Snippet #2119557

The harsh coppery scent of blood and sweat-soaked steel still raged within Rodrick's nose, and like an acrid substance it burned a hole straight down to his stomach with hellish fury. That was where it festered in what felt like a gallon of bile, giving the constant feeling of a dry heave about to come on. His hands shook uncontrollably and heavy legs protested at every tired movement they were forced to make, while all the joints in his slightly aged body felt decades older, and screamed in protested agony. It was only by the grace of trees he could keep himself upright, using them as sturdy crutches. What had happened in what seemed like an instant was almost to much for a fogged mind to comprehend, but there was no way he could avoid trying to wrap around it.

It was just that morning that the forests around the capital where a beauty of a scene. Trees gently turning to Autumn with over-zealous leaves already forming a tentative blanket on the forest floor. Thick beams of light cutting through the thick canopies of the denser regions, spilling warmth ionto the valley-esque clearings' usually cold environment. Secluded, encircled by what felt like a solid mile in all directions of tightly clustered tree, with roots so prominent you could sleep under one comfortably. This was the little sweet-spot the Arklight Raiders' had set up their camp. It was sort of ironic that some of the dirtier, harsher, and most destructive breed of people would hold up in one of the more scenic and beautiful little hideaways to turn into a den of sin and a base of slaughter. But things just tend to work that way. Today was odd though. Violence was an odd thing, true violence at least. A bar brawl or offhand stabbing was just the way of life, but a true battle? That was kept away from their home. They didn't shit were they ate. But today they bled all over their little slice of the universe.

Entire patches of ground ran a deep ruddy-red where kicked up dirt had settled into loose sand, then flooded with blood. The gritty sound of steel grating on steel rang above all. The screams, the sickening wet thumps, cracked bones, the deranged howls of whatever man had become and the tear of flesh under tooth all gave way to sharp steel.

Chaos had ensued from the start, a single bandit's surprised yelp as he felt hard teeth bury into the skin of his neck, ripping him from a late sleep. No one knew exactly what was happening, especially not the scouting party that had returned just in time to see horrifyingly grotesque parades of friends ripping and tearing and even swallowing the flesh of other friends. There wasn't time to think, only act. And swords were drawn and rushed into the fray of battle. More than once did a live man kill another live man in panic and confusion. When the dusts cleared there was nothing but a ruin where the camp stood. Tattered messes of cloth, splintered chunks of wood, shattered glass, trees painted with smattering of blood tracing the arcs of heavy-handed blade. And of course the corpses, disfigured and covering the forest floor like a blanket of twisted flesh. Only seven had managed to survive, and none of them even wanted to question each other on how they managed that, let alone what had happened to bring on this hell. They didn't even bother to try to look each other in the eyes. They all knew they couldn't. With a silent vow they all split ways.

Which left Rodrick heavily wounded, bleeding, and ultimately alone.

A sigh escaped his lips, the thick stream of blood from his eyes sliding past them as he did so. His ears rang and his head was in a fit of dizziness. Blood loss was setting in, he could feel that. He was well aware that soon enough he'd die from that alone, making the search through his pockets all the more dire. With great strain he managed to command his body to both keep moving forward and fish through his pockets, eventually producing an old, oversized table cloth. “Good enough..” The silky fabric slipped in his blood-slicked fingers, making the task of tying it into a blindfold and then around his wounded eye nothing but a difficult and agonizing hell. He had to stop moving to do such, leaning against an old tree for support, and sliding down it once his task was finished.

It was to much to take in. Friends turned to monsters, slaughtered both live and..Whatever that state was. In the madness he'd taken a full sword slash to the face, craving from his lips to his hairline. Completely taking his eye in the process. And now here he sat, somewhere in a forest, slouched against the base of a tree. Tired, bleeding, quickly approaching the verge of death. And it's not like he wasn't debating keeling over from sheer shock.

“Oh I'll be damned..” His hoarse, gravelly voice had finally broke through the forests silence and the ringing in his ears. It was almost reliving to hear someone even if it was himself. “You know, I've thought about dying a good bit..” he sighed, talking to no one in specific due to the stark lack of life. “But in the middle of the forest, with no one around and no one to sing of my glorious, battle-filled death?” He chuckled as he pulled the flask from his belt, an act that was much more painful than he'd thought. Taking a look down at the little bit of metal frowned. “First time I've ever seen a flask'a booze and ain't been happy..” It was also the first time he'd only seen it through just one eye. As if to hammer the point home blood from his eye began to drip through the makeshift bandage and onto his flask.

“Lookie there, my bloods about as cheeky as I am...”