The Mist of Moningsbury

Chapter One

Night was crawling slowly in over the land. A few rays of dying sunshine stroked the face of a rough looking man who was slumped against the cold wall of a pillbox. He had greasy hair and tired eyes, and took another swig from his beer bottle. Today had been a difficult day. The man sat with his legs spread out in front of him. A cold autumnal breeze rippling round his head which rested against the gritty concrete, unaware of the figure watching him. The figure moved slowly closer. The bottle once again kissed drunken lips. 'Why does she blame me for everything?' the man thought, 'one mistake and I get treated like a criminal!'.

The figure moved closer still, stirring not a single blade of the course grass. The drunken man was oblivious of its presence. Everyone was oblivious of its presence. All but one. One that it feared. Yet still it slithered forwards, all thought of fear from its mind because it wanted satisfaction. It wanted to satisfy a terrible lust. A lust for life. It wanted to feel alive again, to be alive again. All it needed to do was reach this man.

The drunken man tipped the bottle above his face, hoping to catch one last drop of pleasure before the full force of his misery took over. The figure was standing before him now. Cold, dark eyes looking down through a black mask. Still the man took no notice. He looked down from the bottle and stared ahead, through the figure, to gaze sullenly upon the shadows of the withering sunset across the field.

The figure knelt down and slowly, slowly stretched out its pale hand, fingers ready to grasp at the unseeing eyes.

"You'll regret that."

The drunken man made no indication of having heard the voice, but the figure did. And it felt something cold and hard pressed into its back, while its fingers hovered just a tantalising centimeter from its goal.

"And why is that Misty?" The figure replied calmly, "Surely you and I have the same wants and needs."

"We are nothing alike Victor Balling." The voice said, "Now leave the man alone."

After a moments hesitation, the figure said "It will be difficult to move away with a sword in my back." He could sense the reluctance, but slowly the sword was withdrawn. The figure rose to face his opponent. Though in similar garb to himself, the man who the figure knew simply as 'The Mist' terrified him. Yet the figure had some pride and chose never to show his fear, so instead he showed his curiosity. "And how are we not alike Misty? I am a dead highwayman, and you look like one too. Our job was to steal, was it not?" The figure paused, waiting for a reaction. He found no hint of an expression behind the green kerchief that hid The Mist's lower face, and so he continued, "As thieves it is our job to take what we can get. Who could resist taking their freedom? Would you really deny me my freedom?" To emphasise his long practised speech, he gestured to the drunken man who was currently failing at an attempt to stand up.

"You had your chance at life" The Mist said, his black cloak gently billowing in the breeze. "You cannot deny other people theirs."

"Says who?" The figure said, anger quickly rising in his voice.

"I do. Now stop being so selfish Victor." The Mist said sternly.

The figure's face contorted in a sudden rage. "How dare you!" he said, ripping his sword from its scabbard and thrusting it towards the other highwayman. The dark eyes that showed through his black mask now held no fear, only anger. There was a metallic clang as their swords met. The two started thrusting and parrying and slashing and stabbing in the crisp evening air, over and around the center of their debate.

The center of their debate saw that it was now quickly getting dark. Through his hazy drunken mind he realised he should probably go somewhere else. Where that somewhere was, he wasn't sure. Probably the pub. He finally succeeded in standing upright by leaning heavily against the pillbox. He gazed around and perceived nothing but the dark stubble of the fields in front and the looming wood beside him. A sword slashed down by his ear before one of the quarrelling bodies thumped into the squat building. The drunken man didn't so much as flinch, completely unaware of the battle over his body. He started to stagger away into the trees. The Mist stood protectively behind the retreating figure, blocking Victor's vehicle of escape.

"What is wrong with you?" Victor blurted out angrily. "All of us would have taken that chance, except you." With that, Victor Balling made a savage thrust at his opponent and succeeded in creating a gash in his arm. "Ha! I hope that hurts Misty" he cried, and was about to make the final plunge with his sword when he noticed something. He stalled his weapon and peered closer through the gathering dusk. "You're bleeding."

The Mist stood still, but Victor could see a sudden look of fear in his eyes. "You're bleeding." The highwayman said again, almost entranced. "But that...that means you're not dead."

In something like a panic, The Mist made a wild lunge for Victor's neck. The sword ploughed straight through, causing the lost soul of a highwayman to vanish in a burst of spray. The Mist knew he would reappear somewhere along the main road, but for now, the figure was defeated.

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Thank you for reading! Any comments or constructive criticism is always welcome. :-)