Threads of Vengeance

Interlude I

Pokha moved with purpose, his eyes never straying from his mark, a tall cloaked man. The mark was definitely rich. He had seen the fool pay with gold at the blacksmith's. It was carefully concealed in his palm, but Pokha's sharp eyes had caught the glint of gold as it exchanged hands. Very few things escaped Pokha's eyes. From what he had seen, it was kept in a black bag, hung around the man's waist.

Pokha waited the cloaked man stopped at a crowded fruit stall and walked up next to him. He grabbed a mango

“How much for ten?” he asked the boy taking care of the stall.

“Two coppers,” answered the boy.

“Daarva's bloody breath! Are you trying to pauper me?” he yelled, feigning outrage.

The boy looked surprised. “B-but it's the cheapest around,” he stuttered.

Pokha puffed up his face and threw the fruit, “You can bloody shove it up your ass. This is more expensive than a horse!” The fruit hit another customer who glared at him and grabbed a fruit. When the fruit came flying at him, he ducked behind the cloaked man, a blade flashed for a second and disappeared into his sleeve. The black pouch fell into his nimble hands. He grinned and elbowed his way through the angry crowd that had formed around the stall. An apple sailed over his head. He caught it and ran.

There was a roar behind him. He turned to see the cloaked man chasing after him. He slipped into an alley and made his way through the familiar routes he had acquainted himself with over the course of years he had lived on the streets. The cloaked man followed close on his heels, his cloak flapping behind him in a ridiculous manner. Pokha tripped and slid along the ground. His mark loomed up behind him.

“Gotcha, ya dirty 'lil basterd,” he grinned, and pulled out a dagger. “Imma skin ya alive.”

Out of desperation, Pokha threw whatever he had in his hand. It turned out to be the apple he had picked up earlier. He scrambled up and let loose a kick between the man's legs. Then he spun around a corner and ran without looking back. Eventually made his way in a long circle back to the main street.

With the ease of practice, he mixed with the crowd, and after making sure the man wasn't around, he slipped through an alley and made his way to the corner where he lived. It was a small space that was sheltered from the elements by three overlapping roofs. It wasn't much, but it kept the wind out and his clothes dry. That was enough.

He pulled out the bag he had stolen and turned it upside down, expecting a rush of gold to fall down. What came down instead was a clear crystal stone. He groaned. All that trouble and he'd taken the wrong bag! He picked up the stone, with the intention of smashing it on the ground, but at his touch it glowed faintly. He stared at it, then he pinched himself and stared at it again. It still glowed.

“Daarva's breath,” he whispered in awe.

He had never seen one before, but he had heard tales of it before. Evil villains unleashing devastating powers upon the world and great heroes using it to stop them. Countless possibilities ran through his mind.

He could sell it and make enough money for seven lifetimes or perhaps he could use it and become a great hero. No, better yet, he would use it and steal from nobles. He would make enough money to last him seven lives! He wondered what power he would get. From the stories, he knew that it varied from person to person.

He gazed at it, deep in thought. He placed it on the palm of his hand.

“Give me power!” he announced. It simply stayed there, unmoving and ever so slightly, glowing.

He swung it around. Nothing. He tried rubbing it, kissing it, begging it and even attempted eating it. Apart from nearly breaking his teeth, nothing happened. It was pitch dark by the time he gave up. The crystal glowed an eerie pink. He took the crystal and popped it inside his shirt. Hugging himself tightly, he curled up in his corner, determined to try again in the morning.

Pokha's dreams of riches and fame was interrupted by a pain in his stomach. He looked down to see the source of the pain. The crystal he had kept in his shirt was glowing brighter than it ever had. It was also ridiculously hot. Maybe it heats up if you held it for long periods of time he reasoned.

He brought it out, grimacing as the heat slightly burnt his hand. Suddenly his skin broke open and the crystal started sinking into him. He grinned, so this was how it worked. He wondered what kind of power he would be able to wield. Wind? Or perhaps Fire?

The grit his teeth and watched the stone sink into his flesh. It went fully inside and then the skin sealed cleanly. He felt the stone changing it's shape inside and then, he felt it growing inside. From his arm, it slowly crawled up to his neck and then down to the rest of his body.

He tried to move his fingers, but they refused to move. He tried to walk, but his feet refused to listen. Slowly it moved up his neck towards his head. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. It crawled up and a sharp unbearable pain came from his head. Then, his thoughts died.

His expression changed as though he had suddenly forgotten how to control his face, or any other part of his body. The body, that once belonged to a boy named Pokha moved slowly, following a smell of blood. The smell led it to a man collapsed outside the alley, more likely drunk than not.

Pokha's arm turned into a spike and pierced the man's chest. The victim yelled in pain. A red tentacle came out and entered the wound of the man. Pokha's body collapsed into a lifeless heap and the man stood up, his expression something inhuman. The wound on his chest slowly healed.