Renewed: Four Men's Desire

A helmet with no eye slit, made of iron, the scraping steel rings that make chainmail, and a neat little leather skirt.

A stiff hand reaches underneath the skirt to grab at something on the right hip. The mood changes, eyes turn shifty, shoulders broaden and feet become postured. Only one man in the throne room understands the truth of what is to transpire. Advisors run to their sworn protectors. Noble spectators slowly walk to the engraved doors as Paladins prepare halberds. Most importantly the throne sits still, the King has yet to change position from resting his chin on one arm.

The crown, glistening with the stories of hundreds of victories, remains unmoved. With everyone at last, at the ready, the stiff hand finally unveils its motive. One motion and almost instantaneously a sword is unsheathed and raised. The setting sun pierces through stained glass and allows rays of light to embellish the simple sword, letting carved runes be seen.

Entire throne rooms don't start to quiver over such a simple armament, they tremble at the man who'd dare brandish it. Not a single step has been taken. No one dares to say a word or take a step without knowing the motives of the man in the middle of the room. Anticipation of the worst kind filled the air.

The King, still unwavering, projects

"If you wish to remain living in this kingdom's walls, collapse on this man!".

The air changes as feet shift. Everyone waiting for a first move now attempts to make it. A formation is made, with weapons drawn, and encircling. The King stands and his presence is known. Just standing, you can still see the frame of a warrior, a slim but still somehow hulking mass of man. 

"State your purpose." 

The armored man in the middle has yet to even twitch, his weapon still raised in the air. A rustle is heard, if you were not looking you could still hear how protected he is. His head finally connects with the king's gaze. No eyes are to be found, just pure solid iron. Despite no hole in the helmet for a voice to come out from, everyone can hear the crackles and hisses that are made when he finally says, "I'm sorry but you know why."

As the crown lowers the king looks at the ground sighing.

"Slay him this instant." 

It was mumbled so softly the formation hesitated for a moment, their hesitation would seal their fate. The man in the middle waves his left arm.

Every last one of the surrounding soldiers fall. Weapons dropped, egos hurt and eyes drooped.

The King stares. Another wave of the stiff hand closes the giant doors to the throne room. The slow clinking of armor rings throughout the now empty room as the King sits and the man walks up to the throne.

"Being a king I have connections. It does not have to be like this. There must be another way, another path, another destiny."

"You vowed."

"And you fell."

"I was picked."

"WE HAVE PROSPERED WITHOUT THAT BEINGS INTERVENTION AGAIN AND NOW YOU COME HERE TO FULFILL A PACT WE BOTH DIDN'T BELIEVE IN! YOU HERETICAL WALKING COR-"

The room falls silent. The runes of the Heretic's sword are now adorned with blood. Once lighting the whole room, the sun sets behind beautifully stained glass. The Heretic's hands go stiff once more as a blue light emerges from behind.

A rift opens, and then a portal. Within it is a colorful grove with a robed man.

Descending the steps past the reddened crown and walking over the bodies of the many soldiers, the room falls dark once more as the portal closes. 

Birds chirp a cheerful song and the grass reflects the morning sun stained into the sky. This grove is a clear anomaly in space and time. Purple silk rustles tall grass and a wrinkle-ridden, decrepit old man lifts his hood off and locks gazes with the Heretic.

"We both know you had the skill to dispatch that whole room, why waste the charge I provided you?"

The air crackles and hisses, "To get it over with."

"Right then. The first task of a list is always tough, but it was fun to watch. Now, my walking contradiction, I will charge you only once more and send you off. I fear entertainment grows light so no more gifts. Portals are not an option after this time hehe. Three more targets remain. Continue, for this is what was promised.."

The Heretics' arms and gauntlets unstiffen again. A flash of light glistens off the back of his armor. As fast as the portal opened, it closed. 

Hardwood floors are stained, candles flicker, the roof is small but comfortable, and voices scream on. The bartender seems to be the only one who notices the plate-covered man that popped out of thin air. With a lamenting tone, the dwarf puts down a keg and gently says "Welcome to my tavern, may I interest you in anything?"

Air crackles and hisses while a stool is pulled up to the bar. 

"Use this time to make the best drink you can." 

The dwarf fidgets with his ginger beard and then taps the other barkeep, her pointed ears perk up and she soon takes command of pouring drinks. Everyone else stuck within their own worlds, fails to notice the Heretic. 

"I'm not going to make that drink mate. Tell me the real reason you're here."

A wispy voice crepitates through the helmet.

"You always did want to run a tavern."

Hardened eyes soften as the dwarf ascertains the armored man's identity.

"Ah, so it seems it's time. We never did know which one of us would be it. How goes The King and his ego?"

"Fallen." 

"I suppose after all these years a deal was a deal." 

"It wears a new mask these days, but I have not forgotten Its truth."

"And to think we didn't believe." The dwarf says as he fidgets with his beard.

"I knew you for years, I know you're nervous, go ahead and make me that drink before it's time."

With a heavy breath and hardening eyes the dwarf steps off his stool and walks to the kegs. No one's eyes cross paths with the suspiciously armored man, not even once. Every single taverngoer is in their little reality.

Human feet march up and down to the tune of orcish drums, elvish women dance with halflings, and lizardfolk mingle with tieflings. It comes naturally to them. Rum flows effortlessly through the crowd just as new friends do. The Heretic can only sit there and watch, knowing it is no longer his turn.

Tap tap.

A pint of golden brew in a perfectly forged steel cup sits in front of a similarly crafted breastplate. Ginger eyebrows raise and then furrow after the dwarf realizes the helmet he is looking at has no openings. Steel rustles and chainmail clinks as a stool is pushed in and a nod is shared.

Small leather shoes and knightly sabatons walk in sync out of the tavern. Continuing to the treeline, The Dwarf falls to his knees and connects gazes once more with the domed helmet.

"I fear the fact that I enjoyed the time after we sealed our fate."

With one fell swoop, head and body fall simultaneously into the darkness of night. The sword's runes are once again visible against the shine of the moon and sleek blood. 

"I'm afraid that was the point." Faintly hisses out the armor.

With no portal and only one last charge still saved, the Heretic walks from township to township looking at their notice boards.

'Suspected Werewolf'

'Leshen Seen In Woods'

'Vampire Raids, Help Needed'

'Lost Cow'

'Meet Here For A Rematch.'

After walking for days, only that one notice was ever of any significance. The note containing only a title and directions was soon crumpled just as fast as it was seen. Simple farmers stare in awe as an ironclad wall of a warrior walks from the center of town straight into the woods.

Following the instructions perfectly lands the Heretic at a cliffside, not too high off the ground, but perfectly sat in the landscape to have a majestic view of a portrait-esc valley. Compressed golden curls shine out of a black set of armor adorned in highlights of red and similar engravings to that of the Heretics.

Turning around, this knight stands up and immediately assumes a defensive stance. 

"Round Two," he says smoothly in a perfectly silky voice. 

For the final time, the runed sword is drawn. A setting sun allows the scratched language to be seen in clear view. 

"Seeing how muddied you are from travel, I supposed I happen to be the last?"

"Yes." says the Heretic in his cracking vocals.

"For a man that wished for a legendary sword, and the skills to wield it, why did you never care to learn the Infernal scribed onto it? This whole time you could have known it was going to be you chosen. But I suppose there is no time for such arguments. You deserve another glorious death."

Showing rare emotion, the Heretic cackles and assumes a stance of his own. With one dash, both warhammer and sword are entangled. Both parties attempt full-body leg sweeps and underhanded off-hand attacks to no avail.

Metal meets metal for several minutes as the simple duel turns into a battle of attrition once the Knight realizes his revitalized foe is not the same as when they met in the past.

Neither combatant lands a single blow, the only contact so far is between weapons. The Knight switches his attacking style from defensive with counterattacks to full measure death blows.

It seems useless.

Slapped away to the right,

slapped away to the left,

but then finally, with a clash reminiscent of a gong, the Heretic's helmet is cracked.

From top to bottom, a streak on the left side of the dome is completely open.

Revealed within is a darkness-filled void of an eye socket surrounded by pasty white bone.

"Well well well, as much as I love the monster-slaying, town-saving, beautiful man I am today, just looking at what you've become makes me want to die. Forgive me, my friend." The Knight's eyes focus once more as he begins to lunge in for a finishing blow.

The Heretic's left hand waves and then goes stiff soon after. The Knight is left instantly sat on the floor, mangled, seconds from death, gasping for air.

A single teardrop falls down the Knight's dark skin. He whispers all he can.

"Goodbye." 

Walking to the edge of the cliffside, the Heretic sits down and stares through the valley at the already-set sun. A flash of blue shimmers from his back. A portal, but as fast as it opened, it shut.

Purple silk drags along the stone and dirt as hooves stomp forward.

The Heretic still staring into the now dark skyline does not react, for he knows what is next. The old man once more lifts his hood off, the same appearance except for two newly disclosed horns. 

"You got creative with that magic charge this time, teehee. But do tell me how it feels to be a dead man walking again?" 

No hissing or crackles are to be heard. The Heretic's whole body stiffens this time.

Task completed, and deal fulfilled, his corpse now sits within that armor, staring at the night sky. The old man laughs, leans forward, and ransacks the runed sword from the body, then with a swift wave of the arm, a red portal opens up and he disappears, leaving the scene.