Hangman Chapter 11

Chapter 11-

Cinders floated through the air, black plumes of smoke rose against a clear sky. Dasodaha surveyed the carnage of what had been a small town only a few hours ago. Behind him, a woman’s cry of pain resounded from beneath a collapsed building. Smoke billowed out from beneath the debris, whoever was trapped underneath would not last more than twenty minutes. Two of those twenty passed before anything was done about it.

“Daso,” he heard several feet from his right. “Take care of it, I don’t want to hear it anymore.”

Dasodaha, oft known as the easier-to-say ‘Daso,’ was prompted to turn his attention to the direction of his leader. From the other side of the nearest collapsed building, Warren Roseraid looked about his doing without shame or pride, facing away from Daso.

Heeding the orders, Daso steadily swung back around to the source of the cries. He raised his arm straight into its direction.

“[TOXICITY]”

At the call of his Vocation, a serpent leapt from his mouth, gliding off of his tongue as if it was a bullet loaded into a pistol. The snake’s body was dry, black and green streaks comprised the colors of its scales. It sped forth across the ground, sliding into the rubble at the source of the screams. Within the moments, the shrieking reached a fever pitch and then quickly tapered off into silence. Subsequently, a series of flies scrambled out of the crevices of debris and landed on Daso’s skin, slowly melting back into him and leaving white splotches that slowly darkened back to his natural skin tone.

“Good,” Warren said, relieved.

He turned around to gaze at Daso. The subordinate was a young man of native origin, his dark skinned, fit form was covered by a traditional leather tunic, well worn and torn down the neckline from living for years without a real change of clothes. His black hair fell down his face to his collarbone in an uneven cut, it would be nearly unmanageable if not for the three braids tied on the sides and back of his head, each held by a thin leather strip tied into a tight knot. From the left-side leather tie also hung a white feather tipped with red. Altogether, he never lost his stony expression, his eyes were a golden yellow color, anyone who had met him would invariably come from the experience noting that his glare was magnetizing, as if he could see straight into your greatest shame. That is, of course, if they came away still breathing.

Warren’s gray coat flapped in the wind, it never seemed to get dirty or become damaged. His right eye was missing, in place of it grew a beautiful rose from the socket. When they had first met, out in the Southwestern wastelands, that right eye had entranced Daso initially, now that he understood its power, the mystique had been lost but not his respect for the man known as Warren Roseraid. It had grown, if anything. Daso often thought that the only terrifying things were the ones which he did not yet understand. “Everything is very simple as I see it,” he often said. “I don’t need to think about the things weaker than me. If something is stronger than me, I just need to understand it, then I don’t need to be afraid of it, it’s just my enemy.”

“Then am I your enemy?” Warren had said upon first hearing this.

“You must be,” Daso had replied.

This exchange was the solidification of their companionship. To be Dasodaha’s enemy was not an outright threat, it was simply the way the world stacked up in his life, “enemies and insignificances”.

“Now the only sound…” Warren thought about his next statement carefully. “Is the melody of the fire.”

Daso did not confirm nor disapprove of the assertion, he just looked over at the burning corpses of some townsfolk. They were hardly recognizable as human beings anymore as much as they were husks of carbon. The only emotion he felt as he gazed at the destruction was a deep sensation of comfort.

“Where has Malvado gone to?” Warren asked casually.

“I think he’s off a few minutes around the bend, behind that rock formation over there. He said he was getting water.”

A small smirk curled at one end of Warren’s mouth. It wasn’t as sinister expression, but a knowing smile, like finding humor in a friend who can’t help his own nature. Truly, Malvado and Daso couldn’t have been more the polar opposite of each other. Malvado often tried to show off his “ruthlessness” (his words), but when it came to the true brutality of their mission he always seemed to be absent. Warren did not attempt to change his nature, at the age of twenty-seven it was an ingrained part of his person. However, he did recognize his ability as a useful tool and often assigned him to information collecting tasks.

“Hey, hey, did you guys finish them off without me?”

They looked to the direction of the call. None other than Malvado appeared from around a rock fixture some twenty feet away, smiling. His tone was playful, though neither of his companions smiled, as they could see through the facade of his ‘tough guy’ act.

“How far away is Sigrit?” Daso cut in, unamused.

Warren pulled a map from his pocket and unfurled it to examine their position.

“About two days’ time from here.” He paused and threw his gaze over to Malvado. “You said the man had a single blond streak in his hair?”

“Yeah, but the name he gave me was Gallow, nothing about an Ajax Colt or-”

“Clarke,” Warren corrected, quickly.

Daso made note of the peculiar defensiveness in his voice.

“Unlike him…” he pondered quietly.

“No matter then,” Warren continued. “We’ll simply carry on eastward.”

Suddenly, a deep growl was heard from behind Warren. All three spun around at the noise, unmistakably animal and obviously aggressive. Before their eyes were three hulking coyotes, their teeth bared, backs arched as if to pounce.

“Southern coyotes!” Daso warned. Malvado stumbled back in fear and fell to the ground, tripping over a rock.

“Where did those-” he managed to choke out.

“I’ve killed many of these before, I’ll take them on.” Daso’s voice was razor sharp, his body tensed into a fighting stance, the light splotches left on his skin by the returning flies had healed in the time since he had used it. “I can use Toxicity again!”

“No,” Warren interjected.

Daso’s focus was broken and he nervously turned only his eyes to his leader’s direction. Warren stepped forward toward the beasts.

“There’s no fear in his steps,” Daso quickly observed. “Don’t tell me he means to use his ability here? Or perhaps, he really is just that kind of man...”

“These animals…” Warren began, his rose shimmering. “Are nothing but the illusion of fear.”

He planted his black boot into the earth and stepped directly through the coyotes, their forms dissipated into nothingness.

“What?!” Daso exclaimed. It had been years since he had felt such bewilderment. “But their fur was so real- the noise they made was just like the real thing!”

“What’s going on?” Malvado shrieked, rattled. Warren looked behind their position, to a fallen piece of debris, covered by a tattered and dirty tarp. He approached the debris and lifted the tarp. Beneath it was a child, no older than twelve, cowering with a dagger clutched in his hands. He was clothed in simple garb, a white shirt that had since been darkened by dirt, and a pair of blue jeans.

“Child, you created that illusion, didn’t you?” Warren asked, glancing back at where the coyotes had appeared.

The boy gave no response but simply trembled, tears were beginning to fill his eyes.

“And then you planned to run out and stab me, is that correct?”

At his words, the boy’s anger erupted. Through tears, he furiously stabbed at Warren, bursting out from his hiding place to swing wildly about. Warren, with all the grace of the wind, seemed to simply dance around the blade. The dagger reflected the calm afternoon sun in its silver.

With each evasion, the boy’s anger multiplied, a terrible fire consumed his body. After a minute of being toyed with, the fire grew in intensity to its fever pitch, he hit a new peak of rage.

“[TREACHERY]!!”

At the command, three more identical copies of the boy appeared, and a raging fire suddenly enveloped everything within the area. Warren was taken aback by the sudden appearance of flames, and as he adjusted his vision to see through the flames, he could only see the flash of four blades approaching him with outrageous speed from four different directions.

“Damn!”

His rose glimmered once again, as the flashes were only inches from his body.

“That one!”

With deft timing, he extended his hand and caught the true blade between his fingers, mid-swing. His touch on the dagger had a momentous presence; all the momentum the attack had carried was seemingly dispelled. The boy’s doubles as well as the flames vanished into thin air, leaving only his sad, defeated form.

“Now,” Warren proclaimed. “What’s your name?”

The boy collapsed to the ground; all the anger in his heart had been defeated, there was only a small, cold hole in his chest as he stared into the dirt.

“Bleech.”

“Bleech?”

The defeated child looked back up at the man who had killed everyone he knew. But he found, curiously, that he wasn’t looking at the face of a murderer.

“In fact,” he thought. “He looks just like the pictures of the Saviour.”

In reality, the Saviour’s face was never depicted in art. In its place, a veil always covered his appearance, intended to promote the idea of his universality. In fact, despite being referred to as a “he,” the popular theory among modern theologians was that this was only due to the original language of the Holy Texts not containing a gender neutral pronoun. The Saviour’s identity was so enigmatic it had given birth to the most popular strain of atheists, who doubted his existence at all.

When Bleech reflected upon this meeting later, he realized the oddity of his observation, and rationalized it as Warren having that same universal feeling swirling about him, an aura of holistic grandeur. It could not be denied that he possessed a magnetic stare through his single eye, a glare that was, at that moment, drawing Bleech to him.

Indeed, the cold and empty hole left in his core was being filled, slowly, by a sensation of awe. That warm, airy feeling, like one’s heart passing through perfect clouds; this was what Bleech experienced in the moments he gazed upon Warren’s calm expression.

“Bleech is a beautiful name, very stark as well. Is it Hemmenan?” Warren’s question was shockingly casual, considering the circumstances.

“Y-yes, yes it is, mister,” Bleech replied, as if speaking to a teacher he was still intimidated by.

“Well, nice to meet you, Bleech.” Warren knelt down and extended his hand up in a friendly gesture. The boy slowly, shakily, reached out his own hand and grasped Warren’s in civility.

“Earlier, you said the name of that ability,” Warren explained, as if their altercation had been hours ago. “Do you know what it is called?”

“M-my Treachery?” Bleech said, slowly becoming more comfortable.

“Yes, that.” Warren smiled kindly and continued. “That power is called a Vocation, my Daso possesses one, as do I,” he explained.

“Me too!” called Malvado, from the distance.

“As does he,” Warren added. “Deep within your soul there is a room with nothing but four glass walls and a staff in the center. That staff is your heart, and when it falls over one way, it pulls us into the direction of truth.”

Bleech’s eyes widened as he spoke.

“A Vocation is the strongest desire of the heart, it only appears to the blessed and strong-willed people. Those of us who are called to that power… are those who will be closest to God.”

He finished his explanation with another honest smile. Bleech was left in a stupor, the wisdom was delivered with such a calm conviction that it seemed as if the knowledge itself was divinely inspired.

“My Vocation is calling me to destroy evil in this world, do you want to follow me?”

Warren’s offer hung in the air for a moment.

“Of course.”