1:00 A.M
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Heavy hooves struck the mud in a steady rhythm as a horse pushed through the darkness. Its beautiful coat was black enough to swallow the darkness itself. Astride it rode a man wrapped in a dark black cloak. His face could barely be seen, but if one looked closely, a faint red glow could be seen… was that one of his eyes? If not for the sound of the gallop, a walker would certainly have missed them both entirely in the night. Slowly but surely, town lights appeared ahead of them.
"Let's rest you up, boy," the rider said in a monotone, expressionless voice.
The town of Flemdale was deep asleep, its streets empty save for the few drunkards roaming here and there. On its own, the town was big, with a good four hundred houses or so scattered besides a rather small cliff which towered it from the left. However, compared to one of the king's castles and the surrounding villages which were further north, Flemdale was small. The air smelled of wet hay and ale. At the centre stood a tavern, its roof slouched with age. Orange fire bled weakly through its glass panes on both sides of the door. A stable was to the right of it, unremarkable in size, timber slowly fading and rotting away.
An ostler wearing a white tunic with brown trousers was sitting just in front of the stables, he was wide awake and could be seen hunched beneath a lantern. He was of a small stature, about 5'4, sadly some townsfolk took a cruel pleasure in calling him a 'dwarf'. He was middle-aged, as dark circles lay beneath his eyes. Presumably due to lack of sleep guarding the stables, someone had to mind the horses, even at this hour. His hair, once thick and black as a raven's wing, were now all slowly turning white. He had a crooked nose and big, dry lips. His beard was quite big compared to his face, and his eyes were an average brown, nothing special. One of his two front teeth were slightly bent, likely from a punch to the mouth. Overall, his triangular face was thin. His body, also thin, it was clear he wasn't getting enough food.
"Oi, you there!" the ostler called out as the dark figure approached, "What ya doin', Sneakin' around like that!" he shouted and got up as he saw the dark figure and horse approach. Thinking they were some kind of dark demons, he took out his little dagger, out of fear, of course. "STAY BACK YOU FIEND OF THE NIGHT!" and who could blame him, the horse and the man really were a scary sight to behold.
"Relax..." he smoothly dismounted his horse, "I'm here to put him in the stable."
"Oh... I wasn't scared, just... just- yknow" as he quickly sheathed his dagger.
"I'll be back early this morning to take him," the stranger replied.
The ostler squinted at him, then grinned. "Names McCarth. Nice to meet ya, laddie. And your name is…?"
"Take good care of him."
McCarth blinked twice. "Oi, don't ignore me, lad. I'm the best stable hand you'll find, I swear it. I'll look after this beauty proper, don't ya worry." He ran a hand along the horse's neck, admiring, "what's his name then? If you won't tell me yours. I gotta know a horse's name. Helps me get to know 'em lad."
"You talk too much," He said frankly.
"And you talk too little lad," McCarth let out a big old laugh, then said. "C'mon lad, Fuckin... everyone's mysterious nowadays, look at what the world's come to, anyway... what's his name?" he pointed to the black horse.
"K."
McCarth frowned, "Fuckin' what?"
"K."
"Who the fuck in their right mind named this beauty that?"
"Me."
McCarth scratched his hair, then shook his head and scoffed. "Alright lad, whatever floats your boat."
He loosened the saddle with practiced hands, checked the horse's legs.
"Even if the fuckin' king's horse waddled in here, I wouldn't let it in before checking its legs." he said, his voice thin and squeaky.
"How much?" The man asked for the price and was not interested in small talk.
"Hmmm y'know what…?" McCarth paused.
Silence.
"What." the hooded man, forced to say something or else suffer an eternity of silence.
"Two silver coins, only because I like the horse!"
He slowly took out a pouch from beneath his cloak. Then took out three silver coins and threw it at McCarth.
"Get yourself something to eat," the man had surprisingly given him an extra coin. This act of kindness clashed sharply with the cold man's appearance.
McCarth was taken aback by this gesture, "Thanks-" he blurted out, "That's what I'm talking about lad," he looked at the three coins with precision, making sure they were all real.
The black-clad one then started walking towards the tavern.
"Oi! See ya." he shouted, "First some scoundrels came threatinin' me, and now fuckin'... men can't even say a simple goodbye now, world's gone to hell," McCarth muttered to himself.
He walked without haste, boots sank into the damp earth, his cloak perfectly matching his height, not touching the ground even for a moment. Narrow alleys could be seen in front of the tavern, where some filth and sadness slept. He walked for a few moments, then he had arrived in front of the tavern. It was quite big compared to the dwarfish stable to its right. 'ZY's Tavern' was nailed above the door. He opened the door as it creaked loudly. As soon as he stepped in, the warmth lunged at him, hugging him from all sides.
The man shifted his hood back slightly. The tavern's lanterns revealed his brown skin and mismatched eyes. The right one was bright red, God had placed a crimson moon in his iris, the left, a dull, lifeless grey. His face was expressionless, not to be mistaken with sadness or anger, but something emptier, devoid of love, one would assume he had never smiled in his life. His skin was surprisingly smooth, no lines ran down or across his face nor did he have any scars, his black hair fell down to his eyebrows. Using his different coloured eyes, he quickly inspected the room. One girl, one man, four monsters, he thought to himself. He then walked up to the counter and sat on the stool closest to the tavern entrance.
"Water," he said to the waiter. "And bread with meat."
The waiter was older, shoulders slumped from years of carrying more than plates. He nodded a sad and slow nod, his eyes kept drifting towards the tables at the back.
Four men sat there. Brigands, plain as day. They wore rotten leather with nicked blades worn openly, most likely stolen. A girl stood trapped among them. Her face, nearly perfect in symmetry, her smooth skin, once glowed with luminous whiteness now faded under the shadow of dread. Her large hazel eyes were beautiful as ever, the only imperfection which could be seen were tears, beginning to form up in her helpless eyes.
One man gripped her shiny golden hair, her most striking feature without a doubt. The hair was quite long, stretching all the way down to her waist. Her lips, delicate and soft, were now starting to tremble. She was both slender and tall, around 5'7. She was wearing a simple dress, light blue with pink flowers all over it. One of the crooked men, still seated, dragged a finger along her arm, slowly... disturbingly, while the other two stared at the girl.
"Please..." she said. "I've work-" her eyes teared up even more than before.
"Your work's right here," they all laughed disgustingly, except one of them. The corners of her mouth slowly turned down helplessly. No one noticed the man who had just entered. They were too busy with other things.
"Oi, Gareth, stop being a low life and have some fun," one of them said to the other who was sitting down.
"Nah." he said. Gareth was sitting down but was looking the opposite way, nor was he interacting with the girl. His face was unexpectedly pleasant, freshly shaved, and his hair was swept upwards as if he were a flamboyant knight.
"Don't make the boss angry again, you fool!" the one standing up reminded Gareth.
The waiter returned with the water, bread and meat as requested, his hands shaking as he put them on the counter. Then he leaned in close.
"Please help," he whispered to the cloaked dark figure. He then nodded to the brigands, "I don't know who these men are, it's definitely their first time in Flemdale. They told everyone in the tavern to get out," he said quietly to the cloaked one. "That girl's my daughter. They said if I interfered they'd burn her and this tavern, in front of my very own eyes." His brown eyes slowly watered, sadness and sorrow more visible than lanterns could be seen in them. He was an old man, though he looked older than he really was, likely in his middle fifties. His face bore a resemblance to his daughter's. He had a thin nose, light stubble and lines running all across his skin. His hair, however, was striking: bright white, thick and well-kept, overtaking his ears without a hint of thinning.
The cloaked man sipped on his water calmly, then set the cup down. "Call the guards," he said plainly.
"I can't," the fragile father whispered, bowing down a little. "If they catch me gone... they'll-" He glanced back at his daughter, trembling. "God, I can't leave her with these monsters for even a second. Please, I'm old..." He pleaded and looked down then let out a faint smile as if remembering his young days. "I was once like you, y'know. Had broad shoulders, was a tall and strong kid," he paused for a moment, then continued, Now I can't even defend myself, let alone my own daughter, time kills everyone…"
The all-black figure let out a sigh of pity and said, "I'll handle it after I finish eating."
The waiter, eyes darting to his daughter, quickly said, "Thank you, but you don't even have a weapon." He was mistaken, very mistaken.
The man suddenly put down the bread he was starting to eat, then looked at the father straight in his eyes. Shivers ran down the fathers' spine as he was being stared at by the man's unusual red and grey eyes.
"I always have my sword. But I won't use it on them, they're not worthy of dying by my blade. Besides, it'd be too easy for me." He said in a serious tone, face emotionless and cold.
This man's confidence in himself is crazy, the father thought to himself.
"Please… you don't understand, they're good at fighting," he finally said aloud. The cloaked one just smiled faintly.
He then finished his food as if nothing was amiss. Unstrapped his scabbard, in which he had kept his precious sword, it was hiding underneath his cloak all that time, and proceeded to put it on the counter.
"Keep my sword safe," he ordered the helpless father. Just like his horse, his scabbard was beautiful; it was black too but sprinkled all over was a strange white pattern. Then he stood up. He walked over to the four unlucky beings, two of them were still disturbing the girl, not letting her go. Three sat on the bench, while the fourth stood beside the table.
"I'll give you five seconds to apologize to the lady, then I'll let you run out of this tavern," he said, speaking in a normal, low tone.
The brigands slowly turned their heads toward the man, then they all laughed, except Gareth. The one standing spat on the floor in front of the black figure.
"Or what?" he sneered.
"Five," he started his count.
"Who do you think you are?!" another shouted.
"Four."
"Look at what he's wearing as well, what a freak."
"Three."
"Boys we got a psycho on our hands, don't we? I'll carve out that red eye of yours, boy, if you don't back away!" said the one who was previously gripping the girl's hair.
"Two," noticing the man in the cloak was not at all scared by their threats, the brigands looked at each other. All their attention was on this man now. Spotting her chance, the girl quickly ran to her father, who was behind the counter.
Suddenly, the one standing threw a punch aimed at the cloaked man's face. Dodged. The girl's saviour easily moved his face out of harm's way, he didn't even move his legs, only his head. He was quick. Very quick.
"One."
"KILL HIM!" one sitting down shouted.
"Zero." his face, unwavering in the face of danger.
All three of them rose together. The one who had already missed a punch, embarrassed, tried striking again. This time, the girl's saviour didn't dodge. Instead, he grabbed the incoming punch and twisted the fool's fist to his left. The father and daughter watched in relief.
"AAAAA!" he screamed, a twisted arm must have definitely hurt. He dropped to the floor, writhing in pain. Another one tried unsheathing his sword.
"Oh, you want to grab your sword? Fine." But it was futile; the cloaked figure was just too fast. He shifted behind the brigand, so quickly the human eye would have mistaken it for teleportation. Then he seized the brigand's sword hand, guided the blade out of its sheath using the brigand's OWN grip, and drove it backwards into the brigand's stomach. He angled it carefully, making sure the blade didn't pierce all the way through his stomach to where he stood behind him. The once-cocky brigand dropped on his side with his own sword inside him. One dead.
The other two were left horrified. "No… Micah!" one of them shouted. Eyes widened as their deaths approached. Their comrade in crime was dead while another lay on the floor shouting humiliatingly. The two left standing already had their swords out; at least they had got further than poor old Micah, who couldn't even manage that himself. They both attacked at once, raising their swords to strike the man who had just killed their friend. The cloaked figure smoothly backed away, the swords were out of reach and hit the floorboards with a THANG. Without waiting, he moved back in, ripped the red steel out of the now-dead Micah, and thrusted it into the man's head. The one with the broken arm, now had a broken head too, with a sword stuck in it. Two dead.
The daughter, who was now behind the counter, vomited. The cloaked man who had been silently eating his food moments ago had now just brutally killed two men right in front of their very own eyes, like a knife running through butter. The two brigands left were now too shocked to even utter a word. One found some courage to attack again; this time a blow swinging horizontally, aiming for the cloaked head. It was hopeless.
The savage killer quickly bent both his neck and head backwards, arching low, his hood came off, his nose could practically smell the steel sliding over his face. As the steel passed him, he swiftly moved his head back up again, the cloaked hood returned onto his head perfectly as if it had a mind of its own. Then he used both his left and right fists to continuously punch the foolish brigand in the ribs.
The other criminal standing next to him was too scared to even move; he didn't want to share the same fate as the other dead two. He let his blade go, dropped to the floor, backed away, and started crying. He was too petrified to even run. But the tears wouldn't stop his friend's ribs from being shattered.
Seeing his daughter's condition, the father rushed her into the kitchen where she wouldn't have to witness the savagery unfolding, but it didn't change a thing; she could still hear the ribs cracking.
In just the first hit, the brigand let go of his sword, the pain was too much to hold onto anything, let alone a sword. The strikes were fast, precise, and powerful. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. His punches were only going for the man's ribs; the shattering of his ribs could be heard from even outside the tavern. CRACK. CRAC– his final blow drove through the man's chest, ribs cracked inward. He dropped to the floor; the thing lying with twisted ribs wasn't a human anymore… It was something else entirely. Three dead.
Now there lay one last wretched figure on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably as tears streamed down his cheeks. He had just witnessed three of his closest companions die like it was nothing, and the sight left his breath ragged, eyes wide, mouth open in disbelief. Gareth was the last left; he had known Micah, Roderick, and Thane for more than two years. They were harsh to each other, but through it all they were brothers. Now they were all dead in a heartbeat. Corpses.
"Please, I'm sorry! Girl– I'm sorry! I'll leave this cursed town- " the girl could definitely hear him from the kitchen, screaming in fear.
"Didn't I give you five seconds to apologize and run?" he questioned the whimpering man while looking over him with a senseless face.
"You did! I'm sorry- I'm sorry I can't die-" The pitiful criminal started begging for his life.
The cold-blooded killer then picked up the sword which Gareth had dropped moments ago and attacked…
"I HAVE A SON!" he exclaimed. "If I die, he won't survive, he's nine! His mother died a month ago, he has no one except me!" he cried painfully.
Suddenly, the hooded man stopped in his tracks, sword midair. If I kill this man, what will become of his boy? he thought to himself.
"Why do this… when you have a child?" the man holding the weapon demanded an answer, and fast.
"I'm sorry—" he choked on his own words. "I needed the money or else my boy would have starved to death by now!" The tall black figure looming above him did not know whether he was lying or telling the truth.
"Where is your son?" he demanded.
"Not far, I promise-"
"Location."
"North of here, the town's called Fenwell-" he ran out of breath, then continued, "Please… That's where I live. I'll leave right now! No more stealing, no more gangs- I'll get a good job, anything! Just don't kill me… he's all I've got left!" a cry of a broken father could be heard.
"Gareth… I'm going to let you go. But if you've lied to me, I will hunt you down. And I will kill you," he paused, voice dropping even lower than before. "I will visit Fenwell soon, and if I don't see you there…"
"I PROMISE I WILL BE THERE AND- AND I WON'T TELL ANYONE, ANYTHING OF WHAT HAPPENED TODAY!!" his voice shaking.
"Good." The red-eyed one's voice, calm and steady.
Gareth got up and ran out of the tavern doors, never once looking back.
Did I make the right choice? The bandit killer asked himself. He then dropped the sword he was holding.
By now the neighbours had awoken, hearing the deafening screams of the battle- no, it was a massacre, not a battle. This massacre was sure to attract attention. The father frantically emerged from the kitchen, face sweating and pale, eyes darting between the bodies that lay in his tavern.
"The town patrol is bound to be here any moment. You'll be caught if you go out now. Take this key." The father fumbled with a key ring, hands shaking. "Go upstairs to the end of the hall, room three. I'll tell them these bandits turned on each other." The tavern keeper had heard he had let the last one go; he didn't know what to feel. But he had more pressing issues on his mind right now, like the noise getting louder from outside the tavern. Anyone could come through the doors at any moment now.
"Sorry for the mess." His mismatched and unwavering eyes pointed to the blood spilling out of the three dead men. His breath was calm and still, and neither his face nor hands were sweating from what he had just committed, as if this were a normal occurrence for him.
The man then casually turned and started walking slowly, as if he hadn't just killed three men in cold blood. Both his fists were now engulfed in blood, mostly from shattering the ribs of Thane. He cleverly made sure no blood dropped on the floor; the guards would be there any second. He wouldn't want a trail of blood droplets leading to the room he was about to go to. Then he grabbed his shiny black scabbard and walked up the stairs, opened the door using the key he had just received, and went into the room. Meanwhile, downstairs, the tavern keeper looked at the three bodies, his floorboards were covered with blood. Each corpse eerily looked up at the ceiling.
The tavern doors burst open. "THE FUCK HAPPENED HERE?!"
1:34 AM