"A Fork in the Road"
Vallaki, Barovia - 773 Barovian Calendar
He held his head low as the rain pelted relentlessly upon his cloak, the grey cobblestones of Vallaki composing the monochromatic blur he absently stared at with unfocused eyes. The last week had been a blur of uncertainty, chaos, fear, and anger. He'd been beaten, bruised, run tired, and tested. Even now, in one of his first true moments of solitude and reflection, he found himself unable to tear his mind away from the events of the past few days. He closed his eyes, allowing the cold rain to wash over him as he tried to still his mind.
Just as his breathing slowed, and serenity threatened to bring him just a moment of peace, he saw them again in his mind. A shadowy man, a large, fearsome rat with a wide twisted maw. Mitrea's piercing shout over the din of the fray, calling out to shake him from his stupor.
"Get inside, now!"
And just like that, fear washed back over him, threatening to dominate his thoughts. His chest grew tight, his heart was racing - accented by a rhythmic thump in his ears, backed by the soft rushing of blood. He recalled the splatters of gore that painted the cobblestones near the guardhouse. The severed head's lifeless eyes and limp jaw, as if the body's spirit was calling out to him from beyond the grave, lamenting it's final painful moments in a silent scream. He wondered, only long after the battle had subsided, who the man was. Would I too, end up little more than a macabre decoration used as a cheap fear tactic for the nightly siege of the city? A million grim thoughts filled his mind, he was drowning.
He suddenly noticed his hands for the first time, shaking, clenched, white-knuckled, numb. He forced a long exhale of breath and leaned limply against the stone wall, resting his head against it's cold, wet surface. He slid down to a sitting position, dirtying his cloak and uniform, his backside coming to rest in a small rain puddle that had formed on the side of the path. He buried his face into his soaked hands and let loose, a wave of emotion pouring out of him. He sat there, sobbing like a child in a mix of rage and fear. He remembered the others looking at him like there was something wrong with him. He remembered the guiding hand of Ernesca trying to lead him away, like some shepherd guiding a goat back to its pen. He remembered Nistor's condescending offer to train him. The other recruits trying to order him around like some kind of boy.
Just as his heart filled again with fire, he was interrupted - a young boy in ragged clothing, no older than 10, stood there watching him. He'd come across his quiet place, a back alley near Strada Moarte where people seldom walked, especially during a storm. Though the child seemed concerned, he had a familiar look in his eyes. One Andrei knew all too well. He quickly shut down his display of weakness, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes and finding his feet. His uniform was dirty and soaked, his features ragged, and his hair unfixed. The child tentatively spoke to him.
"Domn garda- are you.... are you alright? Why are you-"
He interrupted the child, his voice low and honeyed, he leaned in and spoke with a practiced demeanor refined through years of survival on these very same streets.
"Now, now, my boy. Not all questions have worthwhile answers. But, I could tell you, in trade for something. Say, in trade you tell me where you got that thing you're trying to hide from me, eh?"
He pointed to the boy's left pocket, which was only partially hidden behind one of the child's hands. He'd been resting his hand on the pocket, favoring it, and it had given him away. He looked up at the uniformed garda in shock, fear filling his young eyes. Andrei spoke to him again, the merciless sneer of a man who knew he was holding all the cards forming readily on his face.
"That's what I figured. But you don't have to worry about me asking you about that, do you? Because you and I, we never met. I was never here. Run along now, child. We both have work to do."
The boy stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, then nodded and ran away as if not wanting to wait for the garda to change his mind. Andrei fixed his clothing up as much as he could, adjusted the sword scabbard on his hip, and left the alleyway at a businesslike stride. Lightning lit up the sky, accompanied by the roar of thunder as the downpour picked up strength. The rain washed away the dampness around his eyes, mixing water with dirt as it ran down his face in a discolored streak. He continued on, filled anew with purpose, a look of relentless determination on his handsome features. He'd come too far to fail, this time. There was no turning back.
The heavy rhythmic thump of his boots on the grey stone cobble became the only noise to his ears. The rain, the passer-by, the ox pulling the cart down the road, hopeful trader perched atop - it all faded away. The world was grey around him, distant. He was resolute in focus, clear in purpose. He walked back toward the looming Citadel in the center of the city with a burning in his heart.
He knew they'd see him soon enough. But they'd be too slow off the start, too heavy to swim in the deepening water they all found themselves in. Mitrea knew. She'd seen right into his soul, she knew who he was more than any of the others. The thought had scared him, before. He felt like the emaciated predator, entering the hunting grounds of another wolf in search of a meal. A spider, crawling greedily after the fly in a web he had not built. But yet, he could't turn back or look away. He was drawn to press on, compelled to continue to play the game he'd found himself so entangled to.
He wasn't sure of much, anymore. Who he was. Where it was all going. How it would end. This new feeling of freefall was both intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure. He knew only that he would not relinquish his seat at the table. As the next hand was dealt, he intended to play. And play, he would. Until he'd laid down every last card.