((Disclaimer: Intense, graphic depiction of violence. Read at your own discretion.))
The stage; a small camp in the middle of nowhere, in the wilds of Chetwood forest.
The dancers; six brigands. Puppets on strings. They lost their way a long time ago, some by choice, others by force. Now, they all dance and play for their masters. Tonight, an uninvited guest pays them a visit for one final dance.
A black feather drops on the ground. A scream of pain signals the start. Flocks of birds flee their nests, startled. Their wings, clapping like a cheerful audience. The curtain is raised. The show begins.
The first dancer falls on his knees; the stage is coloured in crimson. Atop the body stands he. Clad in colours of Blood and Death, he takes a bow for the crowd. Underneath furrowed brows, emerald eyes and a wicked grin meet the three that rush to the cries. The sight gives them pause. Their friend, their comrade, their fellow puppet, writhing on the ground. The black handle of a throwing knife, sticking out of his exposed neck. An unnerving scene. The audience stops clapping.
He lowers a leather strap over his piercing, bright eyes. A blind man to dance with the blind. The three charge at him headlong. A leg pulls a string, hidden in the thick foliage. Smoke and dust fill the air. He vanishes in the midnight, like a cursed apparition. They are left there, peering deep into the darkness, wondering, fearing, exchanging looks of dread and confusion. One of them spots something with the corner of his eye; a sudden flash of light in the darkness, the reflection of the moonlight upon a sharpened blade. He opens his mouth to shout a warning.
Too slow. Only a gurgled whisper comes through his gaping mouth. He drops his sword, hands shakingly moving to his throat, hopelessly trying to stem the flow of blood. It seeps through his fingers, soaking his leather vest. Imprinted with a look of horror, another dancer falls. A deathly smile meets his dying eyes.
The other two flank him, uncertain. He simply stands there, head bowed low, hands ready at the hilts of his sheathed blades. They attack simultaneously; a coordinated move. One thrust, one slice. These dancers have practiced their moves. They are experienced. But they have so much more to learn.
A swift spin to the left. One hand lands on the thrusting puppet's wrist, the other under his armpit and around his back, utilising the momentum of the charger against his companion. In the blink of an eye, he sends the puppet stumbling forward, towards his companion. They collide, they lose their balance, they tangle to the ground. He smiles wickedly, removing the strap from his eyes.
As they struggle to get up, another string is pulled. This one, he pulls himself. With a crashing sound, a net of sharpened logs swings from the trees. The dancers look up. Puppets on strings.
The impact is violent. Blood splashes his unflinching face. Memories flash in front of his longing eyes. Their first meeting; their first dinner; their first night together. He recalls their faces. Friends. Comrades. Love interests. His grin disappears, giving way to a stern frown. Within mere seconds, the events of years pass rapidly before him. He remembers the rise, as well as the fall. He remembers his cause. The reason he fights. The reason he always fought.
"It should have ended there," he whispers, and the whisper rises to a growl. Older memories resurface. He relives every kill. Was it ever his call to make? Did he ever have the authority to be the judge? Doubts start flooding his mind. Poison.
"You should have left me dead!" The remaining dancers storm out of their tents, alarmed by the noise and the screams. The sight freezes their blood. He has just finished decapitating a corpse.
"WHY DID YOU BRING ME BACK?!"
He screams his lungs out at the sky, asking, no, demanding an answer, an explanation, a reason. Somewhere in the distance, lightning cracks the sky. The dancers smile. Their prey is vulnerable. They move in for the kill.
He shoots a glare at them, smoldering eyes behind mask of blood. "Come then, you cowards!" The severed head is flung in their direction. "Come and claim your kill!" They are uncertain whether he is goading them or asking for a favor.
One charges with his sword raised overhead, more than eager to put an end to the madman. He doesn't dodge. The descending blade hits him squarely on the shoulder, cutting through the leather and biting into his flesh. Pain shoots through his body. He grits his teeth, lunging his hands forward, his instincts taking control.
His outstretched palms wrap around the unfortunate dancer's face, thumbs wildly shoved into his eye sockets. The man screams in agony, madly thrashing around in vain hopes to escape his grasp. His attempts are futile. The thrashing stops. The dancer is still; but the hands are still there, squeezing the lifeless head tighter.
The final dancer runs. Fear gives flight, as the only goal becomes survival. The screaming madman does not chase him. He is left standing there, amidst corpses and pieces of corpses. A deathly silence falls on the stage.
There, in the darkness, he stands; alone and surrounded by death. Only a void within him.
Devoid of fears. Empty of desires.
Free.
[Originally written by the player of Crow (Derakoth)]
