Eventually in the ceaseless darkness, he spots-
More darkness. How exciting and surprising. All the wonders this world gives him.
Esterbridge is ahead, to the west of where he is now. The fire was in the east. Probably some tradespeople heading to the capital city for monetary gains.
There are a few lanterns ahead as they head west. Correct assumption made- tradespeople heading to Esterbridge. They’re quite the distance behind him.
He turns as he walks westward to where he should set for. He should set for the west. Westward. West to the capital of Esterbridge. West. west-
He turns into a pivot and begins to sprint east.
The fire was around the bottom of the hill- it’s far too dark to see much from the shallow starlight. They skim lightly upon the trees, but nothing under it. The downhill helps his sprinting, but he’s still practically blind as he does. This is stupid. He can’t see neither ahead of him, nor his reasoning. There is no practical reason why he is doing this. But he does continue running and searching. There should be coals, or some sort of residue of fire. The smoke was around-
Here. It was here.
There’s ashes left from the firewood of that which was the initial fire. What’s above it was not, well, it served as a less effective fuel for the fire.
The corpse is charred black, scorched.
The smell is painful and undeniably more than just wood and clothing. Flesh. The stench is very near a taste in its intensity, and strangely bitter and sweet. Tastes like- forget it. He covers his mouth with his cloak, and kneels down for a closer look. Blood loss. The skin peeled away, and the organs boiled within. The heart looks- shrivelled. It’s too dark to tell much further- and he finds himself glad- but remnants on the charcoal firewood tell signs of some rope. He tries picking it up, but promptly drops it when he sees it isn’t- rope.
He looks at his hands and, well. The blood isn’t going off anytime soon.
He wipes the blood from the intestines seemingly carelessly on his cloak, but looks up at the sky instead. He wipes it- several times.
Several, several times.
It’s younger than it should be. He looks back as to presumably where he was before, watching. There was no way he would have made it in time.
He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for then, as he drags whatever he thinks was the little boy off the road, and beside some tree. He played some role in this, but he’s not sure as to why he should be apologizing to burnt flesh, but he throws some flowers on it.
It’s almost dawn, and he’s going to need to fall in a sprint. Westward this time, at least. Turn away from the dead necromancer, and go catch the one he’s going for.
By dawn, he’s caught up by the traders at the entrance of the capital. They laugh, boasting their achievements of ridding themselves of an ambush attack by one of the dark folk to others. They burnt: “-the dreaded thing by a fire!”
There’s a lot of people, and it’s crowded. Another trades person seems to buy the tale, for some peculiar reason, or a severe lack of any. “You don’t tell me they still exist?”
“I saw one myself, I say! Vicious and terribly large one with freakish eyes- it tried to attack me!”
Matter of fact, it looked 6 years old. 10 years at a maximum. Vicious? well-
“Horo’s honour- are you sure? They should all be dead by now! Surely the Angels cannot stand by with such foul beings!”
“I took one I say! Bold and brave! You could even take me for a Rider! Then, I’ll even be the one to arrest the Marauder for mysel-”
He simply pushes past the two, interjecting the conversation. He looks on the boasting, questionably bold and brave trader.
It was not rude in any manner. He did not cause the man to scream at him. He just, may or may not have ‘accidentally’ tripped the man by pure ‘accident’.
To much agony, the other one helps him up.
The capital is very crowded, and wealthy. Near perfection- if such exists- for a thief in search of loot. A thief that will lead him to the necromancer. The Marauder will come here soon, if he’s right. And unfortunately, he rarely isn’t.
He reminds himself that the blood on his cloak is barely visible on the black clothing.
Amidst the crowd and above, is the glimmering reign of the Aether’s gifts in structure. The castle looms as it strikes above towards the sky, as if to call upon it. The angels. The walls are white, encased in marble. Light and colour glides upon its surface as the sun begins to rise. Within those walls they ‘protect everyone’ by ‘the call of the Aether’s will’.
A terror, in summary.
But then again, death and damnation to the sky- along with the ones above it, and ones who believe they are.
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