Cliff

  “Sarah confessed her love to me today.

  We were walking up the side of Mauler’s Hill, speaking of little things and enjoying each other’s company, when she brought me to a halt next to a grouping of cerulean willow trees. It was a beautiful spot; the valleys of Hilfen opening before us like verdant dunes, the wind setting the leaves to rustling. Her eyes had a tender sort of reluctance to them, as if she knew precisely what to say, just not how to say it.

  When I moved to fill the silence with meaningless chatter, however, she placed a finger upon my lips. And then, with a smile that could light up the darkest of nights, did she proclaim her love for me, filling my heart with a happiness the likes of which I cannot express in mere words.

  Later that night, we made love for the first time. It was a sweet, gentle thing, the kind of intimacy you know from the minstrel’s songs, or the poet’s writing. It nurtures the soul and comforts the mind, in a way no other thing can. But it is not without trouble, for once a man has tasted such delight, he shall surely fear to lose it until the end of his days.” - Writings of the Sword-Saint, 2149 Post-Separation (PS).

  Contrary to popular belief, life on the road was, for the most part, entirely uneventful.

  Ever since the Husk-scourge had descended upon Alwaar, making the roads dark and dangerous, people had become much less inclined to travel than before. Every trip beyond the safety of home had to be undertaken with the knowledge that every fourth night would be a Husknight, and that anyone caught outside the safety of a walled town at such a time would be at the mercy of the Husks, and their Rot Plague.

  The invention of Bone-Lamps had proved a tremendous boon in the fight against this scourge, but still, the threat posed by the Husks remained largely devastating, as even in a vulnerable state, a Husk could tear a man limb from limb, were he not sufficiently trained in combat or the arcane arts.

  As such, a man in these times could spend the majority of his life within the bounds of a single town or village, never seeing much of the outside world save for that which the occasional traveling merchant brought to his little sanctuary. Because of this, talk of how “terrible” the roads were grew commonplace, further cementing the misconception that traveling alone was tantamount to suicide. And soon enough, there was nary a soul in Alwaar that did not, on some level, fear the open road, and the things that lurked in the wilderness.

  It was a vicious cycle, one that was built partly on truth, but mostly on hearsay and falsehoods.

  Cliff had lived a long life, and spent a considerable portion of it on the road. And he could confidently say that, as opposed to the commonly-held belief that travel equaled suicide, most trips across Alwaarian soil were wholly uneventful. Unless one were to be daring enough to venture out on a Husknight, the risk of encountering anything more dangerous than a wandering elk was shockingly low, especially along the well-trodden highways.

  As with all things, however, there were exceptions to the rule - and these could easily prove deadly if one did not possess the adequate instinct or hard-earned expertise to navigate them.

  Silhouetted against the dying embers of the day, Cliff cut a solitary figure astride Brom, his traveling cloak fluttering in the evening breeze. To the untrained eye, he surely did not look like much. A weary pilgrim, clothed in simple robes, with a suitably unimpressive longsword at his waist. A collection of saddlebags strapped to the side of his mount carried the rest of his meager belongings, together with a frayed bedroll and a simple blanket.

  The wind had an edge to it that bit at the exposed skin of his face, eliciting a frown from the blue-haired swordsman. He had never been one for the cold. A little bit of heat, now that he could tackle without issue. But the cold? Not so much. It was part of the reason why he tended to avoid the northern parts of Alwaar. He could scarce remember the last time he had visited Abengarde, with its hanging buildings and snow-covered mountains - or rather, he could, but chose not to, as his last visit had been something of a disaster.

  It had been days now since his departure from Carthal, and so far, his journey had consisted of little else than long days and restless nights. He missed Catherine something fierce, and could not wait to be back at her side again, once this silly little task for Varus had been taken care of. She ran free in his mind every hour of the day, keeping him company on the lonely road, yet driving him insane with longing all the while. There was no respite to be found from the yearning, not even in sleep, for she was in his dreams, too.

  As a result of this, he was not in the best of spirits when a sudden rustling of leaves brought his attention to the road ahead, his eyes narrowing as they searched the trail.

  It could have simply been the wind. But still… Something about the sound had felt...

  Then, he noticed it. An imprint in the underbrush lining the side of the path. It was not much, just a slight depression in the grass, too shapely and round in the corners to belong to an animal. A little further beyond, he spotted a broken branch hanging loosely from the side of a tree.

  It would seem this trail harbored more than just the wind and the wild after all.

  Cliff could not help but sneer as his eyes landed on the outline of three shadowy figures, draped in the ragged remnants of what had once been vibrant clothing, laying in wait among the gnarled trees up ahead. The glint of partially-concealed knives winked at him from behind green fronds, seeming eager to taste the flesh of unsuspecting travelers.

  He took a moment to consider the situation as he saw it. There was a near guaranteed chance that these men were outlaws. Their clothes spoke to a life spent on the road, under difficult conditions. They were certain to be desperate outlaws, too, as Lord Varus’ men had made banditry a troublesome endeavor with their constant patrols of the main roads. Highway robberies were all but unheard of these days.

  Yet, the fact remained that these industrious gentlemen were laying in wait for an unsuspecting traveler to ambush. And in so doing, they were blocking the fastest road to Maris.

  Cliff closed his eyes, and let out a defeated sigh. So be it. He was not in the mood for this, but these men had chosen their fate.

  The rhythmic hoofbeats echoed through the stillness as he approached, pretending to be unaware of their presence.

  Without preamble, the silence was shattered like glass as the bandits lunged forth from their hiding place. They were not much to look at. All three of them were wiry and thin, with little in the way of muscle beneath their tattered clothes. Their leader, a tall man with a twisted grin and unruly stubble, barked out a guttural laugh.

  “Well, well, well… What have we here?” he said, his voice dry and raspy. “A little mouse, out on its lonesome.”

  “Good evening,” Cliff said, his face an expressionless mask.

  “Dangerous thing, for a man to be traveling on his own,” the bandit said, scratching at his chin. “Who knows what sort of trouble he’ll run into?”

  “Are you the trouble?” Cliff asked.

  “Might just be.”

  Another sigh forced its way past Cliff’s lips. He had no patience for this.

  “Trevor. Take his sword,” the leader said, gesturing to one of the men. “No use trying to play the hero here, my friend. It’s three against one.”

  “Oh, really?” Cliff said drily, watching the bandit approach with tired eyes. “How unfortunate.”

  A moment of silence descended upon them as the man came up to Brom, reaching out for the sword on Cliff’s hip. It seemed for all the world that Cliff had no intention of fighting back, relaxed as he was in the saddle. That was, until…

  The wind stilled as a ripple cut through the tense quiet that had gathered about them. Akin to a whisper spoken on a soft breath, it came and went before the men had a chance to register its passing. The bandit closest to Cliff furrowed his brows, and looked down at his outstretched arm.

  Half of it was missing.

  A roar of pain echoed through the forest as the bandit staggered backwards, clutching at the bloodied stump where his hand and forearm had just been. Spurts of blood gushed forth as he did, pumped from open arteries that no longer had a limb to connect to. Cliff watched on in apathetic silence as the man fell to his knees and screamed.

  “Kill him!” the leader shrieked, pulling out his knife. The other bandit did not need much in the way of encouragement. He was already rushing towards Cliff, weapon at the ready, eyes aflame with rage and bloodlust.

  Cliff frowned. These men were not particularly bright. He was still mounted atop Brom, who seemed no less frightened at the sudden violence than Cliff was. At any point during this confrontation, he could have dug his heels into his companion’s sides, and ridden off into the sunset, far beyond the reach of their knives. This simple fact alone spoke to an inexperience and lack of foresight that was baffling coming from a group of would-be criminals.

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  Alas, Cliff was no ordinary traveler. And for the transgression of wasting his time and energy, these men would be put down like the rabid dogs they were.

  The second bandit had almost reached Cliff now. His knife glimmered faintly in the light of the afternoon sun. A wicked grin was fixed upon his lips as he brought it down low, ready to strike at his opponent.

  Needless to say, he was not afforded the chance.

  A second ripple of wind set the grass to swaying as Cliff’s blade carved a diagonal line across the man’s throat, slicing it open from one side to the other. The bandit’s eyes went wide with surprise and dread as he dropped his knife and put both hands to his throat, trying to hold back the blood now streaming past his fingers. A wet gargling sound emerged from his mouth as he attempted to breathe, his lungs filling with liquid.

  The bandit leader looked considerably less confident now than he had mere moments ago. His jaw worked tirelessly as he ground his teeth together, assessing the situation with silent panic in his eyes. Both of his men now lay on the ground, one clutched over a bleeding stump, the other choking on his own blood. Meanwhile, the target of their little ambush had not a single scratch on him, holding his blade in a relaxed grip as he watched the men die with apparent indifference.

  Their eyes met over the sound of suffering and agony.

  “Would you like to die as well?” Cliff asked.

  The bandit leader looked at his men. Then, he looked at Cliff. His resolve broke a moment later.

  He turned on his heels, and ran.

  “Good choice,” Cliff grunted.

  On the ground below him, the two men were inching their way towards oblivion. The one with the cut throat had already fallen still, his body twitching in its last death throes. The other was whimpering quietly to himself, in shock at the sudden loss of limb.

  Cliff gave them a long look, before letting out a breath. No need to prolong their suffering, he supposed. That would just be cruel.

  He dismounted from Brom, sword in hand, and walked over to the one who was missing an arm. The bandit did not even look up as he approached, lost as he was in the haze of his misery. The pain was not to last, however, as Cliff struck hard and true, piercing the man’s heart with his blade.

  “May the Stonefather accept you into his arms,” Cliff said as the man slumped over in death. “And may he offer clemency for the crimes committed in this life.”

  It was more than the man deserved, but Cliff felt it appropriate nonetheless, as a final courtesy of sorts.

  Next, he turned to the other bandit, but found him already lifeless, face-down in a pool of his own blood.

  Well… A little late for blessings then, he thought.

  A cold wind blew past, ruffling his hair and reminding him of the waning daylight.

  Have to find somewhere to set up camp for the night.

  With a mighty sigh, he wiped his sword on the bandit’s sleeve, and placed it back in its scabbard. Then, he proceeded to pat down the two corpses, looking for anything that could be of use. He was not expecting to find much, but perhaps one of them had kept a sewing kit or a money-pouch on their person?

  Alas, no such luck. The two men were as destitute and penniless as their clothes suggested.

  A long shot, I suppose.

  He briefly considered whether or not to dig the men a shallow grave, but soon decided against it. It was growing late, and he was tired from a long day of travel. In addition, these men had tried to kill him. As such, he did not feel much of an obligation to give them a proper burial.

  Instead, he rolled their bodies over to the side of the road, and left them there stacked on top of each other. That way, any potential guardsmen would be able to spot them on their patrol, and take care of their remains. Alternatively, they would make a fine meal for the local wildlife.

  Cliff spent the rest of the day in quiet contemplation, much as he had before the bandits had fallen upon him. As the sun disappeared and the shadows grew dark, he eventually found a good spot to spend the night, next to a body of water nestled between green pines. Exhaustion weighed heavy on his mind as he set to work on his camp, cobbling together an unimpressive campfire and unfurling his bedroll. He could have ridden further, but the long days and restless nights had started to wear on him, and as such, sleep came as soon as his head hit the burlap pillow.

  He was allowed a blissful few moments of slumber before the sound of waves breaking upon a coastline caused him to open his eyes again.

  An ash-colored beach stretched out in front of him, glimmering softly underneath the light of a million stars. Silver-tinted waves rolled in from calm waters, lapping against the pale shore. The ocean they came from, however, was not endless. In fact, it reached an unseen edge some distance out, where it burst forth into misty froth and cascaded down into empty nothingness.

  … I’m dreaming again, huh.

  Beyond the beach, the sea and the stars, there was little else of note occupying the space, save for a single person, sitting next to a dim campfire some ways up the sand. A lone figure, seated upon the ground, his body wrapped in tattered, black robes that hung loosely from a skeletal frame. A torn knapsack lay at his feet, the fabric damp with some liquid that appeared almost lilac in color.

  Under different circumstances, he might have passed for a common street-beggar, were it not for one glaring detail; a rusted longsword had been shoved right through his stomach, the tip of the blade protruding from his back like an arrow.

  For a moment, Cliff allowed himself to breathe deep of the crisp air, before fixing his gaze upon the sand, where a set of footprints lead up to the figure. They were his footprints, from the distant past, preserved in perpetuity by the unbroken stillness of the beach. No wind blew in this place, after all, removed as it was from the laws and sciences of the world.

  The figure turned its head in his direction as he approached. No face greeted him beneath its black folds. Only shadow so dense, Cliff suspected even the strongest of light would not be able to pierce it.

  “Kinslayer,” the stranger said, his voice like gravel and rusted nails. “Sit.”

  Cliff did as told, though not purely of his own volition. The stranger’s words had an odd sort of edge to them, a lilting allure that touched the mind and compelled the body. To call it mere persuasion would be erroneous, but there was an element of that, mixed with something far more potent and commanding.

  “It has been some time since your last visit,” the stranger said as Cliff sat down on the beach across from him. “Are you in possession of the Far-Sight?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Cliff sighed. “And I seem no closer to obtaining it now than I was fifty years ago.”

  “I see,” the stranger said. “For what reason have you come here, then?”

  “I… am not entirely certain,” Cliff muttered, turning his eyes to the horizon. “Maybe I just needed a quiet place to think.”

  The stranger said nothing to this, merely nodding his head in a fashion that could be interpreted any number of ways. For a long time after, no words were spoken between them, as they sat in perfect silence looking out over the azure span. There was a mindfulness to it that evoked bitter memories and harsh truths from the depths of Cliff’s mind. At last, when he could take it no longer, he broke the silence.

  “You can have your sword back, by the way,” Cliff said with the quiet resignation of a man who knew his efforts to be in vain. “I don’t want it anymore.”

  “Rak’shul is not a boon to be given. It is a curse to be taken. And it became your curse when you took it from me,” the stranger said. “As such, I cannot aid you with this.”

  “I was young and stupid,” Cliff sighed. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “It is ever the folly of man to believe himself in control of all things, even that which is incontrollable,” the stranger continued. “With experience comes knowledge, and with knowledge comes suffering. You regret your decision because you have tasted its consequences, and you are wise to do so. But that which is done, cannot be undone.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Cliff spat, feeling a sudden onslaught of anger overcome him. “All I’ve ever done is live with the consequences.”

  “And yet, you run from it,” the stranger said. “In order to welcome the present, you must first make peace with the past, no matter the horrors it might contain.”

  “I can never forget. I can never forgive,” Cliff forced out through gritted teeth. “For I am not worthy of redemption.”

  “Redemption is an intangible concept borne from the notion that one deed can alter or rectify the results of another.” The stranger shook his head. “There is no such thing. That which has already come to pass will evermore have its place in history, regardless of the choices made in the present.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” Cliff said, his lips a thin line quivering with emotion.

  “Your desires are of no significance here,” the stranger said, gesturing to the beach around them. “You will face this.”

  “Hah! And you think you’re in a position to force me?” Cliff sneered. “I killed you once. I’ll do it again.”

  “Your wife is dead, Cliff. You killed her,” the stranger said.

  A deathly quiet fell upon their gathering.

  “Do not… speak another word,” Cliff breathed, his nostrils flared and his eyes wild.

  “Your daughter is dead, Cliff. You killed her,” the stranger said.

  “I SAID SILENCE!” Cliff roared, getting to his feet in an explosion of rage.

  “Your family is dead, Cliff. You killed them,” the stranger said.

  Flashes of a distant past trickled out from beneath the seal he had placed upon it years prior. Each memory was like a knife to his chest, striking deep and true at the core of his being. He squeezed his eyes shut and brought his hands to his head.

  “N-No… No…”

  “You killed them.”

  “It wasn’t like that… I… I wasn’t…”

  “You killed them.”

  “It wasn’t me! I wasn’t in control!”

  “You killed them.”

  “STOP SAYING THAT!”

  A guttural scream ripped free from his throat, as he fell to his knees in agony. The memories were taking shape now, pictures stitched from fragments and scraps. A hatred so deep, it ran from the tips of his toes to the crux of his soul. An impression of rage, so powerful it echoed into the future and beyond.

  A night of bloodshed. A night of horror.

  He saw Camilla, his wife, the mother of his child. Her blonde hair slick with blood and pieces of skull from where he had smashed her head against the cobblestones.

  He saw Janna, their faithful servant, who had sacrificed much for their family throughout the years. Her pale, crimson-streaked body laying in the grass, her spine visible beneath the cuts he had carved into her back.

  He saw Lenore, his daughter, the light of his life. Her vacant, empty eyes, as they stared at him from above a mangled throat where he had-

  Cliff screamed. Screamed from the bottom of his heart, from someplace deep within him. It was a scream of madness. A scream of sorrow. A scream of pain.

  He screamed until his throat grew sore and his lungs gave out. Then, when he could scream no more, he sobbed instead, letting his tears fall more freely than he had in decades. The regret, the suffering, the remorse… it was all being wrung from him like water from a cloth.

  The stranger watched his descent into hysteria in silence, his hooded face naught but shadow and mist. Somewhere in the distance, a loud crack sounded throughout the stillness, as a column of light broke free from the heavens and struck the ground a little ways down the beach. A deluge of sand billowed skyward at the force of the impact. Cliff barely noticed it, lost to grief as he was.

  “Embrace your transgressions, Kinslayer,” the stranger said, lifting a decrepit hand to his shoulder, brown worms slithering in and out of open wounds in the rotting skin. “Your path lies forward. You will find no salvation here.”

  “There can be… no salvation,” Cliff choked out through muted sobs. “I am a monster beyond reckoning.”

  “Walk the path,” the stranger said. “Your penance awaits you in the Grimseid Depths.”

  A tiny whisper tugged at the corners of Cliff’s mind. It was soon drowned beneath the weight of his despair.

  “… What waits for me down there?” he whispered, tears streaking down the sides of his face. The stranger turned to look at him then, and for the first time, Cliff thought he saw a glimmer of crimson in the endless dark of his hood.

  “Misery.”

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