Blood Red Ghost [Open]

Not many would give the slouch-shouldered, tired looking man with the soot-black hair and cold white skin a second glance, even though he stood a head and a half taller than the monk he casually strolled beside. Tales of the Red Beast had become just that; tales, some taller than the highest, blood red boughs of the Lindequalmë. Stories of rage unbound, of a sword as tall and as wide as a man, of a backstabbing demon who would do anything to find his child, populated candle-lit children's bedrooms and bustling soldiers barracks. They painted him as a blood drenched monster. A towering, flesh eating horror. But to look upon him now, he was practically unrecognizable; not because he had altered the shape of his face, but because he looked so startlingly...human, old and disinterested. His feet barely lifted from the polished stone floor of the Citadel's hall, drawing annoyed glances from young adventurers in heavy, gleaming armor, graying rogues in dark cloaks and whispering leather, and wizards and mages bundled in embroidered robes.

"You have no...appointments," the monk at his shoulder began, eyeing the slayer, who continued on at the same uninterested, slow pace. The only thing that changed was a slight frown on his thin lips as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his black slacks. "It's unlikely for you to just stop in for some random bout."

Dan suddenly stopped before one of the many stained glass windows of the hall, late-season sunlight spilling through the stained glass, coloring him emerald, ruby, gold, and violet. It depicted an ancient knight of Scara Brae slaying a dragon; he could remember the names of neither beast nor hero. The monk stopped as well, the rich colors scattered across his shaved head, illuminating the many brands pressed into the flesh of his scalp and forehead. Tucking his hands into the sleeves of his colorless robes, he waited for Dan to speak, but no answer for his spontaneous visit was supplied.

"Do you miss the glory of the battle?" Still, the slayer didn't move. Other prospective combatants of the Citadel moved past them, aimlessly, their faces seeming to all be a copy of the one before and the one after, endless victims and killers and heroes and villains. They still cast the occasional quizzical look at the barefoot man blocking nearly a quarter of the hall, but none stopped with a challenge, and no sparks of recognition rose to life in their eyes.

"Or do you miss the purpose?" Finally, the slayer's eyes rose slightly, and the phantom of a smile came to the pinched lips of the monk.

"Perhaps then, someone can remind you. Or give you something new." He gestured to the closest door, one of a million million, all exactly alike in the halls of the Citadel, yet behind each one, lay entirely new, unbelievable worlds. Sneering slightly, Dan crossed the hallway, cutting in front of half a dozen people as he did so, and poked the uneven grain of the oaken door, bound with old, softly gleaming brass.

"Sure thing buckaroo...why the fuck not?"
_____

Dan didn't even look back as he shut the door behind him; he knew it had vanished into the ether. Everything was black at first - not simply an absence of light, but an absence of substance - and then, he was at once aware of a gentle motion beneath his feet. Not sudden and violent, like a rug pulled from beneath your feet, or erratic and sickening, like a ship on the waves, but almost constant, and soothing. Like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. With that realization, came light, and color; the dirty yellow glow of burning oil lamps, and the soft, sheen of unpolished, neglected gold. He realized then that he was standing on a massive, pain-stakingly carved chandelier that was worth more than entire small kingdoms. It was swinging languidly on long dark iron chains and whiskery, frayed ropes that reached up to a ceiling he couldn't make out. Its surface was flat, wide, and decorated with hundreds of thousands of Ai'brone brands, which he could feel, but not identify on his bare feet as he paced the perimeter slowly. He imagined he could sprint full speed from one side to the other for a solid three minutes before he'd meet the edge. It was ringed with hundreds of gently glowing glass lamps, though their tawny light illuminated nothing beyond the vast platform.

Rolling the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows, Dan briefly fidgeted with his vest before finally settling down to sit on the chandelier, folding his legs under him.

Radasanth was no place for someone like me. I knew it and by the looks on their faces, they knew it as well. Perhaps it was the arctic wolf skins draped over stressed black leather in the late summer heat. It may have equally been the pale skin, ghastly white hair, or piercing green eyes. Who was I kidding? These commoners of Corone had seen all manners of shape, size, color, and race. What they saw was my intent, my aura. They saw the man who lead a band of thieves, rapists, and murders raze an entire kingdom. They saw a man, stained so deeply with blood, that even with pale skin, the echoes of lives lost by his hands tainted his very being.

I suppose no matter how long one avoids society, something like that doesn't just fade from memory.

"Hey... is that?"

"Yeah, the Phantom of the North."

I heard their whispers as I stepped up toward the Citadel. When my eyes matched theirs, they threw their gaze to the dirt like shy children toward a cute girl.

"There's a bounty on his head. Let's go find the guard."

They could not hide the words off their lips, no matter how quietly they spoke. Lip reading - a trick learned from the whores once in my employ. Or rather, the employ of that quill-skulled tiefling I once called an ally.

"They can't arrest him on Ai'Brone ground."

"Shh, we'll catch him on the way out."

No they won't. I've squared boots with the likes of Jensen Ambrose, Madison Freebird, and Kyla Orlouge; half trained scabs in standard issue armor would be lucky to find their own asses in a crowd like this. Though the thought of them trying did happen to put a smile on my lips. It didn't last long. Especially when the decrepit talons of an elderly Ai'Brone pushed against my chest, three more rallying behind the first.

"Those associated with the exile are not allowed on these grounds," the one boldly opposing me spoke in shaky tones.

"The Exile?" I asked, knowing full well they meant Corvanik, the rogue Ai'Brone who used to serve under me. "I'm afraid you have me mistaken."

The old one shook his head solemnly. "His aura is heavy on you, and it is not welcome here."

I narrowed my eyes toward them and felt my lip curl. They say killing an Ai'Brone is one of the highest crimes one can commit in Corone. My mind entertained the idea if only for a fleeting moment. Instead, I reached my thoughts to something far more comforting and familiar, a pit of endless void and ephemeral blackness. I reached out to the plane of shadows. Close enough until I felt the arc of power snap across like a bolt of static, and it filled me.

"Has anyone ever forced themselves into one of your illusions?" I asked to their visible confusion. Surely it had happened before, this is Althanas afterall.

"You will not pass!" the elder shouted in his most intimidating voice. While amusing to myself, he succeeded on calling far more attention on us than I would have liked. So, I kept walking.

Every time this happened, it felt different. Sometimes it felt like the icy grip of frost bite. Other times, it felt like the warm haze of the flame. As the elder's arm passed through my chest, I felt a dull ache unlike any time before. It was the look plastered on his face that made it worth while. Especially as his bony fingers struggled to claw at my clothes, my hair, my arm. Each swipe of his wrinkled talons passed through me. Well, the visible part of me that remained in the mortal coil.

"Stop! In the name of the Ai'Brone--!"

No point listening to the usual dribble. I continued to walk through them, even the strangers that decided to lend their aid - the hero types. Bright eyed and full of that sickening desire to do something good. I shook my head at the lot of them and carried on to the first of their service chambers. I had hoped this venture would have went better, that the commoners would have washed the stories from their minds. Then again, people do tend to cling to the tragic far more than any other emotion. Well, besides love, but what sad shell of a man believes in that?

I placed my hand upon the knob to the chamber and chuckled to myself. Good Samaritans and monks alike swiped at my ethereal form as my grip closed upon itself as though the door were air. I felt the tension of my bond to the dark plane pull taught. This was my queue to bid farewell. I turned to the four branded men of the cloth and bowed respectfully to them.

"Corvanik sends his regards."

Their swath of cries and jumbled commands melted into silence as I crossed through the door into the twisted haze of Ai'Brone magicks. My senses dulled and numbed. Then, like every time before, the switch turned back on: sight, sound, touch, smell, and even taste. My link to the shadow plane strained, then snapped, returning me to the reality of man.

Well... the reality of this arena to be more accurate.

What an arena it was, too. Dark, musty, and with the perfect touch of orange and yellow luminosity from hundreds of lit flames. I felt my balance wrenched for a moment, before the subtle sway of momentum became familiar. Speaking of familiar, the rough outline of a distant memory sat opposed to me, legs crossed. His disinterested expression sized me up with little to no change in his features. This time, however, he seemed like a shell of the Red Beast I once knew.

"The Slayer... it has been a while," I stated coyly. "Seems I'm not the only one who tries to fade into obscurity."

He wasn't here to chat, neither was I. And after that stunt with the Ai'Brone, who was to say they'd heal whatever injuries I incurred this time? Odds I didn't favor, but found my heart beating a most exhilarating rhythm.

"Where is your famed Rotslayer? I would have liked to see the legend for myself."