Pouch slung on his shoulder, throwing axe on his belt, Garranis trekked down the dusty gravel path. His face still itched, his heart still throbbed, his mind still ached, but he kept moving forward.
Kyzeldir, or at least the projection he had chosen, strode next to him, admiring the grassy plains, a blissful smile stagnant on his face.
Garranis looked back over his shoulder. The massive cliff where he had abandoned Hagsin still loomed in the distance, its rocky tip stood so prominent yet so fragile.
The scarred man itched his face, and red flakes fell from it and stuck in between his fingernails.
He hadn't even thought about how bad the deformities were. Leesha and Erin, and all he could have done to stop the tragedy, were all that was on his mind.
He considered talking about it to the strange God, but decided against it. It was unlikely something so— distant could provide any relief.
So the only sounds that accompanied the walk were the scratch of sandals on the small pebbles and the chirping of the wildlife.
The sun had risen far above the horizon now, lone in the clear blue sky, and the sensation of the sun kissing Garranis' face was absent everywhere except a small part of his left cheek.
Is there really nothing left for me to enjoy?
A sharp red glare burned in Garranis' eyes, directed from around a hundred yards away on the path ahead of them.
The Kyzeldir's bright green eyes twinkled. The shine waned as the metal which produced it grew closer.
Two metals, actually. Deep bronzes— the mark of a pair of Imperial soldiers.
The warriors nails dug into his palms. There was still feeling there, still some real skin. Now, his calloused, muscled hands were the softest and most sensitive part on his whole body.
The soldiers approached rather casually, they were talking to themselves. Kyzeldir hummed, still lost in the endless flowering fields.
Garranis reached a hand into the pouch.
The two soldiers came within speaking distance. One of the soldiers awkwardly pointed his neck away from where he was walking, away from Garranis. One of them ogled at Garranis' face with wide eyes, and it was like his pace was slowing as he got closer and closer.
The warrior's fingers wrapped around the cold, solid handle of one of the dark knives.
"Garranis, don't."
Garranis turned to Kyzeldir, and the soldier's pace seemed to sped up again. The God's characteristic grin was gone. Garranis loosened his grip from the dagger within the satchel.
"They are just pawns. They aren't part of your mission," Kyzeldir said.
Garranis stared into the regal face that the God had chosen, into his simplistic crown. His jaw clenched. The footsteps of the two passing soldiers grew quieter behind him.
He twisted back and threw two obsidian blades at the heads of the two soldiers.
The daggers whipped through the air, each streaking toward the little bit of exposed neck underneath the legionnaire's helmets.
And just before both dark bullets touched the hair on the back of each soldier's head, they were yanked back into Garranis' hands.
The warrior quickly stuffed the daggers back into the pouch.
"Did you hear something?" Garranis heard one of the soldiers shout as he turned around.
"Yeah," the other soldier replied. They scanned around aimlessly.
"Probably just a bird or something," the first replied, and the two soldiers continued on their way.
Garranis eyed the mysterious God, waiting for a response of disapproval.
Kyzeldir returned to whistling with a spring in his step.
"You never told me you were a Master of Motion," the God of Death said. "Now it makes sense why you have such strange weapons. I should have known when you hit that deer from so far away. I thought maybe you just had a crazy arm," Kyzeldir laughed.
Garranis ignored the God's comments and kept on trudging forward.
"It's a very good thing, you know. You'll need it for what's to come."
"What is to come?" Garranis grunted.
"Well, it's all the more fun when it's a surprise," Kyzeldir's pearl teeth glistened in the sunlight. "Goodbye now, Garranis. I have some other things to attend to. I'll see you soon."
Garranis watched as the smiling God faded into nothing.
The warrior shook his head, eyes wide.
Everything had been so heavy lately, that he did not even question talking to this— spirit, or whatever it was, that claimed to be a God beyond this world. And he wasn't a religious man, but this was not how Garranis was taught Gods were supposed to act like.
Well...I might as well just be in your mind.
That's what this 'God' had said. Was that all there was to it?
Garranis banged his brain around in his burnt skull with violent shakes and continued on his way.
The town of Breslak was much larger and more developed then Garranis' village, but it was far uglier— at least when Garranis' village was still around, of course.
Garranis walked through the chipped wooden taverns and large, blocky houses. Men, women and children all shuffled by; the warrior had never seen streets so busy, and so filthy.
Garranis' exposed feet sloshed in the mud.
"Does anybody here know a Vyzethar?" He shouted.
The townspeople's clothes looked as ripped and flaky as Garranis' face. Yet, some stood apart from the rest of the town; the guards, identical to the two Garranis had seen travelling up the trail, and to the legion who had assisted in destroying his life.
"Does anybody know a Vyzethar?" He shouted again, waddling through the mud, receiving nothing but avoidance.
Garranis grunted in frustration, turning his head to glare as families dashed past.
"Vyzethar, anybody?"
"What are you doing?"
The question came from behind, and Garranis whipped around. There was a lanky man, little older then a teenager leaned up against a rickety wooden building.
"I'm looking for a man who calls himself Vyzethar, isn't it obvious?"
"Quiet down, there are guards here. Are you an idiot?" The thin man replied.
Garranis furrowed his eyebrows, but the other man didn't seem to care about causing offence. He grabbed the warrior, who was nearly twice his size, by the arm.
"Settle down, and follow me."
The skinny man yanked Garranis through the nearest doorway, slamming open the rickety wooden gate. Stepping inside, their feet creaked against the splintered boards.
The walls were lined with moss, and there was damp tables and chairs which blended into the identical dark wood walls and flooring, further masked by the lack of light. Men of all shapes and sizes turned from their mugs to the newcomers.
The thin man continued to strut toward the back of the room, where a bald man in light leather armour, similar to Garranis' but shabbier, was polishing iron mugs behind a counter.
"Devro," the thin man said. The shaven man looked up, flaunting a pupiless grey eye.
"This man was looking for Vyzethar. Shouting his name in the streets like an idiot," the bony man said.
Garranis jerked his arm out of the scrawny man's grip. Devro brought his black stooped eyebrows down on the warrior.
"Even I can see, I think we found we finally found one that's uglier then me," Devro flashed a smile with as many holes as a block of cheese. The large, bald man leaned in closer to the two newcomers.
"Bring 'em down, Retrin. If he's a friend, Vyzethar will want to see him. And if he's an enemy somehow—well we got more guns, more muscle."
"Come on," the scrawny man, Retrin, said, pushing Vyzethar around the bar to the other side.
The bald man looked over to all the other men sitting and drinking; they had turned back to chatting amongst themselves.
"Hurry, hurry, crouch down," he said.
The bartender knelt down, latching onto a small, almost unnoticeable iron knob in the wood flooring. He pulled it open, revealing two sets of wooden ladders that led downward.
"Go, go," Retrin pushed Garranis forward, and the warrior obliged, stepping in.
Descending down the ladder, after the thin man had entered, the dim light from above closed off with a slam.
Now it was pitch black, and Garranis carefully lowered his foot down onto the next rung with each step. It slowly got easier and easier; the disappearance of the light at the top was gradually replaced with one coping from below.
Garranis didn't dare to look down, though, lest he lose his balance in the darkness. But finally, the rungs became completely visible, and finally, his foot hit something more solid than a ladder rung.
Both feet landed on solid stone bricks. Garranis turned around; there was a massive stone fountain before him, flowing out water in all directions, like small rivers along the ground. Dozens of men like himself—armed, armoured, stood in small groups, socializing.
"Hey, buddy, move."
Garranis looked up and realized Retrin was still on the ladder above him. The warrior took a step forward, allowing the other to land on the ground behind him.
The whole place was a magnificent yet rebellious stone dome. There were tunnels in every direction, disappearing into the darkness, almost as if it was never-ending.
"So," the thin man said from behind, walking forward. "How'd you hear about Vyzethar, and why are you here?"
"He came to my town once. Did some healing," Garranis replied, following the younger man's lead.
"And what? You're hoping he can heal those burns?"
"No."
"Then why?"
"I came," Garranis eyed a man in dark, crimson armour who leered at him. "Because I really have nothing else left to do."
Retrin said nothing for a while, then simply nodded.
The two made their way over many of the faux rivers on small wooden platforms toward the northern side of the large stone dome.
"Where are we—"
Garranis stopped. A tall, tan man with a long streak of black hair stepped up onto a pile of boxes, drawing a vigilant audience with just the tap of his staff.
The smile of Vyzethar shined.
"My friends!" The healer shouted. "I am delighted to tell you that we have established a network, using our Masters of Mind, so we may act in unity across the nation, and speak as one for our retribution! The day of justice, draws near!"
There was a rumbling applause, even from those who held mugs of ale in their hands.
"To those of you, who have with me from the start, I thank you for all of your dedication, determination, and contributions. And for those of you who have just put on a set of boots today, or even those who will on the morrow, I thank you as well! Our recruitment numbers are at an all time high. We will win!"
Vyzethar raised his hand, and the audience raised a fist or a mug in response, along with hooting cheers.
"Recruitment?" Garranis said.
"Uh, yes. Isn't that why you're here?" Retrin asked.
Garranis turned to meet the thin man's sunken, yet harsh eyes.
"Uhm....yes. I just—I still want to see him in person."
"Well, go on," Retrin said, motioning to the healer, who stepped off the boxes, making small talk with the soldiers around him. "Vyzethar is the most open man I know."
Garranis marched forward, but turned his head back; Retrin wasn't following.
"You're not coming?" The warrior asked.
"He's also a pretty damn good judge of character," Retrin said, leaning against a wooden railing placed adjacent to the river. "He'll sort you out."
Garranis nodded, continuing forward. Vyzethar was still laughing with the men surrounding him, and the rest of the crowd was back to doing the same in their own little groups.
What is this? Some type of thief's gang, or a strange horde?
Garranis assumed that Vyzethar was a full-time doctor, giving that he could miraculously heal the worst of ailments. His mind crawled back into the depths, picturing his wife and daughter on the day they were healed, but he quickly closed it off, shutting his eyes forcefully.
But this was no doctor. He had the same billowing white toga, and kept the staff with the crystal perched ontop in his right hand. He looked almost like a lesser Emperor even, but the warriors spoke to him like a comrade, smiles on their faces and drinks in hand.
Garranis waited for them to quiet down. After the laughter had simmered, he cleared his throat.
The small group turned, and the smiles of the armoured men neutralized, but not Vyzethar's.
"Hello my friend," the tan man gave a charming smile. "What can I do you for?"
Garranis froze.
"I've come... to join," he finally said.
Vyzethar let out a joyful laugh, brushing his long, dark hair aside. "That is excellent. Retrin brought you down here?"
Garranis nodded.
"And how did you hear of our little rebellion?" The healer asked.
Garranis raised a once-eyebrow. Was the man's memory really that poor? It had only been a little over a week since Vyzethar had healed his family.
Garranis' eyes widened, and he reached a hand up to his face. It felt like charcoal.
The burns... were they really that bad, that he was unrecognizable?
Garranis opened his mouth to tell the healer his name, and remind Vyzethar of their encounter.
"I—"
But he didn't want to remember it, remember all that he had lost, remember who he was before he lost it all.
"I was there when you came to our village, and you healed our sick," Garranis kept a close eye on Vyzethar, and it will still smiles and nods. "You told the men about this town, about the rebellion."
Vyzethar nodded. "We'll I'm glad you've decided to come, we need all the help we can get. But before we get you a piece of leather and a sword, I'll need something to call you."
"My name... my name is Ensobian," Garranis said.
Vyzethar nodded, and reached out a hand. He shook Garranis' flaky, brutalized hand, his smile not wavering.
"I didn't remember seeing someone with burns, Ensobian. I would have healed you if I had," Vyzethar said.
"Uhm... it was rather recent," Garranis replied.
Vyzethar nodded, releasing his hand. "Well, you are still welcomed to be healed. All you have to do is ask."
"I—It is the mark of something important to me," Garranis said.
Vyzethar nodded again, and Garranis breathed a sigh of relief.
The healer stood up straight, motioning to the men around him.
"Get this man some armour, and a drink. We are celebrating yet another new recruit!"
Two of the men scrambled, running into one of the many tunnels that led out from the large dome. The third walked over to a massive keg, opened it, took a mug from a large nearby stack, and poured out some ale into it. He then strut back over and handed it to Garranis.
Vyzethar took his own drink from off the pile of crates and raised it to Garranis, who clunked his mug against the healer's.
Vyzethar grinned, cheering. "Welcome, Ensobian. Welcome to the rebellion!"
Then the healer chugged his ale, and Garranis hastily followed suit.
Rebellion... this rebellion, there is only one thing to rebel against that would require this large a force, and this complex network of underground tunnels.
Both men finished their swig, and let out a satisfied exhale.
The Empire.
For the first time, Garranis really took in the surrounding dome. There were six massive tunnels leading in different directions, and under this roof alone were dozens of men, possibly even a hundred. Behind Vyzethar, leaned up against the rugged stone wall of the dome, leaned a smiling man wearing a thin crown. Kyzeldir was invisible to the rest of the rebels, but he waved at Garranis.
The God of Death had brought Garranis to a real rebellion, intent on fighting the Empire—the Empire who had taken everything away from him.
Perhaps—just maybe, Garranis' life wasn't over.