Pyo
“Violence is a tool. It does not control you. You control it. As warriors you will exercise the full monopoly of your most powerful weapons: your body, your mind, your soul. Be disciplined and focused.”These lands are cursed.
To be a wanderer is to be the subject of an endless trials of violence, blood, and death. I had hoped the people of Barovia were united to stand against the Darkness that feeds on their misery. I was wrong.
I brush my fingers on my thigh. The cut is not deep, the dagger hasn’t reached the artery. I kick the weapon aside as I survey somberly the results of my act of violence. I am surrounded by bodies, scattered across the verdant hill like pieces of a jigsaw in a box. Bodies of bandits.
Some of their limbs are twisted unnaturally. Others have their chests caved in, as if a mallet repeatedly hit them till ribs and the sternum collapsed, their expressions wide-eyed and lifeless.
I wrap a firm strap of leather above the wound, to lessen the blood loss.
“Slow”, I say, chastising myself. Yes, that’s right.
Slow.
Inadequate.
Weak.
Pathetic. Words that relentlessly echoes in my mind, over and over, with each motion and blow delivered and sustained in combat. Master Syerl always disassembled our techniques and criticized it, turned the most insignificant of flaws into a colossal failure, and where there wasn’t a flaw, ensured that the student never became overconfident in his abilities, or else it started to addle his mettle.
Violence is a horrible reality, shunned by evolved civilizations, heavily monopolized, controlled, enforced by strict rules. And most of all, feared.
Out here? It’s a daily occurrence. Every day, lurking out in the open or behind shadowy veils, I know there are fangs, claws or knives that seeks my demise. Each day, I am driven to use violence and weave, twirl, block and counter-attack. I mostly succeed. I leave bodies behind, of men, beasts and fiends. And with them, blood. My blood.
You can’t inflict pain without taking some in return. That’s not my mantra, it’s just something I’ve come to observe, through my own eyes.
Peace is not a lie. It is simply a quality not found here. To be a pacifist is to relegate oneself to the deepest pits of Hell, as the playthings of depraved beasts, deaf to words of honey and promises of salvation.
I take a deep breath. I count to four, and then exhale.
I think to those few adventurers who’ve been here for much longer than I have. The Veterans who stay in the Mist Camp, among their peers. The elite’. Each renowned, powerful and geared to be the equivalent of an entire army. Even in the Faerun, tales of adventurers that have defeated great beats and evils are not unheard of.
Of course, few of them bother with the Freshly Misted, like me. I do wonder if there’s at least one of them that hasn’t been changed or twisted by the Darkness.
I near one of the bodies, put my good knee on the ground, and roll it over. The bandit must’ve been around my age, twenty-four or twenty-five years old. I remember how he died. It only took me three strikes: a palm-strike to the nose that shattered the cartilage and watered his eyes. With his vision obfuscated, I followed with another palm-strike to his collar bone, sufficient to put him off-balance. The third jab went low, towards his throat, which collapsed the windpipe.
I don’t share good words for him. He wanted me dead, and I killed him. Best I can do is to close his eyelids.
To be a bandit in these lands is to be two things: you’re either a desperate soul driven to survive by any means necessary, or be a bad seed that fuels his dark needs by plundering from the weak and the defenseless.
It’s an endless war. It’s you against the Darkness, both that which conquers all once the Sun falls and the one that claims the hearts of men and beasts. This war is a disease.
Be disciplined and focused. I recall that mantra. To be a warrior is to also show bravery against overwhelming odds, to keep your feet solid while fear would buckle lesser men.
I let go of the body, and turn my gaze to the end of the road. I will hold onto a sliver of hope, however, for as long as I can. Hope that some measure of happiness and comfort can be found in something, or someone. After all, happiness can still be found, even in the darkest of times.