A stranger rode amongst the northern men.

He was hunched over, pressed close against the mighty beast beneath as the wind tore at his scarf. His clothes matched, black and shaggy as was the wild mane of his stallion. The two, a seamless shadow, glided across the still evening.

It was cold. Bloody cold. The kind you must be born into to enjoy. And the Stranger wanted none of it. He came from the white cliffs far down south where the sun shone for months on end. A place he much preferred to this twilit misery.

But a name had been drawn, and he was bound by it.

The others rode ahead, wary of his few words and unfamiliar face but eager for his coin. An uncanny request the northern men thought, to travel off the main road, and at such a time. But that was the stranger’s only wish. That and to take him to Delnor.

So, through the forest they fled. Slow but unseen. White powder sprung from the mighty strokes of the hooves, muffling their approach. A dark ocean looked down between the many branches, its surface only disturbed by two waning twins in the sky. From their faces, reflected a gentle white light that swept over the calm landscape and illuminated the forest floor.

The group had been at it for many hours and the night was well settled in by the time the forest thinned. It was uncanny to be out at such a time, at such a place. The North. Bordering the Whispering Peaks. Many sightings and more tales live amongst the ancient roots and most had a sliver of sense to not wander at such a time. But tonight, if it be by chance or the presence of something greater, the stranger and the northern men went undisturbed, and the old tales remained such.

From a highpoint, the trunks ended and gave way to a sloping field. A lone structure jutted from the swaying grass. Beyond, laid a dark mass dusted with the occasional warmth of a dying furnace. The town of Delnor.

Four shadows crawled from the wood and moonlight shimmered off broken glass as they passed the crumbling building. It was then the Stranger stopped. His boots landed like a sharp exhale as the snow gave way, the sound easily lost in the twirling wind, but the men were alert. They wanted their coin. And to be gone. The stranger’s arm jerked and a weighted pouched sailed through the air towards their awaiting hands. It was an entire month’s work and worth many long nights at any inn within a hundred miles.

While the three smirked at the small fortune, the stranger led his beast off the path.

“The gate be closed till dawn,” a voice from behind called, “to the left lies the main road and with it an inn. It is best to room indoors in these parts.”

“There will be no need of that tonight,” the stranger replied. The main road was watched and word of a lone rider from the south would spread quickly. Even then, he was sure the three men would sing of their trek. By dawn, word would have spread, and a smart man would piece the story together.

A Weylyn had arrived in Delnor.

“It is not wise to walk alone after dark. Something foul has settled down on these lands.” Even before the northern man finished, his voice had dampened to a whisper.

“Then you best get inside,” the Stranger growled before the clouds closed and night engulfed him.

With the stranger gone, the evening moved ever closer onto the three men. Winter air pummeled and sapped what courage was left, and the three turned and fled towards the safety of light.

The stranger walked alone.

Through the tall grass he led his companion, down the field and up to the wooden walls. By now, the layout of the town was engrained in his memory, and he followed the walls north as they bent towards the coast and eventually, the port gate that bordered the frozen sea. There, there would be less eyes to see and fewer mouths to talk.

The guard had long heard the clop of horse on the cobble path and stood waiting, gazing through the peephole as the black silhouette approached.

“The gate is closed,” the guard whimpered as he strained to find stranger’s face through tired eyes, “what is your business?” 

“With that of your mayor.” The stranger hushed as he approached the wooden gate.

The guard’s chest swelled with the pride of his uniform, “he will hear you at dawn then, best find a room up the hill.” And he stood firm behind the walls of his town.

“There will be no need of that tonight,” the stranger said as he pulled off his hood. The moonlight filled his eyes and sent them dazzling into veins of pure silver. His gaze fell upon the man and, like a raging storm, they swirled as they grabbed ahold. The young man gasped at the recognition but it was no good, the Weylyn had him. For a moment, the guard wavered there, his jaw quivering as if deep in dream, but then his eyes flickered open and a welcoming grin flashed across his face, “then you best get inside,” he said and threw open the gate.

A light blanket had begun to fall and by the time the stranger stood before the mayor’s house, his coat was peppered white. A gentle knock echoed throughout the still house and the stranger lingered there, listening. Through the corner of his vision, he watched the narrow street, his eyes piercing the darkness, his ears turned towards the door, yet nothing stirred. However, the silence did not loosen the muscles in his chest. His breathes were shallow and his heart hit strong. He was at unease tonight; if ever a Weylyn knew of such thing. He doubted it at first, perhaps the cold air bringing old memories, but now within the town, he was certain of it. It laid thick in the air. A fog. Something else walked tonight.

So, he waited for a moment, dawn still far away, and just when he thought all occupancies laid in slumber, and his hand wavered over the polished brass knob, he heard it. The faintest exhale, soft as a mother’s kiss. He turned towards the door and halted there for a moment, mind sharp again, staring as if through the oak grains onto whatever lied beyond. Yes, he felt them now. He had not need to see to know they stood on the other side. He inhaled and gentle aroma of aged thyme leaked from under the oak and met his nose. He felt their heartbeat flutter and his hands moved slow. The figure on the other side seemed hesitant but then a latched clicked and the door creaked open. A young assistant greeted him with a callous stare. “The mayor is at rest, as is much of the town. What is your business?” She squinted at the dark figure standing before her.

The stranger remained silent and pulled forth an envelope. His other hand stayed hidden in the folds of his cloak.

A delicate glove snatched it and retreated back behind the oak door. She tore open the paper guard and tipped its content onto her waiting palm. In the dim light, a sole coin fell out. The moment it hit, she gasped at its recognition and jerked upright into the awaiting eyes of the stranger.

Her body began to tremble as she formed the word and the coin tumbled from her hand. A single thud radiated out as the solid metal struck the floor. She dropped to her knees to beg, but the stranger was quick. He pushed through the chained door as if it was held down by spider silk and fell upon her. A hand, bound in the finest clothe, found her mouth, stifling her short-lived plea. The stranger’s eyes darted around waiting for something else to stir, but any other dwellers of the area stayed silent.

There was terror in her eyes. The stranger had not look to know. He felt her shake beneath, and one glance of the storm in his eyes and her body went full limp. The stranger knew it all too well. Perhaps some primal instinct, an acceptance of the ill-faith to come. A shock that numbed the body and mind alike and sent the being into a painless trance. A beauty of nature, to conjure up this final act of mercy, but it was a waste, for he had not come for her.

With the other hand, the stranger brought the coin to her face. He lessened his grip as her eyes rolled over the dull surface. The coin was simple, the width of a small plum, with strange markings running along its edge, but the lady had no intertest in those. She was looking at one thing and one thing only. The etching scratched across the center. The name carved deep into the cold metal.

It was a short word. A name. She knew it all too well.

“Where is he?” the stranger asked, his lips hardly stirred.

She glanced over her shoulder towards another door.

“Leave. Now,” he said as his grip lessened. He had no desire to kill the innocent. He stood and all thought of the girl beneath vanished as he focused on the sturdy oak leading deeper into the home. His steps quiet as a hare bounding through the snow. His clothes a stir of leaves. Breath steady. He drew near and the candles around the door began to dance on the border of madness.

The assistant watched, frozen, as the shadows grew darker, swirling around the dark figure as the candles struggle against an invisible hand, pressing down, forcing their licking flames ever closer to the charred wick. The room dimmed further as the flames faltered from a yellow to a blue hue, like a drowning candle on its last gasping breath. There was not a doubt in her mind that the softest passing of breeze would smoother the fragile flame, yet the figure passed, and they hardly quivered as if nothing moved at all. The girl could only stare. The doors widened and amongst the darkness, something darker moved. She trembled at the thought and as soon as the figure was through, the door clicked shut, the suffocating cloud parted and the candles flared like dried straw catching light. Never in her life had she witnessed such an event. In fact, she knew it was impossible, a story, nonsense, to control such a thing, but she had seen it now and the stories rang loud in her head and only then did she truly believe it.

A Weylyn had arrived in Delnor.

The front door rattled shut and someone stirred in their bed.

“Maddentin, Maddentin?” a man’s voice, thick with slumber, called out. “Is everything…” he trailed off as he sat up and peered into the darkness of the room. A greying mop, shaggy from a restless night, dangled down to his eyebrows. While he had lure for fine silks and exotic furs, he had an even bigger appeal for food and the bed groaned with each shuffle of his body. He sat there now, silent, his second chin quivering each time he turned his head.

The Stranger only watched.

The thump of a laboring heart grew from the silence and the man fumbled for something on his bedstand. There was a grinding and a click of metal before the tinderbox caught. After several puffs, the ambers glowed hot like wet blood and cast a deep hue upon the man’s face. He raised the beacon high to push back the darkness. In the corner, the Stranger’s eyes glowed and the man jolted upright with a crunch of his jaw. The shock flung the candle from his gasp, and a hiss had begun to escape his locked jaw just as it came crashing to the floor. The world went black in an instant and, from the blackness of night, a cold hand found his throat. The stranger squeezed and the man’s hiss bled into a gargling sputter. Cartilage gave. He kicked and flung backward, sending the two crashing through the bedstand and against the wall. The impact shook the home and sent oiled paints tumbling to the floor. But now the stranger was back in control. He leaned in and held the man there with a force that cracked the plastered wall behind. The man clawed at his throat but what use was it against iron. Spit flew as the man’s face swelled red and his limbs began to thrash, reaching, searching for anything to deter his assailant. But now it was no use. The stranger pushed upward, pressing deeper into the softness of the underjaw and bringing the man to the ends of his toes. The prey was no match.

With his free hand, the stranger removed his hood and let his gaze fall upon the man. Even in the darkness, the grey clouds that whirled in his eyes lit up like lightening. The man’s eyes went wide. Grey met black. The Stranger held it for a moment, watching the eyes turn red as his body starved for air. Soon they began to flutter and roll back as he lost consciousness.

Oh, how the man so wished for a release thought the stranger. For him to let go and let him recover his dying pride and think about his wrong doings in gasping breaths. Afterall, there is only one reason a Weylyn comes. It would be a long journey, for terror was hard to forget. But even then, one must awake however long after. Then what would they learn after such a great time? Nothing. And temptation would return as it has now. A shame thought the stranger, for perhaps he may return to a good man.

But if a pain was to be caused, there are better ways and even more wicked deeds to destroy a man. However, the stranger was not here to be cruel or deter others. He found no pleasure. He came only to remind those that had sinned, when you wander in the land of shade, from the sun comes life, from the night comes death.

The Weylyn jerked his wrist and felt ligaments and bone alike, snap. The man’s body lurched a final time before his jaw sagged and the stranger let go. Limbs crumpled to the floor and the stranger pulled forth the coin and rested it upon the man’s still chest. He stood there for a moment, looking down upon the man, the shimmering veins of silver that danced in his eyes had now dulled to a gloomy grey, but then the moment passed, and the stranger turned to the room. The area was small, with paintings, books, exotic vases, and all sorts of treasures the man had found precious enough to keep. Some of it could be worth small fortune. Others looked like it. All of it had to go. Not just the room, the house. The body. The risk was too great for dark words attracted darker things.  

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The stranger flipped through books and scattered notes. But nothing. The unease lingered in his chest, but the search could only go so long. The girl may return. If she was smart, she wouldn’t. But there was still a chance, however slim, and he must be gone and the home alight. But alias, something dropped from a book. Another, smaller, bound in leather from a creature long gone. A lone symbol, a word, etched across its mirror surface. A language man had been forced to forget, but the stranger knew well. He dared not utter it, for even now old songs still echoed in these parts.

It was there, where the book fell, he laid the kindling; cloth, wood. He needed it hot to ensure such a thing burnt fast and spread to whatever else foul laid amongst these walls. They soon caught and the flames spread, flooding the dim room in a collage of molten orange. He watched it grow wild, until the smoke lingered thick above his head and the flames licked the walls.

Once they breached open air, it would explode in a fury, and by dawn, all of it would be charred black, and the tragic news of their mayor would spread.

He opened the door leading into the greeting hall, eager to be gone from these walls and the unease that had settled in his chest. The room was as he had left it, dim and the night outside, silent. The only disturbance was the growing crackle of the flames. There, the air was still light, unfouled by the burnt ash, and it washed easily over the stranger’s face, flushing the dark smoke from his breath and carrying a waft of thyme that dulled…

In a heartbeat he turned but it was too late. Behind, a shadow had peeled from the wall and leapt at him. He was fast, faster than any man, yet halfway through his turn, the slender blade pierced his shoulder and drove down into bone. Yet, in the surprise, he kept his momentum and flung the young assistant across the hall with a wild snarl. She lunged to her feet, but by then it was too late.  The Stranger’s hands moved, and from beneath his cloak came a bow that sang. She took one step before both arrows entered her chest. The force at such a distant, drove them to the fletching and slung her body backward.

The stranger cursed as she fell, but by the time her head met the marbled flood, her eyes had shut forever, and he stood there alone. He dwelt there for a moment, panting from the rush, another arrow nock for more. Then the arrow and bow vanished in a swift move as his chest loosened and he walked over to her body. Why, he thought. She was a comely thing. Young. Too young for death. He ground his teeth at the sight and beat the ground with a fist. The fire roared behind, casting her face in a play of twirling shadows and sending flames along the blade dropped inches from her hand. He accompanied her, watching over, until the smoke grew thick, and he knew it was time to go. So, he fled towards the night, leaving her alone on the cold marble floor.

The brass of the door was cold from the evening air, and, just as he went to tug, something rattled onto the floor. He glanced back and to his dread, the girl rose. A broken arrow laid on the floor, the other held in her hand.

“What are you?” The stranger asked, his voice brusque, blood cold.

She swooped for the blade and brought it to her face, marveling at it. The edge gleamed in the fire, save for the end that was stained dark with his blood. A grin stretched across her face as she looked at it, “yes,” she said and brought the tip to her lips, running the edge across them, “more,” she exhaled. She turned to him. “I have been waiting for one of your kind. A Weylyn. There is something extraordinary about you, something…” she raised her bloodied hand and plucked the glove to expose the skin beneath, except, where there should have been smooth lines and pale skin was a web of black angry flesh that ran to her fingertips. The Rot. “Yes, you see it now, it flows in your veins. Old blood, passed down since the rise of the first man cities of the West. I know the stories. They say it has no effects on you.”

“Once marked with death, there is no more life,” growled the stranger. The fire was growing, and the smoke plumed out of the open doors, surrounding her in a hazy cloak.

“Oh, Weylyn, even you know that’s not true, in the lands cast in shade. Else, I wouldn’t be standing here now,” she smirked.

“Dawn is far off, and my bounds still hold.” He had turned now, shrinking his figure. “Now that we are here, I …”

“Can’t let you leave,” she snarled and made a gesture with her hands. The flames from behind exploded in a fury and her silhouette vanished in the brightness.

In that moment of blindness, the stranger threw himself to the left. He rolled as the bow appeared in hand and rose behind a column rising towards the heavens. His vision flickered as the room dimmed and he waited, listening. Clouds of soot rose all around.

“They say a Weylyn does not bleed,” she called out to his right, “Others say its black as the night.” He glanced over but the haze was too thick. “That no steel can mark his flesh.” He jerked his head to the left.  “Stories.” The voice was drawing near. He felt her close.

“Lies.” And a blade came from around the column.

He spun and the iron skidded off the stone. An arrow flew but she had vanished into the smoke. He sent another scorching into the twirling haze. Then another, but she only laughed. He heard the slicing of the air before he saw it and flung himself down. A blade of his own appeared in his hand and he blocked the second trust. Their blades met with a screech, and they danced in the smoke. Hers matched his. A blur as invisible steel cut the air. The roar of the fire was only matched by the rattle of steel.

Of such skill, he had met few before.

Fists met flesh. Steel bit clothe. Perhaps the twirling parted the hazy air, but it was enough, and he saw the strike coming. He met it with his own. Weight behind, he rose, and they met with a force that sent sparks. He felt her give, his strength superior.

“How did you avert the name?” the stranger stressed as he pushed her back.

“Men. Are. Weak,” she gasped against his strength, “alone, they will do anything for a girl.”

“You are no girl.”

“We all have our monsters,” she spat and with her words came another knife that cut through flesh. Blood swelled from the new gash. In a fury, he roared, and his boot connected with something soft.  She was flung backwards from his rage and then, the stranger came. Through the smoke, two globes flared, shimmering pure as silver. Foul words slithered past his tongue.

Instantly the air around them went cold and from his hands came a whirling wind that scattered the haze and blew out windows. Glasses rained down and the sound of a bell rang in the distance. However, the stranger cared not for his eyes were set on the girl sprawled on the floor. He would have her now.

She tried to push him back with a gesture of her own, but a snarling wave of his hand dismissed the sign. She backpedaled but the stranger was upon her. A hand shattered through her last attempt and found her rising neck. He pressed forward, driving her back as effortless as a toddler bearing a doll and into the stone wall. She met it with a crack and dust rained down around them.

Thunder clapped in his eyes and doubt kept crept across her grin.  Then he began to speak, harsh words came, and the air grew thick. From her dread, can another grin and she laughed, raising a blooded hand, “your blood runs in me now, you cannot touch me with words.”

It was only then he spotted the blood pact, etched into her wrist. The scrab still wet. In that moment, her eyes rolled back with a mumble and a heavy hand fell upon the stranger. He grunted from the force and his muscles flexed against the invisible hand pushing him down. The old words were strong, and it drove him to a knee, but he dared not loosen the grip around her neck. A tile gave beneath. He visions flashed red. To let go would mean death, and he began to shake. His eyes closed and the tremor rose from his legs throughout his body. The girl gasped at the struggle as the stranger’s hand squeezed harder. And then he began to rise. A desperate hand rose and fell, the shard of glass in her hand swung wildly for flesh, each strike growing weaker. His back straightened, veins bulged, and he found her dying eyes.

“To cast out a shadow, you give it light,” he growled and flung her limb body into the flames. A lone drop of blood trickled from his nose as he stood there, panting. His side throbbed and when he took his hand away, it glistened fresh. But there was no time now to tend or he risked being caught.

However, the moment he threw open the door, the unease in his chest bled into dread. He stepped into a sea of swirling white. The steps, leading down onto the street from the porch, vanished into a river of clouds. Even the other side of the street was hidden, perhaps gone, shallowed by whatever brought this. Tentacles of white swirled around his feet and made for the door. A boot swung and they dissolved back into the fleeing landscape.

He thought of the guard, people. Surely such a thing would cause alarm, a response, an order to remain inside. Yet the town was silent now. No bells or calls of fear. Nothing. The only thing that moved was the lazy drift of the fog and a cold air that came with its touch. He pulled a small crystal from under his tunic and pressed it against his lips. Faint words escaped and the crystal glowed with the light of the moon. He descended the steps, arrow nocked, and let the cool cloud engulf him. It was thick, thicker that he had ever seen, to the point it clung to his clothes, weighting them down, and dampening his face.

He had known of such a thing. But east of the whispering peaks? In summer months?

The fog held a soft glow, and with his light around his neck, it was enough for the stranger to spot dark shapes loaming ahead, another building, the other side. Now he had a direction and he followed it towards the port gate. He went at a crawl, waiting for anything to move, any sign of life. Anything to explain what brought this.

By now, a thawng of a bell was approaching, the call of a fire. Surely. And then people would flood the street in fear and help and he would slip away in the confusion. But with each passing breath, the Stranger grew more at unease. Then, through the fog, came a shrill shriek that sent his blood cold. It was human, at least part of it. In this blanket, he could not judge its distance and the thought sent the stranger’s fingers itching. Shortly on, he caught something along the road. It was dark and, while all else seemed to flow, it remained fix in place like a beacon. He dared not call out, however, for he knew not what could be around. From the left he came, slender and silent as a snake, upon a figure, loaming along the road. It was dark, too much to see more at this distance, so he drew nearer, until the blur turned into what looked to be a lady. Yet, that is where the description of her ends, for nothing else gave insight into her wellbeing. Was she okay? In pain. Hurt? Alive? For she just stood there, motionless, faced turned off into the haze as if made of stone.

He came around and the light fell on muddied hands. The dark stains matched those on her cheeks. The stranger’s hands flexed, and the light caught an eye. Her head jerked towards him.

“Ma’am,” the stranger stopped as he met her eyes. They were black, blacker than a starless night. And they saw.

“Help me, please,” she begged through bloodied lips, but by now, the stranger was raising his bow. She lunged.

The arrow was loose before her second stride. The aim, perfect. And she crumbled, dead. He approached, frightful of what he had seen. Yet it was still there, mere feet from him. The Hunger. East of the Whispering Peaks.

Where her mouth should have been, there was a bloody tangle of teeth, the lips chewed away and a devilish grin shimmered red in the night. Her eyes starred upward, reflecting the night sky, an endless abyss.

Then the night came alive with shrieks and from the fog they came to avenge their fallen peer. One after another. The Weylyn’s hands a blur. The bow sang. Bodies fell. Limbs thrashed. But there were more. Some with bloodied faces. Others hardly recognizable. All with those black eyes.

He fled. Down the street. Arrows running low. Another lunged and the stranger’s hand found an empty quiver. He pivoted and flung the snarling man onto the cobble. A knife found his palm and he drove it into the man’s chest. The figure gargled as his life swelled from the wound.

The stranger needed to find the gate. To escape and be gone. But then his head began to pound, and his hands grew heavy. He stumbled and fell to a knee, his heart beating in a fury as his side flared. Heat washed over his body like a great wave, and he cursed out into the night.

Another figure came and the blade cut deep. They swarmed, driving him back against a building. The knife hissed through the air. His cloak danced behind half alive, yet each following strike grew slower.

Something was wrong. He knew it. His head throbbed and the wound burned. Fool.

The dragger. Yes, poison. Something foul, riddled with old songs and dark words. Something not made from today’s hand. He tore at his side, exposing the gash beneath. The bleeding had stopped but where the wound ended and the skin began, a green hue had settled and ran like veins across his abdomen. His vision blurred from another wave and, in his agony, something caught his face, causing a lash that seeped out blood. The stranger’s eyes flared, and a gesture found his hand, expelling the fog around him and causing several of the beings to stumble from the force. Then his skull split in a fury that sent his vision white. Only few things compared so such a pain and he slumped against the building, clawing at the wooden panels, searching for an escape. He found a door and threw himself at it. The wood groaned. The figures in the fog pressed closer. He threw himself at it again and the wood bracings gave way. He caved with it and tumbled in, but by then, they were upon him.

The bodies came and through blinding light, he rose. The wave driving him deeper into the house. Someway through his grip faltered and the blade went from his hand into the tangle of limbs. He climbed over furniture and flung objects before a slender dagger was plucked from his belt. Last of my tricks, he thought as the rage boiled forth and he flung himself upon the coming figures. Bodies fell under his strikes and blood grew slick on the floor. He danced like a shadow in the night and the blade sliced through all that moved. Wood split and furniture crumbled from blows and bodies.  He wasn’t sure how long he went. Seconds. Minutes. His vision, red. Anything that moved, a victim. One grabbed his shoulder. A final thrust and he meet their eyes.

Blue eyes.

He stopped and took a step back, the blade existing the man’s chest. Somewhere in the shadow a girl wailed but the stranger heard none of it. All he knew was those blue eyes. He looked down to his bloodied hands. No.

The man stumbled and a kid ran up to reach for his falling father, but arms seized him and pulled back. The stranger turned and met what looked to be a mother. Her mouth was wide in terror, begging, shielding her kids from his rage, but he heard none of it. Only her eyes mattered now. Blue as the fathers.

And the look they held buckled his knees. He hadn’t…

But it was done now. The father laid dying, dead. Nothing more to be done. The mother screamed and the kids wailed. The Weylyn’s head split as another wave of heat overwhelmed him. He stumbled towards the door.

The streets were empty. The horizon warming. The gate hung open; the guard gone. Nothing stirred.

If you were quick, you could have caught a seamless shadow as it darted across the landscape. He was fading now, the poison well in his mind. Thankfully, the horse knew the direction, the stranger just had to hang on.

By dawn, they would be hunting him, far and wide. A murderer, a monster. He must be far away.

They were upon the shed in the field when he fell, his hands too weak to hold on more. By some miracle he made it into the crumbling structure and collapsed onto the cold ground. His heart pounded, sweat streamed from his head, and fading moonlight rained down between the rotten wood. He laid there, alone, collecting what little strength he had left to build a fire. He would try, try as he might, but the poison was strong, and him alone. Always alone.

But the others had to be warned for something still walked in the town of Delnor.

Outside, if you looked through the broken window, you would have seen a dark figure, hunched low over the flames in the early morning. A slight mumble, half drowned out by the spitting of the blaze, could have been heard. But the tongue, unknown to the common men, would have left you wondering. Until you watched, drawn by the enchanted scene, the flames twirled and waved, bending under the hand of the hooded figure as if it were its master. It was best to forget such a scene. To not question and leave him to his bidding and you, flee far away, for from harsh words comes harsher things.

But in numbers, courage grows, and by noon, they had found him.