A figure watched the large, black plumes of toxic smoke waft away into the moonlit sky. His men were tossing bodies from a nearby pile into the roaring flames, where they soon dissolved into ash and dust. He watched the corpses dissipate, disappearing within the raging inferno, every trace of them erased from existence.
Surge smiled, his face glowing blood-red in the evening flames.
‘What a lovely night,’ he thought. He breathed deep the noxious air. It smelt of roast flesh and burnt buildings. ‘What a lovely, lovely night.’
The raid had gone off without a hitch, more or less. They’d waited for the delving party to leave in the morning, attacking under the cover of night. The aging guardsmen had fallen easily before them, and quietly, giving them plenty of time to surround the village from within.
Then they started lighting cabins on fire, and watched the townsfolk scurry towards the main square like rats deserting a sinking ship. Right into their waiting arms. It was almost too perfect.
Almost.
Surge scowled, glaring at one corpse on the pile in particular. A short, grey-haired, middle aged man filled with wiry muscle. He didn’t know how it was possible, but the man had hidden while his bandits corralled the crowd, killing those who resisted and clapping chains on those that didn’t.
The villager had snuck up behind him, silent as the grave. The man had been poised to take his head off just before Flange brained him, Surge’s partner somehow foreseeing the grey-haired man’s attack at the very last instant.
Surge spat on the villager’s corpse. His lucky break had come at last, and it’d almost ended early at the hands of a mundy.
“I wouldn’t do that,” his partner chimed in, unnecessarily. Surge turned to glare at the man.
“Bad luck,” Flange explained. “Disrespectful, to the dead.”
“You’re the one who killed him, asshole,” Surge snarled.
If Flange took offense to his retort, Surge wouldn’t have known it. The plated giant’s greathelm covered his face near entirely. Flange was as calm as ever, unbothered by the bloody affair the raid had been. His armor was unblemished, the grey-haired man his only kill for the night, the rest handled by their minions.
“Still, I appreciate it, partner. Guess we know now what your mace’s bad feeling was all about, hmm?” Surge chuckled darkly. “A mundy. Never would’ve guessed one of them’d be the cause.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Danger’s over, now. All smooth sailing from here, eh?” Surge said, patting his friend on the back with a hearty clang. Flange hummed distractedly, apparently not in quite as good spirits as him. The armored man lifted his mace before him, studying it intently.
“Over…,” Flange murmured, gazing deeply at the mottled steel. “Is it?”
But Surge’s attention had already moved on. He was gazing greedily at their prizes. Lines of women and children, chained and kneeling in the courtyard, surrounded by his men. They’d just rounded up the last of the village.
The oldest and most rebellious had had to go, the latter to make an example, and the former because they just weren’t worth anything. But they still had plenty left, well over 20 slaves to take to Nycta. Plenty of children, too. Unlike the other Cells, Nycta’d pay good money for kids. Fuel for their triggering program, most likely.
Surge sighed with satisfaction. The night was drawing to a close, the delving party likely dead in the dungeon. He’d been flabbergasted when he’d seen them set out in the early morning. Mundies, one and all. He’d Observed each one, just to be sure. He shook his head in incredulity. Delving without a single Blessed? Madness.
But it didn’t matter now. They’d already gotten their camp set up in the Headman’s manor, and they’d use its main hall to store the slaves. By the time an hour passed by, the last of the bodies would be burnt to ash. Then he could go to bed, after sampling some of their loot, of course, and when he awoke tomorrow they’d begin plundering the dungeon.
Surge sighed again. Sometimes, things just worked out perfectly. He relaxed, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. At the very edge of his perception, he made out a soft whistle in the midnight breeze.
In a howl of hurtling wind and ear-shattering detonation of energy, the center of the village square erupted in every direction, showering all within it in earth and soil as a missile landed.
When the dust cleared, right in the epicenter of the crater before them, a figure stood.
It was a man.
No, it was a boy, but that was hard to tell at first, given his state of dress, or lack thereof. He was half-naked, covered only in the barest scraps of clothing and old bandages that had clearly been burnt to a crisp. None of his skin was visible, though, as he was covered absolutely head to toe in dried blood.
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It coated his flesh, saturated his hair, matted and caked his long locks, such that their original color could no longer be discerned. The blood was in numerous different colors, some blue, some red, some purple, giving him the bizarre appearance of a particularly grotesque painting. Some of the blood, too, was burnt and blackened.
He carried nothing with him besides a single threadbare satchel slung over his shoulder. His only recognizable bodily feature not overwhelmed by blood and soot were a pair of sea-green eyes. He bore no weapons, but his nature was clear as day.
A Blessed.
Here? How? Eyes widening, Surge Observed him.
~~~
Hero
~~~
What?
‘Is that some sort of fucking joke?’ Surge thought, but he knew it wasn’t. Observe never lied. It never failed. It was the one tool Blessed could always rely upon to identify one another by name.
Everyone in the square was silent, even his own men not speaking a word. The slaves’ eyes were wide, a mixture of hope and fear shining from within. That bothered Surge. Opening his mouth, about to mock the blood-covered child despite himself, Surge felt a large heavy palm weigh upon his shoulder, gripping tightly enough to make him gasp.
He turned.
Flange stood stock-straight beside him, shaking his massive head slowly. His partner’s form was poised, ready, his focus absolute. Serious like never before. He held his mace so tightly that his gauntlet creaked. Flange released him slowly, and Surge’s head whipped back to the kid, to Hero.
The boy’s body had turned slightly to the left, his gaze sweeping over the group of chained villagers, who for their part remained as quiet as the grave. Hero frowned, then turned to examine the pile of corpses.
Immediately, his face crumpled in anguish and despair. Slowly, he walked towards the pile. Surge couldn’t tell which body he’d recognized, and when he arrived before it, he spoke so quietly Surge could barely make it out, even with his enhanced hearing.
“Again, I fail. Again, I am too late, too weak.” The boy closed his eyes, inclining his head. “I’m sorry, Master.” Then Hero turned back towards them. His emerald glare passed over Surge and Flange steadily, seeming to flare with light twice before he closed his eyes. He breathed once, slowly, in and out.
Then he stomped down, furiously, further pulverizing the cracked earth beneath him.
A shockwave echoed across the burning village as the boy took his stance.
‘Well trained, combat Blessing, Brute rating–2? 3?’ Surge thought, mind racing, adrenaline spiking. ‘Not good. Need to find out more. Need to know mechanics, specifics.’ He glanced right, to Flange, who nodded at him. Surge gestured towards the Hero, and his men dashed out to meet him.
The first one that reached him was bold, and stupid. The boy’s hand flickered, movement almost too fast for Surge to follow, and the bandit crumpled, clutching his spurting throat. Four more approached him in pairs, superior numbers hopefully enough to overwhelm the Blessed, attacking from either direction.
Fluidly, easily, with the grace of a master swordsman, the boy pivoted and twirled, and these men were cut to pieces as well. ‘Mover? Combat Thinker? Or, is he just that good?’ Surge wondered, as his underlings fell with wails and cries. Ultimately, he decided, it didn’t matter.
The last of the men had encircled the Blessed entirely, this time staying back, acting cautiously, probing and testing with careful thrusts and strikes. They were doing well. Doing as they should. Making space for their boss.
Surge smiled, a grin growing so wide across his face it seemed to split it in two. He imagined the shock, the surprise on the Hero’s expression as he was cut down from behind. The confusion as he drew his last breath, wondering only how it was that Surge had moved so quickly. Oh, how he loved this.
This was his favorite part.
Surge leaned, crouching slightly forward. Muscles rippled and tensed, firing in glorious symphony all across his body as he prepared. He fingered both daggers eagerly as called upon his Blessing.
Flash Step.
And then he was somewhere else entirely. In a burst of red lightning, he was behind the hapless Hero, behind his adolescent target, and both his daggers were poised just above the boy’s neck. Ready to decapitate him, flowing downwards in sharp synchrony, swift, instant, deadly…
Nothing.
His daggers swept helplessly across empty air. He felt a sharp pinch on the left side of his neck.
What? What happened? Where had the boy gone? Surge’s head whipped to the left, to the right, looking for his target…
Wait, no.
His vision hadn’t changed at all. He hadn’t moved his head. He was still looking where he just had been, not moments ago, his eyes fixed on the daggers before him. Confused, he tried to move forward, but found he couldn’t.
What…what’s happening?
His field of view finally began to shift, but it was all wrong. The world was spinning in front of him, tumbling around and around, strangely not inducing any nausea. The ground rushed up to meet him and he…bounced right off it?
Something…something’s wrong.
His vision was beginning to dim around the edges, his thoughts becoming oddly fuzzy, but he could still see enough to behold what lay before him. A headless body, covered in dark leathers, blood pouring over its chest. It looked so large, from down here.
Hey, that looks like…mine?
A boy’s hand, covered in dried, multicolored blood reached down to grab him. Surge knew the boy was important, but couldn’t seem to remember just who he was. Surge hoped the boy was here to help him.
The gory, grasping palm blocked out all else, and darkness consumed him.