She watched curiously as the other seemed to contemplate her offer. Where she was considered a memory and the little life essence that was connected to it, was a cheap price for her help. It would be barely be enough to sate her hunger but she was an expert at being patient.
“No need to worry, stranger. All you need to do is focus on the memory in question and I will pick it from your conscious. You have my word that I will not dig deeper into your mind.”
Certainly, some would say that trusting the word of a spirit was a terrible idea but she had no need to lie. If she wanted to devour his soul fully, she would’ve attempted to do so when he’d first set foot on her mountain.
The smile that played around his lips held just the slightest hint of danger. “What do you say? Is your quest worth such a small sacrifice?”
Well, isn’t that convenient. He still does not trust her whatsoever, but the terms of the deal itself seem acceptable enough, and he is not without means of retaliation if the fox-spirit attempts to renege on the agreement.
“Very well.” He states simply, and without another word, he focuses his thoughts, bringing up a random memory from years before.
Dead of night, the sky starless and black as pitch. The streets of a city, buildings crowded together like boxes—the only sound the weak whistling of the air through cracks in the stone and wood.
Motion from the alleyway to the left—feet halt in place, hand shifts beneath cloak to the handle of the sword. A figure surfaces from within the shadows: hunched, dressed in patchwork rags, face covered by a dirty hood. Words come in a croaked, feeble voice: ‘Coin for a poor man?’ Spare some gold?’ Beneath the rags—the bulk of trained muscle, the sheen of metal. This is no beggar.
Three long steps taken towards the figure—and sure enough, it lunges forwards, a shortsword appearing from underneath the rags. From the side and behind, the footsteps of two others, the hissing of metal—an ambush. They chose poorly.
The ‘beggar’ falls first: sabre arcs out of its sheath, cleaves through cloth and metal and flesh, exposes the organs beneath. The second man swings with an axe, hits only empty space; an instant later, his neck bursts in a fountain of blood. The third yells and charges, stabbing with a dagger, nicks the shoulder. Sting. Irritation. Contempt. Before he can withdraw, his throat is gripped; fingers close, and his neck shatters with a final gurgled cry.
A pause as the body crumbles to the ground—then footsteps resume, faster than before, down the street and out of sight. Too much noise; must leave now, avoid curious eyes.
Let someone else clean up the mess.
titsay
kaledo-art
tangentwithtanner
pixelskylines
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
