Snippet #2465902

Ferrous gasped for breath after pulling his head out of a barrel which was collecting water from gutters hanging on the nearby inn, his eyes wide with panic. He holds himself up by the mouth of the barrel, his legs weak from what he had just gone through... Or thought he went through, he didn't know anymore, everything in his head was jumbled roughly together and he had no idea how to make sense of it anymore. He takes a moment to breath and stare at his own reflection in the water he looms over, hoping it would give him clarity. "Ugh... Gods damn my heart." He finally speaks, grasping at his chest with one hand and leaning the rest of his weight on his elbow instead. His memory finally begins to repair itself, the past hitting him like a pallet of bricks dropped from a tower. Warm summer days with friends, time spent scaring away gypsies and settlers, training sessions in the militia, fights and brawls with local bullies, a childhood he had spent well. He remembered his friends, the term "watcher" drifted into his mind, but then came their names along with his own. "Sorn, Ivory, Arethe, Bambi... Ferrous." But these memories weren't the ones that scared him so, no, it was what happened next that made him ill. They all died, one-by-one, until it was only Sorn and himself left, his best friend was all that remained. He knew the plague was dangerous, but his parents and himself, they were hardy folk who were at least resistant to it's effects.

He then remembers a riot, scared people who were afflicted and quarantined in the poor-district, they tried to escape and the guard was mobilized to keep them back. That night he was with his best and last friend, the half-drow, knocking skulls of a few brats who thought it was fun to pick on his best friend, but he was called away to help with the riot... He was one of the first to go in, and at first the wall of halberds kept the crowd at bay, but then a few of the plagued-wretches started throwing things, and Ferrous took a firepot directly to his face. He screamed in agony and clawed at his face, trying to peel away the boiling oil and burning pitch from his skin, but to no avail, it took him minutes to finally die, and he was in pure horror for every moment of it.

He snaps back to reality, his face is now pale and he broke out in a cold sweat. "Gods... What is this?" He moves a hand up to his face, feeling his cheeks and with a sigh of relief finds them to be as blemish-free as the morning before that horrific event. His mind begins to race with thought, something clicked in his mind, the word "watchers" appeared over and over again, and he knew what he had to do. "I gotta find them... Whoever they are..." He stepped away from the barrel, looking behind himself to find his trusty halberd leaning up against the wall he awoke to find himself leaning against. He grabs it and hurries off into town, a haunted look in his face.