A haggard, empty looking individual is making his way through the forest. No one and nothing noticed the man leaving the old church where he lost himself, and now he is walking on slow, but steady feet towards what he calls home. The sun is slowly lowering itself to the horizon as he walks around tree stumps and forces himself through thorny bushes, not caring about the cuts and stings the thorns are inflicting on his skin and clothing.
There is no thought in his head for the hour-long walk back to the bandit camp, his empty gaze just stares ahead, only fueled by old habits of his life, where he always returns to his brothers at this time of the day. If it were not for that, he would just stay in place, as the lack of drive would keep him in place.
He pushes on, regardless of his (lacking) emotional state, continuing through rough underbrush, ignoring the sounds that in the past made him change his path through sheer fear and imagination, reaching the encampment a couple hours before the sun sets, approaching clearing in the forest where the bandits have decided to stay for now.
A clearing like any other, with a camp in the middle. Trees have been cut down to create this space and a palisade wall encircling what looks like a village made of tents of various colors, leaving a big space in the middle where a bonfire roars, and from one side of the camp, where strong iron cages stand under a makeshift lean-to, muffled screams can be heard from a more elaborate tent, made of a patchwork of leathers and cloths and big enough to have multiple rooms.
As monsterful as the bandits are, at least they have the decency to supply some privacy, even if it is only for the more morally weaker individuals of the horde.
As he comes closer, he is greeted by two other bandits wearing similar leather armour to him While no one in their right mind would attack a bandit camp of this size, wild animals usually lack reasoning, and the smells of cooked meat permeates the entire closer forest area, possibly driving starving predators into a frenzy.
"Hey Gerro", one of the guards shouts, waving his left arm but keeping his right on the pommel of his sheated blade. "you took your sweet-ass time."
The other guard however does not sound as enthusiastic as the first one as he asks: "Where are Tayne and Oltes? I think they left with you. Have you seen them?"
Gerro stops in his tracks before the two, who could now easily make out the hunched posture that his bandit in front of them has had this entire time. Dead, empty eyes with an emotionless face stare back at them, as an equally static and emotionless voice answers the two with a simple sentence.
"They're dead."
"Oh shit man", the first guard exclaimed, his face immediately assuming compassion as he reaches out his right arm to pat his brother-in-arms on the shoulder. "Didn't knew you were so attached to those two fuckwits. Come inside, eat some bacon, cheer up! We even got some fresh girls you might like! I know you like 'em young and innocent!"
"We agreed not to talk about that incident", the second guard answers in a deadpan voice. "also, keep your... preferences to yourself please."
"Come on, man, don't be a retarded buzzkill." The first guard turns around, facing the other guard. "Don't you see how hurt he looks? He must've seen some shit! I don't fucking care about what you find creepy or not, He's one of us, so at least fucking care!"
"For fuck's sake, they were fucking CHILDREN!" He practically shouts that last word, yet with the soudns of celebration in the background, only those three can hear it. Well, two now, since Gerro continued on his way as soon as the first guard broke his gaze. "Besides, doesn't seem like he gives a shit about You, at least."
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"Oh fuck. Gerro, Wait the fuck up!" the first guard spins around, giving chase to his 'friend', but stopped soon in his tracks. Bandits don't have many rules, but 'never leave guard duty' is certainly one of them. So there is nothing else those guards can do, beside watching a broken man disappearing into the crowd of bandits around the bonfire.
Before he could really register what happened, Gerro finds himself sitting at a wonky wooden table, with a plateful of pork in front of him. It is cooked to perfection, juices glistering in the dancing flames of the bonfire, aromatic smells rising like savoury flowers. Anyone else wouldn't be able to resist the alluring, supple flesh in front of them, yet this man did not pay it any mind. He only thinks that it is a chore to feed yourself regularly, having to acquire food every day just to stave off starvation for another day. He finds no enjoyment in the meal in front of him, and so he leaves.
His aimless wandering leads him to the tents at the back side of the camp, where memories of nights past flood his mind. He used to cherish those memories, of the countless girls he enjoyed to break, their screams affirming his manhood, the feelings of power filling him when they submit. But now all he feels is emptiness. What point is there in feeling powerful, if it is a simple lie he tells himself? What use does a temporary moment of bliss have against the endless pain that is life?
For the first time in his life, he turns away from this area of the camp without feeling satisfied, with only a few people noticing his weird demeanor. Mostly because they've been regulars as well so far, enjoying the peculiar set of screams this now broken man used to elicit from his very unfortunate victims. They, too, would leave empty tonight, albeit for different reasons.
What happens to a man driven by his desire, when you take away said desire? When you take away his ability to enjoy his life, when you take away his self-found purpose? Right now, he is wandering between the tents, ignoring the friendly faces of comrades-in-arms, of battle brothers, wordlessly declining invitations to getting drunk, to boast about achievements, to revel in gluttony and hedonism, leaving most of those faces slightly confused and hurt in their pride. At least those sober enough to notice him, that is.
After that, no one really knew where he went, and no one really cared. Many of his 'friends' simply assumed he died in the raid, an unlucky victim to a random swing of a farming implement, a story happening more often than one might think, and the life of a bandit isn't exactly safe, either. It is not until the next morning that they find out what truly happened to him, when they stumble across his corpsedangling from a tree close to the camp, held up by a rope tied around his neck.
While a death by farmer is quite common, no one ever even remembered when the last time was someone took 'the easy way out'. After all, it takes a special kind of person to resort to banditry, and one thing they all have in common is the will to live. So names are called, high-ranking people assembled, and the chief notified, and after much deliberation, and noticing that two others failed to return after being seen when the most was over, they came to the only logical conclusion that their primitive brains could come up with.
This land is cursed, and they should depart immediately, never to speak of this again.
Meanwhile, in said cursed land, a small group of people leave the forest, returning to the ashes of the place they once called home. They were the lucky ones, the ones that managed to run away, get away otherwise or have been absent when the bandits struck, leaving them to pick up the pieces and rebuild with heavy hearts. Bandit raids are not unheard of, but they happen rarely enough for people to think that they will never be victims themselves, increasing the trauma they receive on the off-chance it does happen.
"...and of course they had to attack on the one day I am justified in wearing the prettiest of dresses I made. I would have made them jealous, I tell you!" Of course, some people are just made different, like this middle-aged lady in a tattered dress, the only voice echoing across the wasteland, with poor looking man behind her, listening patiently to her endless ramblings. "And of course I can forget the milk delivery tomorrow! I was so looking forward to the cake I was going to bake! Why is it always me that is on the receiving end of such things?"
"Dear," Her husband said, immediately regretting his decision to speak up, yet his tongue keeps working regardless. "It is not only you..."
"But I am the most affected! I was on my way to the top, I even had an invitation to Grismelda's Tea Group! The one I always keep talking about wanting to join! They always have the best gossip, and now, two days before my first meeting with them, those savages arrive, ruining everything! I swear, they came for me specifically!"
Loro knew from experience that once his wife starts being like this, there is no stopping her. Sometimes he thinks that she believes that the whole world is against her, but then again, she makes some valid points from time to time. The fact that he just stumbled across the charred corpse of his childhood friend and drinking buddy is something he keeps quiet, otherwise his wife would just complain about how he went drinking all the time and how they must surely gossip and complain about her when she wasn't around, conveniently forgetting that Loro only really went drinking about once a month, and that they were too busy talking about other things like agriculture to be complaining about each other's wives, another corpse he stumbled upon, utterly mutilated too.
Finally reaching their ashen-covered property, he absent-mindedly starts combing through the remains of their house, looking for anything they could use to make a makeshift shelter, while listening to his wive's endless ramblings. "They had to burn it all down just to spite me! They know that ash is hard to wash out and darkens the colors! All my clothes are ruined! Why must the world be so cruel to me?"