Frenzy

Chapter One: Righteousness

 The autumn rains slapped against the straw-hewn roofs and moss encrusted streets of Limewood in frigid torrents. The slate-grey clouds that hung overhead growled their discontent as they peered down onto the walled hamlet, their dissatisfaction signaled by the amber streaks of lightning that danced through the clouds with blazing fury. A Parade of heavily coated villagers crowded the cobblestone sidewalk of the town's main street, faces twisted into masks of joy and excitement as they all stared at the raging light show above them, their blood-stained hands clasped in prayer. 

"Look at the terrifying beauty that God has deigned to bestow upon us this day. Look at how he demonstrates his might and support for our noble cause! So I say again death to the witches! and those who would rise up against our charitable lord Prase!"A rain-soaked pastor cried, his shouts rambunctious and husky. 

A pair of halberd wielding guards dressed in iron suits of chainmail and tabards of peach stood adjacent to the howling priest—their expressions hidden under the visors of metal helms that were worked into the vestiges of boars. At the soldier's feet lay two women, The words "witch" engraved atop their foreheads. Their plump, nude ebony-skinned figures, shivered in the whipping rain, and their emerald-shaded eyes spat out trails of warm tears. Iron-bound collars pinched their necks, and their darkened skins were covered in fresh trails of cuts. With every burst of lightning, the pair of women shook violently, their weeping eyes wide in fear.

 "Look upon these two witches for yourselves my flock! Look at how they wriggle from the lord's fury like insects! God demands they these two demons be punished! And at his demands, our noble lord Prase answers! Send these two harlots up to the keep with the rest of the witches!" The priest screeched. At the command, the duo of halberd wielding guards lifted the women up by the scrapes of their collars and marched them towards the stone-encrusted keep that rested in the middle of the town. 

 "Amen!" The mob howled in collective fury. Their feverish voices, high-pitched and pious before the twirling inferno before them and their backs turned defiantly to the trails of smoke that emanated from the town's foreign quarter. 

Paying no heed to the acts before him Dern clenched his teeth and continued his way across the rain-covered streets of Limewood, his muscles tensing and grasping as the screeching sound of the lightning overhead rang in his ears and made his blood run hot. With a shuffle of his scarf, he winced in discomfort as the bandages crisscrossing over his right palm grew damp with sweat and his hamstrings grew thick with tension. Awkwardly he maneuvered his way past the town's inhabitants, his broad, armored shoulders and dampened crimson cloak sometimes brushing up against their immobile figures. I need to get somewhere quiet before I get to the tavern, he thought hurriedly. Planting his armored greaves at an intersection, Dern turned to his right and stomped onto an empty street lined with decrepit, burnt-out buildings. Streaks of white paint pictured into crosses laid atop the houses blackened shells, while dangling, fried corpses hung from their cracked windows, their necks snapped at the ends of ropes. The pouring rain smacked against the skeletons of the former homes and created small plumes of smoke that drifted into the air. 

Gasping under his crimson scarf, he surveyed his surroundings for any signs of life. Satisfied he was alone, he cautiously pushed his left arm out from the depths of his cape and reached for the small, fattened sack tied to his belt. Gulping dried saliva down his throat, he steadied his breathing. The lightning won't do anything to me, he thought. Relaxing his body, he untied the hefty little bag with practiced efficiency and shook out a single item. A severed eyeball plopped onto his bandaged hand with a wet slosh. The enchanted appendage wiggled and writhed atop Dern's palm in a scared rhythm. "Show me where," he growled. At his command, the eyes single, blood-stained pupil snapped towards the north end of the hollowed-out street. With a shuffle of metal, the swordsman twisted his neck in the Finding eye's direction. Where he saw a single two-story bar aptly named the Tipsy Tiger. The structure's slate-grey windows and birch-shaded walls stuck out against the black and white carnage surrounding it. Two crimson banners etched with the image of boar heads rested in the mud in front of the Typsy Tiger, their thin trunks covered in dried blood and severed hands. At the sight of the two pennants, Dern smiled mirthlessly. Hmm, I guess the local clergy does excuse some sins, he thought. 

"I see you're still scared of light, puppet." A sultry voice echoed, the sound resembling bones rattling along steel. "You know I can hear your every thought, play-thing. Every little hope and fear your little heart can clench onto, I hear it." The voice said. "Shut up, demon. I don't need your voice chiming around my mind."