…It means nothing to write the date on this letter, for I know not when or how it shall fall into one’s hands, so I will refrain from sharing such trivialities, as my hand has begun to ache and the lamp on my desk has grown dim.
I have possessed many things- but far and few came as names. Titles came easy. Thief. Heretic. Fool. Defiler. Hoarder. Treasure-hunter. Yes, these things are as simple as slipping the coin from a sleeping drunk’s pocket, barely trivial in the grand scheme of everything. But I possess only one name.
That is the name Olivis. My last name was never given- for where me and my kin hail, last names are not for the rabble, nor those with palms greased with ill-gotten riches. They are given to those considering a nobler lineage… far nobler than my squalid origins.
But alas, nothing from those earlier years can truly help me now, so instead, I shall leave this story, and this confession, in your stewardship, and your memory.
And I must confess, yes, there is obvious reason to those titles, and yes, some truth to them as well. But there was one I gained on a rather risky expedition in the more turbulent times, when the sky grew red and the earth shook hard.
I enclose that tale now.
The stagecoach had come to a halt as our motley crew had reached its current destination. The horses seemed…skittish. I didn’t blame them. This wretched hovel is the least bit welcoming in any sort. The rotten ruins of the olden housings that surrounded us were clouded in mist, looking as if some awful entity was at last attempting to break through the earth to swallow us whole.
“It’s a fool’s errand, then, being here.”
The englishman beside me grunted behind his bushy mustache, the massive thing arching, like some horrid caterpillar attempting to inch off the man’s bulbous lip. I remember this one more faintly still. His name was Rudolph, although as he introduced himself thrice days before, he preferred to be called ‘Rudy’. He was a large, burly man, dressed in the thick attire of a soldier, with his uniform prim, shoes polished and belt looped tight. Despite that, the man reeked direly of grief, and cheap alcohol.
The others whom consisted of my compatriots gave him an array of irritated, bemused, or otherwise stoic glances, before they glared once more into the misty glaze that had settled upon the once likely homely ruins of the village.
“And why’s that?”
A voice sneered from to the right. I immediately had to bite back a rather unceremonious retort, but the conniving gaze of the speaker made it rather hard. 'Twas one from more different lands, a highwayman of sorts, whom I assumed was promised gold and victuals instead of his usual meal of blackened bread, in return for a hand fit for blade and armament. He had a long, pointy nose, with raven black hair and large, glittering eyes, like those of an opal. It would be far fetched that a man of his caliber would ever lay those eyes on such a stone. He had long since introduced himself as Writner, albeit then his lips were sealed shut and his words were clipped. It seems the rather miring situation had the unforeseen (and undesirable) effect of loosening his tongue. He crossed the arms of his shaggy fur coat, and inclined his head, clearly seeking some sort of answer from Rudolph.
The others seemed to want an answer as well. The driver of the stagecoach had turned around to gaze past his shoulder to observe the clear beginnings of a supposedly entertaining (but equally bothersome) argument. The man was a striking fellow, with a shaggy, sandy main of hair atop his head, and dressed in what I had assumed to be a lawman’s outfit, though it was old and long since seen much better days. He had, at the beginning of this endeavor, muttered his name under his breath begrudgingly as Lambdin. He had barely breathed another word since.
“Because- Look around!”
Rudolph waved his hand towards the misty air, growling in clear frustration.
“There’s absolutely nothing but ruins! No town, no people, no ale-”
“I hardly think you’ll need more, you portly parrot.” Writner gave a devious grin, as Rudolph’s face became something akin to a fat, swollen strawberry.
“How dare you sir! I’ll have you know, I was in the 21st Battalion! Why, you’re nothing but a blaggard, I don’t know why you were ever even called around on this journey-”
The woman across from me was enjoying the ruckus far more than any other. She had a most hideous grin stretched across her face, from ear-to-ear, like some sort of demon that had crawled out of a moth-eaten painting. She had long hair, burnt brown, like that of cooked fat in an old pan, with equally brown eyes and skin pale as a winter moon. By the third hour of our journey to the destitute place, I found that her name was Mara, and that once she had been a rather fortunate recipient of wealth, now lost in this newfound sea of upheaval.
We soon had descended from the stagecoach, the four of us, as we began to gather our rather small stint of supplies left after our arduous ride. It had taken our small expeditionary force many days to reach this place, and a far share of unspeakable horror that had scratched at the sides of our wagon. Many of those days, a small, infinitesimal part of me worried if the malignant affliction that now roamed the air had finally turned it’s gaze towards Lambdin, and would render our already strained force down yet another member.
All of us were armed by this juncture, many with various weapons and contraptions, each with it’s own flavor of deadliness. Rudolph, it seemed, had armed himself with a thin, whiplike rapier, and in his hand (and with a quick flourish), the silver blade seemed more like the tongue of some vicious beast. He seemed slightly in mind to try to use it on the Highwayman. Writner, on the other hand, brandished a large dirk in one hand, and a thin revolver in the other. I was almost curious to see if his blade truly was as sharp as his tongue, or if he and Rudolph would fight amongst each other again. Mara had long since revealed a rather aged yet loved rifle, though I doubted that time could’ve had any effect on it’s deadliness. Lambdin hefted a large, ridged cudgel, which did elicit ridicule amongst us all- what effectiveness would a stick amongst all things, do against the possible horrors we may find here?
As for myself, I wielded my usual effects: My dagger, shaped from a thin piece of volcanic glass. It was still sharp, wicked, and well oiled, perfect to slide into the ribs of any. I wore many of my talismans, the dozens that I have collected over my travels- The signs and sigils from the likes of scholars of Horinu, Urd, and Oransio. The handiwork of men and women long dead. And my censer, which I still wield, even to my utmost disgust. The cold, cruel iron of this metalwork hangs barren in my ashen, ringed hand, and as I struck a match, flicking it inside the shaped piece, it billows with it’s vile vapors, smelling sickly-sweet.
We trudged further into the dredgery of the mists, deathly silent, as we led on the stagecoach with the horses. All that was left of what was once a pure vista of tranquility, was the empty, hollow husk of a village, reduced to ash.
Alas, our solitude was not to last. The sounds of growls, guttural snarls, and fast-paced footsteps sounded from the mist, the weak shine of our torches catching the eyes of the beasts, shining like the horrid, gleeful eyes of demons and ogres. Writner gave a shout of exclamation or so as he jumped back when one drew near, trying to snap at his heel. Mara batted another away with the butt of her rifle. Finally, the pack of wolves approached together, the sounds of their fast paced steps and rabid, ragged breaths sounding alongside howls and barks. One lashed out, charging the front of our group- but found itself in a most unfortunate situation, for the one leading us was neither surprised, nor intimidated. It was instead greeted by the stone faced gaze of Lambdin, and the raised head of his cudgel.
I still hear the sound of that unfortunate wolf, the yelp of terror echoing through the mist, before being quickly cut off from it’s muzzle as it’s skull was brutally rendered into a bloody mess. Lambdin had then turned his head towards the rest of us with a grim look, as if to finally put a rest to our previous grumbles and jeers about his club that was currently smeared with brain matter.
I knew yet another was felled when a loud bang was heard from beside me, and in my periphery I saw Mara extricating an empty cartridge from her smoking rifle. Dimly, I heard the small clink of the casing falling against the soft, earthen ground, as well as the dull thud of another beast against that same earth, it’s lifeless body as motionless as a puppet without strings. The rest of the pack yipped and whined, clearly more concerned now with survival then the paltry meal we four would serve to them, as they scrambled away, now mere shades in the mist.
“Is everyone alright?”
Rudolph asked, his voice hushed. The rest of us gave murmurs and appraising glances his way, as he gingerly grasped one of the torches that was currently shaking in Lambdin’s hand. As he held it high, we resumed our trek.
I can only hope we can find our quarry here.
(Author’s Edit: Oops, Forgot some bits, Will Be Fixed Soon)
(Author’s Edit Edit: I think I got them all, tell me if maybe some other parts should be fixed!)
