The Burning

Chapter Seventeen

Silverpine Forest was a dim place, much of the day's remaining sunlight being filtered through overlapping branches of tall trees, and giving the place a certain feel of twilight. All along the road that stretched through the forest, off to the sides, there were a variety of different types of plants. Shrubs, trees, flowers, grasses, herbs, and creepers all grew at a modest pace, kept alive by the frequent rains that poured upon the region, and the soil, rich in nutrients. The ground was often uneven, with small hillocks and steep slopes breaking up the few flat plains further out in the forest. Many ditches and small ravines lay between these irregularities in the terrain, and things often liked to lurk there, either hunting other things that lived in the vicinity, hiding from those that did so, or lying in wait for more choice prey. Three mis-matched people walked along the path through the forest, as fog drifted about them, hanging low to the ground, mostly, and though this left line-of-sight open on level ground, with all those gullies and dips in the land, a great deal was hidden from the eyes of the travellers. The ground below the level of the road was immersed in thick gray clouds of drifting water vapor, masking what lay there. Occasionally there would be hints of things down in the fog, but it was often hard to distinguish between rocks and bushes, and less happy-thought-inducing presences. To the eye what appeared to be naught but a dark, vertical column, completely stationary, could be any number of things. However, it was the mind that gave it shape, and definition. That vague blur over there with thin protrusions extending from its sides, bent at an angle, became what the observer envisioned it as being, whether that be an innocent young sapling that happens to have odd branches, or a humanoid figure with arms at its sides, twisted claws extending from warped hands. An uncertain lump of something off to the right could be a boulder, or it could be some fel creature, huddled atop a mound of the remains of previous meals. Often it was nearly impossible to ascertain the true nature of the blurry shapes unless they moved. And there were few things more unnerving than something one had defined as being harmless and immobile, a piece of the natural environment which bore one no ill-will, nor the means to act upon such if it did, to suddenly stand up from where it had lain crouched in place for several minutes, and walk off deeper into the fog until one lost sight of it, and realize that it had been watching you the entire time as you looked back at it, thinking it something innocent and safe.

Ramon was quite an experienced Warrior, and was not unskilled at identifying danger, and recognizing potential enemies, but his place was on the battlefield, matching sword against sword, strength against strength, will against will, testing both the physical stamina of each combatant, and their mental fortitude. In such a setting, Ramon was comfortable, knowing he was in a world of definites and absolutes, where at the end of the day, the one who stood victorious was the one with the determination and the character to seize what one wanted, and never let go. To take the high ground, and hold it against all opposition, against all odds. In Ramon's world of blood and steel, victory was determined not by who had what supernatural powers, or forbidden knowledge, nor by who was sneakier, or craftier, but solely by one all-important factor: Who wanted it more. That was Ramon Malden's world. Here in Silverpine, the Undead Warrior was so far from his world upon the battlefield, that he felt like an alien -- an intruder. He was a stranger in a strange land, trespassing in the territory of those who lurked, and sneaked, and plotted foul deeds in the darkness. Everything he saw here in Silverpine told him what he already knew. He did not belong here. Pure-black eyes, with twin circles of glowing blue light at their centers, darted this way and that, as the Warrior strode down the road. He was at the front of the party, as he was the least vulnerable, and yet the knowledge he was already dead did nothing to make him feel better as he peered about, seeking some sign that the vague things he saw out there -- or at least thought he saw -- were anything other than common forest paraphanelia. But such evidence remained elusive. All about him, Ramon was denied the definition he sought with straining eyes, finding only spectres and apparitions. Shadows of shadows. And this was all just the visual input. There were sounds in Silverpine, as there were most forests. But hearing the sound of leaves crunching under something's foot, or hearing a low growl, or some small rock skittering against a large stone as it is knocked loose by something's movement, and not being able to judge distance from oneself and the noises, their cause, or even their approximate location, was a hair-raising, panic-inducing experience. It only failed to inspire terror in Ramon because he was not only a hardened combatant, but also cold of heart and mind. The survival mechanisms of the living were merely unfortunate remnants of a previous existence, so detached from who and what he was now, that the Warrior found them easy to ignore.

Regardless, even if he wasn't afraid, being put in this situation found Ramon completely without any happy thoughts on which to dwell. This was especially true since the Pyrewood Village defenders had taken his stolen broadsword from him when they captured him and the stranger, and neglected to return it. Aside from his fists, he was weaponless. But that would be remedied soon. The thought of how close he was to having his weapon back made him smile to himself, and suddenly this gray hell of uncertainty seemed a little bit less awful. After all, had he not dwelled in this same forest for many years, once? True, he had hated the fog back then as much as he did now, and had never gone outside when the concealing clouds had rolled in off Lordamere Lake, but when he thought about that time, before the Scourge, he somehow imagined it had somehow been "better". He didn't know in what way, only that it had been so much more bearable in the past to have his residence in this dim, dreary, wilderness locale.

As Ramon mused over these things, Art was seemingly oblivious to the menacing shapes in the fog, as he pondered over issues of his own. The tall man had never been particularly intelligent. He didn't need to be. No task during his life in Elwynn Forest, with his wife, had ever required more brain power than he possessed. He sometimes had to think a little bit harder than others, but he lived as a hunter and trapper, taking meat, skins, and furs to market to keep himself and his spouse fed and clothed. Such things needed no formal education, nor natural brilliance. Besides, Maria had been smart enough for the both of them. Clever and kind, she had many times outpaced him in mental endeavours, but she had never made light of it, and he had never felt jealous. For she had been born weak and sickly, and though her health had improved as she got older, she would never be as physically powerful as an average woman, let alone a man like Art. They treated eachother with mutual respect and understanding, and though there had occasionally been disagreements, this was often due to a failure to communicate, or some minor confusion, and rarely dragged out longer than a few hours before they figured out what had gone wrong, and apologized. 'Ahhh,' Art sighed happily to himself at the thought. 'Apologies.' Art and Maria had had their own special way of apologizing. He remembered the first time it occurred.

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Art's yell of surprise and anger had made many people look in the direction it had originated from, as it echoed through the forest. He had just spent the entire day trying to capture more of the elusive red hares. This was the last day of the week-long preparation period before the seasonal festival in which provisioneers were prepared to pay the special price for red hares, which was only available in this one-week period. Red hares went for a fair amount even on normal days, but with the demand for the delicate meat of this particular animal during the festival, those who would be providing the meat for various feasts and parties were willing to pay triple the going price for quality hares that fit their specifications. Triple! That was an enormous sum to the simple peasantry, and one could easily last through the winter months without having to work very much at all, living solely off of those funds. Art was a skilled hunter. Possibly one of the best in the region. He seemed to have a natural talent for it, and had a deep understanding of the forest, and the animals. He knew how they thought, and what they wanted. He had the eating and sleeping habits of dozens or even hundreds of animals memorized, as well as their favored habitats, natural predators, how to recognize their tracks, and numerous tricks for catching different beasts. And yet the red hare was a challenge even for the best of hunters.

The red hare was so called for its fire-red fur, which should have made it stick out as plain as day. But the hare was no ordinary animal. It was cunning, had incredible senses, and moved with blistering speed and agility. The critters always seemed to know when humans were nearby, as well as when and where to hide, how long to remain still, and under what circumstances it should run, rather than remain concealed. More than once a hunter had been searching through the leafy bushes they knew red hares favored, and put their boot down right next to a red hare, sometimes even kicking them accidentally, and the animal would barely move, content to sit silently, wiggling its nose, and wait for the hunter to continue on, or become frustrated and depart. In addition, red hares seemed to instinctively avoid some of the best laid and most clever of traps. Worse yet, some of the most cunning of red hares would intentionally trigger a trap but do so in such a way that they remained uncaught by it, and then make off with whatever bait had been laid out. Many a trapper had come to check their snares, only to find that though they had been tripped, they were minus a hare, and minus the carrot they had laid out for that hare. The frustration resulting from this happening over and over was so great, that a ritualistic curse had developed among hunters, which is still used regularly in the present. "A pox on you long-eared devils!" it went. Many elves, upon hearing this for the first time, are quite offended, and few ever learn that it refers to an elusive rabbit, and not their own lengthy ears.

Art had a sort of loose empathy with animals, but even he was tested by the red hare. The beasts were believed to be few in number, though no one knew for certain, since they were so hard to find, and yet this season he had managed to catch not just one red hare, or even three, the most that any hunter could expect to acquire, but one full dozen. He had been so proud of himself, and had hung them up by his house in order to prepare them for sale to the provisioneers. He had asked Maria to keep an eye on them, and then gone to Goldshire to purchase the best wine he could find, for he and Maria to celebrate that night. If three red hares would last through the winter with minimal work needed, twelve would last them an entire year! He considered possibly taking a vacation with Maria, and seeing other places in the world. But before he could work out the plans in too much detail in his head, upon returning home he had discovered the hares were gone. Missing. Not there. He rushed into the house, to see if maybe Maria had brought them in, but they weren't there either, and neither was his wife. She had left the house, when he had specifically asked her to watch the hares, and now someone had stolen them! And where was she? He didn't know, but he sat down and waited to find out.

Back then his hair had not been gray, but rather blonde, and Art had kept that long hair in a curly style, rivulets spiraling from his head, down his back. His face had been smooth and unblemished, free of the scars he would bear later in life. During childhood, his hair and his face had been so feminine, that many had mistaken him for a girl, and he had been mocked often by other boys for looking so "pretty". But as he aged, he had grown, becoming broader, more muscular, and what had been "pretty" before had transformed into a rugged handsomeness that made many of the girls he had known and played with as children swoon over him as adult women. The boys who had mocked him had grown up too, but they no longer called him a girl, since he no longer resembled one, and was quite intimidating at his great height. However, they were bitter about women they were interested in, sometimes even their own girlfriends or wives, paying so much attention to Art, and speaking so highly of him, and so they had begun disparaging his intellect, which had always been a problem, and was not something likely to change. He sat at the table inside his small home, almost too big for his wooden chair, and waited for hours, until Maria came in through the door.

Maria was short, and thin, to the point of looking frail. Her skin was slightly darker than most who lived in Elwynn, as she had grown up on an island to the south somewhere, where there was a great deal more sunlight. Her hair was smooth and black, and of medium-length. Her figure had the curves of a woman, but she was not overly large of chest. Her eyes were gray as storm clouds, and Art had always found them to have a certain quality to them that made Maria's gaze seem mysterious. Impenetrable. He often spent time just sitting and watching her, wondering what she was thinking, being unable to tell from body language or words uttered. However, at that moment, as Maria came in through the door, and found him sitting there, Art could tell from the smile on her face that she was very happy. Something good had happened. He imagined for a moment that he knew what it was. "Did they catch the thief who stole our hares?" Art had asked eagerly. Maria's smile had changed from broad to an amused smirk of polite confusion, thinking perhaps he was joking.
"Thief?" She replied.
"Did you not notice that the dozen red hares I caught are gone from outside our very home!?" He had asked, amazed she didn't know what he was talking about.
"Ahhh," she had said, nodding knowingly. "I prepared them myself and then sold them, so you would not have to do anymore walking today!" And that had been when Art let out his great cry of surprise and anger that had drawn the attention of his neighbors. Maria didn't know how much red hares usually sold for! She had never been the one to take them to market! He despaired when he realized she had probably taken them in, and some savvy merchant had purchased them for far less than the special price of the festival preparations. He had yelled angrily at Maria, telling her how he couldn't believe she had done this thing, and then he had left as quickly as possible, perhaps to see if he could somehow convince the cheating merchant who bought the hares to pay the proper price. However, Art had discovered in the city that Maria had not been cheated at all. It was he who had been cheated for all these years. The special price for red hares was only a fraction of the amount made by the provisioneers when they resold the hares as meat to celebrations. They were making ten to fifteen times more than he, without doing any work. Maria had learned quickly how the economy worked in this kingdom, and had realized what Art, with his lack of mathematical skills, and lesser intelligence, had not even imagined. That she could present herself as a provisioneer, and sell the red hares to celebrations directly at the same price as others had for years. No one had ever told him, and had most likely laughed behind his back at his stupidity. And then he realized that Maria had made more money selling those dozen hares than he had made in his entire life. And he had yelled at her for it.

He had rushed home, burst through the door, and begged Maria to forgive him, on his knees, telling her how sorry he was for ever doubting her. She had just smiled and told him she understood completely, and admitted she should have told him what she had discovered, and her plans, but had wanted it to be a surprise. Then she told him, to his amazement, that it sounded as though they both had made a mistake, and that there was only one way to acquire forgiveness from each other. He had asked if their words were not enough.
"No," she had said solemnly, shaking her head. "They are not. For something like this, there is a special tradition that married couples follow on the island I come from, and only by obeying it completely can there ever be peace between us."
"W-what is this tradition? What must I do?" Art had asked, wondering what sort of mystic ritual he would have to undergo, imagining for a moment that perhaps there were spirits that guarded married couples from harm and unhappiness, and they would not be satisfied unless he did his very best to appease them. He steeled himself to face whatever challenge was put before him.
"First, stand up," Maria had instructed him. Art had gotten up off his knees and stood on his feet. "Next, I stand on this chair," the islander woman had continued, and then proceeded to do so. She was now more-or-less eye to eye with Art. "Third, we remove our clothes," Maria said, as she began to slip out of her dress. Art only hesitated a moment before taking off his own clothes. When they both stood naked before each other, Art took a moment to gaze upon his wife's body, before meeting her eyes again. "And now," she had said quietly. "The most important step of all."
"What is this step?" Art had asked eagerly, ready to do anything if it meant Maria forgetting his blunder and allowing him to continue living in peace with her. She had leaned forward, wrapped her arms around him, so that they locked together behind his neck, and then the slender, tanned, beautiful little woman had looked into his face, and all of the solemnity had faded from her as she smiled.
"You must carry me over to our bed..."
"Yes?" He had asked, wondering what this important step entailed. Before Maria replied though, she had pressed her lips to his, and kissed him softly for what seemed like hours, before breaking from him.
"...The rest, you will have to figure out for yourself." Art had looked in surprise into Maria's gray eyes, that for once were not so mysterious, but sparkled with love and happiness. And then, after carrying Maria over to the bed, and lying her down, even with his meager intelligence, he had been able to figure out from the hints provided, what he was to do next.

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Art, older and rougher, had a dazed look in his eyes, and a rather stupid grin on his face, as he recalled the intense love making he and Maria had engaged in that night. She was so small compared to him, that her tight sex had squeezed his manhood like a vice. She had screamed out how good it felt to be filled and stretched by him, had purred with pleasure as he had licked her modest breasts all over, and they had both reached their climaxes with great energy, until they had merely lain together, warm and full of love for each other. The next morning, Art had asked if they were each forgiven now. Maria had begun to say yes, but then paused and got a naughty look in her eyes as she shrugged.
"Maybe," she had answered.
"Maybe!" Art exclaimed in dismay.
"I am not certain we followed the tradition precisely as we should have. Perhaps we should try it again to make sure of it?" She had suggested with an innocent expression. Art had stared. Then he had grinned. And then he had scooped her up, taken her to bed, and done his very best to make sure that this time there was no uncertainty when they were done.

There had been many more such "apologies" during their marriage. Each time they went through with the tradition, he felt like his love for her became even greater. He remembered the last time they had made love under the guise of apology. He knew that had to be the time Maria had become pregnant, for he had not slept with her again after that. He hadn't had the chance. Because that same day was when he met Doan for the first time. Art suddenly crashed back to reality, falling out of his daze. He had felt good. Really, really good. He was remembering the good times with Maria, focusing on what she would have wanted him to remember about her. He felt like his heart was mending itself after all this time. But just recalling meeting Doan brought those last horrific moments surging back, along with the pain, and then he could think of nothing but his hatred for the Arcanist. He didn't want to keep hating. He wanted to remove this pain from his life. This emotional blade that kept twisting in his heart was not becoming any duller with time, as he had hoped it would, and he knew that the only way to pull it free, to finally heal the wound that had lain open for so many years, was not to bury his past as he tried to do in Pyrewood. It was to avenge Maria's death, and the death of his baby son, by making sure Doan never hurt anyone else like he had Art's family. Not ever again.

As Art thought on the subject of vengeance, his eyes focused on the road at his feet, no trace of the smile he had possessed before, the stranger walked in the middle of the procession, with Ramon in front, and Art behind. Whether it noticed the shapes in the fog or not, it gave no sign. Likewise, there was nothing to hint at what it might have been thinking or feeling, if anything. It walked in silence as the trio continued to make their way north. Finally, Ramon spoke up. "We're almost to the edge of Silverpine," he said more to himself than to the others. He was grinning broadly. "Which means that my house should be just ahead. Right past the pumpkin patch here." The Undead Warrior had picked up his pace until he was practically running, the other two sped up to catch up with him, not wanting to lose him in the fog. Ramon's home appeared out of the swirling gray clouds, a squat, dark shape. It was just a shack, really. Large enough for one person to live in only. Out front was an orchard, with fruit hanging from the branches. Ramon ignored the trees completely, heading directly towards the house and vanishing inside. The other two slowed down when they reached the place known as Malden's Orchard, and approached the house slowly. They could hear sounds of wood creaking from within the shack, not like a floorboard being walked on, but rather like a board being bent. There was a loud popping noise, and then a brief clatter as something wood hit something else of the same material. The stranger moved to stand in the doorway and watch, and Art came up behind him, distracted from his previous thoughts for the moment as he looked curiously at what Ramon was doing.

The Undead Warrior was down on the floor, and had pulled up one of the floorboards, revealing an empty space beneath the floor. It was some kind of secret storage room. Ramon had his hand inside, and was feeling around, the smile still on his face. However, as he seemed to be having difficulty locating what he was looking for, the smile became less and less visible, until he was frowning slightly in confusion. He bent forward and thrust his entire arm into the dark empty space beneath the floor, until his shoulder prevented him from going any further in. "I know it's in here somewhere," the Undead man muttered to himself. However, this did not appear to be the case, as he eventually pulled his arm out and just kneeled on the floor, looking at the hole thoughtfully. Then he bounced onto his feet, and began searching the small room. He moved every single piece of funiture, opened every drawer, every cabinet, looked behind and under everything, but there wasn't that much in there to begin with, so he wound up checking the same things repeatedly. Ramon became more and more frustrated, and Art decided to help by entering the room and looking as well, even though he had no idea what it was he was looking for. As Ramon became more desperate, he became more violent, until he was throwing things around, breaking things, and yelling wordlessly. At one point, as he threw a small table across the room, it hit Art in the back of the head while he lay on the floor, peering inside of the space beneath the boards. Art put one hand on the back of his head, and turned to look at Ramon.
"Hey! That hurt! Try to be more careful!" Art said, seeming merely annoyed by a solid oak table cracking him in the skull. Ramon took no notice, as he let out a yell.
"WHERE THE FUCK IS IT!?" The Undead demanded. He took a look around the destroyed room, as though he might have missed something, and then noticed the stranger leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"What precisely is it that you are looking for?" It asked casually.
"YOU DAMN WELL KNOW WHAT!" Ramon roared back, the usually calm and collected Warrior turned into a raging maniac. Most would have been intimidated by Ramon Malden right then, as he stood with his fists clenched, few remaining teeth bared, glowing eyes wide and glaring, as he screamed out his anger.
"Are you, by chance, looking for your sword?" The stranger inquired, not showing any signs of being intimidated.
"Don't you fuck around with me," Ramon snarled warningly. Then he paused, glaring at the stranger. "You know where it is, don't you?"
"I told you I did."
"Tell me where in the blazing blue hells it is RIGHT NOW or I will KILL you!"
"Oh, indeed?" The figure stood up straight, allowing its arms to drop to its sides. "I had thought you smarter than this, Ramon. If you kill the person who knows where you sword is, then how will you acquire it?" Ramon just stood there and shook with fury. "Now, then. I never said that the sword was here, and you never asked me where it was, so you cannot blame me for you believing it was stored here. However, if you are done behaving like a lunatic, we can go to its new storage location, and then you will have it, and we will all be happy. Agreed?"
"Yeah," Ramon said, his angry shaking dying down somewhat, as his voice went back to normal. He looked around a little bit more, letting his gaze drift over the ruined furniture, before nodding in the stranger's direction. "Yeah, alright."
"Good. Now let us depart." Then the stranger turned around and walked back outside. Art got up off the floor and moved to follow him, though he paused momentarily, turning to look at Ramon, who was still standing there, staring at the open hole in the floor.
"Hey, don't worry about it, man. We'll get your sword for you real soon. You'll see." Art tried to comfort him. Ramon just nodded, and didn't say anything, so Art walked outside with the stranger. After a little while longer, Ramon got himself under control, and joined the other two.
"So where is it now?" He asked relatively calmly.
"A place to the north of here, in Tirisfal Glades. It is currently occupied by the Scourge."
"Yeah?" Ramon asked thoughtfully.
"Indeed. It is called Agamand Mills."

--------------End Chapter Seventeen--------------