Beginning. (An origin story)

(5 years back. A destroyed village.)

Blood was everywhere.
The smells were putrid, that of day old corpses and fire. Ash carried on the wind, and the earthy scent mixed with the sweet sickly smell of blood and organs.

A young man, perhaps 18 years old, rose from a pile of corpses, hacking and retching as blood trailed from his nose and eyes.
His clothes were stained blood red and the cesspit that the town had become stank fiercely, but he was alive.

When they had started piling the bodies, he had hid among them, doing his best to hold his eyes shut and attempting not to breathe.
He shook violently. They were dead. Everyone.

The bandits had run rampant through the village, hacking mindlessly and killing everything they could. He grimaced at the sight of a cow, half hacked apart and flies buzzing around it, the corpse of its owner next to it.

He coughed, and blood from the inside of his mouth splattered across the ground, deep red hues painting the cobblestone, mixing to the mud. At least it wasn't his.
He took a sudden deep breath, and exhaled slowly, closing his eyes, attempting to relax.

They had left perhaps 30 minutes ago, and he had lain among the corpses for the night. They would be back though, they had left far too much gold to abandon it.

Think, dammit.
Weapons. He needed a weapon. If they came back sooner than he expected, he needed to be able to fight.
He glanced around the ruins, the smoke rising softly from the destroyed granary, its fire having petered out hours ago.
The one building not distorted by the fires was the blacksmith, but any weapons would have already been looted.
Besides, this was a farming town, it was unlikely they had any in the first place.
Instead, he pulled one of the corpses off the pile, dragging them aside until he finally found something.
A small short knife. Probably a fishing blade, but it was the best he was going to get.

"A survivor!"

He heard the shout from the hill over looking the town, and spun, his new dagger shaking in his grip. If his hands were not so covered by in blood, it would be easy to tell his knuckles were bone white.

A tall man, with red and gold robes. He carried a staff, and his beard was curled.
The boy barked at him, attempting to sound unfazed, but his voice cracked.
"Get back! I swear I'll cut you, get back!"
The man smiled softly and nodded, and took two steps backwards.
Another man joined him, slightly shorter, plate armour. This one didn't smile, instead a firm grimace was on his face as he surveyed the surrounding area.
"He's young Magnus."
"Aye general."
They... were talking about him?
Anger flashed suddenly through him, and he hissed through his grit teeth.
"What the hell do you want?"
Surprise took both of their faces.

The tall man with the staff recovered first, and his face shifted quickly back into a soft smile.
So. He was a diplomat. The other, the man in plate armour's face shifted quickly to anger, but it too dissipated to a vague disdain for his surroundings. Someone not used to being disrespected. A leader.
Shit. They were trained.

He backed up slowly, pressing himself against the wall of the blacksmith, keeping eyes on them both.
The tall man raised an eyebrow and gestured towards him, but the armored one shook his head.
"No. Absolutely not."
"He knows how to watch himself, Valoran."
"So do many people. He's seen enough."
"STOP TALKING ABOUT ME LIKE I'M NOT FUCKING HERE!"

He had shifted slightly now, changing the angle. Now he had positioned the armoured one between him and the one called Magnus. The armour would slow him down, and the other would need to get around him.
The tall one smiled again over the others shoulder.
"Look at his positioning.... he knows where to be."

They were still talking over him. Dammit.
Anger took him again, and he lunged forward, attempting to jam his knife into the gap in the armored ones neck.
But at the last second the man spun, caught his wrist, and backhanded him across the face with a gauntleted hand. Stunned, he fell backwards, but immediately leapt to his feet, returning the blow as heavily as he could across the man's jawline.

Immense satisfaction hit him as he watched the man recoil in shock, sporting a bloody lip, and he used the brief time he had borrowed to snatch the knife he had dropped off the ground, settling into an unorthodox and graceless fighting stance.

Fury took the man's face for a second and he reached for the sword on his belt, before pausing... and then bursting into laughter. The taller man laughed with him.
He lowered the knife slowly. He realized his mistake only now, the adrenaline and shock having kept him on edge. The bandits hadn't worn these colors. They weren't here to kill him.
He tossed the knife to the side.

"Who are you? Why are you here?"
"We could ask the same. Who are you?"
The man hesitated before responding.
"I don't have a name. As to why I'm here..."
There was no point lying. He was trapped either way.
"A thief. I got caught up in the fight. Hid amongst the dead."
He shuddered softly. He was going to need some time to work that memory out.
The tall man's eyes shone slightly with a blue light, and then it petered out. A Mage. He had only heard stories of those.
"He's telling the truth Valoran."
The other man paused, a frown on his face. He seemed deep in thought, before he finally showed a glimpse of resignation.
"Fine. You fill him in."
He turned and walked away... perhaps looking for more survivors.

The other man appraised him softly.
"Well I need something to call you. How about Noodok? It means 'unknown' in my language."
He paused. A name. He had never had one. He nodded slowly.
"What do you want?"
The man sighed softly and muttered under his breath.
"Tenacious. Brave. But reckless. I've got my work cut out..."
He glanced upwards and locked eyes with Noodok. His smile was back, sharp, intelligent.
"I just want to talk. Either you listen, and agree to a deal. We vouch for you, your crimes are forgotten. Or you don't, and we take you to the nearest town where you will be tried as a thief."

Noodok spat, attempting to rid the taste of blood from his mouth. He pulled his crimson soaked shirt from his chest, and attempted to wipe his face with it, but discarded it when he realised he was simply spreading more blood everywhere. He didn't intend to go to prison. And he had no chance escaping a Mage.
"Fine. I'm all ears."


(I'mmmm baaaaack! Image source: That's me. Photo taken by a friend.)

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