[IC] Tales of the Path [The Darklight Project & Vor]

[Vor]

Humans were idiots and you didn’t need a degree from Oxenfurt to know that. Aye, some could claim being educated and intelligent, but those were usually the exception, not the norm. On the whole, people were about as smart as a bag of rocks. A self-destructive, ignorant and xenophobic bag of rocks. Take for example those fools from the village that had hired him. About a month ago they’d caught a group of local brigands and instead of slitting their throats and burning the bodies like normal, sensible people, they had tied stones around their necks and had thrown them in the river. The villagers probably felt quite pleased with themselves at the time, but as usual had failed to see farther than their own noses.

Three weeks later the first casualties were already reported – two young boys, ages eight and seven, had gone missing near the river’s bank, some miles north of the village. A hunter had gone looking for them, but had also failed to return. Some of the braver men had gathered and travelled upstream, only to turn back when they saw what they claimed were drowners on the far bank. The village elders explained it with surprise in their voices, as if shocked. Well, what did these illiterates expect when they dumped the bodies of criminals in the waters? Now their foolishness had cost three lives, as well as the coin they would need to gather to pay for a professional to sort out the mess.

Veles wasn’t one to complain, after all it was people’s stupidity that provided most of a witcher’s work. Still, their complete disregard for common sense continued to amaze him. Glass-Eye had warned them that they would be in for a lot of surprises, but this wasn’t quite what the young witcher had expected.

He sensed his quary before the cat’s head medallion around his neck began vibrating. Between the stench, the noises and the unmistakable silhouettes in the distance, it was not hard to locate the group of drowners. With a practiced motion Veles slid the steel blade from its sheath. Contrary to popular belief, not all monsters required a silver sword. Drowners, for example, were pitiful creatures, susceptible to conventional weapons, as such it was pointless to waste the delicate silver blade on them. There was still some distance to the shore, so he used the forest as cover, darting from tree to tree in the darkness. Veles had set off from the village with the setting sun - drowners were cowardly and preferred to come out after dusk, which was the perfect time to start hunting them.

When he was a stone’s throw away, he halted for a moment to assess the situation. Four drowners, their scaly skin glinting in the moonlight, were feasting on a rotting corpse. From the tattered attire, Veles summarised that this was likely the missing hunter. They had dragged him to the river and left him in the water to rot. The bastards enjoyed that, to them it was like marinating a steak. The fact that they were sated enough not to devour the corpse outright indicated that they had likely gotten to the children already. Veles nodded to himself, pleased. He tried to keep the situation and his surroundings constantly in mind, just as his mentors had ceaselessly reminded him.

Four drowners were easy prey, but he had to take care not to get surrounded. Their claws were sharp and if left to attack at once they could tear even an experienced swordsman to shreds. Right, it was time to go – he took a deep breath and stepped out of the forest’s shadows, approaching the drowned men.

Their pale, inhuman eyes focused on him at once and the one closest to him let out a guttural cry. Veles smiled, dropping into a half-crouch to keep his centre of mass low. For a small group like this, the Addan Anye style was best. It was the hallmark of his School, devised by elven swordmasters based on their observation of wild cats – the goal was to stay mobile and to strike as quickly as possible, keeping your opponent on the defensive. This made it particularly effective against agile, but frail monsters such as drowners. He held the hilt of his sword loosely with both hands, the style relied on a lot of work with the wrists, so the grip couldn’t be too strong.

The witcher felt a familiar sensation as the adrenaline began surging through his veins. Time seemed to grind down to a halt and his senses grew even sharper than usual. He could see the individual drops of water on the drowned men’s faces, the pieces of flesh stuck in their teeth; he heard every rustle of the wind and the creaking of the trees behind him. Damn it, it felt good. Veles lived for this – the thrill of the hunt was unlike anything else he had experienced.

As soon as the nearby drowner lunged at him, Veles sprang into action. He spun to the side, bringing his sword down across the creature’s neck as he did so. The steel bit into its slimy flesh, cleanly severing the artery he was aiming for. Withdrawing his sword, he sidestepped just in time to avoid a clawed hand. With a twirl, he spun the sword close to his body and sliced off the hand that had reached for him, then kicked the maimed drowner away. The remaining two drowners showed a modicum of intelligence and attacked him from both sides at once.

Veles threw himself forward, transitioning into a graceful roll just before hitting the damp ground of the riverbank. His sudden shift in position caught them unware, giving him enough to slice through one of the drowner’s legs. The last drowner whirled toward him, but the witcher was faster – he positioned his sword directly in its path, skewering it on the spot. The creature went limp, slumping forward and causing Veles to lose his footing in the mud.

At the very same moment, he heard a sound behind him - he’d forgotten!

Witchers were quick, but so were drowners, especially ones driven into a frenzy from the loss of a limb. Thanks to his uncanny reflexes Veles was able to turn around and take off the drowner’s head, but not before it raked his cheek with its remaining hand. He felt the warm blood flowing down his face, but no pain – it had been beaten out of him long ago. Cursing his carelessness, he moved over to the legless drowner and put it out of its misery with a thrust through the neck. It was done.

First, he checked on the man, who indeed seemed to be a hunter. There was not much left of him, the limbs were mostly gone and his face was half-eaten, clearly the work of the drowned dead. Veles tore off a piece of the hunter’s clothing and used it to wipe the blood from his sword, after which he returned it to its sheath.

His job wasn’t over yet. There were four dead drowners here, but the elders had told him that nine men had been sent to the river’s bottom on that fateful night. Sorcerers and sorceresses had given no definitive proof that every drowned criminal returned as a drowner, but Veles wagered that there were at least a couple more of the beasts lurking around. This little group would never have dared to venture so near the village on its own, plus drowners usually stored their food deep in their territory. He was certain there was a lair nearby, likely further up the river.

The witcher walked to the river’s shore, then went to one knee, leaning in to inspect his wound in the water’s reflection. Moonlight shone directly behind him, providing enough illumination to see himself clearly, though with his eyes even the tiniest light source was usually sufficient.

My eyes… Even after – what had it been now, a year? Even after a year since he’d passed the Trial of Gasses and left his School to wander the Northern Realms, the sight of these cat-like eyes unnerved him. He could see why village folk looked at him the way they did and, honestly, he couldn’t blame them. Veles had always known what was waiting at the end of his training and had taken it as a given, but still…it was strange, unnatural.

Thankfully he wouldn’t need to waste time cleaning the wound or worrying about the blood, it was all below eye-level so it wouldn’t hinder him in a fight. Standing there by the river, it dawned at him that he hadn’t looked at himself in a long while. Sure, he’d seen his reflection in puddles and watering holes almost daily, but he hadn’t really looked.

Veles’ face was more or less as he remembered it – gaunt and narrow, with low cheekbones and a mouth seemingly twisted in a perpetual scowl. He kept his head cleanly-shaven, in contrast to his face and neck, and had a scar running across the bridge of his aquiline nose, passing down to his cheek. Like most witchers, his clothing was well-worn and riddled with bloody blotches of varying colours. Those of the Cat School favoured mobility above all, so Veles didn’t have much in the way of armour. He wore a grey shirt under a studded leather vest, which might turn a blade, but would offer little protection against a monster’s claws. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revealing the witcher’s sinewy arms, while he wasn’t as big as most swordsmen, it was clear he kept himself in peak condition. A pair of dark trousers and supple leather boots completed his attire, along with the two swords sticking from behind his back.

That was about it – a sight he’d seen many times. And yet…there was something different about his face, though he couldn’t quite figure out what. Was he getting older? Without a doubt, but he was sceptical he’d grown that old in just a year...no, there was something else. Well, he’d have ample time to dwell on that with a bottle of vodka in hand once he got back to the tavern, for now he had a contract to fulfil.

There was only one thing left to do – he took out a knife from his belt and cut off the drowners’ tongues, he’d need them as proof to collect his bounty later. If he had learned one thing about his profession so far, it was that everyone tried to cheat you out of your pay. He understood why the bastards did it, as everyone in this de facto no man’s land enclosed by the four kingdoms feuding over the Pontar was fucking poor, but Veles wasn’t much better off and he, at least, really worked for his coin.

With that done, Veles turned north, surveying the river. He thought he saw a ford a few miles up; he would cross there and then examine the area for any signs of drowners. The peasants had seen them on that side of the river, so he was fairly certain he knew where to look.

He was eager to get it done, despite the coming spring there was a chill in the air and the prospect of a warm meal by the fireplace spurred him onward…

[The Darklight Project]

Witchers, no matter where they were from, always gained similar reactions from the villages they visited, at least at first, and almost always in the same order. The first thing to notice them were the cats, and they never took kindly to the intruder's presence; they hissed and tensed, before quickly fleeing to a hiding place. The next that usually seemed to detect that something was off would be children, and then finally followed by the adults.

Considering how it was already well into the night, there weren't any children out and about to be set off by the rider's presence, and there weren't many adults as well, but there were certainly more than enough mangy cats to spit and hiss away, scampering away despite all the fuss they made. He was more than used to it by that point, with as much time as he had spent in the world, and how much experience he had gained on the road.

The rider on his grey mare made his way towards the inn that, in most other places, would have been considered a little more than a hovel. The Pontar Valley may have been an agricultural haven, food pouring from this relatively small place out, but that didn't mean the money was spread out evenly as a result. Borderline murderous taxes thanks to the the impending (if not already active, depending on who you asked) conflicts drained an already very beleaguered populace, which meant little money could flow into places such as an inn for pleasure. The inn in front of him was nearly another victim.

When he dismounted, the motions he made briefly opened his hooded cloak from around his body. Beneath was a black vest with white sleeves and reddish-brown belts, and a flash of metal around his neck. However, there was no one around to see this besides the mare, and she knew her rider well enough that point to not be too interested. Gently he reached up to pat her neck, before leading her over to the stables, which was barely more than a roof on a few poles. He tied her reins off loosely, and with a smooth turn went towards the front door.

When he entered the inn, all of those within turned their eyes toward him; with it being so late, there weren't many overall. Those farmers and craftsmen who felt like they could spend a little bit of extra time getting drunk during the night only numbered at four from the small village, and plus the tired looking innkeep meant five in total. The inside of the inn didn't look much better than the outside; everything seemed to have a thin layer of grime over it, and there was plenty of lopsided or otherwise cracked and broken furniture to go around.

Upon taking his first step in, he slowly looked back and forth, before he reached up to finally lower his hood. It revealed hair the color of steel which fell down just to his nape, pushed back for the most part, and a gaunt, pale face that seemed drawn back into a perpetual sneer. He had plenty of scars, including one small in width but deep parallel above his left eye. There was also one along his throat that curved upwards across the horizontal line, and must have been caused by a terrible wound.

His gleaming yellow eyes, with their slitted pupils, glanced back and forth slowly at all of those within the common room of the inn before he stepped forwards. His boots were quite loud as he stepped, almost deliberately so. To one of the empty tables he went, sitting down in it almost carefully; the motion caused the cloak to open slightly once again, and this time stay opened. The black vest, white sleeves, and belts could easily be seen, and the smaller details of the vials at various points along the belts were easy to see. More importantly was the silver medallion around his neck, in the shape of a terrible manticore head with the wings set behind and around it.

At first glance, this man was just a stranger who traveled much too late to be reasonable to these simple village folk, but those who paid more attention realized who he was, and before the innkeep even had a chance to reach him the whispers had been passed around, colorful but not necessarily untrue words like "freak" and "mutant" being passed around as easily as terms for the weather or the harvest.

The innkeep was a plain woman, one who had clearly worked nearly every day in her life. He could see it better than any other person, with the way his eyes ate up the minuscule details in seconds that would take others years to notice; the fact that her calluses were set upon other calluses, that one watery brown eye was just slightly off center, and that she held the platter in her hand as if she were prepared to brain someone with it were just a few of those that he noticed in less time than it took to blink.

"What'll it be?" Though she spoke quite bluntly and there was a slight scratchiness to her voice, she didn't seem too unpleasant overall, just a bit tense. That tenseness increased when his eyes met hers, his pupils even thinner than normal thanks to the nearby light.

"Cobble something together from whatever you have left to eat, and bring something hard to accompany it with." Despite the look of his face, which still held that sneer, was quiet and smooth, each syllable carefully enunciated to the point that there was no notable accent. The woman nodded in response, turning and leaving him alone at his table once again. With nothing better to do, he listened.

"Another one?"

"Hope he doesn't think he can get paid as well."

"What if the first 'un doesn't get the job done, though?"

"Then none of 'em are worth hiring."

What he heard, of course, interested him. So, there was clearly another Witcher in the area already. None of his brethren had mentioned an interest in the Pontar Valley before they had all set out on the Path once again, and due to the nature of his business they had elected to avoid the area for the time being. Another Witcher here undoubtedly meant they were from another school, which could mean many things. If from that of the Wolf, there was no telling what they might do if they caught wind of what he was doing. If from that of the Griffin, perhaps they would vacate the area as well, or perhaps they'd follow him. And if from that of the Cat, well...

There had already been plenty of blood on this Path. What was a little more, now that he thought about it?

He only halfway watched the innkeep when she returned carrying a bowl of lukewarm stew, and a mug of what was undoubtedly warm and pisspoor beer. He gave her a nod as she set it down, even as she asked, "Anything else I can do for you? A room for the night, maybe?"

He briefly considered it, and then he gave a nod. "Yes, and there is something else as well. Any strange travelers in the past year-"

"You're going to have to be more specific than that-"

"-that simply passed through, rather than taking what would seem like a reasonable break. A single person travelling by himself; no entourage, "

The woman blinked once; in response to both the strange question, and how he so calmly continued even as she interrupted him. For a little while she was silent, thinking back, before she said, "I remember one, back towards the start of the winter. He passed through, and was quick about it, but when he was gone we found the bodies of the Nowicki family in their home. The bodies were... strange."

"Strange? How so?"

"Empty, sir. Drained."

"You didn't report this?"

"Of course we did. No one came forward regarding the notice, and so much time passed we took it down."

"I see... Thank you. Anyone live in the Nowicki house now?"

"No sir. We, er, burned it down."

"Unfortunate. You recall which way this suspected murderer was heading?"

"North. Exactly where I haven't a clue."

"Mmmmm." He looked straight forwards then, ignoring her for the most part. After a moment he nodded slightly, and without looking at her he reached down to a pouch, pulling out a few coins and leaving them on the table in front of her, enough for the meal, drink, and the night, plus a little extra. "Thank you for the information. That'll be all."

"Of course." Taking the money, she gave a brisk nod before she left, and he returned to his own thoughts. So his quarry had been seen, fleeing after the incident that had forced him to take the winter to rest from the Path. Missing the prey by a few months, along with the probable destruction of all evidence, would have been too much for some, but he had started this hunt with less. Once again, he would slowly but surely close down the gap between them once again...

And this time, he wouldn't be the one who ended up with his throat slit.

[Vor]

Well, this was certainly the place. Following the river’s course had, as expected, led him exactly where he needed to be. A couple of minutes ago he’d reached a small stream flowing into the larger body of the river and he’d traced it to the mouth of a reeking cave. He could clearly hear the sounds of rent flesh and the crunch of bones; the drowners were feasting, it seemed. What sorry bastard had they got this time, he wondered? Could be a sheep or a cow, as well, but from what he’d seen there were no other villages around, so it was probably some unfortunate traveller that had wandered too close to their lair.

Veles crept up to the opening and peered into the darkness beyond. He was able to distinguish six figures gathered around a large, dark mass. A horse, perhaps? The cave’s gloom was almost too much for his eyes to pierce. He glanced at the potion pouch fastened to his belt, debating whether he should make use of its contents. A Cat potion wouldn’t be needed, but perhaps something to enhance his reflexes? Veles shook his head, disregarding that notion.

When he had set off on his Path, he had been all too eager to employ the various concoctions known to him, even when the situation didn’t call for it. Though vile tasting and poisonous to all but a witcher, there was something intoxicating in the potential they unlocked within him. He’d savoured that feeling at first and who wouldn’t? With the right formula you could push your body beyond the limits, adapt to any situation - that was the very essence of being a witcher. No power came without a cost, however. In his case it was the dreams, they grew worse and even more twisted after imbuing most potions, likely as a result of the toxins flowing through his blood. That is why he had grown weary of using witcher's brews in recent times, instead relying on his swordwork and knowledge of beasts.

It was more than sufficient for this sorry bunch, at any rate. His hand went to a small crossbow at his hip; a favourite of his School, the crossbow was meant to be fired with one hand at a relatively short range, but required two to reload properly. In practice, this meant that you could only use it once during a fight, usually at the start. Coupled with the fact that the hides of most beasts were so thick that the bolts barely pierced them, it had often occurred to Veles that it was a tool far more useful against other humans, which was a line of thought he didn’t want to go down…

Drawing his sword, Veles moved into the cave, causing the drowners to turn towards him as one. He immediately identified the leader, bigger and uglier than the others – a drowned dead. Though very much a drowner, what separated these beasts from the lesser variety was their malice and strength. The legends held that these were particularly evil men, who returned from their watery graves to torment the living, ambushing them near rivers and lakes. Whether that was true or not was beside the point, for a witcher this only meant that they had a tougher fight on their hands. He’d leave that one for last.

As the ravenous pack surged forward, he fired the crossbow at the nearest drowner, stopping it in its tracks with a bolt firmly embedded in its skull. Then they were upon him, coming from all sides at once, their feral cries screaming for blood. Veles whirled between them, dodging and slashing when the opportunity presented itself. He swept his blade in wider arcs, which was risky, but effective versus a larger group.

The cave itself was cramped and there wasn’t much room to maneuver, every misstep could be his last. Instead of causing fright, that thought only empowered him – the closer he was to death, the better he seemed to fight. He flowed through the forms, every move precise and immaculately timed; unlike the fight at the riverbank, there were no mistakes here.

Each slash across a drowner’s neck or torso was accompanied by a shriek and a gust of foul-smelling blood that sprayed across the witcher’s clothes and face. Not long after, the group lay in crumpled heaps on the ground, dead or dying, severed limbs around them. Only the leader remained, injured and bloodied, yet still standing. The beast lived up to its reputation – it was stronger and significantly faster than a normal drowner; Veles had fought a few drowned dead before, but this particular specimen was one tough bastard.

It avoided his strikes with ease and its claws came precariously close to him on more than a few occasions. There was no point in trying to parry or perform some fancy trick, Veles was certain that it could rip the sword out of his hands if he let it get near it. Instead, he kicked it away as they clashed, putting some distance between them.

A momentarily lull in the fighting followed, giving Veles enough time to come up with a plan. The beast’s milky, bloated eyes seemed to study him, almost as if sizing him up. That was not true, of course; while they possessed some base form of cunning, drowners were not intelligent creatures and even though this one was quicker and sturdier, it was just that – a dumb beast, driven by instincts. The success of his plan hinged on that notion.

When it next threw itself at him, Veles didn’t move out of the way or try to catch it with his blade, which is what the creature would be expecting. Instead, he extended his left hand and formed the Sign of Aard with his fingers. His hand jerked as a wave of force erupted from his fingertips, sending his assailant flying backward into the cave’s wall. The following events occurred so swiftly that they almost seemed to happen at once.

Wasting no time, Veles dashed forward, ramming three feet of Meteorite steel into the creature’s throat before it had a chance to regain its footing. Almost at the same time a thundering rumble caused the entire cave to groan, he had to steady himself on the wall to keep from falling. As the last of the noise dissipated, the world went dark.

It took him a moment to realise what had happened, after which he uttered a few choice words. The rockfall, for that is what it must have been, had blocked the cave’s opening, shutting out most of the light so his surroundings were as dark as a moneylender’s soul. Veles used the mental image he had of the place to find his way back to the entry point, which was now heavily obstructed. Most notably, a huge boulder stood between him and the outside world, surrounded by a number of smaller rock chunks that it had broken off.

“Oh, fuck it!” he kicked angrily at the rock. A futile gesture, of course, it didn’t bulge.

He’d pushed too hard, he knew that. Too much effort into the Aard, he’d just needed a small nudge to send the creature off-balance, but instead he’d shook the foundations of the cliff he was under. Ploughing great, that’s what it was. He extended his arms and looked up, toward where the sky would normally be if he were outside.

“You just hate me don’t you?” A cry directed to the Gods, whoever or wherever they were. “It can never be easy, eh? You always find some new way to fuck me over! Well you know what?! I don’t even believe in you, you bastards!”

If not for the circumstances, he’d laugh. What he said didn’t make any sense, but he spat on the pile of rocks for good measure, in case there actually was some God watching from above. The medallion at his neck was still – there were at least no drowners to worry about nearby.

Eyes squinting, the witcher looked around, but there was too little light even for his enhanced eyes. Well, it seemed like he’d have to use the Cat after all. With a sigh, he gulped down the small vial and closed his eyes, his body shuddering as the potion coursed through him. When he next opened his eyes, his surroundings were composed of varying shades of grey and black.

Apart from the corpses, there was only one other thing of note – a crack in the far wall from which a steady stream of water flowed. That was a problem in itself, as it would likely flood the cave before long; he doubted the water had enough force to break through the rockslide and he didn’t want to wait to find out. While thinking on what to do next, he moved between the drowners methodically, taking the proof he needed. Lastly, he severed the drowned dead’s head, which was different from a drowner’s even to an untrained eye and placed it in a burlap sack that he tied to his belt.

He then walked over to the drowners’ supper. It was a horse, as he had initially suspected, though he was now able to make out the remains of a man as well. There was not much left of him, save for a leather jerkin, gnawed bones, some shapeless lumps of meat and a pair of boots. What drew the witcher’s attention was the crest sewed onto the jerkin – a hunting horn crossed with a sword on a field of blue, a noble’s mark. So, this was no ordinary traveller, but a lord’s man. Maybe he belonged to the local baron? He could ask in the village, but it was usually better to keep such information to yourself; many people were willing to accuse strangers, especially if it meant they wouldn’t have to pay for the services rendered.

A little to the left, near the crack, he saw a pile of bones. He didn’t need to examine them closer to know who they belonged to, from the smaller size it was obvious those were the children’s. It was a sad thing that their lives had ended so early, but maybe it was for the best – war was looming on the horizon and children were usually the ones that suffered the most.

Apart from the blocked exit, there seemed to be only one other way – through the crack, which would hopefully open up into a bigger chamber. There had to be some other exit from this damned place. While travelling through the area he’d seen a number of caves, so he was hopeful that this one would connect to at least one other. The alternative would be…well, there really wasn’t much of an alternative. He thought of trying to use Aard again to push through the rocks, but he doubted he was strong enough to do it, plus he might make things even worse. He wouldn’t even be in this mess if he’d used his head before casting it the first time.

Through the crack it was. Sheathing the sword, he moved closer to see if he could squeeze through. Yes, it wasn’t that tight and thankfully Veles was a slim man, he’d be able to get to the other side, though the enclosed space seemed to stretch on into the darkness for quite a while. A wave of claustrophobia washed over him, but he pushed it down. He was far too angry to be scared right now.

All he ever wanted from this night was to return to the run-down tavern in the village, knock back a few by the fire and then collect his bounty in the morning. Was that too much to ask? Apparently it was. Now, he'd have to content himself with wandering through the damp, stinking caves in search of an exit. Funny, when people told stories or sang ballads of witchers, you'd hear about all manner of beasts and epic confrontations, yet none of them bothered to mention the countless hours spent wading through the mud and shit.

Probably didn't sound very heroic, but so far Veles had found that a witcher's work seldom was.

[The Darklight Project]

The room that the man with the silver, miniature manticore head around his neck was eventually shown to wasn't anything special, the usual affair from these sort of inns. A lumpy straw mattress stained with fluids from who knew where (or rather, whom), a pillow that looked like a broken dead thing, barely more than one candle for light (though he had no desire attempting to light the second stub), and nothing else at all. There was probably a room with some sort of communal chamber pot nearby, but he had no desire to go directly confront that kind of smell tonight.

So, instead, he simply settled down and prepared for the night. The bed was completely ignored; he had no plans to sleep that night, and he only wanted to rest his body from the road. His mind was still more than sharp enough as it was, and would last another day easily.

There were some rituals he went through before he finally settled down. The removal of his weapons, the two swords being carefully set upon the floor in front of where he would eventually settle down for good. Then came the tools, from the various knives and hooks, to the potions he always carefully carried with him and the ingredients with them. By the time he was done, he had created almost an entire circle around him, laid around so that that a curve of empty floor would be left behind him.

It was with that he finally settled, kneeling down. He held his hands down in front of him, fingers lightly intertwined together and loosely hanging in front of him. His body slowly relaxed saved for an almost eerie rigidity of his spine, his head dropping forwards ever slightly, shoulders slumping a little, everything becoming loose at the joints.

For a few minutes after that, his mind was as active as it ever was. He planned his departure, which direction he would go, the villages and towns he would see on that path before more news reached him, or some other clue was dropped. No time would be wasted, and yet he would take every single second of it, keeping his alertness always sharp in order to spot anything that seemed out of place, hear even the fragment of a sentence that could have been a clue, and so on and so forth.

And then, not unlike a candle being put out with a simple exhale, his thoughts drifted away with the least bit of resistance. He was not asleep, but was instead somewhere between resting and waking, balanced as if on the edge of a blade on that middle point. In that state he dreamed and remembered in the same breath.

The dream was one of violence, and was the same one he had experienced any time he chose to rest for years, be it full sleep or simple meditation. One where he relived every single experience, with all of his senses in flashes-

He remembered the dark and the cold. He remembered the stillness, the silence, and how that had all shattered in just a moment. How, suddenly, there was movement all around him, quick and hard for him to even follow with his eyes. He remembered how instinct took over, and how that was the only reason why he didn't die with the first attack, instead swinging his silver sword up and around to guard his throat.

He remembered barely being able to counterattack, despite all of his training, and all of his preparation. How Signs may have well have been obscene gestures, with how little they were doing him. How he was stuck using his sword more as a shield. And how the metal was knocked out of his hand like it were merely a piece of wood, and snapped like a twig too.

And then he remembered getting his throat slit open, the sharp pain reliving again in a dull throb in the presence. How he fell backwards, and the next rakes went down his chest. Really, it should have been the end of his life then and there, thanks to his own desperation, stupidity, and weakness, but he had been smart enough not to come alone.

The numbers frightened his attacker, and it fled. What he remembered next was slipping into unconscious, and it was then he opened his eyes. The dream, clearly, hadn't passed like the rest of time; it had been drawn out impossibly only like a dream could be, and already grey light was leaking through the cracks in the boards. Slowly, he began to rise up, his muscles beginning to tense once again.

With his full awareness came a brief flash of anger, so much so that his teeth ground together. After just another moment he once more began to relax, and with that came a breath that released all of his stress. For many, many years he had been nothing more than constantly angry, but then the months turned into years turned into decades, and he was calm. No longer was his wrath hot. Instead, his vengeance was now very cold, and very, very patient.

Each tool was picked back up, and placed back into its proper place. The swords were sheathed, and all of the straps and belts were tightened down. He left the inn quietly, well before anyone else was up; even the keepers were still dozing, not really ready to prepare for the new day. He exited without taking more than a piece of bread that had been left out, and as he chewed on the stale loaf he stepped out to the stables, where his horse was waiting.

He fed it a better meal than he had fed himself, and once it was ready to go he splashed some of the cleanest water he could find onto his face, before he swung himself up onto the saddle. One breath later and he flicked the reins, sending him on his way once again.

Quickly, he left the slightest resemblance of civilization behind that was the village. He followed the river nearby, and the path set into it, as was the usual tradition with the settling of villages. Everything was quiet, and still. For the most part, the monsters who roamed the night had gone back into their holes, and the monsters who roamed the day began to pull themselves from their caverns and their beds.

It was a very rare moment of quiet.