Snippet #911901

Zareth's eyes shot open. He was lying in a small cot in the healers tent, his feet easily dangling over the edge of the cot, almost touching the ground. His mask had been removed, but was nowhere to be found. His weapons lay on a small table next to him. A breeze blew through the tent, and he shuddered at the surprising coldness of it. He struggled to sit upright, and the cot groaned in protest to the unusually large weight it now held. Luckily, it didn't collapse, and he was thankful for that. Struggling against the fog that clouded his mind, Zareth attempted to put the pieces back together.

Collapsing on the circle.....two men lifting him to the healer's tent.....Healers inspecting his body.... The rest was blackness.

As his mind caught up to speed, he snarled and rose. The mask... Tugging on his boots and reaffixing his weapons on his person, he headed out of the tent. He had to bend over almost double to get out. A female healer attempted to stop him, but soon found herself sprawled on top of a cot. Straightening in the night breeze, Zareth looked around for where his mask might be, ears listening acutely for any commotion. Sounds of boisterous laughter and rather loud talking. The men sounded drunk. Grumbling to himself, he strode off in the direction of the sound.

Reaching a small campfire set away from the rest of the camp, Zareth came upon 4 soldiers and some officer, a lieutenant perhaps. The lieutenant was passed out in the dust, snoring rather loudly. The other 4 soldiers were dancing around the campfire, one wearing his mask and trying to chase the other soldiers down. He strode towards them, shadows playing about his features, highlighting the rather large scar that ran over his right eye. The soldiers stopped their game and looked towards the newcomer. The one wearing his mask walked, or rather stumbled, over, and spoke.

"What do you want, eh? If you're here for nothing, you better get away, unless you want a beating."

Zareth snorted. "Really? A beating you say? I should be threatening YOU with a beating, since you are the men who just so happened to take my mask. Besides, I don't think you could even hurt me."

The soldier let out a guffaw. "This mask is yours you say? Well, I say it isn't and that we found it. Call it a souvenir of battle. And if you'll look around, it is 4 on 1. I don't care how big you are, you're not scaring me. Now go away, or we'll make you leave."

"I don't think I'll be leaving until I have my mask back.", replied Zareth, his hands lying relaxed at his sides.

"Too bad. The healers will have a hard time fixing you up!", said the soldier as he threw a punch at Zareth's chest.

Zareth sighed. He'd rather it not come to this. As the punch came towards him, one of his massive hands grabbed the soldier's fist and clenched around it. Zareth began to squeeze the soldiers fist. The cracking of bone was audible as the soldier's bones began to snap in his hand. The soldier began so convulse with pain, and blood was seeping between Zareth's fingers. A bloodcurdling scream escaped from the soldier's mouth, and his compatriots turned and ran. Eventually, the man went white beneath the mask, so Zareth released his grip on the hand. The soldier collapsed on the ground, and cradled his crushed hand. Stooping, Zareth wiped his bloody hand on the soldier's pants and removed the mask. Affixing it to his own face, Zareth looked down at the wimpering soldier.

"A pity. You should have just given it back, and walked away with both of your hands intact. I beat the healers will have quite a fun time fixing up that hand.", he mocked.