Neir's stillness shattered like porcelain as he watched a man he once knew rise and join the band of monsters. He darted off, sprinting faster than he ever had in his life.
"Shit! Shit! Shit!" The curses repeated in his head as he imagined the creatures closing in behind him. He was far too frightened to turn around, letting his imagination run wild. He envisioned himself being devoured, chunks of flesh ripped away, only to rise again and devour others in turn. Those living nightmares plagued him as he ran without any semblance of caution.
"WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING!" A loud shout echoed in his ears as Neir nearly crashed into a giant man with hideous scars lining his face.
To Neir, this man was perhaps as terrifying as what he had just fled, the leader of the bandits, Jarmarth. Before Neir could offer any defense, he realized he was already a foot off the ground. His flimsy, worn shirt tore under the force of Jarmarth's inhuman grip, leaving him to dangle helplessly.
"The only reason I keep you alive is because of those fancy eyes of yours," Jarmarth said in a terrifyingly soft voice, pointing dangerously close to Neir's left eye with his free hand. "If you aren't going to use them, then I'll rip them out of your head and give them to someone who will. Understand?"
Neir nodded silently, feeling the force lifting him vanish and causing him to fall face-first onto the ground.
"Wait! Boss, something isn't right! There are monsters, and Wilfur's dead, and then he got up and the way he—" Neir tried to explain while pulling himself up, only to have his mouth shut by the juggernaut before him.
"You really need to get better at getting to the point. What are—" Before Jarmarth could finish, a few other bandits ran over with urgent news.
"Boss, we're under attack! People are already dead! Help us!" one of the bandits begged as he sprinted toward the camp's center.
"Worthless, the lot of you!" Jarmarth screeched, hurling Neir to the ground once more. "WAKE UP, YOU WORTHLESS SACKS OF SHIT! WE'VE GOT TROUBLE! I'LL KILL ANY OF YOU MOTHERLESS BASTARDS WHO AREN'T HERE BY THE TIME I MURDER THESE BASTARDS!"
With their leader's command and threat, several people came stumbling out of tents, some still visibly drunk or half-asleep. Yet every man quickly gathered, for there was only one rule in this torturous place: when the captain called, you either obeyed or prepared to die. As a result, these men were at least marginally loyal, not to Jarmarth, but to the superhuman strength he wielded.
While his men assembled, Jarmarth retrieved his large axe, its blade coated with dried blood like war paint, and stomped confidently toward the source of the disturbance. His confidence was that of a lord strutting through his lands. His men followed, with one notable exception.
Neir watched those fools march headlong into what he saw as empty graves. Meanwhile, he did what he believed was the most intelligent plan given the circumstances: he ran. He dashed as far and as fast as he could, praying that those imbeciles would buy him some time. Without a second thought, he fled the campsite and into the surrounding woods, hoping to hide in the dense trees. What he didn't notice was a skeleton watching him, its eye sockets glowing with a deep purple light.
Jarmarth was an arrogant man, and he knew it. After all, he had every reason to be—he was powerful, and power meant he could use force to solve nearly all of his problems. If he wanted food, he would take it and crush anyone who stood in his way. If he wanted women, he would do the same. Riches, underlings, it didn't matter. With enough power, the entire world was his for the taking. He saw himself as a dragon, someone who owned everything and could reclaim it whenever he desired, with only those stronger than him daring to stand in his way.
However, to his intense frustration, he had recently hit some kind of bottleneck. Normally, after a tough fight or a rampage, he would grow stronger. He didn't understand how or why, and he didn't care; he was addicted to the sensation of gaining power. Lately, though, despite massacres and tantrums, he had stagnated.
His pride refused to entertain the idea that he had peaked or that he couldn't grow stronger. No, he blamed the world around him, believing he just needed to up the scale. Just the other day, he had butchered an entire town with his lackeys and almost felt it, he was right on the cusp of greater power. So who dared to ruin everything?
Jarmarth paused mid-stride and almost took a step back before stopping himself. He wasn't the type to scare easily or shy away from gore, but this...
A few of his men lay motionless on the ground, large chunks of their flesh missing. Several more, along with others he didn't recognize, were devouring the few who still twitched and convulsed. Several skeletal figures, missing everything but their bones, wielded primitive and damaged weapons as they stared at him. The figure in the center, the only one who looked human, held an unpolished scythe and met Jarmarth's gaze for several long moments.
Their eyes met, and Jarmarth's instincts screamed a warning. This man was dangerous, even more dangerous than the monsters. His fear receded like the tide, replaced by a madman's grin. When was the last time he felt danger from someone?
"I sincerely thank you! With your death, I'll reach the peak of this world!" Jarmarth bellowed as he charged forward, unmoved by the chaos around him.