Whispers in the dark up ahead encouraged him to slow his steps, and tread quietly forward. Caution always pays twice for the time it buys from you. He dimmed his light, the blueish green hue wasn’t too out of place with the glow from the mushrooms that had made this subterranean hell hole their home, but again Caution pays twice.  He pulled out the first sword that hung off his back.

As the man drew closer to the sharp turn in the tunnel he paused, able to make out two voices trying desperately it seemed, to quietly berate each other for what was certainly the other person’s foolishness.

“We never should have come here, we’re almost out of wood.” A woman’s voice, somewhat grating to his ears. “Maybe if we turn back now we can make it out of this alive, I can’t believe we thought this was a good idea.”

The second voice interrupted.

“We thought!? Have you forgotten this whole sodding plan was your idea? We’ll go to the training grounds ourselves you said, then we’ll be able to become full fledged soul bearers and defend the village ourselves you said! We’ll be heros! Pff, your brains got the runs it seems, splatting out every putrid idea that comes into your mind.”

This one a man’s voice for sure, or at the very least a manly woman.

“The hired men were taxing us for all we had, who knows how much longer the elder’s vaults would last. We had to do something. Learning their trade ourselves and coming back to do it better then them seemed a right fancy idea at the time.”

A pause in the conversation allowed the man in the shadows to reflect on the situation. The owners of the failed whispers didn’t seem to be nefarious people.

Idiots, yes.

Only a fool would do something to draw attention to themselves in the labyrinthian tunnels that supposedly led to the grounds. Fools, or the uninitiated. It was sometimes hard to remember that he too had once been much the same. He was blessed by the God to survive his initiation. Blessed or lucky that is. He was pulled from his thoughts by the realization that the whispers had gone, as had the dark.

An orange glow, a smell of smoke. Fools indeed. The man quickly searched for a deep enough crack in the rock wall and wedged himself firmly as far as he could go. He counted three heartbeats before the screams began.

              It was a while later before he dared to leave his hiding place. He made sure the glow from the fire was long dead, and then he waited for what he guessed to be an hour before he drew himself from the relative safety of his crevice.

Slow steps brought him forward. The stench made him stop.

The remains of one corpse had fallen into the fire, a charred mess of blood and flesh. No bones though, none on either body. If what was left could be called a body. That told the man everything he needed to know about the beasts that had slain the unwary would be heroes of some small village that, no doubt, was waiting with a naïve optimism only small villages have, for their timely return. Them, and what appeared to have been their donkey.

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He wondered how long it would be until the families started to mourn. He wondered how long ago it had been since his parents had wept for him, or if they still waited. If they still lived. He had left them in harsh times, no doubt his disappearance only sharpened the edge of the sorrowful blade that pressed at their throat. He felt shame. Shame and regret, shown only in the hand that shook by his side. A hand that reached out to start searching the packs of those with less divine favor than him.

In the bags he found some wood, oil, tack bread, paper, ink, and what appeared to be a crude bestiary. He paused as he saw a jar filled with peaches. Carefully he removed the glass jar and thanked the God for his blessing. Opening the lid and smelling memories, the man began to feast on what amounted to three peaches pitted and cut into slices. His mind drifted to an old orchard, as old as the town built near it. To a girl with a loud voice and louder eyes; A heart that showed on a sleeve, and a soul that could not hide its mood. The sweet taste of a peach shared between friends.

               He froze as he realized what he had done. The pain of the past left him, as the fear of what was to come pierced his mind. He rushed to set down the jar and accidently broke the glass on the stone floor.

The man swore in his mind. He frantically wiped the juice off his hands with one of the dead’s cloth bags only to realize the leak from the jar had gotten onto his boots.

If they hadn’t smelt the peaches others certainly would have heard the jar crack. He was more afraid of the ones that smelt things than the ones that heard things. It wasn’t hard to be quiet if you sat still and waited, but once a scent was on you, it didn’t leave easily. And everything had a smell.

No manner of sitting still will keep you from sweating while a monster breathes inches from your face. And no manner of scrubbing with a bag will remove the scent of jarred peaches from your boots.

The man realized he was out of options. He would have to fight.

He drew the second sword that hung from his back, the name CONNIVAL written along its’ blade, close to the hilt. The blade was silent. The man let out a frustrated and terrified laugh as he realized the Connival would do him no good. He reached for the dagger at his side, maybe Syl would be more helpful.

“Oh hello, in a bit of a sssituation are we?” the voice was soft and deep, with a coy edge that betrayed an attitude of smugness.

“Yes Syl, please help me or you’ll be stuck in the depths of this mountain for only the God knows how long.” A pause for one heartbeat.

“Alright you’ve convinsssed me, but I don’t think the odds are in our favor. Quickly now, you have only one courssse of action. you must... ah, make a home of your deceased brethren…”

The man looked at the knife with disgust and sheathed it. The best his town had to offer. Two magical, supposedly soul bearing weapons; A bastard sword that probably didnt even bear a true soul and a- well, the man wasn’t quite sure exactly what Syl was. Besides cruel and deffinitly up to something. He’d hazard a guess that Syl was somehow related to a serpent.

A silent sword, and a conniving coward. The man was out of time, so he made his way over the mottled lump of fur and flesh that he had taken for the adventurers’ donkey.

“Sorry, you probably deserved better than those fools got you, and no beast deserves this.” With that the man began to crawl headfirst into the foul smell that just might save his life.