(OOC - This is written in the point of view of the infamous, 'Scarred Man', from the 'Life of a Sadist' series. Please refer to chronicle to see which interludes occur when, and in which order. This particular interlude is to be read AFTER, or during, Chapter Three. It was posted two days early, though one should note that the reasoning for this is the simplicity that the interlude takes place at the same time, the Scarred Man's leaving of the 'room' is mentioned in the beginning of Chapter Three, for example.)
He left the room, too angry to say anything, yet he knew that Quintyn was right. His father, the 'great' Ser Brannoric Wingardens, would not be happy, at all, to hear that his son's 'friend' had abandoned him at such a time. In fact, his father would probably have had a bounty put on his head - And who knows? What if Quintyn himself was the one to find him? He was much taller than the lad, ofcourse - But Quintyn had his way with things, a violent way. One that often involved slow, painful deaths - Something he didn’t want any time too soon.
He did wonder, as to what he could do - How far he could go, without angering the Gods - Of which he knew not whether this god, or that, existed, but he did know something existed - Or how little he could do to this 'deer' without angering Quintyn, or his father.
That was something for another time, and he dismissed all thoughts on the matter - Though, he knew deep down, just how close that time was, in fact. Leaving the inn, having to bend down due to his height, he entered the, all-encompassing, cold air outside, it was early, and nigh-freezing. He didn’t mind, though - He preferred the cold. Turning to his right, he approached the troughs, from which his horse, amongst others, were eating - Grabbing his horse rather violently, a black, weak thing, not a destrier, nor a courser, he mounted the tiring beast, and began trotting towards the South Gate of Bree.
The way there, to the gates, were quite uneventful - People did stare at him, of course, as they always had. He was the 'Scarred Man' to them. The ugly, scarred man, who bore a face that looked as though it were torn apart by hounds. To them, he wasn't anybody, of any importance. He didn’t care, though - He preferred it that way.
Once out of the gates, he cursed aloud, at his horse - Kicking his feet, rough, against the animal, forcing it to break into, and sustain, a gallop that would seem impossible for it. He hated horses, and dearly so - Too. He has had bad experiences with the beasts, and has always preferred walking. But walking... Walking, in the Chetwood - Is a dangerous matter, indeed. Bandits roam the woods, wolves, rampaging boars - The odd bear, and who knows what else? Several a time, has someone entered the woods, and never returned...
He wanted to think about that, about what makes those that enter disappear. But he couldn’t, for when sense, and the world around him, returned - He saw, ahead of him, a man, knelt over, facing the opposite way. He wondered if it was the one he was looking for, he looked as much - Though it is indeed hard to tell when one is looking away from you. He forced his horse to stop, before it was too late to do so, and left it, untied, approaching the man. When naught but a meter away from the man, he drew his sword off his back, and held it, lowered.
"You.", he grunted, but there was no response from the man. "Hey!", he cried out, not caring, even though he had but a moment ago, about any of the other bandits, that surely were watching. There was still no movement, nor response... What was happening? Was this a trap?
He lifted his sword up into the air, though he didn’t know what exactly he was doing, and just as he was about to swing it down at the man on his knees, an arrow hit his sword.
It didn’t do much, of course - Arrows werent exactly known for their properties in damaging large great-swords, now, were they? But, it did turn his attention - He spun around, wondering where the arrow had came from, and whether it meant to hit his sword, or it had aims to hit -him-…
A man fell, seemingly from the sky? No. The tree? He couldn’t tell. But now, before him, stood a man, standing, with a smirk on his face. "Well. Hello, there.", the man said, in a voice half-mocking, half-joyful.
He didn’t think, he didn’t want to think. He wanted to act. So he lifted his sword, and swung it in the air, against the man who stood before him. The man dodged, rolling to his right, laughing, he wasn’t facing the Scarred Man - So he decided to act, and now swung his sword, from right-to-left at the laughing man's back, but he jumped forward out of the swing.
"Argh!", he cried out in random gibberish, preparing to lunge the sword into the Laughing Man, who was now staring at him, smirking - A bow in his left hand. But it was too late, just as he 'sucked' the sword inward, under his right arm, ready to stab out, the man drew, knocked, and fired an arrow, it hit his right leg.
How did he do that!? He thought. How, indeed? For the sheer speed of the shot was extreme - Though he was only a few meters away, so perhaps the Laughing Man had simply hoped to shoot out a random arrow, hoping yet even more that it would hit?
He fell to the right, now kneeling, the arrow had found a point of weakness in his armour. Leather can be pierced easier than metal. But he roared out, and, using only his right hand, swung out his great sword, he missed - His weapon abandoning him, falling four meters to his left, for he had not the grip to stop the weapon, with only one hand; And to keep hold of such a heavy object in hand- It could have taken his arm off, or dragged his entire body. Better to lose a sword, than an arm.
"Well, all I said was 'Hello'…", the Laughing Man said, as he broke into even more laughter.
He spat at the Laughing Man, though he wondered what would happen now. His leg was wounded, and he was being beaten by a man far shorter than him, with naught but a bow. "Bow? That's a pissed-coward's weapon...", he said, hoping that would give him some form of dignity.
"Coward's weapon, aye. Only... Now, you're on the ground, bleeding - While I'm standing atop you, unscathed.", the Laughing Man said.
"What's you're name, eh? I'd prefer to know which bastard sent me to my death.", he asked - The Laughing Man was nameless to him, and in Bree-Town, a simple name could mean his death... If he knew it.
"My name? Why, I'm Travian. And there's Jonathan. He was smarter than you... Didn’t last long, though.", Travian gestured to the kneeling man, and he turned to stare. He had forgotten about that man - Completely, but he was still there, kneeling, motionless, wordless.
"You killed him, then?", he asked - Genuinely wondering, now... Though his right leg stung even more, and his leathers were growing more wet by the second.
"Yes. I killed him. A noble, of sorts - You see. Now, I don’t much like nobles... You a noble?", Travian said, smirking - As he approached the man, and kicked him with his right boot, the man who once knelt now falling onto his left, his throat had a clean slit across it.
"Noble? No. I'm not a noble. Bunch of piss-heads, they are!", he grunted - Though, it was the truth. He wasn’t a noble. His father wasn’t a noble. His mother wasn’t a noble.
"Hm. Indeed. You see, the nobles are causing wars. Not just that, but they also prefer to send the weaker folk, village boys and elders, off to fight - Often doing more than just-atrocities with their wives, and sisters, and daughters. Now, -I- on the other hand, and my fellows... We're preventing wars, and helping the weaker folk. And though plenty goes on with the wives, and sisters, and daughters - I can tell you, they're not atrocities... I'm sure both ends find some kind of enjoyment, eh?", Travian said, bursting into laughter.
"Weaker folk? What are you? Some piss-head? It's how things damned are, aye? Get used to it.", he said, aggressively - Though he wondered if his words had just escalated things.
"Get over it? Why... I probably should, yes...", Travian said, slowly approaching him.
He tried to keep a stern face, but his heart began pounding, rising, choking him.
"Now, let's begin... Shall we? Getting over it, that is.", Travian continued, smirking as he knocked an arrow, and pointed it towards the Scarred Man's head.
The steel of the arrowhead was nigh-freezing.
He didn’t mind though - He preferred the cold.
