The GraveWalkers

Chapter One

Alaric sighed, staring at his cup of cheap mud-brown rum with contempt. It had been the most expensive drink offered in the tavern, yet the sting of shoddy rum burnt his tonsils. He'd never quite gotten accustomed and he doubted he ever would.

He shouldn't be surprised that such a small town lacked any refined beverages, considering that most people here were poor, and those who found fortune or sought it migrated to greener pastures. Truly, the town felt like a rotting corpse in itself. The streets reeked of animal waste (and likely some human), and the residents weren't much better off in their smell or manner. Their eyes were those of vultures; quick to search a man's soul for a sign of weakness as he passed and the weight of his pockets.

Alaric traced his breastplate beneath his tattered cape that he wore for appearances. An emblem on the breastplate was the source of his tracing and motivation alike. He often traced the design when he needed a reminder of why he'd traveled so far, and still had so much further to go to achieve his goals.

His city would be proud of his great sacrifices.

He'd lingered too long in the tavern. Eyes were starting to burn holes in his back and patrons sitting in crowded tables were getting antsy. They could sense he wasn't one of them - perhaps it was his too-perfect-posture, his perfect stubble beard, or simply the smell of him that was not vulture-like. 

He didn't reek of desperation.

Alaric downed the sketchy contents of the cup with a forceful gulp then stood after slapping down his payment with a slight tip. He made his way toward the door, noting the way the entire room seemed to eye him as one. One particular patron started to rise from his seat as Alaric passed, bravely deciding to be the first to have a go.

Alaric lifted his ragged cape just enough so his massive greatsword was revealed. It caught the faint light the tavern's bulb provided and glinted slightly. Finally, Alaric locked eyes with the man, a dangerous expression decorating his face.

The would-be assailant hesitated, his deep caramel eyes holding Alaric's for only a few heartbeats longer before dropping to the floor as he retook his seat. Had he continued his approach, the entire tavern would have backed him up with their pack mentality, but a retreat had the opposite effect.

Once Alaric was outside he quickened his pace. Even together the patrons didn't pose much of a threat - but they were capable of taking up his time - time he didn't quite have at the moment. He'd splurged to acquire a particular parcel of information that had led him to this town and he knew he had a small window before his target would disappear once again. 

After all, his target was no simple prey ready to run away from a hunter, no. He was after a legend. 

And a dangerous one at that.

A contract killer whose reputation stretched across nations for his efficiency and skill. The story went he'd taken on a big job - one a sane person wouldn't dare because of the dangers, even upon completion - and it had led to a colossal price placed on his head. No one was sure if he'd completed the job or not, or even the exact details of this job, though most assumed he'd been tasked with killing someone of great rank - but what was sure is he'd gone into hiding with all the heat on him.

Alaric was past intrigued with this legend, he was enamored with it. If the legend held its weight, then he'd be a great asset to Alaric's plans and he was sure he could offer something that'd make the man perk up.

Alaric was accustomed to bustling cobblestone streets back in Heuldrik, one of the main cities in which he had been raised. However, in this miserable town, only dirt paths were available to be trodden on, and the few residents who walked the paths walked with slow, cautious steps, their eyes constantly scanning for trouble and prey alike. It wasn't surprising that merchants gave this town a wide berth.