that I have a very strong influence among you. Let us keep this between ourselves, shall we?" she said.
"I am not one to be refused, Captain and I am very hungry. While biting off that repugnant face of yours would be a waste, I will still do so should the wrong words fall from your lips. Can I count on the Long Lances? Or am I going to have dinner early?
"…Y-yeugh! Y-yes…plea-"
Deckard's feet suddenly touched the floor for a moment before he collapsed in a heap, coughing and rubbing his soon to be bruised and slightly scarred neck. He did not dare look up as he regained his breath.
"I will assume your attempted attack on my person was a byproduct of your ignorance of the situation. Have no fear, Captain. I will make the necessary arrangements to dissolve the Long Lances' commitments to Jhassar, should you decide to come to my service."
Her teeth reverted to their normal appearance, like something out of a myth. It was a relieving sight once Deckard gazed up at her.
Her next words did not provide the comfort he needed from the ordeal.
"But should you ever raise a blade at me again Captain, I might find myself fashioning several wineskins out of your flesh."
She sat back down and tapped a finger along the blank space under contents of the contract and placed a quill pen there.
"Sign your name here along with your company title. You have 3 days to gather half of your men and arrive at the riverbank near the Long Ridge. I have arranged the placement of 4 galleys that will sail out to the Summer Sea towards our destination. It will be a tight fit, but I am confident you will all manage" The woman informed him curtly as he began to get to his feet, rubbing his neck. This woman or whatever she was, had him around the balls and there was not much Deckard could do about it now.
Self-preservation is the name of the game; his father once told him.
He picked up the pen and filled out what she requested, his hand trembling while doing so. The woman smiled in return and proceeded to roll it back up.
Barely a moment later, a cold and bitter breeze that did not belong to the humidity of Volantis passed through him, its sharpness briefly felt throughout his whole being.
This would not bode well.
The woman continued.
"Thank you, Captain. You should be aware that discretion will be of the utmost importance for our journey and even more so at our destination. The locals there are jittery about foreigners; it's why I request for only half of your company. I will explain the nature of your tasks once we sail.
The sellsword Captain found the details of the contract wanting, which was already concerning enough.
"And…w-where is this 'destination' of yours that I am sending half of my men to?" He asked. There was also another bit of detail she had not shared. "A name would be nice too" he muttered under his breath.
He watched as she turned her head and proceeded to lean towards him, her pale beautiful visage almost making him forget what lay underneath. As always, her eyes held his attention.
"Forgot to mention that part, did I? Where are my manners?" She tittered.
"You may refer to me as Lady Nocturna of the Third Circle, Captain. And as for our journey? I am sure you have heard of Westeros?"
Well…fuck.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
TWO YEARS LATER – OLDSTONES, RIVERLANDS 294 AC
After dumping the body into the pile with the others, Captain Deckard took a moment to reach for his stained handkerchief and ran it across his forehead. While the night sky was out, it did little to deter the oppressive heat from earlier. Which is why it comes as no surprise that the cloth came off nearly soaked with sweat. Tired did not even begin to cover how he felt now, which is why he began to make his way over to the riverbank found further behind the old castle ruins. Making his way between the pile of corpses, which smelled repulsive enough to grant himself a breather, Deckard glanced towards what was taking place around the former stronghold.
Multiple campfires and tents were placed where they could within what remained of a castle. Down the hill from the east side of the ruins he came to know as Oldstones showed more the same, though fires were strategically placed to avoid setting the large trees on fire. His company, along with local bandits he managed to attract with a bit of coin were buzzing about, carrying out one duty after another. If they were affected by the smell of rot, then they clearly did not show it.
As he headed down the side of the hill that led to the riverbank, taking measured steps to avoid tumbling down, his efforts were almost for nought by a welcoming companion.
Wonderful.
"Greetings, Captain. Mind if I join you?"
Out of nowhere, came an elderly man with balding long hair with wrinkles amassing most of his facial features. Garbed in loosely red robes lined with inked-in sigils along the edges on top of another scarlet vestment, it was a wonder how this priest could stomach this kind of climate by wearing all of that.
Most likely something picked up from their Shadowlands. Nevertheless, he did not wish for companionship right now.
Least of all from him.
"Yes, I do. Your duties do not require you elsewhere?
The Red Priest or Beltram as he is called, ignores the question, and proceeds to stroll beside him with his hands held together in front of him, to Deckard's displeasure.
"I continue to fulfill my obligations for Mistress Nocturna, of course. The new arrivals brought in by your men have given me much to work with. We will soon have enough to begin the first stage" Beltram said in that raspy voice of his. "Without the Mistress' efforts in building relations with the Seagard lord, our handling of matters would be much difficult to keep inconspicuous."
Deckard almost snorted.
Ever since he arrived in this region of Westeros, the nature of his occupation steadily turned into something he was not accustomed to. He was a sellsword, a mercenary that sells his services to the highest bidder. Exchanging blood for coin was his livelihood and he did exactly that within his first year there. The town located south of Oldstones on the Blue Fork, 'Fairmarket' as he was told, was often overflowing with merchants and commonfolk alike.
Sadly, for them, they would not be missed by anyone who mattered. The highborn of these lands are not often attentive of those of lower status, not unlike what happens back in Essos. Which made making away with some of the town locals all the easier. Nocturna's instructions were clear: No more than seven a night. Men, women, children; she did not discriminate if they were not nobles.
Worries about drawing the wrong attention were for naught as this castle's been abandoned for decades.
Anyone who came too close, strays, commoners from nearby villages or bandits deemed too uncivilized, were cut down immediately. The presence of uninvited onlookers was not to be tolerated by any means, rare as they are.
Once the period of 'Reaping', as the Priest called it, was over after two weeks, little over a hundred souls were forced to share space in what remained of the dungeons. Prisoners that could not fit were left in the cage wagons outside or the makeshift ones built by the acolytes that are found in any unused chambers within the castle.
It did not take long for Deckard's men to get unruly. Naturally being in the presence of women, girls, common or otherwise, ran their blood up enough to try and take what they wanted.
Two moons ago, there was an incident involving a drunken soldier, Klyne, he believed his name was. Tried to drive his prick into one of the girls within the cages, despite the Priests instructions that they remained unspoiled for their plans.
Suffice it to say, Beltram was not happy and proceeded to demonstrate so.
When the acolytes caught Klyne in the middle of the act, they brought him towards their master, whose chambers lay next to the dungeons. Deckard only got wind of it when a soldier informed him of the situation.
The captain made his way down to the Priest's quarters with two others, intending to inquire as to who the old buzzard thought he was to discipline those under his command. Lady Nocturna's confidence in the Priest be damned, he would not allow himself to be undermined.
When they finally barged into his chambers, they immediately froze.
Klyne, who held a robust stature, was on his knees, held down by two acolytes. His mouth opened in a chocked scream as a thick stream of blood flowed out of his mouth and wafted towards the outstretched hand of the Priest, not a drop spilled on the ground. Green sigils glowed from his hand and erupted even more from him. Klyne's body twitched relentlessly through the ordeal, his previous screams giving away to gurgles. The white of his eyes filled with red right up until they burst with a grotesque sound and left hollow sockets. With a tilt of his hand, Beltram pulled forth lifeblood out of the newly made orifices, both streams forming into a writhing ball of ichor that just floated there by will of the Priest.
Despite his shocked state, Deckard would not forget the gleeful expression on Beltram's face as Klyne's body shriveled like an expired fruit. Any evidence of the muscle that the once mercenary had evaporated, leaving naught but a husk.
The ball of blood continued to contort in the air right up until it began to shift towards Beltram's hand. The sellsword captain watched with morbid fascination as it was absorbed in his grasp, disappearing completely.
Klyne's corpse fell forward to the ground, but Deckard hardly noticed.
His attention was on the Priest, who exhaled with contentment. A daggered stare was then aimed at Deckard, who at once backed up in trepidation. The two others that joined him did the same, similar thoughts of confrontation set aside by the display of such dark sorcery.
'Inebriation comes at a price when practiced so copiously, as your companion discovered,' the Priest told him that night, his gaze freezing him on the spot. 'Be sure to reiterate this to the rest of your men, before they interfere with my work.'
There were no further incidents after that, Deckard made sure.
As he reached the riverbank, Deckard kneeled and placed his hands in the water, rinsing the grime and other filth that accumulated from earlier.
"Whatever she does when she is not here is her business; as long we are paid," said Deckard, leaning forward to splash some water on his face and rinse some more. "This 'ceremony' of yours, you say is nearly finished, yes? I will admit the fact we have not been discovered by now is impressive, but I have learned not to tempt fate."
Beltram turned his head upward to the night sky.
"A strange sentiment for a mercenary. However, I meant the first stage in preparing the Ceremony is complete." Beltram told him simply. "Tedious as you may find this level of protocol, Captain, it makes it no less necessary in ensuring all goes to Lady Nocturna's plans.
Given what he has seen with his own eyes so far, Deckard figured he would be better off not inquiring what those 'plans' are.
Once he considered himself clean enough, Deckard rose up to his feet and turned towards the Priest.
"We have already bled out hundreds for you and Lady Nocturna's cause. I do not need you to remind me of what is at stake here." Deckard told the Priest distastefully. Beltram's gaze turned towards him in response and acknowledged with a slight nod.
"Of course, Captain. Forgive me if I seem overbearing," Beltram spoke monotonously, "These times have allowed me to restore a sense of purpose that I had otherwise considered extinguished in my long life. Years of craving signs from false deities have done me no favors, of course. Pessimism became a very close acquaintance soon after and stayed so for many years."
Beltram folded his wrinkled hands together, exposing Deckard to the sight of littered old burn scars.
"Consequences of my youthful ignorance, Captain." Beltram chuckled as he noticed his gaze. "I longed for the fire god's attention so much that I tried to summon him to the mortal plane and failed. Nearly at the cost of my life. As you can see, he left me a souvenir."
The Priest's lips thinned as a moment of silence passed between them both.
"I am grateful. I concluded that my desperation was wasted on the unworthy. Divine the gods may be, but just as fickle and treacherous as men are" grumbled Beltram and turned his attention towards the water. "Their time for judgement will come soon enough."
Before Deckard opened his mouth to ask the Priest just what he was blathering on, they were both interrupted by a deep tremor beneath the ground, followed by the sound of an explosion from above the hill. The sudden shake unbalanced the sellsword and he fell into the edge of the river as a result. Completely drenched, Deckard tried to pull himself up by placing a hand across a stone before cursing out in pain. He took a glance at the front of his hand and saw blood coming out of a long cut, received from the stone's jagged edge. Walking out of the water, he pulled out the handkerchief, wrapped it around the wound, and went ahead to run up the hill.
The sounds of horses and…screams became noticeably clear as Deckard reached the top. He did not notice the Priest had already reached level ground. The carnage before him caught his direct attention.
Fire.
Fire. Everywhere.
His men were scattered; some attempting and failing to saddle horses due to their panicked state, and others running deeper in the woods where the flames were most prominent. Making his way there, he came across the sight of bodies strewn across scorched patches of field. Burns and blisters covered various parts of their arms along with other places of exposed skin. A few were even missing a limb or two, which served to reinforce the ominous nature of the situation.
He unsheathed his curved blade and continued down the path. Deckard could feel his eyes sting in response to the rising heat. The fires were licking the trees around both him and Beltram that followed. Hearing a cracking sound, Deckard turned to the side at the dented trunk of a smaller tree. Embedded in the trunk were long scorch marks, glowing a bright orange. A moment later, the trunk tilted dangerously close before it proceeded to fall. The sellsword Captain jumped forward into haphazardly roll before it slammed to the ground at his previous spot. Coughing to keep out the accumulating smoke around him, Deckard rose and proceeded with caution. The further he moved, the further he could make out the sounds of what had to be a skirmish. Panic began to swell within as Deckard wiped the sweat dripping from his forehead. Were they finally discovered? He was sure that their activities remained unnoticed, but that was too much to hope for. Kidnapping locals was bound to leave a trail, Deckard knew. He only stationed fifty men within the territory to diminish the risk of suspicion. He would have had more, but Nocturna required the rest elsewhere. Deckard scowled. Damn her. He would sort this out by his lonesome.
The sounds of battle turned to guttural screams; many he recognized from those under his command. Whatever was happening did not appear to be going his way. Burnt broken branches littered his path and Deckard nearly tripped over the body of an Acolyte.
It was not the blood nor the near bisected state of the corpse by from the cutting of an impossibly hot blade that disturbed Deckard.
What used to be eyes were charred orbs with wisps of smoke rising from them. Gods, were they dealing with a rogue priest? Where the fuck was Beltram?
He looked around, just noticing the Priest was nowhere to be found. Pushing down the annoyance of his absence, Deckard made his way to the edge of a clearing. The flames were destroying the entire forest area along the way, he noticed. Branches snapped just ahead as he spotted a battered and bruised sellsword, young by the looks of him, tripping over himself towards the captain. Deckard immediately grabbed him by collar.
"Pull yourself together, boy. What is happening? How many are attacking?!" Deckard demanded aggressively, but the young man fidgeted. The sellsword's eyes darted from his captain to the area where the fires and fighting continued. He could make out some of his men fighting…something. But it was hard to grasp what exactly because of all the smoke. The black sky was nearly concealed by hues of crimson and orange from the flames around.
"…mon, d-demon, it has to be, it is a dem-"
Deckard did not have time for this. He shook the boy once more in frustration.
"Speak. Plainly. What did you see? Who do we have left?!"
The lad erupted into a coughing fit, before his eyes met into Deckard.
"Dead…T-there d-dead, it's killing them." he rambled on. "W-we must leave at on—"
Deckard immediately fell onto his arse when something shot out from the blaze. A chain, with glowing hot links wrapped around the subordinate mercenary's leg. A strong yank had the sellsword falling to the grown and dragged him back through the heart of the flames, screaming along the way. Gathering his wits, Deckard returned to his feet and tried to follow. He was not aware of the shaky grip had on his weapon.
The screams eventually stopped with the sound of a sickening crunch. The fighting he heard before had also ceased until the only sound was the crackle of the fires. The overwhelming stench of burnt flesh rapidly filled his nose and he could not stop the grimace on his visage.
Once he arrived in the gap of the forest, Deckard's hold on his blade nearly dropped. The sight before him cemented the reality of the world he lived in.
Within the middle of the inferno, stood what appeared to be a figure in seemingly charred apparel. A long withered black cloak covered his shoulders and billowed with the fires around. From the build, Deckard almost thought it was a man.
Except it was anything but.
What had grabbed his immediate attention was what lied between the shoulders. A human skull engulfed in fire, without an ounce of flesh.
Impaled in its outstretched arm was the very dead body of the young sellsword Deckard was running after. Blood dripped from a chain wrapped gloved fist that was seemingly used to punch through his chest.
Deckard's breath hitched, trying to comprehend this nightmare.
Because what else could it be?
Every able fighter that came to fight this…this thing now lay dead as Deckard could spot a multitude of corpses; some were still burning.
Any ideas of retaliation for the attack were swiftly eradicated.
The boy was right. This had to be a demon.
It could be nothing else
He had to run. Run. Run as far as these lands stretch. Away from this wretched continent. He had to try at the least.
Keeping his eyes locked on this creature as it tilted its head gruesomely in examination of the dead subordinate, whose name Deckard could not care to remember, he stumbled backward.
He really wished he looked where he was going after his boots snapped a branch on the ground.
All went silent, until the creature turned snapped its head towards his direction. Its jawbone moved, releasing a bestial groan.
"HRRRNNNN..."
Ripping its fist out of the corpse, the monster took one step towards Deckard, much to his trepidation. Then another, its boots scorching the ground.
Gathering whatever wits remained, the sellsword captain made the decision to flee. Fuck the coin, this was not his purview. He rushed away from the clearing and back to the woods, keeping his attention divided on both the demon behind him and the way out.
When he gathered enough distance, he finally turned forward only to nearly run into the same creature's chest.
Deckard fell to the dirt, terrified of its sudden appearance. His blade dropped not far from where he currently lay. He inclined to reach it but was transfixed by what was in front of him. Starring into its hollow sockets, faint whispers started to fill the air, only serving to add to his trepidation.
It was…judgement. The sellsword captain could not explain it, but he just knew.
He did not want to know what would happen next. Snapping out of it, Deckard desperately reached for the blade that lay beside him and swung it towards its midsection for the kill, but it was for naught.
The demon caught the blade in its fist. One moment later, the blade glowed red hot before it proceeded to melt to the ground between them. In molten metal.
Dropping the now useless pommel, the sellsword tried to back away while still on the ground, but the demon slammed a boot on one of his legs, pinning him there. Deckard let out a wail in obvious pain and tried to move, but to no avail. His attention was diverted once the demon opened its maw.
"Hnnn…nowhere to run," it almost whispered, whisps of smoke fleeting from its orifice. The overwhelming stench of ash from getting to him. "Nowhere to hide. Where is the incubus, the snake? Her stench permeates these lands. Especially on you.
Recovering from the fact that this demon speaks, monstrous as it is, Deckard could only guess who 'she' was.
Damn 'she; for bringing this madness upon him. He was beginning to recognize the situation for what it is now.
He began to plead with the entity, desperately. "I- I don't know where Nocturna is. P-Please, please I-I don't want to die—"
"Silence."
The demon swiveled its pale head around briefly before snapping towards Deckard. It then proceeded to grab and then raise him in the air with his leathers. The sellsword captain struggled to free himself in response, but its grip remained resolute.
"She is not here, then. Pity. No matter, though. Nocturna will face my judgement soon enough. As for you…"
He tried and failed to back away as the blazing skull leaned in, flickers of light showing within its hollow sockets.
"…your deeds have garnered enough suffering, Deckard Oryml. Killer. Thief. Fiend. Your days of shedding the blood of the innocent are finished, sellsword. You and the rest of your wretched rabble scattered around the realm.
No, no, it can't end. Not like this. He was supposed to be rich. She promised no one would know what occurred here.
"I…I was just followi—"
"Shhhhhh..." the demon shushed him in false placidity. "Your victims require restitution. And what better solatium than your soul?
Chains wrapped around the sellsword captain's torso and legs, binding him. The demons grip on him remained despite him struggling for release even more, but it fruitless.
He was not going anywhere.
"No need to struggle now, sellsword…"
With a grasp on one end of the chain, the demon clenched its fist and the chains gradually glowed orange. Naturally, Deckard went against its advice and increased his frantic attempts at escapes. Within moments, every inch of his body was sizzling.
"…you will have eternity to do so on your next journey."
He could barely make out the faint sounds of hooves close to where he was. Additional sellswords, most likely.
But it did not matter.
His last coherent thoughts filled with agony before his very being erupted in flames hotter than any other, and then…oblivion.