Reveries: Concoctions Of A Teenage Boy Who Doesn't Know Jack Shit.

A Town Called Truth

Arthur walked. Walked and walked, just as he had for the past three weeks across the red, rocky desert to no avail. He wore a rough canvas poncho, underneath it a shirt that was the no-colour of dust or rain, and a hide water skin was slung around his middle. It was almost empty. Below the water skin were his guns, carefully weighted to his hands; a plate had been added to each when they had come from his father, who was lighter and thinner and older. The two belts were crisscrossed above his crotch, and the holsters were oiled to deeply even for this Philistine sun to crack. The stocks of the guns were sandalwood, yellow and finely grained. They swung a bit with his steps, and they had both gradually worn away the bluing of his jeans. Arthur carried a mighty chrome sword, the flat-side resting on his shoulder like a baseball bat. It was a marvel, at least 4 3/4 ft long and beautifully shiny and ornate, with flowing patterns etched firmly into the chrome metal that never seemed to tire or accumulate any dirt. Arthur was extremely proud of his sword, and he favoured it over the long, heavy ancient guns given to him by his Elder. He guarded this knowledge jealously, as if  revealing it to anyone in Gilead would give them cause to doubt where his loyalties lie.

On his seemingly endless, albeit fruitless search Arthur found, to his bewilderment, a town in the distance, it was one of a few buildings, seemingly deserted, and only the distant sound of a honky-tonk piano playing Hey Jude saved him from wondering whether Al'Ahmar had raised ghosts to inhabit a deserted town. He smiled a little at the thought. Arthur's subconscious want of food, water and a bed to rest in gave him incentive to quicken his pace along the tired coach road that led to the ghost town. He renounced these feelings, for the Knights of Gilead had taught him better – that all Knights should face The Dark alone, without thought for themselves.

He arrived at the town in the dead of night, which a withered sign said was called Truth.

'Strange name for a town'

He thought. It didn't matter; the world had moved on, it didn't care, why should he?

The town was desolate; abandoned, save for a few barflies and their mistresses, a pianist, a cook, a barmaid, and three children, mutilated by the desert. All the adults were in the bar, with the children loitering outside. Arthur walked in and was instantly subject to a torrent of slurred inquired as to why he had arrived so abruptly, and why he carried a mighty sword, but wore no scabbard? Arthur didn't care for their comments, or them; to him they were as fleeting as shadows in a fog. He drove his sword into the floorboards, sat, and asked the barmaid for a hamburger and a beer. "Threaded stock, but the meat's dear" the barmaid muttered. "I figured" Arthur replied. Meat was hard to come by in the desert, much due to the fact that there weren't many living things to start with.

The hamburger arrived, and the smell was abhorrent.

'Threaded stock my ass' He thought.

'Any bread?'

'No bread' The waitress said. He knew she was lying, but she also knew why, so he didn't push it.

He ate anyway, trying not to think about what ungodly animal the meat had come from, probably something with eight eyes and the same amount of legs. One of the barflies stumbled over to where he sat and eyed the hamburger longingly.

'Sit down.'

Arthur grunted, and the barfly obeyed and stumbled back to his seat. As he ate, he glanced in his direction. There was something unrelentingly dreadful  about his face - he was losing hair, his eyes were sunken, dull and red, and the flesh of the rims was dark purple and cracked. His mouth was ungodly; the rotten flesh at either end was split all the way up to his ears, giving him a kind of false smile, and his teeth were crumbling and yellow-green. Arthur thought 'He's actually chewing the weed! He's not even smoking it!' And on the heels of that -

'He's a dead man, he should've been dead a year ago'

And on the heels of that -

'Al'Ahmar did this'

The barfly stood, cocked his head, as if in curiosity, vomited, and his jaw snapped, along with his neck, and he collapsed. Everyone in the bar fled except Arthur.

The barfly suddenly arose, and addressed Arthur in the High Speech, a language only spoken by the Knights, which he hadn't heard since his childhood – "A gold coin for  a favour, swordslinger-sai? Just one?" Bewildered, the swordslinger produced a gold coin from his pocket and handed it over to the barlfy, he eyed it, almost with suspicion, and howled. 'Behold me, Al'ahmar, and cower, for I am the Red, and the fire, and the pain! you do not know me yet, Arthur Eld, but you will."

with that, Arthur concluded that Al'ahmar had raised one demon at least, drew his sword from the ground, held it high, and swung it down onto the barfly's head. The blow was spectacular; it sent shards of bone and streams of blood in every direction. "Oh, please!" Arthur spat, "If you hadn't your Red, or fire, or pain... you'd serve me."