Tales of the Implock - Chapter 075

∼ The Folly of Bandits ∼

In the large hollow of a naturally-formed alcove situated at the tail-end of a gorge that emptied into a small basin, rugged men laughed about and made merry with cheeks aflush. They had partied and celebrated through the night and into the morning, drunk and festive, every single one. Some splashed nude in the basin, letting the grime of unwashed bodies seep into the crystal-clear water. Others sat about a long table bathing in the sunlight as fresh meats and fruits were bestrewn across its length.

Resting in the shade by the table, a man with a face scarred from a rough life quaffed from a whole pitcher of wine.

"Gerard," A man nodded as he came up, his stature much shorter but no less rough in appearance.

"Mark," Gerard acknowledged. "Any word?"

The man shook his head, grunting as he sat down on the bench, his belt of weapons clattering onto the table as he got comfortable. "No. And the one I've sent to check up hasn't returned yet either." Grabbing a roasted chicken leg from the table, Mark began biting into it with a relaxing sigh.

However, Gerard frowned. "We should report it to the boss."

Mark paused, some worry entering into his features. "Hold on now, they're probably just shitfaced. After all, They were left with plenty of booze at their outposts this time around."

"All three of them?" Gerard countered.

This time, Mark hesitated to think it over. "I dunno, but you do realize what you'll be paying if you disturb the boss without proper cause. I can tell ya already, that it definitely won't be me doing it."

A grumble was the only response as lips met the pitcher of wine, drowning Gerard's worry. Yet as time passed, Gerard sitting there and simply observing the men under him party and slowly pass out in the middle of the day in less and less dignifying ways, the worry started coming back. Something was wrong. He could feel it.

There still hadn't been any word from the other camps which was more than unusual. Actually, since the boss had taken over. Communication between them hadn't ever been cut off for this long.

His stare turned into a hard-set glare as he resolved to do something about it, letting out a grunt. "Mark, gather some men." Mark only responded with a snore, so Gerard whirled around and swatted his leg. "Mark!"

Mark who had passed out on the bench jolted up with a sputter, some chicken still in his black, unkempt beard.

"W-wha-? Ah- What is it you ass!?"

"Gather some men, and set out. Check on those idiots on the outposts."

Mark blinked, incredulous. "I'm telling you," He shook his head hopelessly. "You're paranoi-"

A streak of purple sailed through the air before he could manage to finish that sentence, striking him right in the side of his head, a dull roar of fire as the man's skill was partially blown open.

Gerard, whose friend's head had just been cracked open before his eyes, a splatter of blood streaking his face and mouth with the taste of iron, could only shit there as he toppled over and into the rocky sand, blood and brain matter seeping into it.

"A-ambush!" He roared, only to see those not yet passed out already indulged in pandemonium. Chaos was breaking out, the drunken men battling an unseen foe and those slowly awakening barely able to get to their feet. Gerard had only a moment to react, his instincts as a battle-hardened warrior kicking in in time to block the thing flying at him with a hastily drawn sword.

However, what latched onto his blade, making him stagger back with the force of the momentum, was beyond his wildest imagination. What he came face-to-face with could only be described as one thing, and one thing only. A demon. He abandoned his blade just in time to evade the oversized hand reaching for his face, the meaty fingers looking large enough to envelop his entire head and muscular enough to crush it too.

In one smooth motion, he had drawn a long dagger and stepped back into a fighting stance, watching as the waist-high demon grinned toothily at him, blood staining its massive, brutish hands. "What the fuck is this?" He cursed, glancing around his men dying in a pitiful counteroffensive. So much for the "best" of the bandits. A useless lot. He thought cynically.

But when he finally saw the small figure of a robed individual slinging fiery spells about with the cackle of a madman, he realized what was happening. But he almost dared not utter it, his breath caught. "A warlock..."

Questions as to how a warlock had found them and why he was slaughtering their camp were dashed, however, when the demon before him attacked again. Its swift, forceful movements as it used the hands all-too large for its body to fling itself across the ground made the demon unpredictable. Luckily, Gerard wasn't a stranger to fighting monsters, having experienced the life of a caravan guard before his fall to that of a bandit. So with a flourish of his blade, he landed a glancing blow along the demon's arm, contorting his old bones in the movements he had long thought lost to him. He still had it in him! He could almost laugh, adrenaline fueling his weathered body.

But unfortunately for him, this creature was no mere roadside monster. It was a demon. It was a relentless and psychotic thrasher.

He stood no chance, the moment he realized he hadn't entirely escaped the demon's attack, a thin but strong tail had wrapped itself around his ankle. He was swept off his feet, the blade lost as his head cracked against the hard ground beneath, his world filled with the sounds of scratchy laughter as he was torn apart in more savage ways than an entire pack of wolves could.

Cleaning up the rest of the bewildered humans, clawed fingers slitting the throat of the last remaining humans, Nyx glanced towards his familiar who was busy playing around with the corpses of her mauled enemies. It had been an easy, if not lengthy affair slaughtering the bandit camps. All he had to do was stake out the humans until they had either fallen asleep or completely lowered their guards. After that, in their intoxicated states, their slaughter had been like killing defenseless babes.

Only a few had even managed to land a hit on him in their drunken stupors, and even so, had not drawn blood once. It had been a delight, despite the lack of a challenge. But as Nyx stood there, in the remains of the last bandit camp, he couldn't help but frown. He glanced towards the wooden structure at a smaller hollow within the alcove. As far as he knew, that was where the boss stayed. The supposed skilled human.

But he had not come out, not even as his people were being massacred. Was he even still in there or had he run? If he had, Nyx would be sorely disappointed. "Fisty, here." He called out, the thrasher happily coming over as she gnawed on a severed arm, a radiance in her eyes at being called by her new name.

Admittedly, Nyx might've not been the best at naming. He categorized everything he saw by what first came to mind. But Fisty did not care.

As they closed in on the bandit boss's residence, Nyx squinted his eyes at it, expecting some trap or ambush. But he found nothing. At his command, Fisty punched in the wooden door, the rusty hinges doing little in the way of resisting against the force of her blow. With a puff of dust and dirt, the door landed on the ground, Nyx and Fisty stepping in.

A light was lit in the gloomy interior. A lamp atop a table of papers and pouches of gold. The room was spacious, lightly decorated by what could only be pilfered goods. But what really caught Nyx's attention was the man sitting relaxedly in a chair, smoking a thin roll of tobacco. He was tall, evident even as he was sitting down.

His scarred and aged face with the startings of a graying stubble was impassive. Donning the simple clothes of a sweat-stained button-up and black pants that had seen some wear, he didn't look like no bandit Nyx had seen before. Odder more, where the odd choice of metal vambraces decorating each arm.

Hard eyes regarded Nyx. He had undoubtedly heard of the chaos outside. But nothing of his posture told Nyx that he was tense or afraid. Maybe those stupid town humans had actually been onto something. Nyx realized with excitement.

Nyx's attention was then drawn to the wall behind the man, the flicker of the lantern flame casting its light on the bloody figure. Slumped and unmoving, the man was clearly dead. If the bashed-in face wasn’t enough to tell by already. So that must've been Jackie. Nyx noted with cold, uncaring interest, remembering the talk of the bandits.

"So, who are you? A mercenary?" The man suddenly asked, his voice deep and steady but face unchanging. It revealed no emotion - if there were any.

Nyx saw no reason to lie, so he spoke truth. "Yes,"

He grunted, flicking the half-burnt roll across the room, discarded without as much as another care. The man took to his feet, unhurriedly, but both Nyx and Fisty still tensed. He felt no ominous presence coming from this individual. No ethereal pressure of innate power like he did with the guild arbiter of the mysterious swordsman. But something wasn't quite right.

"Question - how did they manage to hire someone like you?" He asked, shrugging his shoulders as if stiff. "They don't have that kind of coin. I've made sure of that."

That steely gaze pierced Nyx, but the demon did not back down at the intimidation. He merely smiled. "I'm not here for just gold, human."

The human's eyes narrowed. "Very well then. Doesn't matter. Was about time to leave this shithole anyways. Grander ventures and such, I hope you understand."

Nyx didn't know what this human had up his sleeves to be acting so arrogant, but he needed no wonder too long as something rather unexpected happened before his very eyes.

The two metal bracers along the human's forearms began glowing as he shook them, a dark purple light coursing through intricate rune-work. The demon felt like he should attack before whatever was happening - happened, but it was too late. Nyx's eyes could only widen as the man began literally disappearing. As if his body was slowly being eaten up by some ethereal force until nothing but air was left in the spot he once stood. Nyx was not sure how to react.

Where had he gone? Was he even in the room anymore? Just what were those magical artifacts?

Nyx's ponderings came to a screeching halt, however, when his instincts kicked in before his thoughts could catch up. He barely evaded whatever whistled inches above his head. Nyx immediately knew that sound, for he had heard it many times by now. The sound of a blade cutting through the air.

He wasn’t gone. He was invisible!

A/N - Do you like the Thrasher's new name? Had a hard time finding something fitting, that Nyx too would sensibly name his familiar considering his... peculiar way of thinking. If not and if any of you have any more fitting names, please let me know in either the comment section or simply write to me privately! All suggestions are greatly appreciated.