Prologue - The Bloodbringer (original) (raw)

A long, slender blade exited the mortal wound, making no noise as it was withdrawn from his latest victim. The assaulted gasped, clutching the exposed portion of his chest, his eyes glazing as his skewered heart ceased its pulse. Meanwhile, the wielder of the sword stared at the dying man, his eyes swimming with a mixture of apathy, anger, and a hint of something remorseful. He cleaned the blood off of his blades with mechanical ease, using the edge of his black cloak to polish the once-marred weaponry. With a sudden hiss, the blades retreated back into the sleeves of his jacket, concealed again by an attire of darkness. From a distance, the stains of ichor could not be seen with such a hue, and this was his intent. Despite his habits of cruelty, he was hardly an ignorant man.

He could not attribute his rage to an unfortunate childhood, nor to any palpable, reasonable source. From his outlook, he could only explain that his eyes were open, while the rest of humanity’s closed. This idea crawled beneath his skin, heating his blood and sending his nerves to seer. The rage blinded him, his conscious mind hardly aware of what he was doing, as if he were in a dream. Everyone with ‘closed eyes’ fell prey to his blade, and he found his attitude toward their death was disturbingly uncaring.

Some odd portion of his mind justified his actions, even if they were mostly uncontrolled. He had to search for a reason, to cling to what sanity remained within his contradicting mind. Perhaps this was his destiny, and he was setting them free. He was convinced that they truly did not wish to live without free choice, so he could call his actions liberation. Even the ones who seemed happy were little more than puppets, feeling the emotion because that was the one assigned to them; Assigned, just as everything else in the world.

Yet in his heart, he still did not feel like a killer, despite the fact that his blades felled many. It was as if a hypnotic force overtook him, guiding his hands as his purity sat idle, watching the activities of his body without interjecting. His muscles moved with tension from an unspoken focus, fueled by the anger that overwhelmed his senses. It gripped him like a harpy’s claw, though only for a brief time.

When he woke from this trance-like state, he remembered what had transpired, yet not the reason why – never the reason why. He could only blanket his actions with his perspective, reasoning and rationalizing against the odds of his own morality.

Sometimes, he even wondered if he played the part of a pawn, set up in some grand, cosmic game. The wielder of his piece must have been a great player, indeed, or perhaps one of madness. Either way, that guiding hand who led him on such paths seemed to care little of his value, throwing him in the midst of whatever opposing throng would resist him.

Times were simpler, once, but his old life had long since departed. The transition was as subtle as a shift of sunlight, beaming down over a new spot of canopy where beams had never once tread.

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A prologue to a story idea I've had for a long, long time. Comments as to what I did right, and how I could improve are appreciated!