Archrast Blackblood's page

About Archrast Blackblood

"Um, I'm sorry sir, I'm kind of lost." At the crossroad of nowhere and someotherplace, a naive girl stood before a boulder given sentience. The tall, tall man smiled as one would at an adorable puppy.

Such innocent eyes, such an innocent expression, such an innocent voice, the burly bandit couldn't help but just...let this one pass. She was wearing a cloak, anyway. Couldn't hide a thing in those. He'd know.

"Which direction are you fancyin', then?" He replied, feeling his sludge covered insides melt that little bit. He casually waved in a direction. "That's to the closest town. That-" he gestured in the opposite direction, at the definition of poor management, "-is an inn. Dank and quaint, but is any inn any more than that?" Or so the last person he'd robbed said before he charged the fellow into a creek. Shame that he had to be wearing such heavy armour. Nightmare to drag him out. At least the woman he'd been talking too didn't scream. Much.

She said something he didn't hear. "Eh?"

She spoke louder. "It's...it's not a place I'm looking for, um, sir..."
"Ah..." Friends? Boyfriend? One of the two. He was pretty sure women had things like those. Might be meeting them at the inn. Or in the town he pointed out and at.

Actually, he couldn't have a more golden opportunity, his greed punched him in the face with. He could escort her, acting as a gentleman, then suddenly she, and whoever she met, are staring at the biggest club they'd ever seen. It'd be perfect.

But, dammit, it felt wrong to do that. Like robbing a puppy. A really sad puppy.

He was sure he'd heard of this sort of thing happening before. What was it? Growing a conscious? Yeah. He supposed he had that thing now. He wondered what the plural was. Consci? Something like that.
"Sir..." What? Oh, right, sad puppy girl. Huh. Sad puppy girl.

"Yes?"

Despite the substantial height difference, her eyes were low. Or he thought. Wearing that hood made him only able to understand general body language. Her refusal to look up didn't aid her. The most he’d figured was that she didn't go outside much; pale as heck, awkward as heck.

“A…a person…I’m looking for a person.” Yep. Boyfriend-ma–bob it is. Admittedly, a section of his mind questioned why her boyfriend didn't simply state a place and time to meet at. He told that section to shut its face.

“The inn’s that way.” He’d said as much before.

“He…he isn’t at the inn…” Yep. Boyfriend. Though he must be an odd lot, to make such a puppy-like girl meet him in the surrounding forests and not care about the implications. Or maybe at the town?

Something was said and he didn't hear it again, or at least in full. ‘I think I found him’, maybe?

Anyway, “Town’s that way.” He’d also said as much before. He turned around, gleaming over the foreboding forest with as much fear as curiosity. “Though, if it’s in the forest,” pain and a flower of blood shot forth, and he stopped.

And looked down at the metal gleam. But I’m wearing Leather armour, he processed as wet warmth swept ever down his body. Oh, wait. That’s a sword. Oh wait, that’s a sword!

His comically delayed thoughts did not save him, as a vicious tug that was more a push sent him into the dirt, cracking his head on strangely placed stone. He died with a splutter.

The killer thoroughly cleansed the blade on her cloak, sliding the mask she donned away after. I guess that’s why you don’t turn your back to a rogue, she mused. I still wish it wasn't so awkward to talk to him. Absently realizing that her cloak was now more blood than cloth, she thought, well, not blending in with that.

Glancing at the bloody corpse, and the ever increasing circle of red, she pondered about the former bandit’s armour. It’s kind of easier to clean, and aren't I heading to a job, anyway?

She found the armour to fit nicely with only a few, easy adjustments. Okay, many adjustments. Her gaze roamed the corpse, observing the ferocity with which the blood took to its job. Probably dead in seconds. Her eyes veered left, into the forest that she really thought was trying too hard. Should I bury him?

She felt she should, so she did.

An epitaph proved difficult to formulate. And would it be relevant, really, in this enclosed clearing just from the road and just out of sight?

Sighing, she continued glaring at the malignant wooden cross. Personal details were, for obvious reasons, not included in assassinations. People described the bandit as ‘needed to die’, not his name, not his will, and certainly not his history. By all definitions of the word, she didn't -know- him.

Inspiration. As though divinely intervened on, she found the exact words to make an epitaph. Grasping a sharp rock and a conveniently tombstone shaped stone, she began etching.

Inscribed on the slab lied the following:

I didn't really know you, but I will remember you anyway.
-Your Killer

She faltered. Not quite the intention… she tried again with a new slab.

Here lies a man I was sent to kill. I don’t know his name, his will, or his history. Only that his blood was as red as any other, and the absence of his life as sad as any other.
-His Killer

Better, from a perspective other than hers. She reached for a slab.

I’m sorry.
-This man’s killer

Maybe too short for her taste. But often what you attempt to capture is best done in a few words, right? In this case, that this man would be mourned. She felt she accomplished her goal.

Stalking away, she spared what would probably be the last glance to ever be had at the grave, by anyone. She smiled, pupil-less eyes twinkling, and disappeared into the green depths, her hair a white spot that gradually faded from view, scouting for a river with which to clean her armour.

It smelt like death.