The Warrior stood, a grey shadow in the midst of dark edifices. His hand clenched about the vulgar blade he bore unfettered from his scabbard, a glittering shine dancing across its slitted contours. The thing moved with a micron's wobble, as though the deadly tip were balanced on a string by an unseen pendulum swinging high above the overcast fog. He turned, feeling the wind in his face and cold moisture on his flesh. A shallow snow was falling, getting heavier and descending from the grey and blackening sky in an ever-growing tumult.
The atmosphere was silent; the wind providing the only sound as it howled an alpine articulation, verbalizing the same chill that ran through the Warrior's body in climatic form. He was warm, protected by his dandyish dress, yet unnerved by the foreign tones that cackled in the night shadows.
Suddenly, a movement.
A small, grey shade leapt forward from the murk and snow. Its hands reached out, extending to slash at the Warrior's leg. He let it come close, within his guard. Just as it moved to slice his belly open, he danced backward, stepping with sure feet and thrusting his blade forth into its core. The hazy thing recoiled, impaled by the long limb of metal. There was a sickening sound of squishing flesh, and an inhuman screech.
The Warrior planted his foot against the Imp and pushed while dragging at his hilt. It twitched upon his blade, scrabbling at him with faltering arms and a slackening face. He jerked it free in one, swift pull. For a moment he held the blade up, staring at the red, boiling blood that coated it. It seemed to almost glow in the fading light. There was a second snarl, and he brought it back down into a guarded position.
From behind a nearby hovel two ran out, circling from each side of the building in an attempt to trap the Warrior between them. Instead of stepping back and having to face them from both sides, he opted instead to sprint towards one of them. They met at the doorstep of the house, a candle lamp hanging in the entryway as he heard another roaring sound from the horn inside the inner courtyard of the Cloister. He took a wild swing, but the creature ducked, snarling at him with a crocodile's snout of blackened teeth.
It leapt to him, slamming him against the wood pillar upon which the lamp hung. Using the force of its momentum, the beast swiped at him, raking at his clothing. The Warrior grabbed the horrid thing by the scruff of its wrinkled neck, ripping it off of him before it could find purchase. It kicked and snapped in futility at him, dangling as it was above the ground. By the time it reached up to claw his captor's arm the better half of the sword was sticking from its neck stump. The thing went limp, and the Warrior dropped his encumbered weapon, making a note to retrieve it later.
He pulled free the dagger at his belt, its excessive length a godsend once it was actually out from its sheath. He held it in front of him, close to the chest, keeping it between himself and the little red thing with the curling ram's horns and the baby face. The Imps eyes bugged out of its head, the look in its crimson irises one of imbecilic acrimony, mindless animosity given physical form. It's fat, disgusting prick stuck up past its potbelly in the air, as if aroused at the thought of inflicting violence and shame against another. It grinned at the Warrior, licking its wormy lips with a spiderleg-thick tongue, sliding it between its razor teeth as it flossed its bloody gums.
The Warrior feinted, lowering his head and jerking forward as if to strike. The Imp took the bait, leaping forth to skewer him as its legs propelled it in an uncontrolled burst of rage. His foe stepped aside, stabbing with extreme prejudice down into the monster's shoulder blade and skewering it from stem to sternum. The blade became a replacement for its spine, severed as it was by the harsh cut. The Imp screamed, its knobby arms reaching up to jerkily try to remove the fatal blade. The Warrior kicked it, sending it falling face first into the snow as it expired in rapid fashion.
His breath steamed out in the frigid air, the white contrasting in the light of the lamp. Looking around, he could see that lights were going out all across the village. It seems they had not been expecting to be attacked so soon. There was a long silence as he caught his breath, walking out to retrieve his sword first. Shouting arose in the distance, the sound of many people in a mixed state of worry and distress. No clashing steel, yet. No sign of a great wave of monsters in the darkness, though perhaps it was premature to expect it. As he pulled his sword off the Imp, the door behind the Warrior opened.
"Are... Are they gone, sir?" Said a voice. It was an elderly woman, wrinkled skin and grey, dull eyes. Her face was filled with fear, her gnarled hand clenched about a small fetish of the God of Fire Gosvin's holy symbol: a five pointed star whose connective lines were liquid flame. "We heard the horns, but then... the scratching-"
"They're gone. For the moment. And don't call me Sir." Roland grunted, wiping his blade clean upon the ground only after he'd retrieved his dagger from the lifeless corpse of his opponent. The horn blared again; lights were going out in windows all across the village. "Best get to the gate, yeah? Seems they were just a scouting party. More of 'em will be along soon."
"Can you help us, stranger?" She asked, "The night is dark, and the way isn't safe. My granddaughter-"
No.
Roland said in his head, thinking of Kelsea and knowing that her presence would draw the filthy beasts' attentions like moths to a flame. Against his own instincts he gave a curt nod. "Aye." He said, cutting her off, "Be quick about it, though. More o' them things are likely lurking about."
"May the Spider's gaze fall upon you!" She said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Half a moment, we just need to hide our-"
"Ya got ten seconds, woman." Roland spat back, reaching up and ripping her lantern off the nail it had been hung upon. "Else I'm like to leave you
and
your granddaughter to the wolves."
Roland grimaced to himself as the old crone closed the door in a rush; the sound of something thumping could be heard inside. The red-maned man leaned against the hovel and put a hand against his forehead. His fingers massaged at the wrinkles that had built like lines of care upon his grizzled face. "Gods." He muttered, swiping the hand down to cover his mouth. He squeezed against his jaw, feeling the bristles of his beard as he tried to steady his racing heartbeat.
He could never get used to them. Despite a dozen run-ins with Imps over the years, Roland was as unnerved by their presence as he'd been the day he'd first laid eyes upon them; even the undead were better company than these monsters. All the evil that constituted a Demon dwelt within the malignant frames of those hellish beasts, stripped of any comforting familiarity. Their movements were inhuman, their facial expressions hideous and abominable. Every thought was of abuse, every action borne of malice. The way they looked at you... Roland knew the look. It was the same one that Kelsea wore, when the Mating Haze was upon her. She'd even borne the infamous expression just today, when her sickness had rendered her deranged and ravenous.
Roland let out a hefty breath, steadying himself against the comforting strength of the wall behind him. In moments like this, his old, cynical self resurfaced: concerns he'd thought he'd put to bed arose again to subsume him in their insipid futility.
This is what she is
, It said to him as he looked down at the dead Imp,
Once you peel the skin off of her false face, this is what will be staring back at you.
Roland matched eyes with the thing's upturned gaze: glassy and still filled with hatred, even in death. He spat on its corpse.
The two villagers filed out of their hut soon after, the old woman closing the door and locking it, as if such minimal security could protect their home from the ravenous rapine that faced them. The woman's granddaughter, a maiden no older than fourteen, bowed her head in Roland's direction. "Thank you, Brother." She said, intoning her gratitude like a prayer in his direction. "Without your help, and the seven good eyes of the Spider, we might have been blinded by the eighth this day."
"I ain't yer 'Brother,' and I'm not no fuckin' Sir." Roland said, sheathing both his sword and dagger one after the other. He lifted and lowered the latter with a nervous slide in and out of its holster. "And Demons don't care a whit for Gods and Spiders. So let's be off."
