The weight of the glinting hammer head was insignificant even in Tarot's withered grasp. In fact, such was his level, he had a bounce in his step despite the weapon's certain heft. He had drastically overplayed his hand in their first encounter. Who could have expected mere acquaintances would care to watch his retrieval of the blasted hammer, let alone bother to stand in his way? They had just met the boy and yet some futile allegiance bound them so quickly. It had been too long since Tarot had faced real opposition. By no means was the pirate "top dog" in the dusty hellscape but the lack of challenge was certain. The ensuing beatdown hadn't been pleasant but to have his feathers ruffled for the first time in so long was... invigorating. How long had it been since he had faced a real threat?
Worlds away Tarot recalled the soft touch of dew-laden morning grass. The thrum of his heart as he awaited a stronger adversary. They too had all been so certain of themselves, of their superiority.
"Amadaeus. Lucas. Demyter."
Even now, speaking their names aloud brought a sense of comfort. This boy, this infantile craftsman, wasn't a worthy opponent even for his much younger self. His accomplices on the other hand presented real danger, a bone-breaking threat. Snatching the hammer had been a matter of watching the pathetic hobbling figure as he travelled the populated market ground. Time and again another gleaming armourment was replaced with a superior piece, each better than the last. A fool could see that, much less someone with Tarot's impeccable eyesight. It was categorical. The rate of progress was astonishing as the boy became ever more familiar with his physiology. It almost reminded Tarot of himself.
After the first hour of memorising the boy's routine and getting a sense of how his campmates lingered, Tarot had gotten close enough that a finely tuned mental probe had permeated the boy's mind. If he had so wished, death would come soundlessly in an instant. As ever, the issue lay in the watchful gaze of the boy's growing band of protectors. Whilst he could influence Otis' movements, there was every likelihood that it wouldn't be the same as if it happened organically. Tarot might have brought his own band of disappointments but the pale imitations lacked the competency he needed and he refused to sully his reputation if they failed to avoid another beating.
Cold, the perpetual scrape of his loose, ragged, clothing against his skeletal form brought a warmth to his sullen face. Stalking his prey had brought forth a predatory glee he so enjoyed. Opportunity was imminent. The same feeling had been present as he whittled away at his childhood tormentors. He hadn't deserved their attacks over the years but their broken selves made up for it all.
"Amadaeus. Lucas. Demyter."
Again, the names sent a thrill through Tarot, as he strode ever onwards. When the moment arrived, taking the hammer was child's play. After hours of watching the boy, an accidental change in route saw him duck out of sight for but a moment. Who knew if it was fate or fatigue but the momentary diversion was all it had taken for Tarot to lunge. The activation of his mental probe froze the boy before forcibly wrenching memories into a fictitious haze.
"You finished my hammer," Tarot had beamed brightly.
The smile had felt unnatural on his withered features but the grin only stretched as the boy smiled back and handed him the hammer. As it was in his youth, those who were really weak, who hadn't worked for their power, deserved to lose what they had.
'Fate wasn't something that happened but something you took,' Tarot thought imperiously, as his fingers laced around his target.
Within Tarot's mind's eye, he recalled the feeling of cold grass, as he waited in ambush. It was so familiar and yet so alien in this dirt-ridden slave city.
"Amadaeus. Lucas. Demyter."
Without hesitation, the boy let the weapon rest in Tarot's palm with a smile. It was certain the fool was another lost soul he wouldn't meet again but, to the pirate, this was simply business. Whilst he could have left Otis a murmuring fool it felt like overkill. Besides, Tarot would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't curious to see if the boy would scrape out a path for survival, as he had. He knew a small part of him would impressed to see the boy enter the city after his next bout.
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"Amadaeus. Lucas. Demyter."
Tarot's past was a siren song to him in moments like these. Twists and turns of rambunctious fate could be clawed into submission by those willing.
Amadeus had fallen to his father's sword. His mind had been keen, his senses sharp. Everything about the man prepared him to be a master swordsman. He was too dangerous to get close to but the brittle mind of his father had been all too easy. For weeks on end, Tarot had pried ever deeper into the old man's mind. The process he had forced upon the boy before him in an instant was a torture against Amadaeus' father. Slowly flayed and sewn back together again and again, the man became a muttering sigil to blind anguish and rage. Like Tarot, Amadeus too had lost his mother, albeit years after his birth. This pain was driven into a frenzy by the time Amadeus returned from another expedition as a mercenary's apprentice. Judging by heavy pouches of gold and the smattering of trinkets the excursion had been a rousing success. These feats were forgotten the instant his eyes landed on the shell of a man before him, so different from the Father he had known. A man whose presence made even old oaks appear lacklustre now stumbled towards him, his bloodshot eyes shone with confusion. Once Amadeus was within his Father's grasp the agile swordsman was nothing against the iron mitt of worked hands. The sounds of his forearms splintering paled in comparison to the shrieks that followed suit. Only grizzled pulp and blood remained as neighbours clambered to wrench the filicide from his son's broken remains.
Lucas fell to Demyter: his love, his pride, his weakness. Lucas had been besotted with Demyter since he was but a sprog. Just a young boy who had thought a girl in a mud-soaked frock was pretty, he never had eyes for anyone else in all his short years. Tarot had thought they were a fitting couple, Lucas' blonde to Demyter's jet black. They had all been friends not long after they were able to walk but that's what made their betrayal all the more hurtful. It's why Tarot felt nothing but pride as he pushed the knife into Lucas' gut. Just like Amadeus' father, the mental probe was gradually built upon, layer upon layer. Even as they hunted him, misdirections, and sensory confusion threw them off his trail. Neither Lucas nor Demyter were under any doubt about how their friend had died, they hunted Tarot relentlessly for weeks but it was that constant search that allowed Tarot the time to twist his infiltrating probes all the deeper. Sat within the cold, dew-laden blades of glass, Tarot had pulled at Lucas' consciousness. Roused from sleep the groggy trudge of his boots had been easy to track. It had been even easier to manipulate his senses. Time and again he had heard Demyter's screams in the woods. Time and again he rushed ever deeper to her rescue. By the time the light had begun to fade under the thick canopy of branches, his senses addled, it was child's play when Tarot emerged with the blade. The glinting steel captured Lucas' attention immediately and the adrenaline clouded his judgement. He saw Demyter scared and dirtied. He saw the girl who he had always loved scramble towards him. It didn't make sense to him when he felt his stomach lurch and blood run from his lips. As he struggled to keep his eyes open, it was Demyter he saw. It was a kindness really, Tarot had thought as the young man's heart beat its last, that he never knew his love had never left their bed.
Demyter had ended her own suffering. She was so strong-willed, so sure of herself, yet Tarot had hardly needed to lift a finger to remove the girl from his list. What was life without those that you loved? What was life without the promise of something more? What hope did she have with the odds standing evermore against her? With only Demyter left to deal with, Tarot was of course a suspect but never could the villagers find a direct link between the deaths and him. It was all circumspect reasoning and suspicion about someone with a class specialising in mental warfare. Still, the ice-cold attitudes of his neighbours and townsmen wouldn't stop Tarot from his meddling. As tends to happen after losing your two closest childhood friends, the love of your life and future, Demyter was frenzied but alone. She presented a far less daunting challenge than she had in a pair. There had been a few close calls but it hadn't taken long for the mental probe to take shape within her mind. Suddenly close calls became childishly easy to escape from. Too often misdirected by feint glimpses of what she thought was Tarot, soon all she saw was the diminutive figure of her former childhood friend. Only after chasing the illusions for hours did she stand in the market square, aghast at the many faces of Tarot staring back at her. Only then did she realise she had lost. Too proud to die on someone else's terms, so mortified with everything she had lost, and the ever-present threat of the boy they had bullied Demyter traipsed back to her home. The blood flowed quickly as she sat in the armchair by the fire. Demyter had long lost the ability to tell if the figure in front of her was a mental apparition but she had thrown the knife at the shadow of Tarot all the same.
The memory of his first triumphs made the scar across his left shoulder ache but filled Tarot with purpose. Just as he wondered what Demyter had thought as the blade stuck him did he now wonder what the boy would think when he discovered he had given his best weapon away.
Tarot's short unwavering stride didn't falter on his way back to the city gate. He would get his reward, his power would surge forth and his position within this accursed city would only continue to rise.