He approached the tavern on foot, leading a black horse by the bridle. A tall, cloaked figure, a sword strapped across his back, his face obscured beneath a shadowed hood. Evening had sunken in, its deep purple hues stretching across the sky like bruises. Every door in the town was shut tight, every window dim. The streets lay nearly deserted, shrouded in a thick silence broken only by the whistle of a cold wind that cut through the narrow alleys.
Most would shiver in such cold, but not this man. The chill had no grip on him. He moved as though born of winter itself.
"This should do," he muttered, stopping before the inn. His voice was deep and low, a whisper wrapped in iron. For a moment, he stood unmoving, head tilted slightly to the side, listening, focused. Behind the tavern's thick wooden doors, the sounds of clinking mugs, drunken laughter, and the out-of-tune strumming of a bard seeped into the night air.
"Curses," he whispered, more to himself than to the wind.
It was full. The gathering of many displeased him. He would not be welcomed here, a town of mixed crowd of half-bloods—men and women with ears long as willow leaves and scent as strong as true elven blood but every bit human regardless. And behind this door a fair number drowned themselves in beer, shared rumors in hushed tones, and watched each other with wary gazes. He should not be here, but had to be. It was the only inn open this late, and he had come for a cause.
To find him. The druid of Varthrak.
He stepped inside. The door creaked heavily as it swung open, and every head turned his way curious. The warmth of firelight spilled over the polished wooden floors and stone hearths, but it did nothing to soften the harsh stares around him. He was used to such attention.
His boots thudded against the floor as he walked slowly to the bar, ignoring the weight of the stares pressing against his back. He tapped the counter twice. An old man behind it looked up—short, grizzled, with a beard as grey as ash. He had been wiping a mug, but now froze in place.
The stranger pulled back his hood, revealing long hair the color of scarlet flame and eyes like molten gold. They glowed faintly, unnaturally, as though a fire burned behind them.
"Wine," he said, his voice calm but commanding.
The barkeep's hands trembled. Those eyes. He had seen things—battles, beasts, monsters. But never had he seen eyes like those. Yet his ears had heard of what foul kin bore them. And on the stranger's neck, half-hidden beneath his collar, was a tattoo—an ancient sigil. A mark known to all—one of death.
The man stammered, nearly dropping the mug. "R-right away, good ser."
The stranger said nothing more. He did not sit, nor did he take a step back. He remained standing, refusing to be close to any man in the room. The inn fell to a hush. Whispers passed like ghosts between tables. They knew who he was—or what he was. And as sudden as he had come to them, fear filled the room like smoke.
He placed his long sword on the counter with a heavy thud.
"I'm looking for the druid of Varthrak," he said, eyes fixed on the old barkeep. "A man called Harod."
The barkeep avoided his gaze. "I haven't any idea where he's at, ser," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
A slow smile tugged at the stranger's lips. "I wouldn't advise lying to me, lad." As though speaking to a child. His tone was almost amused, but the edge beneath it was sharp enough to draw blood.
He could smell the lie. Feel the fear. His senses—honed by training, time, and darker things—could not be fooled. To claim ignorance of the town's druid, their lord, was only foolish, a lie even a child would fail to believe.
The barkeep's eyes widened. His breath grew short, ragged. His hands shook, and his knees trembled. But he did not speak. Loyalty? Or fear of someone else?.
The stranger leaned in slightly. "It will do you good to speak." His gaze—grasping the old man's will. The barkeep's mouth opened to speak, to reveal that which he knew of against his control.
And as the words began to slip, a figure rose from a table nearby. A massive man, golden-haired and broad-shouldered, clad in polished silver armor. A knight. Three others followed, each one armored, swords at their hips, their expressions grim.
The leader spoke first. "What business do you have with our lord, you gruesome bastard? You here for his head? For all of ours?" He stepped closer, a table's breadth away, his voice full of venom.
"Your kind is not welcomed here," one of the other knights spat.
The stranger released the barkeep from his gaze and turned slowly to face the knights. He met their eyes with that same burning calm. The room held its breath.
He took a sip from the goblet the barkeep had placed before him. Calm. Unhurried. With a smirk held on his face.
"And what's so funny, mutant?" the golden-haired knight growled.
"I think he's mocking us," another snapped, his hand flexing for a weapon.
"You underestimate us for our half-blood?" the leader sneered. "You may be strong, mutant, but you're outmatched."
Still, the stranger said nothing. He drank, then set the goblet down and offered a thin smile.
"Be at ease," he said. "I didn't come for trouble."
"Your presence is always trouble," the leader growled. "Where your kind walks, death follows. Death to all not of human blood. Yet your own is tainted like the many that had tasted your blade. Saints, you call yourselves. Cursed blood, mutant bastards. Even children. You murder in the name of your false gods, your twisted makers—the proclaimed Holy Order"
The stranger chuckled softly. A sound that sent a chill down many spines.
"You're wrong about one thing," he said, eyes gleaming. "We saints don't kill for gods or our makers. We do it for the thrill."
Rage erupted. "Son of a bitch!" the knight shouted, hand flying to his blade. "I'll say this once, vagabond—leave, while we show you mercy."
"I'm afraid I can't do that." The stranger turned away, wine in hand.
"Very well. Draw your swords, men. We have ourselves a vermin needing disposal."
Without a moment's call, one knight lunged with a dagger, aiming for the saint's back.
The blade came quick, but failed to reach it's mark. The saint moved with unnatural speed, seizing the man's wrist mid-air. The crack of bones shattering under his crushing grip echoed loudly, as the knight screamed—a shrill, animal noise of pain. He pulled a fork from the counter with his free hand and in one fluid motion, rammed it into the knight's throat.
Blood erupted in a gruesome geyser, arterial and hot. The knight clawed at his neck, choking on his own blood, gurgling pitifully as he collapsed to the floor. Crimson poured from the puncture wound, pooling beneath his twitching body.
"You bleed red too," the saint murmured, almost entertained. "I've never seen the blood of your mixed kind" he confessed, picking up the dead knight's sword.
Another knight charged, this one screaming in rage, swinging his blade wildly.
The tavern erupted into chaos. Patrons fled for corners, shrieking. Others dove under tables, faces pale. The tavern master dropped to his knees, clutching his gut, vomiting in horror.
The saint was a blur. He ducked, spun, and in a decisive motion drove the sword into the second attacker's face—through the right eye socket. The steel pierced bone with a sickening crunch, protruding from the back of the man's skull. Blood sprayed like a broken fountain, spattering the walls, the floor, and the saint himself.
He stood motionless, face painted in gore, as the knight collapsed.
The old man behind the bar trembled, unable to move only after just pulling himself to his feet. He could only stare at the crimson spectacle. His black boots were soaked.
The saint turned and slowly cleaned his face with a rag as the last two knights stood watching—one with a trembling sword, the other backing toward the door—staring with horror.
The golden-haired knight roared, leaping forward with a desperate cry. The other made attempts to flank him, blade raised.
The saint was already in motion. His steps were that of a ghost, smooth, precise, dropping low, with a dagger pulled from his boot. He dodged, effortless, and with definite movements plunged his blade into the third knight's throat, jerking it sideways to rip through flesh, windpipe, and muscle. The sound was wet and sharp.
The knight dropped his sword, gasping, his blood cascading from his neck as he fell backward, twitching.
In a single breath, the sorcerer turned, catching the leader's sword strike with his own blade. With a quick twist, he disarmed him, burying his dagger deep into the knight's gut, twisting slowly, cruelly before yanking upward—splitting flesh and armor as he watched the knight's colon spill out in coils, gurgling on blood.
The armored man collapsed, eyes wide in shock, mouth agape with silence falling over the tavern.
Red was the color of the tavern—dripping from the counter, pooling beneath corpses, splattered across the hearth.
The saint approached the bar, his steps slow and deliberate. He twirled his bloodied dagger once and slammed it into the counter beside the barkeep, leaning in, face calm, eyes glowing.
"I ask again, good lad," he said softly, "How do I find the druid?" with a smirk that cut sharper than his blade