Slayer of the Rot
12-06-10, 11:17 PM
If he cared about matters beyond himself and his own bloody, revenge minded affairs, Dan Lagh'ratham may have thought it had been a bit sad that the fourth of Dheathain's islands had no name. Well, not sad, but more like scornful pity; the slayer barely had an empathic bone in his body. In a way, he could see the entire nation reflected in him in its simple savagery. It was the least civilized of the continents he had traveled to, almost even less so than Fallien's harsh, arid stretches of cruel desert. Here, monsters prowled, as free as Dheathain's own people, hunted only when food, clothing, or shelter were needed. The land was still wild and free. That, in truth, made it a pain in the ass. He was far from the virile days of his youth, when he trained his body relentlessly in hopes of becoming the best. Now he was lazy, and preferred the short and easy path than the long and arduous road which gave the greatest of spoils. That slovenliness had shaped him, certainly, into the beast he was - the way that gave power in exchange for one's morals was one of nightmares and untold horrors.
He raised his narrowed eyes from the edge of the boat and stared out towards the marshlands. The long oar passed through the murky, stinking black water with soft splashes, and he swayed with the thin boat as it wobbled, cutting quietly onward. Reflection was for the weak. He had no regrets, felt no guilt over the things he had done to himself and countless others. He'd had friends once - Tshael, Godhand, Natalya - but he'd left that idiocy behind when he'd stained his hands with his lover's blood. He didn't bother to torture himself anymore with the thought that he'd been planning to marry Claire in a few months before he'd woken in the destroyed cabin, his nose full of the smells of decay and sin. The past was the past, and his had always been full of corpses. Of strangers and family.
"That is a god awful idea, stranger." Dan blinked slowly, looking at the boatman staring up at him - a skinny draconian runt, exiled from Talmaidh decades ago, who passed his empty days escorting foreigners through the fourth island. He pointed with one thin finger and Dan looked at the match in his hand, thumbnail pressed against the head. Lost in thought, his hands had moved in ancient habit and placed a cigarette in his mouth.
"You don't smell it?" Asked the boatman, who waited for a moment, in vain for an answer, before gesturing weakly with a hand out at the dark swamp. "Swamp's full of gases. Flammable ones. Right now we're near a few thick pockets. Light that match and we'll fry." Scowling, he flicked the match off the side of the boat, feeling his nerves fray at the lively laughter coming from his feet.
"What a stupid git! Trying to blow us all up." He stared down at the two draconian lounging on the floor of the boat, both grinning at one another. These were true example of their species, instead of the wretched example at the prow. They were both broad shouldered and barreled chested, nearly a foot taller than the slayer both and handled a large skin of wine with bronze scaled claws. They'd told him they were hunters, and had probably told him their names, but he'd focused on tuning them out before he committed it to memory. They were both obnoxious.
"An awfully stupid thing for a man so feared." The one the right chuckled, wiping his mouth off on the back of his clawed hand. He raised the wineskin, offering it to Dan, and the slayer took it after offering them a disdainful glare in turn.
"So what brings the big bad Red Beast to our humble home?" Dan didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stared out into the dim swamp, his ears full of the sounds of croaking bullfrog's and buzzing insect swarms. Finally, he took a swallow of the wine, almost as warm as the humid air smothering him.
"Pleasure."
He raised his narrowed eyes from the edge of the boat and stared out towards the marshlands. The long oar passed through the murky, stinking black water with soft splashes, and he swayed with the thin boat as it wobbled, cutting quietly onward. Reflection was for the weak. He had no regrets, felt no guilt over the things he had done to himself and countless others. He'd had friends once - Tshael, Godhand, Natalya - but he'd left that idiocy behind when he'd stained his hands with his lover's blood. He didn't bother to torture himself anymore with the thought that he'd been planning to marry Claire in a few months before he'd woken in the destroyed cabin, his nose full of the smells of decay and sin. The past was the past, and his had always been full of corpses. Of strangers and family.
"That is a god awful idea, stranger." Dan blinked slowly, looking at the boatman staring up at him - a skinny draconian runt, exiled from Talmaidh decades ago, who passed his empty days escorting foreigners through the fourth island. He pointed with one thin finger and Dan looked at the match in his hand, thumbnail pressed against the head. Lost in thought, his hands had moved in ancient habit and placed a cigarette in his mouth.
"You don't smell it?" Asked the boatman, who waited for a moment, in vain for an answer, before gesturing weakly with a hand out at the dark swamp. "Swamp's full of gases. Flammable ones. Right now we're near a few thick pockets. Light that match and we'll fry." Scowling, he flicked the match off the side of the boat, feeling his nerves fray at the lively laughter coming from his feet.
"What a stupid git! Trying to blow us all up." He stared down at the two draconian lounging on the floor of the boat, both grinning at one another. These were true example of their species, instead of the wretched example at the prow. They were both broad shouldered and barreled chested, nearly a foot taller than the slayer both and handled a large skin of wine with bronze scaled claws. They'd told him they were hunters, and had probably told him their names, but he'd focused on tuning them out before he committed it to memory. They were both obnoxious.
"An awfully stupid thing for a man so feared." The one the right chuckled, wiping his mouth off on the back of his clawed hand. He raised the wineskin, offering it to Dan, and the slayer took it after offering them a disdainful glare in turn.
"So what brings the big bad Red Beast to our humble home?" Dan didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stared out into the dim swamp, his ears full of the sounds of croaking bullfrog's and buzzing insect swarms. Finally, he took a swallow of the wine, almost as warm as the humid air smothering him.
"Pleasure."