The Wanderer's Path: Return of the Beasts

Chapter 1

The world had changed. The overreaching hand of the Sylix Empire had balled into a fist and demanded peace and those who did not listen, were beaten down beneath its boot. War had become a word used in political manoeuvring and high nosed bickering, but never to be whispered by distraught, soon to be widows. With the end of battles, and the passing of time, people had forgotten racial grievances, past sins and the ways of old, to be replaced by the race for money, internal bickering and the unbreakable belief in the everlasting empire.

The gods must have lost interest in their posturing and playmaking with the world, just as the inhabitants had lost interest in them now that commerce and civilisation had taken firm reign.

Reaper was now an antique from a past long gone. Throughout the ages, he had stepped through paths of blood, to thrones standing upon mountains of bodies. Today he had walked down a quiet, meandering dirt path towards what turned out to be a small farming village of no more than eight small wooden huts and a tavern.

Boisterous laughter filled the tavern drowning out the fiddler that played on in the background. He would have preferred the quiet, but it had been a long, lonely walk from the city of Tael to the dreary outskirts of Tae’iel. This little farming village would be the only stop for another week that would offer him something to quench his eternal thirst. Reaper’s black leather boots were already worn thin, and his dyed black, leather armour looked a natural brown from the dirt and dust of his travels. It was a sure indication of the dirt he also felt smeared on his face and entangled in his mangy black hair.

Reaper turned to look at a group of men that had meandered into the tavern after him, filling the pub with their raucous. There was one thing that could be said of humans, they know how to enjoy themselves, even in this dreary part of the world.

Taking the last swig, he grunted to the potbellied bartender with an oversized moustache to pour him another. The long look Reaper received told him the bartender thought he’d had enough, but he was wrong. Flicking him another copper piece, Reaper started on his fresh mug of piss. He searched casually for the serving wench he had seen scuttle away earlier, but the busty lass must have decided to go into hiding at sight of their new guests, probably a good idea.

The sun was at its peak now, and Reaper considered staying the night. It would be nice to sleep on something soft, and with walls around him. Variety, as they say, is the spice of life.

“Barman,” he grunted.

“What?” The man replied, mimicking his lack of courtesy, good.

“How much for the night?” He questioned, taking another long swill of beer.

“Ten coppers, we just got the one room. You’ll be sleeping on straw. You can make use of the tub and dinner’s on the house.” The man replied as he eyed him suspiciously. So the man wanted to drive a bargain. That was fine. Reaper was probably his first new customer in months. Reaper counted the coins carefully before leaving them on the table, making sure to keep another copper coin separate.

“Another round,” He replied to the barman’s silent question after noticing the extra coin.

“Take it easy there friend. I wouldn’t want you getting sick over the old man’s piss.” One of the men from the group behind him declared as he gurgled down what was left of his beer and tossed the mug to the ground. His companions around him chuckled as they watched him dramatically act out a person throwing up.

Reaper ignored their childish posturing to focus on his desperate attempt to enjoy his beer. Raising the thick clay mug to his lips, he closed his eyes as he felt the bitter sizzle flow down his throat and spread throughout his belly. Perhaps this world isn’t such a cruel and lonely place, if one has a drink nearby and a place to sleep, surely all is well. His awareness drifted as it traversed his multitude of memories. He ticked off the key points in his life where he thought he had finally grasped onto something important. Each time, realising that what he clung to, was the empty glass of hope, the same glass that continued to shatter within his grasp when he clung too tightly.