Chapter 15: Chapter 15: A Rat in the Camp
In the dead of night, the sun has already long set.
In Limgrave, near the gate to Stormhill, a dilapidated town resides on the gate bound path.
It's in a state of decay, woodwork rotting and stone structures currently crumbling away. The place was razed to the ground nearly a decade ago, when a skirmish broke out between the previous villagers and the demihumans, who are a race of mindless apes that only vaguely resemble humans. The fighting was vicious, and by the time Godrick sent soldiers to assist, the place was already overrun.
At that time, demihumans had a large presence in Limgrave, and they were a continuous nuisance. They constantly tested Godrick's ire; but attacking the largest remaining settlement this side of the storm gate seemed to have been the last straw.
In a campaign that lasted two years, knights and soldiers of Stormveil Castle nearly eradicated the demihuman presence in Limgrave, sending a large number fleeing south to the Weeping Peninsula. Only small pockets of them are left, none of which have the number needed to cause any real trouble.
Sightings report a large number may reside in a cave network near the western shore, but scouts have found nothing.
For the time being, seeing a demihuman in Limgrave is a rare thing. They are rabid, they attack without any sort of plan or strategy, and yet they are efficient. What's more, they tend to hold a grudge. This rundown town has yet to be rebuilt, partly because some fear that demihumans will just magically return from the shadows and get their revenge.
For the time being, the town is being occupied, but not by villagers. It's filled with soldiers.
A small garrison, led by the Stormhill Knight Roard, numbered at nearly 850 individuals.
This garrison is spread out across Limgrave, occupying roles that range from scouts, overseers, transport guards, and reserve. They use this place as a base, in a location where they can mobilize quickly if problems arise within Limgrave's borders. It is a meager force, but frankly it is all that's needed.
Limgrave is a peaceful place.
The dragon Agheel keeps to his lake, the Wandering Nobles obey their overseers, demihumans are low in number and rarely attack the consistent transports from Castle Morne. Raidens keep to the highlands, Land Octopi never stray far from water, and the Land Squirter populations have been kept in check.
As long as the highway from the Weeping Peninsula stays protected, the rest of Limgrave keeps in relative peace.
Roard's meager force is spread thin across this peaceful yet large land, to the point that less than a twentieth of his soldiers are in the base at any point in time. Such a settlement could not hold so many troops in the first place, but as long as the stubborn noble Kenneith keeps his hold on his impregnable fort, there will be no other suitable location.
So for now, the base has no more than 30 at a time. It makes them sound vulnerable.
But it's been five years since soldiers of Godrick occupied this town, and no attack has ever come.
But that changes tonight, and nobody is the wiser.
Bennard yawns, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
His chainmail and plating clicks and clinks with his movements, his red and green surcoat shifts lightly in the small breeze. He's holding a torch in his non-dominant hand, which he has raised above his head. His arm is getting sore; he silently wonders when the next shift will take over.
He's situated on the northeastern edge of the town, in a spot where nothing tends to happen. He kind of wishes something would happen because it's been the same boring routine every night.
Stand here, nothing happens. Go to bed when the next shift takes over. Next day, tend to his equipment, eat, train, eat more. Night comes. Stand here, nothing happens. Go to ben when the next shift takes over. Wake up… so on and so forth.
Every time, it's a boring-
What's that?
Bennard spots something, something that shouldn't be there. In the void of darkness beyond his torchlight, a small speck of light wavers about, like a firefly. It surely looks like a firefly, and Bennard would disregard it as nothing more. But something about it is off, he can't quite describe it. Maybe how it wavers, how it shines instead of glows. Or, maybe how it is drawing toward h-
A blade flashes from somewhere near Bennard's face. It deflects off the chainmail that hangs around his head, skids his neck, and hits the chainmail on the other side.
Bennard jumps back, quickly drawing his sword. What happened? Where did that blade come from? Where did it go? Where did the firefly go? His eyes flick every which way, searching for his attacker, but he can't find them. What happened? He feels something warm dripping down the inside of his chainmail coat, sticking onto his skin. He drops his sword, reaching for his throat. Did the blade get him? Did it go deep? It did not feel like it-
His hand slips into a wide gash just beneath his Adam's Apple, fingers curling into his own esophagus, becoming coated in blood.
Oh… it did go deep.
He spills to the ground with a blood-filled gargle, losing grip on his torch. The torch is kicked away by an unseen boot and snuffed out; his own sword, scabbard, and gloves are taken. A shadow looms over Bennard; this shadow fastens Bennard's scabbard around it's hip. A quiet voice of a young man sounds out nearby, as runes leak from Bennard's corpse.
"I'm sorry."
Bennard is no more.
"Did you hear something?"
Dellow sits up, leaning off his cobblestone backrest.
A fellow soldier by the name of Muren stands opposite him, holding a torch in the air. They're surrounded by low cobblestone walls of a building whose roof collapsed long ago. They were holding idle conversation for a time, but something tipped Dellow off.
He looks about, Muren raises an eyebrow, which doesn't give off the same effect with the skullcap he's wearing.
"I didn' hear nothing."
Dellow rests a hand on his straight sword's handle.
"No, I heard something. It sounded like someone blowing bubbles in water."
They don't hear the footsteps silently approaching them…
"Bubbles?" Muren asks with an incredulous tone, almost in a mocking manner. "How's you know what bubbles soundn' like?"
Dellow rolls his eyes, but he feels his heart sink a little. If he values Muren's respect, he won't answer that.
He averts his gaze.
"Fine. Forget I said anything. It was probably Bennard."
The sound of a blade piercing flesh, Muren stiffens up with a vocal choking noise.
Dellow doesn't register it for a few seconds more.
"That fool's probably making noises to himself again. You know how he is… Muren?"
He creases his brow when his eyes land back on Muren, who's gone still. He's dropped his torch, which continues to burn. His head is slightly lolled to the side, and his tongue's sticking out…
No…
That's not his tongue.
A tongue isn't that long, it's never that straight. Tongues don't drip blood.
It's no tongue.
The unknown object retracts in a flash, disappearing back into the darkness of Muren's gaping mouth.
He falls without a sound more; a thin figure in torn clothing stands silently behind him.
Dellow's words get choked up in his throat.
The figure is bathed in the firelight, a blade sullied in blood held in his right hand. The figure stares down at Muren's lifeless corpse, which has started to leak runes. His eyes are one of remorse; that remorse leaves when his eyes land on Dellow.
There's a glow in those eyes, like a distant flame in the dark. It's a golden glow; it's such a minute light that one would think it's the reflection of the torch, think it's a glint in the eyes. But soldiers and knights know what that glint means; they have dealt with their kind before.
A Tarnished.
Dellow is standing up now, drawing his sword. If he were smart, he would shout. He would call out, alerting the garrison that an enemy is here. He should. But he doesn't. He grinds his teeth, his nostrils flaring and eyes wide.
A Tarnished: vile creatures that mindlessly kill, mindlessly invade lands they don't belong in. They mindlessly think that they can just march in and kill beloved monarchs, take power in their own hands, and rule. Kings of thieves, liars, murderers; the most egregious of kin. What's more, this Tarnished… this bastard.
He killed Muren, he killed him.
The past three years, three years of long nights talking with the man that had a strange accent. The stories, the banter, the murmurings. All gone, taken by a Tarnished.
"You bastard." He growls and charges the figure. "How dare you!"
He wants to cleave the young man in two, lop off his head. He wants to take off his arms and legs, set him on fire, anything. He will do it all.
The Tarnished sidesteps Dellow's overhead strike, swinging an attack of his own. Dellow deflects the attack, readjusts his posture, and pursues.
The Tarnished is light on his feet, his thin sword flashes about like a butterfly's wingbeat. He has a familiar second sword stashed at his hip, and familiar gloves on his hands, but he wears no armor. If Dellow can land one blow, just one blow, then he knows he can win.
The Tarnished's attacks are fast, and many land. But that thin blade bounces off Dellow's armor, gets stuck in the links in his chainmail, knicks him in the-
Pain fires across Dellow's face, as something cold and sharp digs into his left cheekbone.
In an act devoid of composure, he lands a wild kick on the Tarnished, who grunts and falls away. Dellow retreats a step, wincing.
That attack, what was that? It was like the Tarnished were using a rapier. It was a sudden change from strokes to thrusts, and the thrust was far more precise than it should have been.
Dellow messed up.
The Tarnished rises to his feet, equally wincing and rubbing at where Dellow's boot bruised his ribs. Dellow wipes away the blood accumulating on his left cheek, looking down at his crimson-stained glove. That bastard got the first hit in. If Dellow weren't armored… those other attacks...
"Damn you."
He utters, and charges again.
He goes to impale, the Tarnished bats his sword away. He swings right, the Tarnished ducks left. He gets behind Dellow, tries to slip that blade in between the chainmail and surcoat near the back of the neck. It's the move the Tarnished used on Muren, which would spear through the weakest bones in the spine, and sever everything a human needs to live.
Dellow doesn't give him the chance.
He spins, using his own armored forearm like a shield, deflecting the stab. Dellow nearly scores a hit, near the shoulder. The Tarnished retreats away but is only given a split second to breathe.
The Tarnished can't block direct blows from Dellow, this last minute of combat has shown him that. He switches up his approach and starts throwing wide swings. Someone can only dodge for so long until they mess up. Dellow has armor, so he can afford to be reckless. The Tarnished can't show his back and flee for a moment, Dellow will be able to cut him down in that moment.
He can feel it, he'll win.
He can avenge Muren.
The Tarnished dodges, swings, and thrusts. Dellow, grapples, swings, and swings more. The Tarnished trips, Dellow sees his chance. He swings wide, looking to cut the Tarnished in two. His blade will enter at the right shoulder, leave at the left hip.
But the Tarnished blocks, catching Dellow's blade halfway down his own. He has his other hand on his own blade, holding his sword like a pole. The thin blade bends violently, but it doesn't snap. Dellow has never seen such a thing before, why grab your own blade? It stops his attack, sure, though the Tarnished grimaces, his face contorting in a dull pain. It was a stupid move; his arms might be broken.
But before Dellow can think of what to do next, the Tarnished forces his way through the pain, and wrenches his right hand toward Dellow's face. It's like the Tarnished wants to punch Dellow, but the hand still grips on the sword handle, bringing the pommel and cross guard with it. The Tarnished-
The Tarnished drives the tip of his cross guard into Dellow's left eye.
It destroys the sensory organ; the pain is unbearable.
Dellow loses grip on his sword, trying in vain to grab the Tarnished. A gagging cry exits from Dellow's lips, but the Tarnished doesn't stop.
He wrenches Dellow's head right, dislodging the cross guard.
He executes a half-stroke back left again, slashing across Dellow's throat.
It's a move the Tarnished saw before, when he saw a knight and a dragon fight head-to-head. That time was with a halberd, but a sword works just as well.
Blood spills, Dellow sounds like he blows bubbles in water. He will die in a matter of seconds, but maybe he can-
The Tarnished, still gripping near the end of his sword's blade, spears Dellow just below the jaw.
The blade tip crashes into something; Dellow loses the feeling of everything below his neck.
He sinks to the floor, his one-eyed stare lifeless. He doesn't know when he passes on, maybe it was as he fell, maybe it was after he hit the ground. Whenever it was, he had no last thoughts, no life to flash before his eye.
He simply ceased to live.
The Tarnished takes in deep breaths; runes leak from Dellow. A small speck of light floats up to the Tarnished, and after a while of the light flashing, he nods at it. He snuffs out Muren's torch and retreats the way he came in the dark, wincing at the throbbing pain in his arms. He listened to a voice in his head, retracing his steps to a nearby breach, to heal his new injuries.
Dellow and Muren are no more.
The Tarnished returns.
Redahr was found in the middle of changing into uniform, getting ready for his shift. He thought he heard something behind him, but his opportunity is lost when a straight sword erupts from his bare chest.
Redahr is no more.
Maxom was asleep nearby, Redahr's passing did not wake him. The Tarnished goes to move on, deciding to spare him. But that light flashes more; the Tarnished grimaces. He doesn't want to, but he must. If he doesn't wasn't to be hunted down by 800 men and an entire kingdom more, he cannot leave witnesses, and there's no telling when Maxom may awake. The Tarnished's shadow looms over Maxom's sleeping form.
Maxom is no more.
Garreth returns from his wide night patrol around the town; he sees the Tarnished. The Tarnished rises to his feet, Simon falls to his knees in front of him. Simon collapses; his throat has been slit. Garreth sets his torch down, and he engages, trying to kill the Tarnished quietly from behind. Garreth made no noise, not a sound. But when the time came to strike, the Tarnished dodged his thrust at the last second. Garreth is taken aback; how did the Tarnished know? The Tarnished's sword finds his eye. The Tarnished violently strikes his sword's pommel like a hammer to a nail, burying that blade nearly a foot deep into Garreth's head. He's dead before he hits the ground.
Garreth and Simon are no more.
The Tarnished takes a methodical path through town, picking his targets.
He needed to wing it in some cases, but almost everything has gone according to plan. This Tarnished has watched this outpost every night for the last three nights, using the nearby breach to travel effortlessly and quietly. He has watched the shifts, the patrols, who goes where, when, and why.
The town is inhabited by a skeleton crew, the schedule is the same every night. Five years without attack, the complacency that comes with that. A small number that restricts most guards to being alone, large periods of time before shifts switch, before the bodies can be found.
It was too easy to plan a route.
The Tarnished now takes the route he drew up in his mind, where time goes slower than in the real world. He drew up the plans with another, a young woman with only one eye ever open. In a memory of his old home, on the table in the living room, he made a sketch of the town, and drew the paths soldiers like Garreth and Bennard take.
The two planned for hours; only three minutes passed when the Tarnished opened his eyes.
He planned everything he could think of.
Hamared is no more.
Juliad is no more.
Wixen is no more.
Denlow is no more, Fernaade engages.
The Tarnished loses his index finger and middle finger when Fernaade's sword hit the Tarnished's handle; the Tarnished nearly loses his life when he keels over from the pain.
He left himself wide open.
That light saves him; he dodges at the last second. The scuffle lasted ten seconds more, until the Tarnished parries one of Fernaade's attacks, twisting the sword about to bludgeon Fernaade in a spot between the eye and the bride of the nose with the pommel. Fernaade falls, the Tarnished pounces.
Fernaade is no more.
The Tarnished retreats. He returns with his fingers restored.
Numen is no more.
Bernade is no more.
The howls of wolves begin to stir the quiet of the night; soldiers run about in a frenzy. The canines have caught onto the scent of blood saturating the air; the fresh soldiers moving to their guard positions find the corpses of their fallen comrades. The Tarnished abandons his plan and becomes more reliant on the glowing light accompanying him. The knight Roard still lives; the Tarnished was unable to find him. At this rate, the Tarnished will be discovered and killed.
Juno was caught up in the initial confusion that perforates the town. He thinks an army is here to kill him. He rushes out from his tent, searching for the enemy. The enemy is behind him.
Juno is no more.
Linus is decapitated accidentally by Quinnova, in a moment where Quinnova was at the ends of his nerves. He found Garreth's and Simon's corpses and was frantically trying to call for help. Linus is quietly spoken, and instead of calling for Quinnova, placed a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. Quinnova didn't think; he never was much of a thinker. He has muscles, but he has no brain.
Linus is no more.
Runes flood to the Tarnished, he pays them no heed.
Quinnova runs, flees the town in terror. He realizes what he's done. If he thought for a moment, he could have planned to blame Linus's death on the intruders, any other soldier would believe him. But he never was much of a thinker. He ran and was found by the Kaidens early the next morning.
Quinnova is no more.
Olier spots the Tarnished, but he does not engage. From the corpses and sites of combat, the enemy is small in number, might just be one. What's more, this enemy is skilled. Nearly every soldier has been killed by an accurate thrust transpiercing the exposed neck and eyes, or chest if it's unarmored. Taking on such a foe alone is foolish, rapier and estoc wielders excel in duels. Olier knows better, and retreats, finding his way to notify a specific knight with a great shield and partisan.
Olier, Sabakes, Sevro, Keller, and Tilentus tail the Tarnished.
Roard engages.
This way.
I'm trailing behind Melina, slinking between the decrepit walls of this rotting town, following that golden light that hangs just ahead like the glowing bit of an angler fish.
It's light has intensified since I used the Sentinel's runes, though only by a weak margin.
They have caught onto us.
A wolf howls somewhere nearby, I can hear soldier's voices too. Torchlight passes by somewhere to the right, the clink and clatter of metal plating sounds somewhere to the left. They don't know where I am exactly. But they know I'm here.
I feel sick.
I thought killing one soldier was bad enough back when I was held captive here, but now my mind is filled with images of men dying. They have ashen skin, brutish faces, and they are nearly seven feet tall. I could try and convince myself that they're ogres or something, but I know deep down what I'm doing. I'm a murderer, a serial killer at this point.
Murdered them as they faced me, murdered them from behind. Murdered two as they were sleeping; I feel wrong the most from those in particular.
So much blood, so much life slipping away from my hands. I can only be glad in knowing the shock of killing someone has nulled more and more as each time passes. They start to feel like living obstacles than actual people; I don't know their lives or wishes up to this point.
But I don't want to think that way, it's sickening me.
Nevertheless, I chose this path, so I bear with the feeling of my stomach boiling me alive.
You have done exceptional so far. Your level of skill falls within the realm of a common soldier, yet you have slain a great number of them.
Yeah but that's because I've only been fighting one on one so far. If the whole camp faced me at once, I'd die.
…Yes. There is that.
I hug against a wall as Melina's light dives for cover. Cold and damp moss tingles my back, but I don't move. We wait until three soldiers and a particularly large white wolf I recognize dart by, before we make a break for it, scrambling for the other side of the large center street.
I get a glance of the Erdtree far away and high above, along with other things.
Large carts parked around the town, bonfires that have been lit near the borders, guards posted nearby them. The main street itself is barren, but that could change in a matter of seconds if I'm spotted.
They trapped us in here.
I eye the guards at the bonfires; their number makes a loose ring around the whole town. I don't know where these reinforcements came from, or how they got here so quickly. But this is bad news, and I can only assume they have the Site of Grace heavily guarded too.
There goes my method to heal myself.
This is bad.
We make it to the other side, where we slip back into the darkness of the alleyways.
Yes. It seems that they know we are a small force.
We cannot hope to easily escape now.
The plan for now is to run around the town, trying to seek out any soldier by themselves. But lately, they've been in groups of three or larger; I could never hope to take on a group.
What's more, dawn will soon approach.
That pale gray sky that arrives hours before sunrise is already starting to saturate the eastern horizon.
If it becomes day, I'll be quickly discovered and killed, I'm certain of it.
Is this mission failed?
Melina seems to be listening to my train of thought, because she juts in suddenly.
We have only one target. Roard. If we can find and kill him, the rest of the garrison will be without a leader, and they may retreat back to Castle Stormveil.
May?
There is always a chance otherwise, but it is the best chance we have.
They'll still come after us eventually.
We cannot turn back now, but we can buy ourselves time.
But where do we start looking?
Left through a narrow passage, break right before a patrol passes by.
He never stayed in one place the nights before, where do we even start looking?
Fall back into the alleyway, follow the patrol.
I can hear wolves running about the center street, there's a chance they've picked up my scent.
I'm running out of time.
Wait.
I skid to a stop, in a passageway that's much too narrow to be comfortable in. Melina sneaks near the corner at a turn ahead, before falling back. She can sense the presence of others through their runes, but she needs to see them physically to know what they are.
It is Roard.
My heart skips a beat; I nearly take a step back.
You sure?
What a stupid question; nobody else here wears that strange type of helmet but Roard, it would be easy to spot him in a crowd of soldiers.
I think I'm just taken aback more than suspicious.
To think, an enemy is so close, just a turn away.
I am sure.
He is alone, though I cannot be sure of that.
He's probably not.
I resent to agree. I am sure he saw me, yet he does not pursue.
Only one reason why, there's nowhere else I can go but to him, he's being patient. There's a good chance soldiers wait at all other exits this alleyway empties out to, and I'd assume they're in groups. Roard is alone; if I was playing a numbers game then I'd opt to face him instead of the two or three enemies that might wait for me at other exits. But his skill is on another level, I'd rather fight three soldiers at once than him. Yet, he's my target, which means it's in my best interest to face him. He might know that, might even know who I am.
I could be walking into a trap.
No, I definitely am.
Melina listens to my thoughts quietly.
…Your mind works in mysterious ways.
Oh. Is that a bad thing?
Not particularly.
I shake my head, trying to forcefully whisk my runaway thoughts away. I take a deep breath; I take more to try and calm my rampaging heart.
Whatever happens, it happens.
I'm not ready, and I might never be.
No matter how hard Melina tried to teach me how to fight a spear user, it still sounds too difficult. Roard's only real weakness is that "t" shaped visor he has, everything else is covered with layers of gambesons, mail, and metal plates. He doesn't even need such a large shield, the armor would suffice. Yet he has one, a literal wall he can move around at will; might even attack with it.
He's not on the level of the Tree Sentinel, not even close.
That thing was more of an impossible obstacle than an opponent.
But Roard is a knight: a killer and seasoned warrior in impenetrable armor. He won't just poke at me with that spear; he's capable of much more.
This is terrifying, but I swallow my fears, and I take my first step forward.
I exit my narrow passageway, which empties me out into what looks to be a large chapel; the roof is completely gone and scattered about the floor. Pillars line the outer halves of the room, ivy and moss clings to the walls. The only light comes from the Erdtree, giving everything a surreal glow that barely makes up for sunlight. I came in through a back door, near where the altar should be, and at the entrance, Roard stands.
Large in stature, with a wicked spear and exuberant shield in his hands. Armor like that of an old jouster, that small shield and cone at the gaps beneath his shoulders shine in the Erdtree's light. His face is concealed, locked away behind that strange helmet, with a long tuft of hair jutting out of its top like a ponytail. The helmet makes him look tall and imposing. And since I can't see his eyes, I get no reading on his mood. He just looks menacing.
I feel shivers running up and down my spine, my legs feel like they're made of wood. But I march through the chapel, until I'm stand directly across from the knight.
We are about 40 feet from each other, such a distance that I'll be able to react if he decides to attack.
I'm still unarmored besides the gloves I took from the first soldier I killed near the town's edge; a single well-placed jab from that spear would end me. I'm thumbing at the cross guard of my noble sword, my new straight sword still stashed at my hip. I don't know how to dual wield, but I will if it means giving me another edge to fight with.
The sounds of wolves and soldiers quiet down outside, as if the entire town knows I'm in here now.
It's an unsettling feeling to say the least.
Only the whistling howl of the breeze, and my own beating heart.
"Well, how about that?"
Roard speaks, merely shifting his helmet about as if to get a good look at me. His voice is still full of bravado, like he were a superhero. But it has yet to lose its mocking undertone; he sounds more like a villain if anything else.
"That's a face I recognize."
Memories resurface, painful memories.
I try my best to put on a smile; if I act brave then at least I'll feel better… right?
"Long time no see." I say, projecting my voice for the second time tonight. "How's things?"
Silence.
Roard chuckles.
"Oh, I see, so you can talk after all? I was beginning to think you were one of the 'silent' types, if you know what I mean."
I scoff; I want to run away.
"I like to think I'm a rather talkative person, sometimes I can't shut up."
I should shut up.
I'm wasting time.
If soldiers wait for me just outside the chapel walls, then Roard only needs to give the order. He doesn't, doesn't even move beside slightly shifting about.
"You sure look that way; you also look like you're annoying to deal with."
I wonder what he means by that, I can think of a few interpritations.
"Yeah, seems I caused you some trouble."
Lance. What are you doing?
Roard chuckles again, which he ends with a sigh.
"You would be quite right. A little cockroach, scuttling about my camp. If more than half of my men weren't killed by your hand, then I'd think of you as nothing more than a nuisance."
Lance, this is no good. You must stop this.
Something wrong?
It's just a little banter before a battle; happens in movies all the time.
Are we being surrounded?
That already happened.
"Going a little quiet there Tarnished. You having a little heart to heart with that floating speck of yours?"
Why are you provoking him?
I… what?
I'm not provoking him.
Roard has gone silent, but I can hear him breathing.
I freeze up.
It's not normal breaths, it's a labored type of breathing. The type of breaths someone infuriated would make.
Do not let his words fool you.
He is not stable.
The runes in his body are stirring.
I-
I look back at Roard; he still hasn't moved.
But that shifting he's making, it's not shifting. It's movements akin to a rabid guard dog, held back by an unseen chain.
When my eyes land back on him, he chuckles again.
I wasn't noticing it; it's a dark chuckle. It goes muffled, like he was biting his lip. He's lightly shaking his head.
"You know, I've got a question for you."
His voice is level and flat, playful and mocking. He talks like he's known me for years.
"What happened to the Sentinel?"
I shiver.
That answers my hunch.
I want to say something, but I hold back, Melina's words still clinging to me.
I'm provoking him.
"I see." Roard says, admiring his spear. "Killed him somehow. Did you?"
He drops his spear a hand width, perpendicular to the ground, and lets it bounce off the floor on the endcap. He catches it again, heaving it up and down, testing it's weight.
His labored breaths don't stop; his voice is mocking.
"Now how did someone like you manage that?"
I'm realizing my blunder. I'm used to reading someone's mood by their eyes; it's been my gift since I was young. Can't see his eyes, but he sounded cheerful. I've deceived myself.
He's mad.
More than that, he's enraged.
He's ready to tear me to pieces.
"I wonder, oh how I wonder."
I'm not talking, my tongue feels paralyzed in my mouth.
He lets out a sigh.
"Guess I'll never know. What a shame."
Roard engages.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone