It had taken roughly two days, even on horseback, to return. Christoph’s riding technique and style had greatly improved with the help of his new personal assistant—Calzion. They’d travelled the distance, and just over the distant hill was the small village of Rothmire.

They’d rode mostly in silence. Christoph had tried to make conversation, but it seemed his servants were still unsure of their fates when he opened his mouth. So, he often kept it shut. He’d even offered to keep watch throughout the night alongside them, but they had respectfully declined his assistance stating, “We are your servants. It is beneath you to toil when you should relax.”

Little did either know, Christoph hadn’t succumbed to exhaustion the entirety of the trip. During each of the breaks they took to water or feed the horses, he took a seat and mentally relaxed long enough to revitalize his spirit. An odd sensation, not needing sleep. Christoph missed the dreams and the comfort of a bed. Days flew by with little need to know the time. This transition was not comfortable, but it did have benefits.

He’d taken some of the venison Gitma had hunted in the woods. She’d cooked some of it lightly for Calzion, but the majority of the meat was offered to Christoph first. He’d taken some as he missed the flavor. The smell of the raw meat did make his mouth water slightly (if only by some magical, mental command of memory). Ignoring his humanity need for cooked meat, he sunk his teeth into the slab and swallowed what he could. Only two or three bites and he felt uncomfortably stuffed like piling a feast atop an already eaten dinner.

When he told them to eat, the half-elf cooked his over the fire and Gitma turned away from the others to lift her mask and devour her immense portion. Christoph felt shivers go up his spine while he tried to relax against the trunk of a tree. Slurping, crunching, and some gargling came from the hunched over female that turned a full deer carcass into a pile of cleaned bones in just a few minutes.

Though, the bones soon disappeared. They were, as she put it, “My favorite.”

Now, as they’d come into view of his village, Christoph felt relieved that they were at least halfway done with their full journey. He’d had to deal with the oddity that was Gitma, who only spoke occasionally and hunted as often as they’d take breaks, and with Calzion, whose eyes were always wide and watching.

I could use a break. These guys are dragging me down. He looked over to Calzion who immediately straightened his shoulders and stared straight forward. He turned to look at Gitma behind him. Both of her beady pupils shot off in different directions. She was difficult to read… her buggy eyes were always moving. What is under that mask?

Christoph shivered at the thought.

“We’re almost there, my Lord.” Calzion was riding slightly ahead and to the right, but he stopped at the last small hill before the village. Through the trees from their vantage point, you could just see the edges of some of the homes. Christoph remembered watching those buildings grow distant as he marched toward his death, and the pit in his undead stomach grew. “Shall we disguise ourselves here?”

“Yes.” Christoph agreed, almost forgetting about his lizard-like exterior, and hopped down from the horse.

Calzion let his hair down so it covered the sides of his head and his ears. He then pulled up his cloak so it only covered to the edge of his hair; not too conspicuous when riding into town. Gitma followed suit. She tugged at the black cloak and made sure her fake hair fell around the mask as much as possible, but she left the face of it revealed as to not draw too much attention.

“Arcane Disguise!” Christoph put out his hands and saw the runic circles spin and lock in the air. Once cast, he could see his falsified body like a specter encasing his own. He’d successfully lowered his stature, thinned the body, removed certain aspects (like the swinging limb behind him), and even managed tightened flesh that wrapped around the bones as if it were natural. It was all just an illusion, but it didn’t look like a grotesque nightmare.

“How do I look?” Christoph spun, trying to be funny, to show off his new appearance.

Calzion barely glanced at his master before speaking, “A splendid disguise, my Lord. Though it’s human. Must you degrade yourself?” The half-elf bounced a bit as his horse huffed.

“Degrade myself?” Christoph looked himself over. The skin’s on right. Proportions seem okay. I can’t see my face, but I think I remember how I looked. He felt confident in his spell—this time. He’d been using what he could recall from his days as a human for a template. Using magic, he’d been able to mimic his own past self.

He was still taller than he had been in life. The magic was only able to shorten him so much. Tan skin hung out from within the robes—hands and arms much thinner than that of the dragonkin. Copperish scales and a tale had vanished. Christoph tucked his tail up around his waist as best he could so that it wouldn’t swing around invisibly while he moved about the people of his village.

This is crazy. He began to debate his actions. I should just stay here, but they won’t accept me! Those monsters are going to go crazy if I don’t go back. What am I going to do about them? None of this junk is going to make up for what happened! Christoph was pacing in an illusionary form before his two servants and muttering to himself.

“My Lord?” Christoph glanced up to see Calzion peering down with a worried look. “Is something the matter?”

“No.” Christoph thought and huffed. “Yes. I don’t know.” He patted the sword at his side and the book that hung from his waist. “I haven’t been back for since that day.” He trailed off and thought of the day he had marched away from that village ahead.

“Since what day, my Lord?”

Christoph saw that both of the guards forced on him were staring inquisitively.

“Never mind. Forgive me.” Christoph’s words were final, and so the two paid it no mind. They were ready to obey and not question the rantings of the mad king. “Shall we go?”

Back on his horse, the three rode off to enter the village of Rothmire. Through the final row of trees nearer the northern side of town, they broke through to find the opened center of the town. Where Christoph believed he’d find busy neighbors and friends, he found only the silent remains of a village after some brutal event.

Some of the houses had been charred or completely burned to the ground. The tower that had been erected over the well had been demolished. Even the storehouse on the eastern side of the square was almost entirely collapsed. It was a scene that brought two thoughts to the mind of the disguised dragonkin.

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Fear.

Wrath.

Three minds in one fought for dominance. Two were in agreement while one considered what the scarred village could mean for his visit. His group rode into the center of the village, up to the remains of the tower, and dismounted. Christoph left the horse behind and moved toward his home. It stood just around the corner from the Chief’s.

Father, mother, Bev, and Oldin will be waiting for me. Each one’s bright face will welcome me home! He took off at a speed human eyes would find peculiar. They’ll be in there for sure!

Christoph saw his home. It was unscathed and standing. It was midday, and the sun shined brightly on that one building he’d longed to see more than any other. Home! All that was inside would revive him and make him whole. It wouldn’t matter the pain he had to share. It mattered that they would face it all together.

“Father!” Christoph pushed open the door and yelled into the house.

There was silence.

Christoph took a step inside, frantically glancing about to find his family, and saw the condition of the abode. The table had been pushed to the side and the chairs were mostly strewn about the room or toppled over. A number of the basic cabinets around the kitchen hung in pieces or were completely demolished. This place hadn’t been burned… but it was equally filled with destruction.

“Mother!” Christoph began running toward his parent’s room, then into his sister’s, and then into the boys’ shared room. “Bev!” His clawed hands scraped across the woodwork—his illusion unable to prevent the deadly nails. “Oldin!”

He was shouting now. His lowered voice was unchanged by the spell, and his thundering voice shook the walls as he screamed. “Mother! Father!”

They’re in the fields. Of course!

He turned and shoved one of the chairs out of the way. In his haste, the strength used was enough to instantly crumple the wooden furniture against the wall. Christoph hurried out, passing his mother’s beds of various flowers and favored roses, and sped down the worn paths to the fields. He hasn’t had much help since I left. Since Malin…

Christoph slowed as he neared the edge of the field. The crops wouldn’t have been very high at this time, had there been any crops to grow. Christoph had rounded the dirt paths that led to the south and found himself at the edge of a burned field. This field was separated from the woods by the dirt road on one side and the river on the other… but all between had been destroyed and scorched.

“W-what happened here?” Christoph’s eyes tried to produce tears, but his undead body offered none. His family’s livelihood within the community had been decimated. His home was empty.

And so the tears began to well up inside. All behind a spiritual dam.

The clash of fear and wrath were brewing in the waters. Fears were beginning to compile. The overwhelming situation became unbearable. Looking out over the lost crops, the undead dragonkin wanted nothing more than to find those responsible. Find them and annihilate them.

The dragonkin’s eyes were shining a dull crimson that bled through the illusion—two lights coming out nearer the image’s forehead. He would have set out like an apex predator on the hunt had it not been for a single voice behind him.

“Who’re you?!”

Christoph turned with a growl escaping his throat. The blazing inferno in his undead heart was ready to tear the world apart until he found that one thing he sought. Turning didn’t show him his desire, but it was a familiar face.

The chief was standing about ten meters behind him. He’d exited the woods in a pitiful ambush. A pitchfork, aged and weathered, rattled against its wooden handle as the elder tried to hold it steady. This aged man had lost weight in the short time Christoph had been gone, his beard had become a bit more unruly, and his eyes were filled with fear. He flinched at the growl of the newcomer, but seeing his face made the chief’s expression of pseudo-resistance relax with an exhausted huff.

“Christoph? Christoph, is that you?” The chief’s eyes began to well up and the pitchfork fell to the ground. The older man began to shake his head and fight back the tears with the absolute last drop of his will. “Thank the gods!”

Christoph’s violent desires were quenched upon seeing this aged man’s submission. The man was ready to topple over, but as the old man’s eyes shut he was caught by the disguised dragonkin. Feeling the weightless mass of his chief, Christoph closed himself off to the world. Lifting his village’s chief in his arms, he moved toward the man’s humble home.

Calzion and Gitma had been nearby after securing the horses to the debris of the collapsed tower. Christoph, in his pained and somber walk, hadn’t noticed how they’d been just a short distance behind the old man with deadly intent in their eyes. Had Christoph not moved when he did, even as the man lost consciousness, two servants of Surton Spire would have ended the old man’s life.

It was not out of spite—though both held some disdain for the race of humanity. It was a protective necessity. This man had closed the gap and audaciously threatened their king. What more could be said than death being the only acceptable punishment?

Both guards readied themselves and began walking behind Christoph. Their eyes were both wide and watchful for any others that might be about. Gitma did her best to scan thoroughly and sniff up any scent in the air. The old man had gotten far closer than she felt she should have allowed, and she wasn’t going to lose her life over that mistake. Her senses went to work.

Christoph marched along the stilled and quieted buildings of a tired village. Some had come out of their homes to see what the commotion was. Others remained behind closed doors or peered through cracks in their walls. When he got to the door, the disguised dragonkin lifted a foot and forced the door from the wall with ease. It creaked and splintered slightly, but he’d tempered himself enough that it hadn’t flown from the simple hinges.

“We sh—”

“You both wait outside.” Christoph interrupted Calzion who had begun to move to his side. His eyes remained forward, still slightly glowing with his rage, as he growled his demands.

“But, my Lord.” Calzion protested with a head bow.

Splintering wood sounded out as a disguised claw broke through the wood around the entrance. Calzion couldn’t raise his head to look. He knew his master’s hand was imbedded in the wood. Each hair across his neck stood on end at the feeling in the air—that electricity that would surely be followed by the dark aura of despair.

Christoph had a clear motive in mind. He still looked into the house as he carried the man with one arm. He felt no pain from the wood cracking up and scraping over his flesh. In all of his building fury, he kept toward the task at hand.

“I said, ‘Wait outside.’” The door to the building was quickly shut behind him; though, it hung oddly since the violent opening. As Christoph looked for the bed of the chief, Calzion and Gitma stood guard out front. The eyes of the villagers watching, waiting, and letting their minds wander regarding the newcomers.