Thread: Acid and Ice (Traveler and Vi)

Demons roamed this land. Night was their mistress when the sun's rays ceased to touch the earth tendrils of mist seeped upwards, announcing the pending arrival of those ungodly creatures that seemed to grow stronger with every human life they spilled onto the ground. Gaelen Marquist had seen enough of his fellow warriors perish in the last few days to question the sanity of their Sovereign's orders. Cleansing this land of the demons, and of the people who worshiped them, was a task only suited to the Seraphim. Surely mortal men had no chance against such an unholy legion. He paused at the top of the hill and looked down into quiet village. Another of his Sovereign's warriors must have come through here recently. The scent of smoke and death was still fresh, but the cold had slowed the stench and the streets were not strewn with charred bodies or signs of the raids, not like most of the other towns he had passed through. His left arm was wrapped tightly to his side. The clumsy attempt at bandaging himself was made more so by the fact that he had to use his off hand to bind and tie the wound on his arm, and the burn that accompanied the demon's fire spittle across his forearm had gone from a numb ache to an infuriating itch that Gaelen feared meant the end of his sword wielding days. But... if he had to choke out every last demon and its worshipper by hand he would. The breeze caught strands of his long sandy hair and blew them across the noble bridge of his nose. His braid had begun to loosen the leather and chain mail he had worn was stained with blood and the green gore that seeped from the ungodly when they died. Surely, he thought, I must appear like some walking dead, ungodly thing myself. He could not go back. Gaelen knew to return unvictorious was to return to his education. The man-god who ruled his homeland was jealous, and for good reason. Every soldier who went on this quest made am oath, and if the Sovereign made his soldiers swear an oath, he made his knights swear doubly. Gaelen's place among the noblemen who led the unfortunate guaranteed that the Marqist family would not have to put their women in the lottery for twenty-five years. That was twenty-five years that they did not have to fear the chance their daughters would be dragged to the border and offered to the demon king, in exchange for his promise not to cross into their lands. The next hundred drawings would not claim a maiden from his clan. Gaelen's presence among the Warriors sent to kill the demon king and his ilk was a small price to pay. And if the quest was successful, there would be no more lottery. No more sacrifices. He shivered. Night was fast approaching, and already the frost had begun to cover his short, dark beard. He closed his eyes as he stood there and remembered, for one brief moment of peace, the way it felt to walk into his family manor. He remembered the sounds of laughter and the happy bark of greeting from his deerhound. The scent of fried bread... His eyes opened. The scent was real. Someone was in the village. People meant heat, food, possibly clean water. With a new resolve he began to move, and steadily descended into the village that housed Herja. Fate and Destiny smiled as they would two threads together and then knit them into their tapestry. It had begun.