[A few tillers are still working the fields in the light of the dying day when Isaac comes up the path, bare-handed and devil-less, approaching their small town with a dead hare tied by its ears to a line and slung over one shoulder. Leaning on their shovels and hoes, several stop to watch, vigorously crossing themselves.
He can feel them whispering. Feel them staring, nudging chins in his direction.
And as though word of his arrival has already reached the town proper, he is stopped short of entering by men with wary looks and crossbows of familiar make turned on him, loaded with stakes. A few kids crane their necks and gawk at him before their mothers yank them away.
He's just a traveler on a mission to trade for a block of cheese, but no one believes it. Or those who dare to entertain the possibility decide the meat is surely tainted in some way. What is up for debate is what he's supposed to be, standing unburnt in the setting sun. A werewolf or a witch or a demon. The same possibilities pass between their lips, every suggestion a tired joke that still pulls a chuckle out of him because it's funny, being a monster to so many people he's never met and whose lives he's never personally touched, an apprentice to the devil long before he laid eyes on the books and scrolls on devil forging; but to the monsters, the things lurking in every corner of the castle, he was still too human. Human flesh was human flesh. Though brutal training and mastery of the devil's art had toughened him, nothing he was willing to do or have done to him could rid him of that human weakness. He never wanted to live forever, anyway; living a mortal life, day by day, was hard enough.
The tension in the air breaks, suddenly, like a thin crust of ice over a lake snapping underfoot, when he holds out his catch for the town's hunters' consideration. One fires at point-blank range - and from the shifting stances and the questioning looks some throw the shooter, the interrogation wasn't meant to end like this, not before knowing where Isaac came from and if there were others like him, lying in wait. But there's no taking it back. So they just watch as Isaac staggers a half-step back with a stake in his ribs, listening for the death-screech or for the hellflames that spawned him to split the ground and rush up to reclaim him. He refuses to die. He croaks and gasps harshly but stays upright, the stricken blankness to his face melting away as a snarl peels his lips back. Another stake punches into him, a third and fourth and a fifth flying for the trees as he dissolves into thin air, leaving the hare carcass and glittering, mote-like traces of magic behind. Wide-eyed, the men swing around in search of him. By the time one points Isaac out on the steepled roof of their chapel, standing tall, sword in hand, like a god on judgment day, there's a black dragon with him, its fanning, leathery wings blocking the sun. It turns its gaping mouth towards them, the back of its throat glowing brighter, brighter, with the flames curling up into its throat. Crossbows twang and snap, stakes disintegrating in the burning blast Crimson sends their way. Townspeople scream, pushing and trampling each other as the devil dives at them, breathing swathes of fire across the street. Market stalls take flame, crackling, collapsing. A child drops a wooden doll, wailing after it as she's carried off in her father's arms.
He knew this would happen.
He knew it.
So he lets himself stay and basks, hollow-eyed, in the glow of his destruction - the only consolation there is for the bad choice that led to this. And when his vision swims and breath thickens with blood, he trusts the fire to do its work and escapes, not wanting to give the humans the satisfaction of seeing him die a miserable death. His magic whisks him and Crimson off to the furthest place his clouding focus and flagging strength of will can muster - a cave not too far from the clearing. It's dark and cool and still. Peaceful, almost. Wrapped up in his cloak over the wet, craggy floor, he sends Crimson off in search of life to drain and to feed him with on its return -- a little healing to take the edge off. As many trips as it'd need to make until he'd feel well enough to sit up - and eventually, he thinks, well enough to teleport to the abandoned castle that roofed him not long ago.
Back to a simpler time, when Hector hadn't reached out and Isaac hadn't sought him yet either, and the most promising thing to life had seemed to be the prospect of ending it.]
no subject
He can feel them whispering. Feel them staring, nudging chins in his direction.
And as though word of his arrival has already reached the town proper, he is stopped short of entering by men with wary looks and crossbows of familiar make turned on him, loaded with stakes. A few kids crane their necks and gawk at him before their mothers yank them away.
He's just a traveler on a mission to trade for a block of cheese, but no one believes it. Or those who dare to entertain the possibility decide the meat is surely tainted in some way. What is up for debate is what he's supposed to be, standing unburnt in the setting sun. A werewolf or a witch or a demon. The same possibilities pass between their lips, every suggestion a tired joke that still pulls a chuckle out of him because it's funny, being a monster to so many people he's never met and whose lives he's never personally touched, an apprentice to the devil long before he laid eyes on the books and scrolls on devil forging; but to the monsters, the things lurking in every corner of the castle, he was still too human. Human flesh was human flesh. Though brutal training and mastery of the devil's art had toughened him, nothing he was willing to do or have done to him could rid him of that human weakness. He never wanted to live forever, anyway; living a mortal life, day by day, was hard enough.
The tension in the air breaks, suddenly, like a thin crust of ice over a lake snapping underfoot, when he holds out his catch for the town's hunters' consideration. One fires at point-blank range - and from the shifting stances and the questioning looks some throw the shooter, the interrogation wasn't meant to end like this, not before knowing where Isaac came from and if there were others like him, lying in wait. But there's no taking it back. So they just watch as Isaac staggers a half-step back with a stake in his ribs, listening for the death-screech or for the hellflames that spawned him to split the ground and rush up to reclaim him. He refuses to die. He croaks and gasps harshly but stays upright, the stricken blankness to his face melting away as a snarl peels his lips back. Another stake punches into him, a third and fourth and a fifth flying for the trees as he dissolves into thin air, leaving the hare carcass and glittering, mote-like traces of magic behind. Wide-eyed, the men swing around in search of him. By the time one points Isaac out on the steepled roof of their chapel, standing tall, sword in hand, like a god on judgment day, there's a black dragon with him, its fanning, leathery wings blocking the sun. It turns its gaping mouth towards them, the back of its throat glowing brighter, brighter, with the flames curling up into its throat. Crossbows twang and snap, stakes disintegrating in the burning blast Crimson sends their way. Townspeople scream, pushing and trampling each other as the devil dives at them, breathing swathes of fire across the street. Market stalls take flame, crackling, collapsing. A child drops a wooden doll, wailing after it as she's carried off in her father's arms.
He knew this would happen.
He knew it.
So he lets himself stay and basks, hollow-eyed, in the glow of his destruction - the only consolation there is for the bad choice that led to this. And when his vision swims and breath thickens with blood, he trusts the fire to do its work and escapes, not wanting to give the humans the satisfaction of seeing him die a miserable death. His magic whisks him and Crimson off to the furthest place his clouding focus and flagging strength of will can muster - a cave not too far from the clearing. It's dark and cool and still. Peaceful, almost. Wrapped up in his cloak over the wet, craggy floor, he sends Crimson off in search of life to drain and to feed him with on its return -- a little healing to take the edge off. As many trips as it'd need to make until he'd feel well enough to sit up - and eventually, he thinks, well enough to teleport to the abandoned castle that roofed him not long ago.
Back to a simpler time, when Hector hadn't reached out and Isaac hadn't sought him yet either, and the most promising thing to life had seemed to be the prospect of ending it.]