Whispers and Wonder

[Altias_Bromn]

The lights flickered within the tavern windows, glowing like embers, or even stars in the night sky, against the backdrop of near midnight in Myrkenwood. There was a song on the wind, unheard by most, unfamiliar to others. A bird called in the night, sweet and haunting sounds against the chill now falling in the late Autumn forest. The bird called the coming of a shadow, of a presence, of a nightmare made flesh. The Nightingale called again, it's desperate cry of danger.

Footfalls fell atop crumbling leaves, somehow soft and nearly silent still. The whisper of fine black silk, as a purposeful stride continues in the darkness. The lights of the tavern attract and repel in almost equal fashion. Careful are the fingers that draw back the hood of the thick black cloak. Raven locks cascade from within, framing ivory flesh and the ever changing storm of grey in those cold eyes. Twin daggers rest on his belt, familiar to those very old in this place. Nothing more than weapons or simple ornaments to most. It would not matter either way for none shall see him. Not this night, perhaps not ever.

This place, this terrible and beautiful place, had been his home. It had been his playground. It had been his death. There is a funny thing about death in Myrken. It is often highly exaggerated. No one, you see, had remained to make sure his body even fell, better still that he ceased to breath. No, they had been far too busy running for their miserable little lives as they assumed he would die in their place. Funny thing about assumptions too.

And now, some years later, he would find himself here. Would find the rumors of deaths that should not have been, and the survival of those that should have died. So much death here, and so much pain. So much to live for. So much to kill for. No one would die tonight. No one would kill tonight. He had a life to live, and plenty of time to settle old scores.