The stranger was basking his hands in the warmth of the light. He was a huge man, heavily muscled and thick-limbed. His voice was deep and heavy, yet remained serene. “Fire, it turns still wood into a thing of beauty, mesmerizing all who gaze upon it. A splendor burial, providing ardor and life,” the stranger said in admiration.
Jack grunted in response. He reached beside him, grabbing a couple broken branches from the darkness, and fed them to the consuming fire.
“Do you not agree?” he asked, his voice curious and welcoming.
A quiet moment passed, the fire’s soothing song substituting for the lack of words.
Jack looked around, which was somewhat pointless, as there was nothing. That, in a way, might have been Jack’s very point. “What makes you think it’s cold?” Jack asked the man, not glancing away from the blaze.
A puzzled look appeared on the man’s face. He did not respond for a very long time, his thoughtful face working the question one way and the other.
“Do you mean,” he began, amusement apparent in his voice “that you believe because of the presence of the warmth, we know what is cold? Or…” he went on, the pitch of his voice increasing, “...that because there is a fire here, we will, therefore, come to believe that everything beyond its tender touch is hostile?”
Jack nodded.
“A curious suggestion!” The man exclaimed. “But why would a fire be erected, if there was no cold to battle?”
“There was, maybe. At some point, but now--”
“--the campfire is the cold,” the man interrupted Jack eagerly.
“You’re Raven’s henchman, alright,” Jack said with annoyance.
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“Partner is preferable!” He laughed, full and hearty. It’s echoes stretched far into the darkness, leaving behind a comfortable silence in its wake.
“Raven has no partners; only pawns, and pawns that are about to be dead. What is your name, stranger?” Jack asked, for the first time looking directly at him. He was a handsome man, with a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones.
He also had a huge dick.
Jack knew this not from staring into his face, for he was clothed in fur armor, but rather because he was the same man he had jacked off. This was the person Jack was supposed to take over. He was, as Jack already astutely observed, far from being brain dead.
The man looked back in surprise, his eyebrows arched in bafflement “Why, that’s a foolish thing to ask! Names have great power, in this realm. In you asking, you have allowed me to offer mine. Reconsider, and do not further empower me by referring to me by any titles, for those too, have great power,” the stranger cautioned, his voice turning soft at the end. His bright, friendly face became laced with sorrow. A certain sadness weighed down his broad shoulders.
Jack chuckled. “Do not kid with me, stranger, for it is foolhardy. The outcome of our battle is ineluctable.”
The man sighed deeply, his very breath drowsing the bright flames. “I am afraid so. I am named Nealon, with the title Warrior’s Heart. I have been named the Fire’s Spirit, the Earth’s Son, and Iron Banner,” Nealon said, and though his voice was filled with a stark darkness, it was also filled with pride. “I am truly sorry, but I can not ask for your name, nor refer to you by any title,” he went on, his voice turning rough. He placed his hands upon his knees and stood up, his giant figure towering over Jack. “Raven spent a great deal of her precious time to explicitly caution me against underestimating you. Though the outcome of our battle had been decided upon your entrance to this field, I will honor you. I, Nealon, even in certain victory, will fear you. I do hope that this will suffice the sin of this deception.”
Jack waved his hand. He stood up as well. “Fear not, Nealon. You must do what you must, and as shall I.”
“We would have made fine allies. I am truly sorry fate had forced its cruel strings about us,” Nealon said, as he stepped onto the fire, sword in hand, and pierced through Jack’s chest.
Blood dripped out of the wound, sliding down the blade and to the ground.
“I too, I am sorry it had come to this,” Jack replied, much to Nealon’s surprise, as four blades pierced his body.
Four Jacks had surrounded Nealon, their weapons spraying the ground with gore.
One was viciously laughing, his giggles running wild from behind Nealon. He had two daggers inserted at both sides of Nealon’s neck, and was using them to hold himself to Nealon’s back. With each slight laugh the blades twisted and advanced further in, spraying blood for feet on end.
The second had a lazy look smothered on his face, his eyes half closed and uncaring. A long spear was thrust from one side of Nealon, and appeared on the other end.
The third was haggard, his eyes wet with sorrow. He solemnly stood at Nealon’s other side, his short blade inserted to the hilt.
The fourth was simply wide in glee. His body shook in pleasure as his hand ax passed through the original Jack’s body, and stuck itself half-way inside Nealon’s head.
Collectively, all four retracted their blades, brandished the blood off, and vanished into thin air.
Nealon’s body slumped to his knees, then fell forward. A puddle of blood expanded, wetting Jack’s toes. He looked down at Nelon’s still body, cracking his neck in discomfort “Names are powerful, Nealon. What a mighty presence you had, for a human. It’s a shame yours were so extraordinary, otherwise, my blades would have never reached you.”