Cool, frosty air greeted his cheeks like a mother’s kiss. ( Was this what death is like? ) The young man wondered, sanguine red gazing at the haze above as gentle puffs of mist left his breath. There was an odd sort of calm that surrounded him as he lay, slick and wet as it were. ( It rained, hadn’t it? ) He thought idly, though he could not remember when. It was odd, alarming in a sense, this eerie calm that seemed to take him over. Its almost as though he wouldn’t mind lying there forever, but the more he breathed, the more he knew he could not — never mind the chatter that settled about.
As content as he were, he knew this could not be.
( Your journey will not end here, young knight. )
The calm soon became restlessness, and he motioned towards the ground. Although hard to grasp at first, (the weakness about his body cloaked his senses) he managed to push himself up into sitting position. His feet were numb, the clothes on his back wet and poorly stitched together. He imagined himself to be a beggar, if that patched up gloves and pants he wore spoke much. The idea suited him quite well, oddly enough, but even he knew he should know how he’d come to rest on the sleek ground like that instead of a shack or box or anything of the like.
The dagger at his waist told him he was no normal beggar. It was too large and too sleek to be worn about without a use, and it called to him. It was his; there was no doubt about it. How easily it fit in his hand.
He groaned, placing a hand against his head. The jeweled dagger fell to the side, clattering against the ground, and his body called out to it. This familiarity brought about pain, and an odd but eager willingness to get up and move. He focused on the emotion, thrived off it, and utilized it to snag his dagger back into its sheathe and push himself off the ground.
The uncomfortable slickness came with a layer of crimson. ( Oh, ) he glanced at his gloved hand, spotting the smeared red. ( That explains the lightheadedness. ) It was almost like a joke, how lightly he was taking this all. Then again, how else was he to? There was nothing to be gained if he had began to run about panicking. It would only be a waste of his already piss poor reserves. He had to remain calm; there was nothing else to it. Maintain this odd sense, but also find where the devil he was.
Now that he thought about it, where was he?
He took a proper look at his surroundings. The dim, faint light of the lamps barely lit his way around, but he could manage. Something told him, it was more comfortable this way than to have the brightness of the sun shine down onto him. If that dagger of his were any indicator of his past, perhaps he’d been a thief or a burger of some sort. It would make sense. In that case, it would be right of him to dislike that of the light, but if his clothing were any indicator, then he was not a good one.
His quick survey came to an abrupt halt as a dark haired man came up to him. ( How did I not sense that? ) He took a step back unconsciously. Compared to themselves, their presence was overwhelming, heavy. It was clear as it were foggy to tell if he were a representative of what was to expect from the area, the dagger a good thing to keep close to his belt. Even so, he recognized the effort to approach and warn him. He’ll just have to ignore how oddly fitting his surroundings were for the end of The Little Match Girl. The haze and the meager lighting all read text book tales of a place to avoid, yet -
“I … can manage.” He spoke bravely. “Just let me [re]gain my barrings.”
But, to where should he go?
Now that he was close enough to see the other, it was even more apparent he wasn’t from the area. The ragged material of his clothing was so far removed from the wealthier residents of this town that he even looked unusual when compared to the beggars and farmers who populated the outskirts of the misty city. The dagger he carried; however, stood out against his ruined clothes. He had suspected as much from the beginning, but, even with the murky fog looming around them, he felt all the more confident in his assumption. He pitied him. He must have been an unfortunate soul to have found his way here of all places. To a city where the onset of night meant something terrible and the rumors of ghosts and ghouls (though, his existence alone proved they were more than just rumors, but his presence, while unsightly, was hardly anything they had to worry about) were the least of the worries of those who were forced to live here. He may have hated humans; there were nights he would have been content to allow whatever evils lurk within the nearby woods to rage upon this village and rip them to shreds, but he couldn’t. And he wouldn’t.
With the musty stench of rain still clinging to the earth and the heavy odor of blood that had seeped into the air (distorting his keen senses as they mixed together until he could barely even pick up the smell of the lamps burning away behind him), he hadn’t noticed the other was bleeding until he had neared him - he’d simply written off the coppery smell clinging to the other. His nose wrinkled slightly. If he were in his original form, his ears would have perked up, instead, his deep red eyes only lit up for a brief moment. Though the scent his wound carried and the stench that clung to the beast wandering closer and closer to the city were vastly different. Humans, he thought, were rather talented at both creating trouble and getting themselves tangled up in it. Then again, that was why he was stuck here in the first place, because they’d gotten themselves into trouble and his worthless conscience wouldn’t let him walk away from these stupid creatures when they were being hunted by something greater than them.
The tone the stranger takes is bold, though not unsurprising to him (humans were as brave as they were foolish). It matter little to him whether this stranger is a coward who flees at the sight of blood or a warrior who rushes to his death - they’re the same in his eyes. If he wasted too much of his own time trying to understand the whims of humans he would need more than the few centuries he’s been ‘alive’ and then some to even begin to have an idea of how they even managed to function. “You’re wounded?” It’s not so much a question as it is a statement merely worded as one for the sake of being polite. He may have been little more than a dog; a beast, but his master had once been a nobleman and his manner of speech very much mimicked what he had been raised hearing. It wasn’t unusual for him to be mistaken as someone wealthy and well-off.
“As much as I wish I could tell you take your time, I would urge against doing so at the moment.” Time was a luxury no one who called this city home could afford to waste when the moon was high in the sky and the clouds were blocking what little light it would have cast upon the dry grass and muddy earth. Even the bravest of men were busy with lanterns in their hands as they ushered their families back into their homes; their fingers trembling as they convinced themselves beasts feared fire when they were only creating a false sense of security that would likely lead to their end if they pushed their luck too far. Ogres were luxurious creatures - they preferred the tender meat of children to the stale muscle of grown men, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t devour anything within their reach. And the ones that terrorized this town had never been picky eaters.
And the smell of blood would undoubtedly attract the beast that was already combing through the woods for its next meal. It was vile in his opinion and he’d killed a handful of the beast’s offspring over the few months since he’d arrived in this town, but it meant precious little unless he managed to slay every last one of them. “Your wound will attract it if you remain out here like this. Someone should be willing to help you in the city.” More so because they wouldn’t want his injury bringing death into their households rather than out of any sense of duty or compassion they might have felt. Humans were naturally selfish, after all, they would save a life only if it meant sparing their own.
In the distance, he could pick out the sound of something slamming into the ground; of the trees swaying and the panicked cries of birds as they took flight, but the dense fog made it impossible to see anything that lingered beyond the stranger he had run into (not that it mattered much to him, he’d never relied much on sight - even more so since he’d lost his eye so many centuries ago). “You should make haste. If you remain here, I fear what you will face will not be pleasant.” His voice had grown tense; if one looked at him closely, it would almost appear as if he were a beast standing on edge; hackles raised and teeth barred.
