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ｓｌａｙｅｒ ｏｆ ｓｌｏｔｈ
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What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the lie?
I, who was born in a naked land and bred in the open sky
The subtle tongue, the sophist guile, they fail when the broadswords sing--
Location: Village ✦ With: some troublemakers ✦ Health: 100% ✦ Stamina: 100%
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Her arrow pierced the stag in the throat, or so Mercy thought at first. She would have been glad for a quick kill. She started down the hill to where the dying creature lay, stepping quickly, quietly, over loose rocks and grasping roots. She was quiet in nature -- and by practice. Noise attracted attention, and attention was dangerous in the badlands. She had a penchant for living. Oh, she thought, crouching by the beast and noting its frame, rising and falling with each ragged breath. She saw now that her arrow had buried itself into that special place between neck and back, and that instead of granting a quick death, she’d paralyzed the animal instead. Its eyes darted wildly about, eventually locking with hers. I’m sorry, she thought, drawing her knife. And she was.
She cut its throat and slung the carcass over her shoulder. The sun was beginning its descent, but if she kept her pace, she’d have time enough to prepare the meat for dinner and the next few days to come. Mercy wouldn’t let it go to waste. It was early in the morning when she’d left, and time had passed quickly. She found herself eager to return home. Not that it was much more than a shack if she had to be honest about it (and Mercy was always honest), on a hill in the outskirts of a forest. She’d found it abandoned, no doubt by someone who thought their best chance of averting the belorite was in isolation. Though I suppose a family could have lived here as well. Or perhaps a couple? She could hardly imagine more than four people crammed inside the small dwelling. But everyone approached survival differently. Some kept to themselves and avoided personal connections and ties, while others were made stronger by them. Mercy tended towards the former.
She worked nearly until sunset, skinning, draining, cutting, salting, and she worked in silence. The cicadas hummed around her. A gentle breeze stirred every now and then. The wood of her cabin creaked. Her knife whisked as she went about her preparations, and there was the sound of tearing flesh and snapping sinew. Her fire crackled in the hearth. When she was finished, Mercy leaned back in her chair and watched the flames dance. Its shadows stretched across the cabin floor, from stone foundation to her bare feet, blackened by earth and stag’s blood. Her eyes began to flicker shut. Someplace between sleep and consciousness, she saw the shadows reach further and further, blanketing her in a sickly embrace. The flames climbed higher, impossibly so. They climbed to heights that should have engulfed the entire cabin and burned it to cinders. The oranges and reds within the fire moved and melded together, creating images that dissipated before she could truly recognize them.
Mercy was not afraid. She waited for the flames to slow, for the shadows that held her in their grip to relax ever so slightly. She heard the Keeper’s voice in her mind, heard his call. She saw where she needed to go and felt the urgency. When she woke, it was with a cold chill up her spine, and the fires in her hearth were naught but ashes.
NEXT DAY
Her father used to tell her that there was always a certain tool for a certain job. The man was a blacksmith, so Mercy thought of him as somewhat of an authority on the subject. He had his hammers and his anvils, his forge and bellows, but he also had to create tools for the farmer, the artisan, the builder...the warrior. A man could be whatever he liked, but he needed the right tools in order to do so. Mercy was no less particular when she was given a job. She had the feeling she wouldn’t be home for a while, which put even more weight on her decisions. She took her short bow and quiver first. Whether she was on horseback or on foot, in a battle or scouting, it would be equally useful. She took a spear next and strapped it to the side of her horse’s saddle. The next choice was more difficult. She was a Slayer now, not just another sellsword. She was meant not only to kill, but to inspire fear. She had a brutal, merciless road ahead of her and she needed a weapon that would fit. Her eyes lingered on a sword and shield, then to a pair of hatchets. They fell next upon a warhammer, and Mercy felt a twinge of nostalgia. She’d grown up around the sound of her father’s hammer ringing against metal, and she and her siblings had played with his tools around the forge when they thought their parents weren’t looking. Her hand curled around the shaft and Mercy tested the weight of the weapon. Her hands were bigger now -- a woman’s hands. A fighter’s. And it felt right.
Time to get to work.
It didn’t take Mercy long to reach the village. It was a point of pride for her that she always fulfilled her contracts, and she came when she was called. She slowed her horse to a walk upon passing the first building, taking her time to view her surroundings. The village seemed to be the result of three roads meeting, and not much more. Several houses had crops nearby. She saw one store and one inn, and a well in the center of the cluster of buildings. The locals looked no different than most who lived in the Badlands: wary, thin, tense -- as if the sign of a single threat would be enough to set them into a frenzy. Most looked to be farmers, though she was sure they knew how to use swords as well as plows. There were several individuals armed and armored near the inn, however, not unlike Mercy herself. But they were not Slayers. Mercy did not spot any of her comrades, and led her horse to the central well. She stepped nimbly from its back and filled a nearby trough with water, which it lapped up quickly.
“‘Scuse me, miss, but you have to pay for that water,” a voice said from behind her. Mercy had heard him coming with his heavy footsteps and clinking mail, but hoped he wasn’t there to cause trouble. She did not turn to face him and continued adjusting her horse’s saddle as it drank.
“He’s right. We’re here to protect the village and its...livelihood, you see. You can’t just come in here and take what you want. Pay up, miss.” The man’s female companion joined him, likewise armed. Mercy figured she could probably say the same to them. It would have been easy to simply call them bandits, but the line between mercenary and bandit was awfully thin in the Badlands. Many switched from being one or the other just depending on whether or not someone had actually hired them. She heard the third man in their party approach as well, though his step was lighter. She’d seen him with a bow on her way in. Mercy frowned. I came when I was called, Keeper. And trouble still finds me, she thought, reaching discreetly for the spear hidden underneath her saddlecloth.
