Weapon X - Chapter 3

“Test completed. Weapon X, Scenario 23: successful.”

The control room was utterly quiet save for the beeps and clicks of the equipment.

Dr. Stryker could barely contain his ecstasy as he turned away from the monitors, the carnage still fresh on his mind. He faced his guests with zeal in his pale eyes.

“Gentlemen, I hope you are satisfied.”

The officials had not moved an inch since the bloodbath had begun. They witnessed in silent awe and terror as Weapon X and the horrific bear tore each other to shreds.

One of the officials ran out of the room; hand over mouth, on the verge of vomiting.

The senior most among them, medals and titles flooding his uniform, locked eyes with the Doctor.

“Dr. Stryker, how long until we can have a full battalion of such weapons?”

“Weapon X is a unique specimen due to his physiology. Crafting additional subjects will take considerable time and resources.” Stryker paused. “However, Weapon X, as you just saw, is fully operational and ready for field use.”

Stryker let his words hang in the air for a moment as the officials realized his meaning.

With hurried excuses they rushed out of the control room to contact their respective agencies; acquisition of Weapon X top priority.

Stryker’s bony face was contorted with satisfaction.

“What is the status of Weapon X?” he inquired from one of the technicians.

“Subject is stable sir.”

“Any anomalies?”

“Nothing significant, sir. The subject’s healing factor was operating below normal standards but we believe it was due to the extreme cold.”

Stryker studied the assortment of displays before him.

“What are the toxicity levels?” he asked from another underling.

“Healing factor is holding the Adamantium poisoning to acceptable levels, sir.”

Satisfied, Stryker once again gazed at the large screens displaying Weapon X standing in the red snow.

“Bring him in. Get him cleaned up and properly restrained. I suspect our guests will soon have the necessary funds to facilitate the transfer.”

Looking back at his greatest creation, Dr. Stryker could not help but feel disheartened.

“You will soon have a new home,” he murmured to himself.

Weapon X - Chapter 2

It was snowing heavily. The earth was already blanketed in white and yet the grey heavens kept pouring down.

The man, known only as Weapon X, stood statuesque in the middle of a clearing in a large pine forest.

He was stark naked, his coarse body hair providing the only protection against the blistering cold. A beast of a man, his body rippled with lean muscles, his broad shoulders and bulging arms radiated strength. Although he appeared to be short of height, the menace of his appearance was no less diminished.

His head was enclosed in a helmet adorned with high-tech gadgetry. Pipes, tubes and cables ran from his helmet to his waist where more monitoring devices and recorders were attached to a belt. Electrodes and receptors punctuated his body at measured intervals, providing nerve information at various muscle junctures.

The helmet came down to his ears, the man’s dishevelled dark hair spilling out from underneath. His eyes were covered with a red visor recording everything he saw.

His earpiece crackled.

“Weapon X, initiate Scenario 23: track and terminate your target.”

The man sprang to life.

He raised his head and sniffed at the air, like a predator trying to catch scent of his prey.

Catching a hint of his quarry, he snapped his head northwards and bounded towards the trees on powerful legs.

The harsh cold had no effect as he charged through the forest, back and neck bent forwards, only pausing to sniff for a trail.

He came to a sudden stop at the edge of another clearing.

A black bear of monstrous size and girth was shuffling in the snow.

Weapon X took a moment to observe his target, and began to move slowly towards the massive beast.

He knew there was no way he could sneak up on it: the bear’s sense of smell was stronger than his.

Sure enough, the bear lifted his head and studied him with baleful eyes.

The man stopped in his tracks, watching every twitch of the bear’s muscles.

Standing fully erect on its hind legs, the bear issued a deafening roar, challenging the man. He flailed his huge paws, long claws unfurled, teeth gnashing, ready to attack.

The man gave a low growl, teeth bared, shoulders stretched, legs coiled, hands balled into fists.

Snikt. Snikt.

Razor sharp claws popped from between each of his knuckles. The metal blades gleamed in the night.

The bear barrelled towards the man, roaring, with clear killing intent.

Weapon X charged the beast with a guttural cry of his own.

They met in a fury of claws, teeth and fur. Pure animal force clashed against each other as each combatant obeyed the oldest instinct: survival, kill or be killed.

The snow billowed around them as they wrestled for dominance. The bear caught the man in his chest with a swept of his mighty paw, his claws leaving deep gnashes in his flesh.

Weapon X leapt backwards, blood spewing from his wounds. He rushed the bear head long, snarling viciously, claws slashing thick black fur.

The bear howled, injured. The beast’s wrath amplified, it leapt at the man with the full weight of its immense body, knocking him down. His claws and teeth tore at the man’s skin, reddening the snow.

Screaming in rage, the bloodlust having taken him, the man went berserk. His own claws ripped the bear’s hide, repeatedly stabbing it in the chest, raining blood and guts down on him.

The bear retreated from the man’s onslaught, body heaving, leaving a trail of his innards as it tried to back away from the monster.

But the man gave no quarter. He pressed on, cutting and rending flesh.

The bloody, beaten bear bellowed in defiance as it lunged one final time and sank his cruel teeth into the man’s neck, tearing out his throat.

An instant of shock and the man thrust his claws, knuckle deep, between the bear’s eyes, skewering its brain.

With a sigh, the colossal beast slumped to the ground, dead.

Weapon X, claws embedded in the bear’s skull, stood inundated in gore, both his own and his target’s.

With a sickening splutter and the cracking of bone he wrenched out his claws and sank to his knees.

A massive hole dominated the ruin that used to be his neck.

He gasped for breath as his hands tried to stop the bleeding, to keep his innards in place. He collapsed on to the bloody snow, body heaving for air. After a moment his movements ceased completely.

The flesh of his neck began to slowly knit itself back together. The gaping cuts in his chest also began to heal. A while later, most of his wounds had closed themselves. His neck had reformed, barely leaving a scar.

Snikt.

The claws popped back into his hands.

Weapon X got to his feet and stood stock still in the night, an arena of slaughter around him.

Weapon X - Chapter 1

“... No, this isn’t right? The cold is-“

“Cease your muttering Mr. Hartnell. Is the Project ready for activation?”

“Y-yes, Dr. Stryker! Performing final calibrations now.”

“Excellent.”

Dr. William Stryker, a tall gaunt man, peered at the array of screens cascading the control room. His skeletal face awash with light from multiple displays, he presided over his team as they frantically made last minute preparations.

At the back of the control room stood a collection of military officials. Their respective uniforms adorned with trappings of high rank, chests puffed with obvious indignation, they glared at Dr. Stryker in distaste.

Dr. Stryker shared the sentiment as he forced a smile to his thin lips and turned towards his guests.

“Gentlemen, thank you for your continued patience, we will begin shortly,” Dr. Stryker said in honeyed tones.

“We have been here all day, Stryker! You are testing the limits of our indulgence,” cried out one of the men in annoyance.

“Does this project of yours even work? All we had are empty promises so far,” piped another.

Dr. Stryker took off his thick glasses and began to methodically wipe them with a piece of cloth he kept for the very purpose.

“Your previous experiments have been disappointing Stryker. What makes this one so special?” challenged a general.

“The Subject possesses natural traits and abilities which have granted us unparalleled success.”

“But-“

“Gentlemen,” he interrupted, holding back the emotion in his voice. “This endeavour of ours will revolutionize the future of warfare. The considerable amount of money and resources you have committed to my work has not been wasted. Rather it has allowed you the potential to build a military force the likes of which the world cannot comprehend.”

Cowed, the officials grunted and shuffled their feet, obviously uncomfortable. Dr. Stryker, discreetly smirking, addressed his subordinates.

“Are we ready?”

“Yes sir! You have full control over the Weapon. Beginning activation on your mark.”

The Doctor looked at the massive screens on the opposite wall displaying the snowy outside.

“Your attention gentlemen. Now you shall see the results of our labour,” he said to the officials without turning, gesturing towards one of the screens. The display showed a humanoid form standing in the snow.

“Is that it?” whispered one of the generals.

Stryker afforded himself another smile.

“Begin the test.”

The Weeping Angels - Ch. 1

CHAPTER 1

Evening was giving way to night and a thick mist was settling in as my carriage rolled into the small village of Ravenwood. The moon, only a sliver, winked lazily from behind a heavy curtain of clouds which hung low in the cold night sky.

The mist transformed the warm, inviting lamps of the village into willow-o'-the-wisps, waiting to lead errant wanderers to their doom. My carriage drove past a church. Through the gloom I espied a priest manning the doorway, intently reciting a sermon to a rapt audience. Another man of faith was leading a small procession through the adjoining cemetery. A deacon behind him swung a censer, its fragrant smoke adding to the growing fog, as the parade prayed for the souls of their dearly departed.

The carriage stopped before the inn where I was supposed to take lodging for the night. The driver rapped on the door, announcing our arrival. I disembarked and was immediately assaulted by the elements as the cold wind knifed across my exposed skin. Burrowing my head deeper into my layers I hurried inside.

The inn was warm; a relief after the biting cold. I had entered into a large dining room of sorts, which was empty save for two older gentlemen engaged in a chess match. The furniture was ancient but not decrepit. Gas lamps hung sparsely on the walls, providing adequate illumination; accompanied by framed photographs of soldiers, and decorative firearms. A great stone fireplace completed the tasteful décor of the refined room.

The driver came in with my luggage, followed by the innkeeper.

“Ah, Sir Kevinroy! It’s good to finally have you with us.”

“The pleasure is mine Mr.-“ I inquired.

“Butterman. Henry Butterman.” He warmly shook my hand.

Mr. Butterman was an old army veteran turned innkeeper. I had corresponded with him before setting out in order to secure lodgings for the night.

“Like I said Mr. Butterman, the pleasure is mine. However it will be quite short lived as I plan to carry on to London in the morning.”

“Of course sir, your letter hinted as much. But I must inform you that may not be possible. The road is treacherous in the winters and will be impassable if it snows tonight, and the skies are just fit to burst.”

“Are there no other routes that I may take to get to the city before nightfall tomorrow?”

Mr. Butterman’s brow furrowed as he contemplated, adding more wrinkles to his already wizened countenance.

“I am afraid not Sir. The only other road is through the old forest, Ravenwood; where the village obviously gets its name from. But I will not advise it. It has been unused for too long and the rumours surrounding it are unsettling. But enough of this talk of tomorrow! You have travelled quite a ways and must be tired and hungry. Would you like to have supper before you turn in for the night Sir?”

“A fine point Mr. Butterman. Yes I am quite famished actually; supper would be most welcome.”

“It will be my honour Sir! It is not every day I have the pleasure of serving one of Her Majesty’s Lords.”

Mr. Butterman implored for my hat and coat and directed the carriage driver to place my luggage in my room, and informed the driver of his own lodgings for the night.

I made myself comfortable as Mr. Butterman fetched my supper of scrambled eggs, beef stock soup and a slice of smoked venison. Perfect winter fare: both adept at satisfying hunger and keeping the cold at bay.

As I sipped the vintage bourbon the kind innkeeper had so generously provided from his own personal stock, the fatigues of travel began to weigh on me and the promise of a good night sleep became more and more enticing.

A shrill, gut-wrenching shriek shattered my warm musings.

I jumped from my seat, heart pounding. I looked around the inn, confirming that my tired mind had not imagined the other-worldly scream: Mr. Butterman stood frozen in the middle of the room, one of the chess-players sat with his hand on his heart breathing heavily while the other had leapt from his seat, his chair skidding across the floor.

“What in God’s name was that monstrosity?” I practically shouted at the terrified people in the room.

Without a word, Mr. Butterman and the standing chess-player rushed outside into the cold. I stood petrified, the sound freshly resonating in my ears. I heard rushed whispering; the other gentleman was praying fervently, eyes closed, tears running down his creased cheeks, his hands clutching a rosary cross he wore around his neck.

This did little to ease my fright and I too made my way outside.

It was dark, and the mist was thick. The heavy clouds barely let any light through from the small moon; adding to the eerie atmosphere.

A mass was gathering in front of the church.

I joined the crowd. My eyes darted from face to face, demanding an explanation but I was only met with silent stares.

I found my way to Mr. Butterman’s side.

“What is happening?!” my confusion turning to irritation.

He impatiently gestured me to be silent, and pointed to the church’s doorway.

The lamps were snuffed out; the pitiful moon was the only source of illumination. I peered through the darkness and what I saw only heightened my bewilderment.

A woman lay sprawled on the church steps, sobbing hysterically. Her eyes, wide with absolute terror, were transfixed on an object a few meters from her.

The moon peeked a little more brightly through the clouds for a moment and I saw the cause of the woman’s turmoil:

It was a statue of a young woman with coiled hair wearing a flowing robe. It had two wings. An angel. The statue stood hunched, burying its head in its hands as though crying.

Perplexed, I once again turned to Mr. Butterman. His eyes were fixed on the angel just as intently as the woman’s.

“What is happening?” I asked once again, whispering this time as I felt the suffocating tension of the gathering.

Mr. Butterman just shook his head, wiped his eyes and continued to stare at the bizarre scene.

I could not conceive the reason for such fright. It was a statue. Yes, the placement was odd; it was right in the middle of the street. Other than that I saw no cause for alarm, let alone a village-wide panic.

The moon once again hid behind the clouds, shrouding the world in complete darkness, and what I saw next destroyed my notions of logic and reasoning.

The moon flashed and I saw that the statue had moved.

I stared at the angel uncomprehendingly, my mind ceasing to function. I could not believe it. The statue had moved. It was not in the place it had been. It was now closer to the woman.

My exhausted mind is playing tricks on me. It’s the damn mist, I thought to myself. This is not real. Not possible.

The moon blinked, just for a second or so. The statue moved again, but now its hands were not on its face; one arm was outstretched towards the woman. Its stone face was smiling.

The statue is moving.

I rubbed my eyes unbelievingly, not entirely convinced of the reality of what I was witnessing. But the angel stood in its new posture and position, unconcerned with my mental turmoil.

Clouds passed in front of the moon. The world went black for a moment. The statue moved yet again; now its stone face was like that of a demon: fanged mouth gaping, hands curled into claws, like that of a bloodthirsty predator; mere inches away from the poor squealing woman.

My body had broken out into a cold sweat. My heart fluttered as if it would escape from my chest. Blood pounded in my aching head, vomit was bubbling in my throat. I simply could not accept what I was seeing and yet I could not tear my eyes away.

                                                                                            

The sky darkened. There was a final screech, which halted suddenly. The silence was deafening.

The woman had vanished. Only the angel remained, neck bent forwards, hands cupping face, as if it were weeping.

Another wink of the moon, and the angel disappeared, as if it had simply melted into the mist.

Last Lamentation

As I kneel before my fallen foe, I know this is my end.

His spear had pierced true and made a mockery of my mortality. I had replied in kind when I buried my axe in his skull.

I know this is my end; and I welcome it.

It begins to rain and the world is enveloped in grey. I no longer smell blood, only sweet petrichor. The clamour of blades seems far away, replaced by the pattering of rain drops on my heavy helm.

My limbs betray me, I cannot move. I do not want to. The rain is cold and the heaven-sent drops numb my inflamed skin. Pain is quickly becoming an unpleasant memory as I give in to the growing frost in my blood.

But my relief flees as my fading heart is gripped with fear. The chill permeates me completely, freezing my bones. Icy, dead hands grab my ankles and wrists. The soothing cold now burns me.

I am afraid.

“All-Father!” I cry, though no sound escapes my barren throat. “All-Father! Why have you forsaken me? Am I not worthy? I lie dying on the field of battle, bathed in the blood of my enemy, in service to my Jarl; and your shield-maidens do not come for me? Am I not worthy?”

No reply.

The terror grows.

“No! Hel will not have my soul! I am worthy! I am worthy of your gilded halls, All-Father! My life was honourable.My heart knows no cowardice, only valour. Have I ever shied from battle or from blooding my enemies? Nay! I lead the charges! I slew my foes! I brought honour to my house and to the houses of my kin! I am worthy of Valhalla!”

The cold reaches my spine, and my mind is on fire. My spirit is shattering like ice on anvil.
“All-Father, I beg of you: grant me this peace. I deserve my rest. I am old and weary, victim to so many wounds which have left me broken. My hearth is but embers. My sons and daughters have no use of me; I have already seen my wife to your gilded halls. I have nothing left. Lift me from this mortal plane! I deserve my rest.”

I weep, silently, rain mingling with my tears, the pains of my past fresh on my mind. I cannot lift my head to once last gaze upon the sky before oblivion claims me; my helm is too heavy.

There is a touch on my shoulder!

It is warm, and life-giving. My helm is removed from my aching brow and I turn to see my saviour. A maiden, fair like early-winter morn, adorned in beautiful mail and winged-helm, astride a magnificent steed, stands over my shoulder.

She lifts me, like a mother would lift an errant child too long from home. Her aura is holy. Her mount whisks us away from the battle-field, my mortal coil and the hurts of my life.

“Odin deems you worthy.” Her voice: a river of honeyed-mead.

I am happy, I am at peace. No pain, only relief.

A look into the Whiterun Collapse

A report by Sven Jorgenson of the Vale Times.

The province of Skyrim has suffered severe economic turmoil in recent weeks. The gold standard has sunk to a record low. The replacement is the 'dragon bone' quotient. Unfortunately, only the 1% are in control of the total supply of dragon bone in all of Skyrim.

This fiscal calamity has left experts of Tamriel baffled.

"We have never witnessed such a catastrophic market crash! Sure, in the days of the Oblivion Crisis things weren't great either, but this? This is unprecedented!" remarked one spokesman of the Guild of Commerce.

An employee of the Aldmeri Banking Commission had this to say:
"Unemployment is at an all time high. The septim has failed. The only tradable commodity is dragon bone, and to a lesser extent dragon scale. But there is no government treasury for these! This has resulted in unparalleled inflation."

The vendors are at their wits' end as well.

"The dragon trade has ruined us! No merchant has enough gold to trade in for dragon bones, so the customer relies on the black market. We legitimate business people can't afford to keep our shops open anymore. I'm sure this is a Khajit conspiracy. Those desert cats are stealing food from the mouths of our babies!"
  - Belethor of Whiterun General Goods

However, recent information has come to light which does indeed hold a particular party responsible for the turmoil.

Olava the Feeble, a supposed fortune teller and resident of Whiterun has made bold claims:
"Hail Sithis! It was the Dragonborn! He alone brought about this hell on us! I've seen him many a times from my bench, hauling chest-fulls of dragon bones to his cottage in the city. No one questions him, just because he is Thane he seems to get away with everything!"

Whiterun in particular was hit hard by the market slump causing prominent local businesses such as the Bannered Made and Arcadia's Cauldron to declare bankruptcy.

The city government has refused to comment on the allegations levelled on the Dragonborn. Jarl Balgruff is attending a meeting of local Thanes and Jarls in order to bolster support and organise an aid package to alleviate the suffering of his people.

The Dovahkin, Thane of Whiterun, Slayer of Alduin, was unavailable for an interview.

A Teaser - (alpha version)

There it was, the Baron's Keep. Not at all what Jibb was expecting. A derelict, skeleton of a building stood before him with frayed cloth and pieces of scrap making up the walls, floor and roof; not a place where you would expect one of the 12 to be hiding.

The entire structure looked as it would come down without a moment’s hesitation given any unfavorable external factor, or even internal, Jibb silently observed, as he saw two drunkards start a brawl, at the expense of the flimsy and constantly recycled furniture of the establishment.

Even compared to the town's depraved condition, the inn was a true eye-sore. Jibb walked nearer, his hand unconsciously drifting to his side and unhooking his holster. The entire area seemed to reek of hidden dangers. He pushed through the old western saloon styled doors, trying to ignore the stench of booze, sweat and sex which permeated the atmosphere. With deliberate steps he walked over to the bar, dust billowing out of the floor boards with every footfall, and rested his posterior on a stained, wet barstool which threatened to snap at the least provocation.

The barman, a surly brute of a fellow, with an ear missing and with a deep scar running down the side of his ugly mug, grunted a welcome and busied himself again with cleaning a chipped flagon and glaring at his other customers.

Jibb observed the other patrons' appraising glances, probably gauging what sort of trouble he was worth. Jibb pulled back his coat, revealing the impressive side-arm he was equipped with, causing their eyes to revert back to their own respective businesses.

Yeah, let’s keep it that way, Jibb reflected; it would not do well to attract undue attention.

"What do ye want?” a gruff voice growled from behind his back. Jibb spun around only to find himself staring at the disfigured face of the barman.

"Ya buy somethin' or get the fuck out, ye dirtyin' my stools", the barman continued with his face inches away from Jibb's.

Jibb reclined in order to escape the foul odoured mouth. This was not lost on the barman who put down the glass he was cleaning hard enough on the table to render it a new crack.

"Ye be wantin' brew? Or would ye be interestin' in somethin' finer?" the barman grunted, cocking his head to the side towards a couple of wenches at the far end of the bar. Realizing that they were being scrutinized each tried to cast, in what their opinion must have been, seductive looks at Jibb, twirling their hair between their fingers and hinting towards rather erotic body gestures.

Jibb was least interested. He was on a much more significant mission than the diseased satisfaction of lust.

"Just a drink, if you please", he cautiously replied to the barman's inquiry receiving another grunt and a dirty glass full of pale green colored liquid. Jibb sniffed the concoction, decided it smelled like damp moss, took a miniscule sip and forced himself not to think of the burning aftertaste which it left immediately on his tongue.

Jibb turned on his stool and went back to observing the tables. Ozzy had not told him who he was looking for but had cryptically stated that his quarry will not escape his gaze. Jibb prayed that to be true. he had spent many a sleepless night wandering the streets of this shabby town looking for the man he sought, without fruition, until last night he was advised by a passersby to pay the Baron's Keep a visit as she had seen men of similar countenance and guise as his, residing at the inn.

Jibb mentally cursed Ozzy at his lack of details but simultaneously wondered why the grandmaster had been so secretive about Jibb’s entire mission.

He remembered how Ozzy had taken him into a side chamber of the spire and told him the specifics, if you can call them that, of his quest.

"Jibb, I’m gonna be straight with you, your task is the fucking hardest of 'em all. you are gonna be looking for a man who may as well turn the entire tide of the war in our favor, but, has refused to join our cause. Don’t get me wrong here, he's a staunch ally and a dear friend, but he has relinquished violence. This is where you come in, Jibb. You are gonna convince him that fighting is the only fucking option left."

"How the hell am I supposed to do that? I don’t even know who he is!"

"Relax kid; you'll know him when you see him. Last I heard he was somewhere in the wetlands. Try the towns closest to the center of the marsh"

"That not really helpful you know, the marsh itself is pretty fuckin' huge", Jibb had dryly commented.

"Come on, that not a warrior's thinking! Well, honestly I don’t give a fuck what you think, this job has to be done and done soon," came Ozzy's scathing reply.

"Ok ok, I’ll do it," Jibb had relented.

"Excellent, when you find him, you will give him this along with my regards," Ozzy had held up a round, red jewel, a little larger than a walnut. It had cracks running all around it and was glowing dully at regular intervals. The jewel appeared to be alive, the glow akin to the throbbing of a beating heart.

Ozzy continued, "He will take it and will ask 'who?’ to which you will simply reply "twilight". Understand?"

"Sounds easy enough," Jibb responded sarcastically.

"Don’t get used to it kid, this is not even the beginning."

Back at the bar, Jibb held the jewel between his thumb and forefinger and tried to comprehend the reasons behind Ozzy’s paranoia concerning this one guy. he had definitely seem flustered when he relayed his instructions and had warned him to keep the utmost secrecy regarding his quest, so much so as not to tell even his band.

Jibb had respected Ozzy’s wishes, no matter how absurd they seemed to be and had set out immediately. But it had been seven weeks of constant searching and still no sign of the mysterious stranger he was supposed to contact. The journey was made even more difficult with the Blood Patrol presence in the towns he visited. Apparently the Realm was expanding into the wetlands. They obviously saw the numerous small lawless settlements as potential candidates for their slave camps and sites for future factories.

With the Patrol dogging his steps, movement had become extremely difficult and slow for Jibb. Moving only under the cover of darkness, sleeping in abandoned houses, eating while walking, generally not spending too much time in a single place. But Jibb still ended up in three separate encounters with the Patrol.

Two he walked away from unscathed. The third, however, forced him to use his Ability just to escape.

And that brought down hell upon him. The Patrol can track Ability users, and after that incident they were tracking him down relentlessly. Jibb had only been able to shake off his pursuers a day before he got the advice to visit Baron's Keep.

He turned over the jewel in his palm, admiring the intricacy of the design that the cracks made on the surface. They were natural. No hand or machine, no matter how skilled or advanced could have produced such a marvel.

The subdued throbbing of the jewel suddenly quickened, startling Jibb, which made him spill the drink he was nursing. Trying to remain inconspicuous, he hurriedly sat the glass down, made to ask the barman for a cloth, thought better of it and just patted away the liquid from his attire with his hands. Luckily his clothes didn’t stain.

He took another cursory look at the glowing red orb in his hand. The glow was back to the usual subdued throbbing. Had he imagined it? Jibb decided that it was probably lack of sleep which had him on edge and was now making him hallucinate.

The jewel began to burn blood red, scorching Jibb’s fingers. He dropped the orb with a yelp and saw it fall to the dusty floor with a loud thud that its size should not have made.

He was just about to bend down and grab it, when another surprise jolted him. The jewel, as with a will of its own, began rolling away from his reaching grasp and towards the tables where other revelers were wiling away their time with alcohol and tobacco.

Jibb leapt from his stool, which broke under such unwarranted attention, and darted after the rolling orb. Jumping over tables and slumbering drunks, he pursued the jewel with wild abandon, cursing heartily at this strange, new turn of events. His curses were joined by more vociferous ones by others as he knocked over glasses and people in an effort to subdue his prey.

With a mighty leap from a table, Jibb landed squarely onto the jewel and grabbed it with his gloved hand. He could feel the heat radiating from the orb as it spun viciously within the leather of his palm.

Standing up, apologizing profusely he made his way back to the bar. The barman was still deeply interested in cleaning his glasses and oblivious to the ruckus that had just occurred. He did, however, glared at Jibb with one disdainful eye as he continued to scrub.

"sorry about that," Jibb said with a meek voice and produced some bank notes at which the barman dropped the pretense of cleaning and began counting the money that Jibb had given for compensation for the trouble he had caused. Grunting in satisfaction he resumed his chore.

Jibb sat with his head bowed and a fresh drink at his side. His mind was buzzing.

What the hell, he pondered. But he knew what it meant. His quarry was close, very close.

For Jibb had seen something which troubled him greatly when he was getting up from the floor after reclaiming the orb: the clear piercing gaze of a man sitting in the shadows, his eyes riveted on the jewel. Even though Jibb held it in his gloved hand, the heat was intense and his arm was getting sore. It was as if the jewel had increased considerably in weight. He also felt the orb tugging in his hand. Tugging in the direction of the shadowed stranger with the bright eyes.

Jibb gestured for the barman, who begrudgingly came over to his side.

"Do you know who that man is?" Jibb pointed towards the stranger who was still watching him intently.

"Nah, but he be a regular. Comes in every evenin' he does. Orders a pint and takes his seat, always in that there corner. If ye ask me, I think he be waitin' for someone," the compensation had definitely made his demeanor towards Jibb more pleasant.

Jibb considered the barman's words for a moment, drained his glass of the wretched drink and made his way towards the secluded corner where the man in question sat and watched.

He grabbed a nearby vacant chair, dragged it to his table and sat down without a word. Jibb was tired, on the verge of paranoia, sick of the entire quest and drunk. So he sat there and unabashedly stared at the countenance of the stranger before him.

And as he stared, his doubts dissipated. For the man before him was no stranger, granted he did not know him personally, but he did know of him, and what he did know, was akin to legends.

For sitting across him, after weeks of hardship, was one of the greatest warriors of the Forgotten Age.