Realm of the Runes: Blood Right

Chapter II

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A tall hulking figure stalked through the night, head bowed stubbornly against the gale. He kept to the shadows as he skirted the feeble glow around the iron lampposts. Pale fluorescent light illuminated his oddly tanned skin, the tips of his short brown hair just visible under a brown leather hood. The shine of hard brown eyes gleamed darkly in the cold, bruised hands shoved deep inside the jacket's pockets.

Sheets of snow and sleet mingled with the rubber residue and grease from the dirty streets, blasting into his face like needles. His breath was sucked away by the icy wind, the few sections of his exposed skin turning ruddy with cold. Glimpses of his face were visible between driving sheets of snow, and dark blood dried around the edges of swollen lips. The sockets of his eyes were bruised, the lids grazed and smeared with blood.

Knuckles had embedded themselves into the symmetrical structure of his face, turning high angular cheekbones into a canvas for red and blue grazes. Small cuts marred his brow. He limped a little, although his long muscular legs concealed it well as he traversed the darkened catacombs. Sturdy brown leather boots moved with surety through treacherous sleet, slowing menacingly as he passed each darkened alley.

His precaution was wise.

A cloaked figure slunk from the shadows of the nearest alley, approaching the hooded man from behind. Stealthy feet were silent in the snow, the sound of footsteps masked by the howling of the wind. He quickened, pouncing on the unprotected back of the hooded man, a blade flashing dully in the dim light.

The injured man grunted, and threw himself backward to the ground in a swift, unexpected movement. The body of the cloaked figure crunched under his considerable weight, and within moments he was straddling the assailant with a switchblade at his throat.

"What the hell do you want with me, du ditt avskum?" he growled. His voice was gravelly with anger, and tinged with a nordic accent.

The black balaclava obscured the features of the assailant, but his muddy brown eyes were wide with anger.

"Let me go! I won't bother you again."

"And why should I do that?"

"I need money and you aren't carrying any," he muttered.

The hooded man glared down at the smaller man in disgust, tightening his threatening grip on the man's throat, before slamming his head into the ground. He stepped back, spitting in the snow.

"Get the fuck away from me, jaevel."

He turned his back on the cloaked figure and began walking away.

The muddy brown eyes of the assailant narrowed darkly. He scrambled to his feet, nursing his ribs as he kept shadowing the tall stranger, dodging behind dumpsters and the concrete corners of nearby buildings.

He was close enough to slot his blade between the jacket-clad ribs of the tall man, but before he could take action he let out an ungodly scream, red gashes opening up on his palms as the tall man whirled around and struck.

His switchblade glimmered briefly, the tall man yanking back his hood and glaring. The wounded man's eyes widened in horror as the full extent of his features were revealed.

"Benjamin Jersverd!? The fighter!? By the gods... I had no idea..."

"As I said, get the fuck away from me," he growled. "Count yourself lucky, drittsekk."

He swung away, leaving the wounded man staring after him in horror.

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