Caleb's Journey

Found and Lost

A soft, harmless rain began to fall. It was the kind of rain that produces a gentle, soothing pattern of sounds as the drops splash against innumerable objects. Such a tepid downpour moistens the ground and barely soaks the world and the inhabitants in its area of effect. A rain of this ilk, which carries with it dark clouds, merely served as the dark and gloomy backdrop for the seedy, dimly lit section of the city through which the brown-skinned hulking man, Drarn, strode.

Foiled in his attempt to capture Milch, he still glanced down every alley and between every beaten and weathered shack as he marched home, hoping that somewhere he would find his quarry curled up in a ball or cowering in a corner. Myriad thoughts of revenge formed in his mind and a cruel grin formed on his face as he imagined the many ways in which he would inflict pain on the little coward. With vindictive glee he imagined his large hands around the tiny man’s fat neck and holding him off the ground, his plump legs dangling and kicking while Drarn wrung the last breaths of life from him, then callously tossing his limp carcass aside like a piece of garbage.

As he felt the leather pouch in which he kept the stolen necklace he thought, “What manner of item is this? Milch was a good customer. This thing must have some serious value to not only be so greatly protected, but even more so for that fat little toad to risk his neck by double-crossing me. I’ll make sure he tells me all he knows about it before I kill him.”

Flames flickered gently from the sparsely placed torches that hung in the streets, lighting a path that few dared tread except in numbers, let alone by themselves, at night. It was the exact type of environment that he liked, daring anyone to try and disrupt HIS evening. In fact, he relished the opportunity, knowing full well that as he purposely splashed through each puddle, that nobody was coming. Then, his senses suggested that someone might be nearby. As he turned a side street and approached his home, he quickly glanced over his shoulder, half expecting someone to be behind him. As far as he could tell, nobody was.

We generally accept the term home to mean at least four walls and a roof, for the masses at least. Those with great wealth have homes with many walls. Regardless of the size and scope of the abode, it symbolizes something that greatly exceeds that simple nomenclature. It epitomizes individual expression in its design and decoration, whether it says, “Humble though I be, I am the proud home of a poor family scraping to do the best we can to survive,” or it shouts, “Stare at my imperious size and grandeur, I am the home of a king!” Home is where we come to take shelter from the struggles of the day, recharge our bodies, and begin the next day anew.

As to the particulars of this domicile it inhabited one of the newer cities in the Golden Realm, an area which had yet to bear the polish and civilities of more established regions. A rough construct of a home, made of fashioned timbers with clay spread between the gaps in the wood to ensure warmth, the place stood some fifteen feet in height and covered with a thatched roof. Drarn had intended to have the roof replaced with red clay and reinforced beams, but he had not yet found the time or urgency to execute this desire. Dingy, unwashed walls outlined the hearth room which housed a wooden table, some aged and worn oak stools, a small fire pit, an animal hide that served as a rug, and a door that lead to his modest sleeping chamber.

Ready for an ambush, despite what little evidence he had to support such a suspicion, Drarn took his axe in his hands. He kicked open his door and stepped back to see if he could spy anyone. With the little light that the two moons shed into his doorway, he didn’t see a soul. Next, he shoved his axe through the entry so as to stab anyone who lie in wait, and entered his home. Satisfied that he was alone the juggernaut removed his breastplate, laid his axe on the table, lit his fire, and sat down to rest, at last. While the skirmish was temporary, the rush of adrenaline and the anger at being betrayed had made him somewhat weary.

From the backpack that he had laid on the table, he removed a flask and took a draught of mead. He rested his left hand on his weapon, ever ready to spring into battle. He took another swig and listened for any suspicious sounds, specifically any sound other than the ones that he made. Feeling satisfied that he was alone, he took his hand off of his axe and moved over to his larder and removed a piece of meat, a hunk of cheese, and a loaf of bread upon which to sup. As he tore a bit of meat with his teeth, he devoured it and then chuckled as he said aloud, “Milch, you’ll pay for this soon enough. The strong live to prey upon the weak and lazy.”

“

Oh, I quite agree,” a voice whispered. The previously opened bedroom door suddenly closed itself.

With a quick spin of his head, Drarn turned to see if he could catch the perpetrator of this action. Immediately, he sprung from his chair and seized his weapon. Nobody emerged from the portal save a gaseous cloud of black vapor. Before Drarn’s very eyes the vapor began to materialize into a human form! He had prepared himself for intruders, but nothing like this.

He now beheld a young, well-dressed man standing at the doorway to his bedroom. Clad in a black cloak, a white silk shirt with frilled, ruffled cuffs, a black vest, black pants, black boots, and a gold chain around his that contained an emerald he epitomized both nobility and darkness. With casual ease of manner he spoke, “I know that you have that vial.” With a wave of his hand Drarn’s front door closed.

“

That’s so you won’t run,” the intruder remarked

“

I run from nothing,” Drarn snarled in defiance.

“

Hand me the amulet and die a quick death. Milch died slowly and painfully. I quite enjoyed it. He confided your location to me with his last breath. I welcome you to share his fate if you possess the inclination.”

A man of few words, Drarn scowled and scoffed at the intruder and spat. Grinding his teeth, he spoke through a clenched jaw, “I’m no fat, little toad. I never give, I only take.”

With preternatural speed the figure lunged towards the hulking man. He placed his hands on Drarn’s weapon, between that man’s own hands. Drarn delivered a crushing head-butt to his foe in response. Instead of it crumpling him to his knees, the being stood unfazed and in a show of strength, ripped the axe from Drarn’s hands and kicked him so hard that he went hurtling backwards into his wall.

“

Fool. You cannot hurt me. I’m already dead,” he crowed. “Fear not, you’ll soon be dead as well, another victim of the vampire, Nostarius.”

Having landed near his fire pit, Drarn seized the unlit end of a flaming log and flung it into Nostarius. The makeshift grenade sprayed flame onto the dark being and fell to the ground not effecting its target in the slightest way, except for slightly singeing his clothes. Nostarius zipped across the room, lifted the big man like he was lifting a small child, and tossed him into another wall. Blood began to pour from Drarn’s mouth, flowing between his teeth. He spat it out, lowered his head, and rushed towards the table. Nostarius moved to meet him head on, but the cagey warrior rolled off of his foe’s body and grabbed his axe.

He turned and brought the axe down in a quick slashing motion that opened a wound in his adversary’s back and caused it to ignite in mystical green flames. Nostarius howled in pain. “Vampires can be hurt by magic and Deliverance is just that, death magic to all who stand before me.” Now Drarn pressed the attack, seeking to move the fight into the street, where he might move about more freely. Lowering the axe, which had a sharply tipped top, he charged towards his wounded foe.

Although alight and in pain, Nostarius quickly regained his senses and not only dodged the attack, but also sidestepped the axe tip and punched Drarn in his rib cage. The impact of the blow doubled-over the big man, cracking several of his ribs. Nostarius seized him by the ears and drove his knee into Drarn’s face. Then, he flung him to the very place Drarn wanted to be, in the street, by hurling him through his front door. Although Drarn had wanted the fight to carry on outside, wielding Deliverance, this was not how events unfolded.

There Drarn lay, bleeding, stunned, and sprawled out on his back in the street. He stumbled trying to get up. Meanwhile, Nostarius had snuffed the flame on his back, casually snapped a leg off of Drarn’s table, and now stood over his gasping adversary. Without hesitation, he brought the piece of wood down on Drarn’s back, which creaked as it broke, his back, not the table leg. Drarn collapsed face first into the mud. Nostarius put the heel of his boot into the back of Drarn’s head, as if to suffocate him. The mercenary offered little resistance, but still struggled with all of the strength that remained in his body.

Before he ceased to struggle, Nostarius stopped his attempt at smothering his foe, and instead knelt down beside him and rolled him over. Caked in a mixture of blood and mud, Drarn remained defiant. He spat as he asked, “How’s your back?” He now stood on Drarn’s throat until life left the giant. Then, he ripped the amulet with the vial in it from that man’s dead body and placed it in his vest pocket. After that, he composed himself by means of fixing his hair, which had flipped about in the fray. Then he straightened his torn, ruffled shirt, black vest, and black coat, and then dusted the mud off of his boots. “That’s better,” he thought.

Beneath the light of the twin moons, Dunacti and Levdes, he leapt up into the air and took flight, stopping some forty feet off of the ground. Uttering an incantation, and moving his hands in swirling motion, a tiny flame appeared between his hands that quickly became a flaming, glowing orb. A fiendish smile formed on his face as he whipped the fireball towards Drarn’s house. The missile made a whistling sound as it raced through the darkness of the night and hit its target with explosive, fiery force. Wood and brick shot in every direction, the roof collapsed, and the abode erupted in flames. Nostarius watched the destruction with sinister glee, listened to others emerge from their homes to examine the wreckage, and flew away into the night satisfied with his handiwork.