Martyrdom - Creative Writing Contest

[mybeary]

 

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“What friends can one call those around him in a citadel of scoundrels and cheats?”

 

The establishment smelled of age-old pine trees and even older marital affairs, with the place bustling with patrons from obscure reaches of Eiress. The beer seemed good; one could easily take a quick whiff and become mystified, excitedly claiming that it smelled of old cinnamon dreams accompanied with a heartfelt serving of homemade salted caramel, yet it tasted of raw courage and confidence. A man could easily take a quick swig here before heading out to whatever ordeal he had to face later that day, and come back the same day victorious and ready to fight the battle with their asses on the toilet seat. The locals had once said to avoid this bar at all costs, should the tourist ever decide to roam the city on his trip.

 

The shadow of the tourist saw light in the tavern, despite the good-willed warnings of the townsfolk. He heard things. He liked to hear things. He didn't hear many things, outside the propaganda every country seemed to illustrate to their people. His ears peeking at every whisper about him, he remained lax about the dangerous environment, despite being unarmed. As he sat among the jeering of the crowd,he reached into his bag and pulled out a few papers. Precious documents they were, among an audience of beasts and predators, yet the beasts stayed their distance. Their eyes had fallen upon the ancient runes illustrated upon the accursed papers, then quickly jolting to the edges of their vision, as they knew at once that the man was mad. Mad to the point of demoralization. They knew he shouldn't be messed with.

 

The runes themselves weren't special, but the artifact associated with the runes told a greater, more sinister story. One that told of power, one that told of temptation, and another of corruption. They are three stories, yet the traveler could claim that they were one and the same. Each of the runes held whispers of such stories, but it was the wicked edge that bound them together, cursing them, binding them with their user.

 

Under such a wicked logic, it would make sense that any sane person would avoid possession of such a power, much less even thinking about it. In their own eyes, they already knew that the man was doomed beyond despair, his own existence being a speck of dust compared to the power of tempered, spiraling darkness. No one even attempted to rob the man, for it would be foolish to keep anything of monential value before heading out on a death wish; the assumption was made that the man had sold everything, and he wanted a drink before heading out. Out of respect, they left him alone.

 

The traveler saw a hefty man approach him from the shadows, his ebony skin blending in with the surrounding lighting, on the opposite side of the bar. He raised a hand, and almost instantly a shot glass slid across the table, almost spilling ginger goodness over his documents. The man approached him, his voice deep, but with the tone of a respectable person who knew the ins and outs of the town.

 

"Listen, do you want someone to talk to? We got a few fellas right 'round here who may look sharp 'round the edges, but I'm sure they'll be nice enough to give you a nice talk. Those runes are settin' a pretty grave mood right now."

 

The man looked up from his documents, his eyes, though tired, sharp and boldened.

 

"I'm just here for a drink. Get me the usual, please. You know you know me, Alistair."

 

Alistair readjusted his stance. He's right, and he did know him to be a stubborn goat of a man who was driven by promises of power. Said it'll benefit humanity, Alistair shook his head from that time. In what way would gaining absolute power and sacrificing all that being human and having its shortcomings benefit humanity?

 

"Albert."

 

"Alistair, I'll sleep tonight. I promise. Just get me the drink tonight. It's really why this place is booming tonight."

 

Alistair sighed, and leaned to grab a special concoction. He popped the cap, the brazen formula fizzing at the top. Eyeballing the measurements, Alistair drizzled the special liquid into Albert's glass. Albert's drink turned a tad red in turn, and glowed with a seeping spiciness to it.

 

"Thanks Alistair, I knew I could count on you."

 

Alistair stiffened. He was old, but he sensed something wrong with the scenario. His eyes narrowed, yet skepticism wasn't found in his voice.

 

"Any time, Albert. Any progression? At all?"

 

Albert took a sip, the liquid pouring into his mouth, bubbling as it touched his chapped, dry lips. Albert's skin seemed to lighten in response. 

 

"Albert, you know things are getting tough right now. Jobs are harder to get, food is pretty scarce right now. Even my own establishment will be closing down soon, unless the Tadar does something."

 

Albert set his glass down. He took out a pen, and  began to write something on his papers.

 

"More formulas?"

 

Albert looked up, in response to his age-old friend.

 

"A name."

 

Alistair peered over, intrigued by this sudden revelation. On the paper, in black, messy handwriting, was the name "Xell Fvlilan." It seemed like nonsense.

Alistair let out a small chuckle. Albert let out a smirk, considering his handwriting.

 

"Anyone could read this as Taffling, you know this, right?"

 

Albert let out a hearty chuckle. As ridiculous as it seemed, he could see "Taffling" within his handwriting. He knew he had to improve his handwriting, but this definitely bit him in the back. Perhaps he could invest time into correcting his handwriting in his spare time.

 

"Alright 'Xell,' what now?"

 

Albert checked the time on his watch, then looked around the bar. The windows had been barred up now, though they weren't when Albert walked in. Albert thought this was odd, considering that Alistair owned the establishment himself, and managed everything. When did he board up the windows, and for what purpose?

 

Albert felt Alistair close to him now, and he forced himself to take another long, hearty drink. Goddamn, if he was going to die now, then he should at least take his last moments in pleasure. That had always been Albert's philosophy to this moment.

 

"What now?"

 

Alistair's deep voice echoed throughout the bar. Everyone was staring at the two. The common rapscallion being harrassed by the drunk thug had even taken the time to glance into their general direction, as his mass was suddenly thrown across the bar. Albert thought their conversation was restricted to a whisper, but apparently he was wrong. Albert stood up from his seat.

 

"What now, you say?

 

Albert calmly set down his backpack, and began digging through his mess of a pack. Alistair, in response, placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. 

 

"Don't you dare threaten me. You know as well as I am that I can overpower you. Fifteen long years have proved that. You have no magic."

 

"I know I don't, and I'm not threatening you."

 

Albert, in his search, revealed a hilt to the onlooking audience. The hilt immediately set an atmosphere of fear throughout the bar, provoking some patrons to grab their weapons in response. Alistair placed a hand on Albert.

 

"Albert, whatever you're doing, I ask you to stop, if not threatening me, you're threatening my patrons. Something's not right here. Maybe save it for another time."

 

"Alistair, just give me a few moments, please."

 

Albert revealed the blade. Suddenly, the entire bar stood up, and started fiddling around with their weapons, frightened. To plan to come for the blade itself was insanity, but to be in the presence of it, much less have possession in it. This exceeded all form of reason.

 

"Sakoor's Edge."

 

Albert laid his prize onto the table, it's darkened edge laying dormant, its runes stagnant and without power. It was about as long as the width of the table at this moment, yet the stigmatization still existed. The legend was true. 

 

"Albert, you-"

 

Albert looked at Alistair with cold and determined eyes. He seemed to have done the impossible, to have held the blade without going insane, despite the many rumors surrounding the blade.

 

"Yes, Alistair, I have. I haven't touched it yet."

 

Alistair was afraid. Not because of the blade itself, but because Xell had the audacity to bring such a cursed weapon into his own establishment. What was he thinking, thinking that he could handle such a thing, and in a public place a well?

 

"Albert, please, put it back."

 

"Alright then, just wanted to-"

 

Albert coughed out blood. Someone had snuck up behind him and stabbed him, seeming to be a drunk of all people. In response, Albert tried to twist around to punch his attacker, but the drunk acted first, using a rope to bind Albert to the bar. He spoke.

 

"You don't deserve such power. You're a child playing with a guillotine. It does not belong to you."

 

The stranger turned to grab the blade, but Alistair used his ability that was the tavern itself to change the shape of the table to push it to Albert's side. Albert, being immobilized, tried to adjust his head to push it to his hands. The blade, in its newfound velocity, fell, and stabbed Albert in the palm of his right hand.

 

"No!"

 

Albert screamed, and immediately his existence was warped into the crystal of the blade, the runes glowing now with a foreign power. The Edge, now brimming with its power, let out a short burst of power, offsetting the foundation of the bar in a supernova of shadow and light. The light from the candle lights were suddenly sucked out, and pure darkness burned in its place, and dissipated shortly after. Whispers began to echo from the blade. 

 

Despite taking cover from the explosion, gashes had formed on Alistair's body. He was deeply wounded, and was in critical condition, his eyes almost fading into white. The bar was equally damaged as well, with scrapes and gashes alongside the walls of the building.

 

"G-godammit Albert!"

 

He argued with himself whether he should follow into the darkness, or stay and seek help, with whatever life force he had left. Alistair looked around.

 

The establishment was on fire; he himself felt himself burning, but he refused to believe that the establishment itself was burning down. His patrons were also nearing death, with a table embedded into two of his patrons, as they yell in despair. He can see a body that has completely penetrated another, and their tendrils intertwined. It was madness, it was entropy, it was insanity. How could Albert ever have thought to conceive such a weapon? Whatever power Albert unleashed, it was not fit for this world.

 

He felt his life nearing an end, yet he felt like he needed to make a decision now. He reached out.

 

And he touched the blade.

 

The documents flew in the midst of the chaos, swept by the winds of despair. 

 

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[goneasf]

I love it! You have some real talent here