First Tastes..

[Arsenic Ruin]

The wind tussled his hair, causing extrapolates blue spikes shunned off to one side to waver. Around his shoulders he wore a tattered cloak, worn from days of travel lips curled into a steady smirk as he feels like paradise was just around the bend. Moments ago he sat in his mother’s kitchen, next to the hearth fire reminiscing over memories from childhood to his present travels. It was his return from training that this moment was to celebrate, and for him to offer forgiveness to his downtrodden mother. In exchange for his unwavering kindness she too presented him with a memorable item. In her eyes it was called “A mother’s love.” Armor composed of various items that would represent her own inner turmoil.

He wore the armor proudly, and at the moment he put it on he could do nothing but smile. That lingering grin transposed itself into this moment. Where he walked from his broken home, through the broken lands of the Drow. This was the first part of his journey; the objective was to meet his instructor, trainer, and friend in The Fields of Khu'fein to obtain his gift from his father.

To this protagonist though there seemed to be nothing more to gain. At his side he had a battle worn, and scratched long sword that was affixed at an angle on his hip. The straps of the scabbard fastened around his waist to keep the weapon secure. His mind was detoured from pondering over his equipment as his boots crushed against the blood stained soil. Obviously he had made a wrong turn in the midst of his ponderings.

He knew the land, and he knew where he stood, but it was a matter of why had the fates brought him here. His eyes narrowed as he rested his left hand on the pommel of his sword, looking around carefully keeping his wits about him. His steps became carefully placed, and he sprung about on the balls of his toes. The sun was midway through the sky and, clouds were scattered about causing hefty shadows to pass over the land.

In a moment of recollection he remembered the murmurs of the villagers about a supposed “Vampire” that had been terrorizing this part of Althanas. With that in mind he looked to the setting sun, postponing his meeting with his teacher a bit longer, in hopes to slay the night walking terror.

[Arawn]

As the sun bid farewell to the evening sky for another night, stars began to twinkle in the overcast blanket of gathering darkness. A vampire exited his temporary dwelling tentatively, stretching his muscles after a good day’s rest. The cave in L’Renor Harlilen was a dark stone landmark cut out of the land. Alerar was a beautiful land by most all accounts. Of its many intricacies, it was the Black Steppe Arawn favored the most, though most would call it the land’s sole natural blemish. The flatland, darkened by the blood of countless fallen, stood between the drow continent’s capital and the Kachuk mountain range to the north. As such, most caravans seeking to reach Salvar had to cross this deserted area in their travels. The undead being loved to prey on such groups. Their losses were more readily accepted than those of an immobile village. It was like attacking a herd of wild animals. A weakling lost now and again was never worth risking the caravan in its entirety.

“Such a beautiful land,” the dark one said to himself as he gazed around the cave entrance.

Little vegetation grew in the fouled region of the continent. What little there was seemed undeniably affected by the taint of so many dead, giving the scarce trees a most sinister look with their darkened bark and crooked branches. It was much to Arawn’s linking. He could not have imagined designing a better haunt for himself. He could smell the ancient whetting of the land with the sweat and blood of bygone battles, the sense invigorating him as the equivalent of the most potent caffeine drink to the living. His corrupted heart began beating with excitement as he contemplated another nighttime hunt. Where there wasn’t a nearby caravan, there was a petty duel waiting on him to pick off the victor. Where there wasn’t a duel, a foolish mortal had wandered too far into the Black Steppe and gotten lost when the sun set. Such was the venue of L’Renor Harlilen. Such was Arawn’s menu.

Finally, the vampire began to walk away from his dark abode to wander the area for some scent of his preferential quarry. He wore his dark vlince cloak closely about him. The starlight made the vlince material shimmer splendidly from afar. Beneath it, his white chest and legs were covered in leather cloth of the finest make. The only weapons on his person were dual daggers at opposite sides of his waist, their blades a curved mythril. They were hidden from sight by the enveloping cloak. Its hood was up, shrouding even the vampire’s face. The effect, coupled with his hunching over purposefully, was that he seemed a weakened individual roaming the plains at a loss as to where he should go. If he couldn’t sense a victim quickly, perhaps the sight of him would bring one closer. It had been a most fruitful tactic in the past.

He could not help but grin under the hood at his playing with mortals’ weaknesses.

“I wonder who’ll come tonight,” he thought as he passed under an overhanging dead willow, scanning the land with his murky eyes.

[Arsenic Ruin]

Weight shifting subtly, the crawlies on the back of his neck, lips pursed as he narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the dry terrain. Blood stained and empty, fruitless and somewhat climactic, this was the ideal setting for a showdown of sorts. Where our protagonist would find his claim to life, and somewhat fame, but those were not the thoughts on his mind. He acted only out of fear. Battle was sometimes his strong suit but he never prided himself on it. And confrontation was usually not his goal when he entered a place that was foreign to him. But when something needed to be done, what else is there to do but buckle down and handle the problem at hand.

A Shimmer

The music would build to a steady crescendo, the subtle striking of the drums would keep the up tempo, and the frequent blare of the horns would make ones throat close. His right foot turning outward as his heel up turned dirt slightly into a small mound. His feet situated themselves on the ground as an ample foundation for the start of combat. The nagging feeling that he had gone for the most part un-noticed gave him some reason to relax. But he knew it would only last for a short time, it always lasted only a short time.

Arsenic caught site of something, that was in the distance, progressing its way around the field that was laced with death and corruption. He quirked a brow as he slowly progressed his way towards the figure, his right hand running through his hair moving it out of his face. Though his left hand still rested on his sword for a safety precaution. A person out in the middle of this place? Maybe they got lost like he did, but who was he to pass judgment on an innocent? So quickly he picked his way across the land approaching this cloaked figure.

His lips curling into a smile before he considered to speak.

“ Are you lost?”

The music halted, dropping to nothing more than a steady thump, thump, thump. As his own heart beat rang in his ear, trying to gain a visual on the face of the by chance lost wanderer.

[Arawn]

The web of existence was such a marvelous system, beautiful in its balanced perfection. The greater links in the web made use of the smaller ones to thrive, while these in turn looked to others weaker than they. It worked flawlessly; a machine whose perpetually turning wheels ensured the strongest to survive and the weakest to fall at their hand. The thought always seemed to return to Arawn while on a hunt. Where a human saw fit to slay a deer for his family’s consumption, the vampyr found a distinct analogy in his preying on the living. They were on another tier, beneath him. The right was theirs to attempt surpassing their fellows by use of wit and strength However, when faced with the likes of Arawn, universal law was clear on declaring the victor. They were his livestock, his sheep. Of course, some resisted the slaughter more than others, but in the end their bleating was always silenced. It could be no other way. Natural selection always had the final word.

A smell reached the vampires nostrils in his musing, returning him to the moment. It was unmistakably a drow, at least partially. This was the common form of his meals in the dark elven continent, as was to be expected. Without turning to face the being right away, he sensed it approaching. A smirk appeared on his face under the hood of his cloak. The fish was attracted to the bait, soon to be hooked and drawn in. With a feigned weakness in his limbs, he turned to the youth. As any compassionate creature would, he inquired if Arawn was lost. What a weakness their empathy was! Worse still, the living didn’t even realize how much they allowed their races’ prosperity to be encumbered by their endless pursuit to aid the weak. It was laughable, when one considered the ease of existence without emotional allegiances tying them down.

“Me?” Arawn replied in a cool hiss. “No, my dear boy. I’m not lost.”

He slowly raised himself to his full and impressive height, towering almost a foot over the half-breed, his face still hidden in shadow.

“I am precisely where I intended to be. Perhaps it is you who has gone astray in the world, the fly caught in a web it did not foresee.”

The man’s smell was irresistible, permeating the vampire’s senses. Arawn was ravenous, feeling as one does before gorging themselves on a feast so close to sight and mind. He bore a sword, Arawn noticed, but such toys only ever assisted his quarry so much. With impressive suddenness, he burst out in his attack, serpentine muscles releasing like springs. His right claw rose quickly from his side in the quick advance, aiming to slash at the part-human’s neck and spill the crimson fluid pulsing through the enlarged veins therein.

[Arsenic Ruin]

False Judgment

Arsenic’s mind ticked, something was amiss, and he noticed it before he had even made is approach. Something was out of place, and it was because of that nagging feeling that he eventually became indebted, but let’s work from the beginning.

ACTION!

The camera resumed its position on the cloaked man that Arsenic had approached. The shawl moved lightly still holding the same mesmerizing effects almost to the point of hypnotism. The Hero was partially subdued by its sway and flow, Arsenic rocked to it left and right as a soft breeze past through the barren waste land of a battle ground. His lips curling as it made him think of the times he felt a mothers touch, but that was soon ripped away from him like joy, as the mysterious man responded.

“Me? No, my dear boy. I’m not lost.”

His voice was a calm hiss, which snapped Arsenic back to reality pressure, and not a moment to soon. He found the person he thought was in need, rise above him a tremor of fear rushing through his body like a cold knife. Pressure built up in his throat, shallow breaths were all he was allowed. Looking up to the swarm of shadows attempting to make out at least part of a face, but that in itself became irrelevant in a matter of moments. A taunt sinew of muscles corresponding to his opponents thought patterns caused the right arm of the towering figure to leap out from under the cover of the shawl.

The appendage, danced through the air making a swift enough approach to take him off his feet. But he cowered back, using his reflects to saunter backwards, a novice in actual combat he soon found he had lost his footing in combat to quickly. Drawing his weapon that was apparently oh so familiar to him in a cumbersome tug of his right hand on the hilt. The sound of metal scrapping against, leather rang out for a short moment. Almost smacking himself in the face upon the draw of his weapon. Our novice squire staggered back holding the weapon in front of him as he felt a slow trickle on his cheek. His right hand which was towards the pommel of the sword touching his cheek lightly, as he held the weapon with one hand with his left.

He narrowed his eyes as he tried to gain back his mettle, pushing forward with his right foot which faltered clumsily causing him to half stagger into a sprint. Bringing his sword upward from the ground up, from left to right, dipping the tip before the strike. His weapon gleamed, as it was basked in the moonlight. Exhaling as the sword moved full swing, his mind relaxing as he tried to imagine this transpiring in training. What where the weaknesses of his enemy, his mind went blank as he could feel that the swing was going to fall short, he begin to doubt himself, he began to lose his courage and fear rang through him like a freshly struck bell. Pupils dilated as he looked into the mesh of shadows again. His breathing was heavy, not from over exertion, but rather from the rush of adrenaline praying for an connection.

[Witchblade]

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