His Rasping breaths….

His rasping breath was made worse against the morning chill and each heaving exhalation caused mist to escape the grills of his mask and dissipate into the crowd. Rancid wore his thick cloak about him, hidden deep within the folds and recesses of cotton as he shuffled through the city. The streets were thick with people, a bustling crowd of commotion and general disregard for one another. People bashed shoulders and flung arms about as they debated with market traders and food peddlers. Horses were shoved into the fray and faces were flicked with dirty angry tails as the equines resisted their keepers and failed to find a path through the throng of bodies. All the while legs were gripped by hopeful beggars and crafty pickpockets abused the proximity to rummage through bags and cut at coin purses.

Rancid despised it all.

Once before Rancid had been chased from the city by its inhabitants, his burnt face terrifying locals into the belief he was a monster, he had since had a distrust of public spaces.

The stories against him were fed by drunken louts and fanaticised origins of his injuries. Was one to spend a night in the public houses or inns of this city it was guaranteed by morning they would have heard more than one tale of the monster Rancid. For it was these tales from where he took his name. There was the version in which he was a troll that hid amongst the people of the city to feast on young children who disobeyed their parents. Other stories claimed he was a man, cursed by a witch for scorning her advances, and any who got close to him were damned to be childless. Whatever version of events was heard the stories always grew in their complexity and absurdity over time. Little did they all know however that his injuries were a result of protecting them all, many years before. But because of this he dared not be seen in public lest he be attacked again, and always hid as best he could, beneath cloaks and disguises.

It cost him the last of his coin to procure his home and the mask he wore to conceal his face. Luckily, he was a skilled hunter and knew of secluded places outside the city where he could forage decent herbs, roots and vegetables, so was never want for food. When money was required for other necessities, he would sell some of the knickknacks from his previous life, a life of honour and stature. A life from inside the Castle.

The crowd about him begun to murmur, some ruckus ahead forcing the crowd apart. Rancid stooped to better conceal himself and shuffled to the side, clutching the rabbit he had caught tightly within his cloak. Reluctantly the body of people split and, with great difficulty everyone was pressed to the side to allow a neat channel down the centre. A man atop a horse and his small entourage came through. Dressed in the finery of the Kings staff. Rancid was no stranger to this. There was going to be a Royal Decree announced in the town square. The pipers that followed shortly after confirmed this as their horns smothered all other sound with brass echoes. A portly man between them bellowed that all common folk were to follow the procession to the town centre and hear the words of the King. A discontent grumble followed as the crowd reluctantly turned and shuffled along. No fool, Rancid disappeared into the shadows and eased his way past towards his home. Best to avoid large crowds he had learnt and better yet, to always avoid the Kings men.

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The door made its tell-tale squeak of resistance as he forced it shut. From outside the distant shouts of the Kings speaker was just audible and he was glad to muffle it as best he could with the closing of the door.

The house was dark and markedly empty without the presence of the young Lucille. Rancid proceeded to put away his belongings in silence, the atmosphere of the place macabre and lacking without her joyous chuckles and mirth. He spared her a brief thought, but mentally berated himself for doing so. It did not do to dwell on things, he had learnt and when their romance first began, he concluded that it was doomed to end one day, better to proceed knowing this than live in hope and fantasy.

When he was done, he prepared a small fire and placed a pot of water over it. He waited until the water was hot enough to fill with tea leaves and then sat down at the vanity table as it brewed. In the mirror he saw himself. The hood removed and only his mask to hide the horrors of his face. Delicately he removed the clasps that bound it to his head and pulled away the metal façade. He had healed well over time, he had to admit. Though the site of his face continued to haunt him. His hair had grown back, for that he was grateful, the top of his head had taken the least of the burns. His black hair was wispy and thin, but he had a full head of it. It had been when he was still raw, bald and his skin still warped that he had been chased from the town. He looked different now, a stark contrast from those days, but still the monster. Still Rancid.

His nose was mostly lost to the fire, though he could still, just about pick up strong scents; what was left were two almond shaped holes and a small jut of skin where the top of his nose would have been. The skin around the eyes had swollen and puffed and where the eyelashes had burnt off, he could no longer properly close his lids, his eyes were sore but accustomed to this.

Lucille was yet to see his face, he was insistent on wearing the mask when she was around.

He inhaled deep, the air against his bare face was both a welcoming comfort and a brutal reminder. He used the mirror of the vanity table to look around the room. Each corner was concealed in dark shadows as the suns position let little light in through his windows.

While alone, Rancid saw little point in lighting the candle sconces about the walls. Though Lucille would insist upon it making the house comforting and warmed with her presence and the amber light of flames about the place. Her smell was distinctive, but she had been gone from the cold dark room too long for it to remain on the air, and as Rancid inhaled he caught only the smell of old wood furniture and his brewing tea.

He let out a sigh and moved his chair beside the window, gathered a clay mug, filled it with tea and sat down. With her gone, he had little to pass the time and often took to staring out over the horizon, getting lost in fantasies of a normal life. His house had a good view of the woodlands outside the city walls from its raised position. He watched as birds sauntered between treetops and froliced amongst themselves.

So lost in this bird dance was he, that Rancid almost missed the flags and banners that came into view, just beyond the treeline following the path towards the city gates. Once he noticed and focused on the white banner, emblazoned with a golden stag he rose from his chair, fists gripping the window edge with anger and fought to control his breathing.

The anger brought about harsh rapid breaths that hurt his lungs. But Rancid struggled to tame it, as he stared at the banner of the neighbouring Realm, the banner of Aeddan.

The banner, of the man who burnt his face.