The Forsaken

THE LAST

Blood! It is always blood that comes to mind. No matter how hard I close my eyes, no matter how drunk I get, no matter... yet, as much as I despise it... I covet it. How can you hate and want something at the same time? Ridiculous.

Rain falls in the deep night. The same as it did that day. Exactly like that day. He looks up at the sky. Raindrops fall on his face as they slide down like tears. This is the closest he can manage. I need to get out of the rain, he thinks. Though he can’t complain much, a good cleaning is way overdue. He grins at the thought.

In the distance, throughout the dark and rain, a tavern comes into sight. It is open. Lights shine through the closed windows, and black smoke rises from the chimney. Where there is a tavern there is sure to be booze, he concludes. The previous grin turns into a smile. Such a smile that if there were children around to see it, they would surely run away in terror.

Opening the door of the tavern, light shines out as it illuminates the figure of one particularly soaked tall man with long black hair and a freshly grown unattended beard. Hair that looks like it hasn’t seen a comb for ages as it tangles around itself forming natural dreadlocks here and there. The black robes he wears like his expression lack any emotion. Judging from first glance, it is hard to determine whether they are damaged or decomposing. Hard to discern whether he is a villain or a beggar. If not for the unnaturally white and expensive-looking sword hanging from his waist, one would assume he is a beggar. Crossing off one of the two options leaves little else to assume.

The men in the tavern stop for a bit as they quickly eye the newcomer but only for a spell. A traditional greeting one could say for such rough types. They return to their drinks noticing nothing out of the ordinary. Not surprisingly, they are scarcely any different. Observing their visage, a good law-abiding citizen would without weighing his options turn around and run from this den of villainy and brigands. A shame, the place has nicely crafted wooden tables, solid chairs, and a cozy hearth in it. But most important of all, it has drinks and many of them... and it is not wet. No rain here, only degenerates, a tavern owner, and his adolescent daughter. Blonde, long straight hair with a lean body, not too short, not too tall. Pretty and young. A recipe for trouble with these sorts of people. Not my concern, the man concludes.

He looks around and sees all occupied tables but one where a lone man sits.

I’m guessing he won’t mind if I join him, the man thinks to himself, but then again it is not like him minding me will be a problem.

“Mind if I sit here?” the man asks as he walks over to the table and sits.

“Not at all.” the other man answers. A somewhat tall and proud-looking man. Brown tidy hair, no beard, a half-leather half-chain vest, and an expensive sword by his side with gold and silver ornaments engraved into the hilt, guard, and pommel. Too expensive Just by one glance, you can see that this man is no expert in the ways of war. You could if you knew what details you were looking for. Soft hands are usually one such detail. If you train hard and battle a lot, you will have tough and ugly hands. But them being ugly is not a problem when they keep you alive. If he spent half as much time training as he did grooming himself, I’m sure he would be an expert swordsman, the man concludes quickly sizing up his compatriot.

His armor, if you could call it that, is not made for battle, but more for comfort and appearance. It looks like a warm coat with pieces of armor here and there. Something a rich person would buy when a merchant is trying to scam as much money off him as possible.

This is the state of the line in protection. It is crafted by the finest smiths using only the finest materials they would say.

Mind you, there is nothing wrong with having an expensive piece of equipment, just not one that is made as an ornament to show off instead of an actual tool for battle. He stands out like a sore thumb.

“We haven’t been introduced, my good man. My name is Patrick Araborn. And you are?” Patrick asks pompously, though trying to be pompous or if it is his normal way the man cannot say?

“Tyr,” Tyr says as he keeps looking over him, trying to get the attention of the tavern master.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Tyr. I see you are also a warrior,” Patrick says with a nod of approval.

Did he just give me a nod of approval, Tyr questions? The hell does this clown think he is? Ah right, Patrick Araborn. One of those noble families. Who else would bother having two names? It is a waste of time if you ask me, Tyr concludes.

“Tavern master!” Tyr yells as the tavern master looks at him.

He signals for a mug of ale by raising his finger. There is little room for confusion for most of these places have only one item to offer.

“Tell me, Tyr. Did you also come here for the hunt?” Patrick asks.

“What hunt?” Tyr asks, not bothering to hide his disinterest.

“You don’t know? There have been stories of a creature appearing near the village of Greybloom, up north, in the waterfall caves. They say the creature eats the flesh of men, they say it is a demon,” Patrick says too enthusiastically for a person talking about such a creature. If it exists.

“No! I am here to get out of the rain and drink something. Speaking of drinks,” Tyr says as the tavern master approaches and places a mug of ale on his table.

He takes the large mug and chugs it down like he had nothing to drink for an entire day. Slamming the mug on the table after finishing it. In form of proper etiquette... well, for Tyr at least.

“Another,” Tyr yells suddenly, revitalized.

“Can you afford it?” the tavern master asks. Looking at the state of his appearance, one could not blame him for asking. Tyr takes out a few coins and throws them on the table. The tavern master takes them with a slight smile as he nods in recognition. Money can make people turn half a circle.

“I’m curious. That sword you have... it is not like any sword I have seen,” Patrick adds, trying to glance at the white sword.

“Probably,” Tyr says.

“Might you perhaps be interested in selling it?” Patrick asks as he leans forward to get a better look.

“No,” Tyr responds, hiding the blade with his cloak.

“A shame. Well, about that creature?” Patrick asks.

“What creature?” Tyr asks, wondering why does this man talk so much.

“The creature I was talking about,” Patrick adds.

“I don’t know what you were talking about,” Tyr says. He truly doesn’t have any idea. Not one of the most social people out there. Listening requires effort, and effort is not something he spends frequently.

The tavern master brings another mug of ale as Tyr also chugs this down in one gulp; the two men look with surprise. Patrick leans towards the tavern master as he whispers in his ear. A moment later he brings six mugs of ale.

“A shame I have no one to drink this with and share some stories. I guess I will have to drink them alone,” Patrick says as he takes one mug and takes a sip with a devilish smile.

Tyr looks at him with squinty eyes and an open jaw. This bastard is trying to buy me with booze. Unleashing a brief grunt he takes one of the mugs. This bastard has bought me with booze. Maybe he isn’t as helpless as I’ve imagined, Tyr concludes.

“What do you want to know?” Tyr asks, eyes glowing with attention.

“By the look of you I can see that you have experience in the ways of battle,” Patrick intones leaning towards Tyr.

“What makes you say that?” Tyr asks though he knows he is well versed in the art of combat. It may be the only thing he is well versed in.

“I may not be an expert, but I have an eye and an interest in this subject. I think there is nothing more interesting than the life of a warrior and you... smell like one,” Patrick says as he lightly smiles and leans back in his chair.

“That may be the lack of washing you are smelling,” Try replies.

“Ha-ha, you jest, but I have a keen eye for these matters,” Patrick says as he giggles.

“I, myself, coven such things. The thrill, the adventure, but sadly my life was filled with comfort and riches,” Patrick says.

“Sounds hard,” Tyr adds with clear sarcasm.

“Despite my great wish for it, my father would hear no discussion about it. Such were my circumstances. Because of that, it is up to me to find my way to high adventure. I bought my gear, trained myself, and embarked on this quest,” Patrick says with a faint glimmer in his eyes.

“Well, about your gear,” Try says, but he stops himself after all the man bought him free drinks and nothing earns as much respect to Tyr as the gift of free drinks.

“What about it?” Patrick asks.

“Never mind,” Tyr says as he continues chugging his free ale. The best kind of ale in his mind.

“Come now, tell. We are friends, aren’t we?” Patrick says.

Friends? Did I ever have friends, Try thinks? No, I didn’t have friends but I had... a friend.

“It is no good. The armor is bad and the sword even worse. You would do well to hang it on a wall rather than use it in battle,” Tyr says, thinking he may have cost himself more free ale talking about things you shouldn’t talk about. If there is one rule, he lived by it was that you don’t bother saying more than needed, but then again he never was a stickler for rules.

“I knew I was right about you.” Patrick says as his eyes glow from joy, “How about I hire you?” he asks, waiting impatiently for an answer.

“Hire me? For what?” Tyr asks, drinking the beer.

“For the creature,” Patrick says.

“Ah! The thing you were talking about earlier,” Tyr adds.

“Yes! If you would accompany me to slay it, as my warrior, I would appreciate it and it will be most rewarding; I can assure you of it,” Patrick says, still eagerly awaiting an answer.

This fool is a sucker for adventure. He wouldn’t be if that adventure of his would cost him an arm or a leg; or both perhaps? What is there to lose? Thinking about it and the promise of a reward seems more than an appealing offer. Unless?

“What if there is no creature?” Tyr asks.

“Why wouldn’t it exist?” Patrick curiously asks.

“Tis’ true, there are many creatures in this world. But creatures such as these usually keep to themselves. In my experience, it is the humans that do the most evil,” Tyr says making an expression of disgust as if reminiscing.

“If there is no creature, then the promised reward still stands. What say you?” Patrick asks, though by the look on his face he is well aware of the answer. Tyr knows this, Patrick knows, and even a blind man could see it.

“Fine. Give me the details. Make sure they are short. Very short,” Tyr says, sighing a bit.

What have I gotten myself into, Tyr thinks? But then again, who the hell cares if it can bring another drink into my mouth? A drink a day keeps the awful memories away. This is true... at least for a spell, he concludes.

“Excellent. As you see the good people here that have gathered have all come at the call of this town’s mayor. He issued a summons to aid Greybloom. Where death has come! Some villagers swear they saw a creature with red glowing eyes at the scene of the crime. If the monster doesn’t spirit away the innocent it leaves mangled and brutalized bodies behind,” Patrick explains.

Good people? Here? The only good they are for, by the looks of them, is to bash you over the head when you are not looking and steal everything you have right up to even the dirty pants you wear. Yeah, the good people.

“Near a cave at the waterfalls at Greybloom they say is the creature’s den. Tomorrow the entire party here will embark to slay it. Isn’t such an endeavor grand, isn’t such an undertaking one you only hear in stories about heroes of legends?” Patrick says with a glorious smile on his face. If it were any larger, surely it would cause him an injury.

Yes, heroes of legends, brave quests, and whatever else you want to call it. What those stories don’t mention is the fact that people die, that people are left crippled; those are the truths about these so-called heroic quests. What good is it for, anyway? You get a few pats on the back and some money. Meh! It is all unwanted trouble; I tell you. I couldn’t care less for any of it. All I care about is getting my next drink.

They hear a noise from a nearby table.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” the tavern master’s daughter says with a worrisome expression. She should be worried; about catching the attention of the “good” people here.

“You spilled my drink, wench,” a ruffian says.

She most likely didn’t and he most likely engineered this entire situation to get a few kicks.

Fucking people! Doing something stupid to mess with my quality time, Tyr says in his quiet voice. No need to engineer trouble for himself after all.

“I’m sorry,” the girl repeats as she lightly bows her head twice in succession.

“Look at this, wench,” the ruffian says as he takes a mug of ale and lightly pours it on his crotch.

“You need to clean this up,” the ruffian continues with a sinister smirk on his face. The other three at his table grin.

I don’t care about these things, Tyr thinks as he turns around back to his drinks. He notices something, he notices that the noble that was sitting across from him is gone. What the...?

“I think you had enough of your fun,” Patrick says over at the ruffian’s table.

What the hell is this idiot thinking? Is he looking for trouble where there is no need for it?

“What are you? Some pansy or some hero?” the ruffian leader asks as he bursts out laughing and with him the other three stooges.

“Well, look at him. I think he is both. I think he is a pansy hero,” another ruffian says as the entire table laughs.

One of them stands. Looking him directly in the eye with menace; being too close to him, he breathes onto Patrick. The smell is unpleasant; it makes Patrick take a step backward.

“What are you going to do?” another ruffian asks as he stands and with him, all four of them are standing and looking at him.

This damn fool had to go about finding trouble, Tyr thinks to himself.

Well, it is his business, Tyr says to himself as he drinks.

“I and my friend will teach you a lesson if you do not cease your vulgar ways,” Patrick says.

“Oh? Is that so? Where is this friend of yours?” the ruffian leader asks, still laughing.

Friend? I didn’t think he had any friends. I wonder who this friend of... oh no. He quickly comes to the realization.

“Why, that gentleman over there,” Patrick says as he points at Tyr.

“You son of a horse,” Tyr blurts out, as he chugs his drink in haste. In case there is trouble he wants to be sure that there is no immediate danger of ale spillage. Tyr has a knack for strategy even though it generally is misplaced.

The ruffian leader walks over and looks him over.

“You do not look like much. Are you going to teach us a lesson?” the ruffian leader asks as he grips the weapon on his side.

“Go about your business. I have no quarrel with you,” Tyr adds with a drink in hand.

“You don’t mind us having a bit of fun with that wench?” the ruffian leader asks.

“I do not care what you do if you do it far from me,” Tyr answers.

“A wise decision,” the ruffian leader says as an enormous smile appears on his face. Before leaving he notices the sword hanging on Tyr’s side.

“That is a nice-looking blade you have there. How about you sell it to me?” the ruffian leader asks.

“It is not for sale,” Tyr answers.

Another ruffian comes to him.

“If our boss wants something. I’m afraid you get little say in this matter,” the ruffian says, arrogantly and confidently. There are four of them and he is alone; they do not count Patrick in this equation. They know well enough.

“The answer is no,” Tyr says, visibly annoyed.

The four ruffians circle him as they draw their swords.

“Now listen here...” Patrick says as he comes running a swift knee to the stomach stops him; knocking him to the ground.

The ruffian puts his hand on Tyr’s shoulder and points his sword close to Tyr’s neck.

“I am death,” Tyr murmurs.

“What?” the ruffian asks, puzzled by those words.

“I am death incarnate,” Tyr continues.

“What the hell are you saying?” another ruffian says.

“Those who look at the eyes of death shall know eternal darkness,” Tyr says as he stands up.

“Will you leave or will you die?” Tyr asks them.

“He has gone mad. Mad, I tell you,” a ruffian says as their smiling faces turn serious.

“Give me the sword and I shall let you live,” the ruffian leader says as he holds his weapon in readiness.

“So be it,” Tyr says, as he approaches the four ruffians.

Two closest ruffians lunge at Tyr with their swords swinging, aiming to take his life. Before their swords can reach him, Tyr closes the distance in a flash; he stabs one of them in the throat with his left hand and with his right grabs the other ruffian’s hand mid-strike. Stopping the swing. Shocked at his speed, a ruffian stops for a moment. The shock doesn’t last long as in the next moment his head falls from his shoulders. The remaining ruffian and their leader take a step back with shaking legs.

“Now wait a moment,” the ruffian says, but before he can finish his thought Tyr walks to them. Standing and looking them in the eye.

“Those who look at the eyes of death shall know eternal darkness,” Tyr says as he raises his sword.

“Get him,” the ruffian leader screams as a sense of dread grows on him.

The two ruffians thrust their blades at Tyr as he steps forward between the two blades, evading them and appearing behind the two men. The two ruffians turn around as Tyr swings his sword and slashes both of their necks. They fall on their knees- blood gurgling from their necks. Their blood covers the wooden floor as paint on a canvas. Tyr watches as it slowly flows.

Blood! It is always blood. I hate it! I hate how much I relish it.