It was a hollow night. One where the sun would cower behind the dark starscape, forcing the moon to be the sole provider of the world’s light. It was the time of day where the earth would be cold and devoid of heat, instilling a fear inside of every human. Whether natural or learned, what is unseen is always seen as the most twisted version of the truth. And in my sincerity—not my honesty—I can say that I truly did not care.
The hushed winds that weaved through the leaves of the scattered forest before me were just that: hushed winds. While most would jump at any noise within the night, I knew that the potential of the muted sounds that lay underneath the wind were the most dangerous of all. Even still, I pressed forward.
My journey through the route within the woods was already reaching the upper limit of five hours for the day before anything of note happened. While my senses continued to observe the world around me, my mind could not help but replay that scene in my head. After all, how could it not? The temperature, the sounds, and even the feeling of the natural greenery around was all the same as it was back then—although, the truth was that I couldn’t have been further away from there.
The crimson that pooled around the dirt floor and the fear of a thousand gods felt as real as the day it happened, even if that was twenty years ago. My, how time flew.
Just as the fiery rage within my heart began to heat my body, my ears caught the slightest unusual noise. Snapping back to the reality in front of me, my body tensed and my eyes quickly darted from darkened tree to darkened tree. I allowed my focus to be fully centered at my immediate environment. With no hesitation, I reached back for my sword, which was strapped over my left shoulder.
Time felt as though it had stood still, frozen in place. Nothing seemed to move. Nothing seemed to give. Nothing seemed to take. Still, I stood still and waited for either a sign of peace or conflict. I had been in such a situation too many times to count over the years. Even so, I took every encounter seriously—some would say too serious. The moment I let my guard down and I get slain before accomplishing my life’s mission is the moment my soul would roam the earth, unsatisfied and broken.
After about a minute of waiting, something sprang from the shrubbery. Quickly drawing my blade, I slashed at the oncoming threat. The sword hissed as it cut its way through the air with an immense and familiar speed. About halfway through the swing, the forged metal weapon collided with the threat.
The furred creature that found itself at the end of the blade squealed as its body began to tear in two. Its flesh ripped cleanly apart and its tiny bones snapped with just the pressure of the blow. The only thing that remained was the blood that stuck to the end of my sword—a familiar sight.
After the encounter was over and the air had calmed back down, I looked down at my defeated foe. A small rabbit laid before me, torn asunder without restraint. It’s funny, looking back at that moment, how only after I destroyed a life could I truly see it for what it was. Perhaps that’s what happens in the dead of night…perhaps that’s just how I always was.
Without a moment more of hesitation, I continued to move forwards.
Within a few more hours of tiring travel, I eventually found myself on top of a hill at the end of the woods, overlooking a massive clearing below. The grass that enveloped the plains glistened in the clear moonlight. The way it reflected that light showed off its brilliantly beautiful dull-green complexion.
Most would see the color of all grass the same—as did I in the moment—but in times of reflection after a change in one’s self, I can truly appreciate the beauty that was spread out before me. The vast open space allowed an infinite potential for life. The wispy clouds above, which couldn’t seem to contain the moon, would flow into thin shapes that seemed to change each time I recalled them. But most of all, the way the warm breeze passed over me gave me a sudden nostalgic inspiration—one that I still carry with me, but for different reasons.
In front of me, to the far south, at least a few days or so travel away, were the Carcernin Mountains. They wrapped along the upper edge of the land that bordered between the flatlands and the ocean. The mountains jutted up from the earth in a wicked and gnarly fashion, contrasting with the beauty of the land that led up to them. The way those jagged bundles of rock curled in the air seemed to be all but unnatural. While most mountains were majestic in nature, crowned with snow, the Carcernins looked like the fangs of a twisted beast. Just that thought alone made me sink into despair.
Situated between myself and the mountains was the destination I was heading towards: the small town of Varunia. I knew almost nothing about the town except for its mere existence. As opposed to the rest of the cluttered, dying country, Varunia sat by itself and seemed to thrive all on its own. It was probably that sustainability and separation that allowed it not to yet succumb to the spreading illness of ruin that ravegend every other town.
I then traveled through the dew-laced fields that encircled the town. Each step I took through there was damp with the clearest moisture. So much so, that I would accidently get my tight, hardened, leather boots stuck in the mud, all the way up to the vamp. Eventually, I managed to make it to the outer circle of houses that surrounded the town.
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Without a wasted second, I then swiftly made my way through the cobblestone streets to the nearest inn. I kept my hood up and head down as I navigated my way through the thin nightly crowds that populated the streets. The faceless people within those crowds seemed lively enough, although I didn’t really bother to look at nor interact with any of them. I simply continued on my own way.
It took a little longer than I would’ve liked, but I eventually stumbled upon a modest looking building, made of darker oak planks. The outside of it that faced the street was plastered with a few windows, but the sides that peered into alleyways were not—it was perfect for me. The roof was made of a similar, albeit lighter wood than the exterior. Cobbled within some of the wood, like someone mimicked what it would be like to patch a wooden wall, was dull-gray stone. Resting atop the only door that I could see was a sign that was written in a language I was familiar with, reading: The Worried Way Inn.
Stepping inside, I almost hit my head on the top of the door frame, which surprised me a little. I knew that I was taller than most, but even still, it seemed like whoever originally built that door did not understand that height could vary from person to person. Even so, I made my way through the rest of the door.
The interior of the Worried Way was nothing spectacular. The floor creaked every few steps, the lights were dim, but lit enough to see, and the atmosphere didn’t give me any unusual feelings. The interior walls had black-iron pipes that sprawled all throughout them, much like a metal spider web. I knew what those were for, and as I traced them back, I could see that most of them originated from a room that was labeled Boiler Room.
On the other side of the room that I was in was a man seated at a desk. He was shorter and a bit stout, and had a constant grizzled look to his eyes. The entire middle of his head was bald and the sections of hair that he did have were graying and thin. While he did have some facial hair, most of it looked like unkempt stubble—all except his voluminous sideburns.
“What do you want?” the man asked, his voice sharp and ragged.
Sauntering up to the desk, I flatly replied, “A room for the night and possibly more.”
He looked me up and down, the eyes behind his small glasses narrowing the longer he stared. Finally, after a few moments, he responded, “Is it for one night or more than one? I don’t do this wishy-washy stuff.”
I took a few seconds to count the coins in my pockets. “We’ll do three nights,” I eventually answered.
The man then looked away from me, reached behind the desk, and pulled up a ledger of sorts. He then effortlessly flipped through the pages once, seemingly landing on the correct page. Pulling out a pen from behind his ear, he asked, “And your name?”
“Does it matter?” I answered.
He started to write, but stopped halfway through and looked up at me.
“Wait, are you a Slayer?”
“I am,” I replied, although a bit hesitantly. “Why?”
“I knew it,” the man bitterly answered. “I can tell what kind of person you are just by lookin’ at ya.” He then took a deep breath. “I just don’t want any trouble from your kind. I know what kinds of things follow you folks and I don’t want any of it.” He then continued to write something in his notebook along with a few other things that I didn’t bother to remember.
“Don’t worry, I'm not here on business like that,” I lied. “I simply need a place to rest for a while.”
The man looked at me with judgmental, squinting eyes, and then continued with what he was doing. After a moment, he folded up his ledger, put it back underneath the desk, and walked over towards the wall. Pulling out a ring of rusted keys, he unlocked a wooden box and grabbed a single key.
“Room Nineteen-B,” the man said, handing me the key.
Wordlessly, I grabbed the key and made my way to my room. By the time I made it there, I could feel my bones beginning to cry out in restless agony. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep up with the pain that I felt from such a long journey. For several weeks I traveled, averaging only a couple of hours of sleep a day. During the day, I would be without a creature to mount on—no horse, no jihl, and no sholo-bird—I just walked. I rarely got the opportunity to afford any of them.
Right before I felt my own muscles give into the weight of the journey, I managed to find my room. The room itself was oddly comforting. It was dense, devoid of most things besides a bed, and heated to a mildly comfortable temperature. That being said, something about it was familiar and, for the first time in a long time, I felt calm.
As I laid down on my bed, completely naked, I stared at the ceiling. To my suprise, it stared right back at me. Squarely affixed against the ceiling over me, about ten or so feet up, was a large mirror. It looked directly down at me and I could see most of the bed in its reflection.
“Strange,” I said out loud.
While the entirety of the bed was in view, the one thing that I wished wasn’t in view was the creature that was laying on it. He had long, dirty-blonde hair that tumbled just above his shoulders. His body was slender but rigid, marked by scars, burns, and other reminders of sins long passed. His face was extremely angular, not unlike that of an ancient elf. I hated the sight of him.
In order to not see that horrid sight, I closed my eyes and let the darkness obscure my vision. I was tired of seeing the world around me. I was tired of the work I did for the day. I was tired of my own emotions, struggling to free themselves from the chains I wrapped them in. And most of all, I was tired of hearing the same thoughts echo around my head.