(Sorry to those who maybe read the first version of the story)
THE RETURNING
It was an ordinary evening. Unlike normally in these kind of stories it wasn't storming, nor showering rain down like piss. No, it was a calm night under a dotted sky. If anything from perfect, it was a bit cold outside. It was an evening a normal man would either spend with his family or work late to provide one... But that's not the men of this story.
In the peaceful night an old worn tavern stood some-what still - at least from the outside. Had it indeed been storming or raining, the whole shack had come down crumbling. A lucky it didn't, indeed. With a cold breeze a young woman found her way inside the tavern. With a scepter holstered to her back, she shrug the cold off her shoulders and took a quick glance around the inn as if searching for someone particular. The tavern was in a bad shape and had obviously seen better days. It was a place where someone could easily get killed without lifting a finger. Even the old shack in Cove looked like a full-care-spa in comparison to that rat infested nest. Yet it was one of those rare places where no questions were asked or needed. Basically it was a place where people came to wait for death. Yes, it was surely a place of many stories. But then again such place was perfect for thugs and old people tired of their lives, memorizing and reliving the days lost in the sand of time - back when they were someone with a name.
No one bothered to turn around to look at the new face in the bar. To them she was probably just another lost soul searching for a place to sink her misery to. And why not, no one with something to live for would care or dare to step into that shit-hole. Besides, rather than starting to poke at others business, they all knew it in their skin it was better to keep to their own and wished the same courtesy from her behalf. And thus, without paying any attention, they continued with what they knew best, pouring down a beer after beer like sucking the milk out their mother's tits.
The woman pulled down her hood revealing her soppy, pale, yet pretty shapes and her long and silvery hair lingering down her muggy young face. She was obviously someone who'd normally never step into a hole like that - a young and beautiful. Even then no one, except for the bartender replying with a nod, cared to give her a gaze. The woman took a firm look at the bartender, an old bald man behind a desk, probably the owner of the whole shack. Without saying a word the old man hit the table with a pinch of ale. It was all they had to offer and probably tasted like horse-shit. The woman ignored both the old man and the ale as if looking for something else. This got into the bartender. The old man was obviously getting nervous and wary. No one ever comes to his god forsaken place if not to drink or fight, and he was afraid this woman came for the latter. It's not like he cared for the poor bastards fighting or even dying, but was rather afraid the whole place comes crumbling down in the process. Although that would only be a great advancement to the state of the bar, half rotten breaking down on its own. Also, it's never a pretty sight if a beautiful girl is killed by shameless drunkards.
The woman took another, more careful, look around the people at the inn. All drunk as hell, some passing out where as others were already crawling out the back door to their empty, cold homes - if they even had one that is. Occasionally the bartender yelled something at someone vomiting his guts out, as if trying to keep some sort of order in the place. No one listened and he knew it. In the back there was a table of five. Each seat was taken by a man uglier than the next. Some older, some younger, but they all had their reasons to be there. Some hid them better, some had more obvious flaws: a missing arm, a missing eye. You name it, they missed it. They looked like someone took a dump on them, and by the smell of it that might have as well been the case.
The woman went to the desk and gave the bartender another nod as if agreeing to take the beer. She took the ale off the bar counter. The old man was relieved to say the least. At least she wasn't starting a fight... yet. The woman continued towards the table of five. With each step the floor planks kept creaking and if she was any heavier they'd surely give in. As she neared the table she could hear the men laughing and sharing the stories of old. All completely hammered, none paid any attention to her approach.
There was no room in the table, but the woman cared for not. As she closed in she grabbed the nearest chair from the next table, right under a passed out man. The man fell on the floor continuing his sleep. That was if the man was asleep and not dead. No one cared. The woman took the chair and forcefully hit it next to the table of five. It was only then the woman was first noticed by the crowd and whole tavern. The old man held his breath behind the counter. Maybe he was mistaken and the woman did come for a fight, after all. The tavern was quiet for a moment. Everyone was waiting for a blood-shed, waiting for their time to come and die they measured the woman carefully from toes to head. Such a pretty view doesn't find her way to the tavern too often. A shame, they thought, what a waste of such a perfectly fit wench. Inviting herself to the table the silence was broken by the woman opening his mouth. "I take this seat is not taken", the woman spoke with a clear and loud words while placing her ass on the chair. No one objected and again the bartender let out a loud sigh of relieve.
The five men looked at each other and the new face. Undetermined what to do with the intruder they took a sip of their drinks. The woman followed the example and took her first gulp of the already warm and shitty ale. "It's always the best, you know, the first one, both in beers and in stories", the woman opened her lips with a chuckle. "Although this beer taste like piss, the story better", she began with a loud voice, ensuring all who wished to hear were able to.
The dream is always the same. I'm but a young girl, less than a fourteen harvest old. I spent my days with my baby-sister, mother and father in a small farm on a beautiful hill... far from these lands. My mother was still young and a beautiful woman closing to her thirties. Quite a fuck-able wench, many were heard to whisper. My father, on the other hand, was an older man, a warrior obviously by his size and the battle-hardened skin filled with scars and tattoos.. the sight of my father was truly one of a beast and those tattoos, I never forget those tattoos.
With no invitation the woman began the story of her own. Yet none dared to interrupt her. Maybe the men had nothing else to do. Maybe it was refreshing to hear something new once in a while. For god knows the men had spent half their lives in that shit-hole repeating the same old songs over and over again. With a gulp of ale the woman continued.
Yes, his skin painted in fire, bones and blood he looked like the presentation of death itself. Needless to say I was always a bit afraid of him. At least until that one night the boats arrived. The sound of wolves howling and closing by set my father on alert. He knew what was coming.
"And let me tell you, it wasn't wolves", she chuckled to herself as if she had just told a joke. No one else seemed to get it. "It was far worse", the woman leaned forward taking another sip of her beer. The men didn't know whether to smile, laugh or ask.
Of course, back then I was but a small girl and nothing but puny and weak. There was nothing I could of done to change their fate. Or at least so I've been told.
Leaning back, the woman took yet another gulp of her beer. She paused, obviously getting a bit lost in her thoughts. The seconds felt like hours in the table. The five men could not wait for their guest to continue her story. All sitting quietly they had already forgotten their beers. All of which had gone warm and lost whatever taste they might have once had. That did not stop them though. They'd drink the beer even if someone took a piss in it right in front of them. Hell, they'd drink their own vomit if it had some beer in it.
It is a day that keeps repeating in my dream. They came at night, a party of six men bearing death on them. Wearing bones and leather, they reeked of death. Like my father their bodies were covered in paint. However their paint was shady and muddy.
My father had sensed danger and prepared his spear for a fight. Foolishly, much to my father's surprise one of the six charged right through his defence formation. Wounded through his chest, the rider fell down. The rest of the six followed. Fighting hard my father was able to break one of their leg, and another one's arm, but was soon after seized along-side my mother. Luckily my sister wasn't there, she had left to harvest some berries a while back. Their leader came to me. The man took out his dagger and approached me. "Let's see what their precious treasure look like from inside", I remember him laughing and toying with the words.
My mother was screaming and crying, but my father sat quietly. Gathering his strength he was waiting for an opportunity to strike... and such opportunity represented itself when one of the men holding him down loosened his grip. My father sprung up, grabbing their spear he stroke it through their leader. The man let go of me and with a spear sunk deep into his heart, he fell down on the ground, gasping blood he was soon dead. His dagger fell not more than one foot from me and I was in between a choice. I could grab it and help, or do as my father commanded and run, run to my sister and save ourselves.
The one guy was still passed out on the tavern floor. Taking his final breath, the Reaper was already waiting at his shoulder. The rest held their breath as if waiting for the plot to thicken and change. What did she do, they wondered, did she grab the dagger and aid her father or did she wait for him to fight them off. How will the story end, they couldn't wait.
Like a fucking pussy on a horseback I ran and saved myself. I ran and saw my father and mother fighting to their last breath. My mother was able to stab one of the men right to his eye with a dagger hidden in her dress. After that, with a quick slash to her throat, her screams were forever silenced.
She took a last gulp of her ale, a large one and poured it all down her throat. The hatred grew up on her face as she stood slowly up.
She looked over the table, carefully taking a final glance at all five men fitting the profile: One missing an eye, another one having trouble holding his glass of ale with his broken hand and one having a hard time placing his broken leg. The men eyed each other nervously.
The woman leaned back and swiftly with a circular move she grabbed her battle scepter and stroke the table into million pieces. Everyone looked up and the tavern was silenced for another moment. The table had cracked with wooden pieces slamming in to every corner of the bar. Soon the moment was over and those who hadn't left or passed out yet, continued to their old habit of drinking. No one wanted to interfere. Shaking his head the bartender let out a deep sigh. He just had to be right.
The five men sat down frozen in chock. Eyeing each other they had no idea what to do, or what to wait. Did she held them responsible to her parents death? That was absurd, insane, most of the men had never even held a weapon before. A piss was percolating through one of the men's pants. Though it might have as well been just the spilled beer, piss is more suiting to the moment. All changing their stare to the one really pissed off woman holding the scepter they waited for her next move. Stammering, one of the men tried to explain she has the wrong fellas, but his pleas went to deaf ears. The rest waited. Is this the glorious day they die, wasted in a shit-hole covered in piss.
The bartender took another deep sigh. It's not like the old man cared for the five dead men, or six if counting the one guy passed out earlier, laying dead on the floor. It was just the amount of pain he had to go through explaining why, yet again, six men were carried out of his tavern. Lucky for him though, the woman didn't plan to kill any of the five. And as such with another circular move the tip of her scepter only scratched each of their faces. Of course, tasting their blood the hammer took parts of them with it. With the cracking sound of their facial bones shattering and flesh being shred off by the hammer's hit, the men would surely ascend to a new level of ugliness. Ugliness even a blind, fat whore would deny to fuck.
She didn't want to kill them. No. Death would of been too quick and too welcomed. She wanted to make sure they lived the rest of their lives even more miserably, knowing that revenge has been delivered upon them. Each time they gather in the shit-hole for a beer they look at each other and remember what they have done. Each time they remember the young mother, the older father and the small girl whose family they stole while laughing and enjoying each moment. Each time they wish the hit had delivered them from pain and taken them to whichever god they believed to. Each time they sit down quietly and never mention their leader again.
That is, of course, if they were ever even guilty. She didn't seem to care though, she just wanted to destroy something.
The woman turned around facing the front door. The bartender followed each step closely. Leaving the five men behind, bleeding in pain, she kicked the guy laying on the floor. Guess the guy wasn't dead after all - a miracle, one could say. The guy grunted and pulled himself up. It was obviously way past his bed-time, but he rather mumbled something only the bartender could understand and hit the table with another pinch of ale. The woman went forward, the floor squeaking beneath her he grabbed a purse of gold and threw it to the bartender. The amount was big enough to cover the drinks, the table as well as a reasonable tip - something the old man hadn't seen in years. "You should consider retirement", the woman chuckled to the old man. The bartender was only glad no one had died and replied with a warm smile and a nod welcoming her back to his tavern at any time. Hopefully she never has to.
No one knew if the story the woman shared was real or not. No one really cared to ask that one question, but then again that was the way of the place - no questions asked. After the woman's departure they figured she just had to share it with someone, yet with no-one.
Morning had already arrived and the sun was peaking from behind the horizon.. On her way out a man opened the tavern door and stepped in between the entrance and the woman. The smell of fresh morning dusk forced its way to her nostrils, followed with something that didn't quite add up, it smelled like shit. The smell came from the man standing in front of him. Dressed in black, with a face filled in scars, it felt like a deja-vu. "Damn. You should consider joining the merry band of ugliness in there", the woman chuckled, pointing inside the tavern.
"It's easy to beat up five men with already one foot in the grave, isn't it", the guy on the doorway replied while preparing himself for a battle. The man was clearly some sort of warrior, but obviously insane with no idea who he was fucking with. With blankness on her face, the woman delivered a quick strike to his knee. A cracking sound of his knee-cap shattering was heard and he fell down on the floor, screaming in agony. Cursing the bitch to the lowest of hell, the man had just signed his own death warrant. She raised her scepter on the air above the man. With one swift move she broke his skull to pieces. The man died instantly. The woman turned around facing the whole tavern for the one last time.
The name is Darian Darkmind
The returning
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