The Wanderer's Path: Return of the Beasts

Chapter 3

Dark thunderclouds had rolled over the mountain range Ellaniad and blanketed the sky above, hiding the sun’s final decent. Claps of thunder shook the ground as lightening pierced through the battering rain that soaked the earth underfoot. Reaper ignored the mud that splattered on his black cloak from the turn of the cart’s wheels. He knew the trolls would have stashed their raided goods somewhere, but to discover a cart filled with elven bowls and cups and other trinkets was more than he could have hoped for. He had even found a small, decorative elven hunting knife which he had excitedly claimed and slid into his boot. Haven’t owned a decent knife in decades, about time I found a new one.

With evening settling in and the storm ravaging the area, Reaper had considered resting for the night at the troll’s campsite, and continuing his journey in the morning, but the deaths of the young men from the village kept poking at him, just like the uncomfortable rock that insisted on digging into his back underneath his leather cuirass. They were fools one and all, but young fools, they probably tilled the lands to help ease the burden on their parents ageing bodies, an envious fate. He couldn’t rest with their deaths lingering on his conscience and Reaper decided to pull the cart all the way back to the village.

The goods would help their parents survive their later years without the help of their children, and there was even enough for the whole village to profit, if used wisely. Perhaps I can grant them what they wanted in the first place, money.

With the men’s final wishes held firmly in his heart, and thoughts of redemption at the forefront of his mind, Reaper heaved the overloaded cart up the muddy path as rain battered against him, washing the blood from his armour and hiding his sweat from the constant effort. Reaper lost track of time as he slugged on, passing familiar trees and painful hills before coming once again to the small village.

The bodies had been discovered and dragged away, and as Reaper walked down the small trail that led through the few huts he saw light coming from the familiar tavern. He had hoped to have bumped into someone in the village and leave the cart with them, but with not a soul in sight Reaper headed towards the glowing entrance of the tavern.

The wooden shack looked even more dilapidated in the night than it did during the day. Light from the hearth inside pierced through the multitude of random cracks in the walls, casting strange shadows of the surrounding area and judging by the sounds, rain leaked through the roof in steady streams of flowing water.

Leaving the cart outside covered in a large deer skin; Reaper slowly approached the doorway, and was greeted with a familiar, ear-piercing scream as he stepped into the room. At the bar stood the thick moustached bar tender, his pot belly hidden behind the bench, meanwhile, to his right, he noticed what seemed like the entire village huddled over the three small wooden tables, where the men had drank earlier in the day.

“What is it woman.” The bartender growled.

“Th… that’s the guy!” She stammered pointing at him. Reaper tried not to focus on her ample bosom that jiggled in her low cut apron, but he couldn’t help but notice them as the entire village turned to watch him. Great, so I’m a murderer and a pervert.  The bar tender squinted at him, his bushy eyebrows furrowed down, hiding his eyes within his chubby face. The glass he was filling began to overflow as recognition sunk in.

“Murderer!” A woman screamed from within the group of villages, inciting the riot of screams and abuse that followed. Shouts and anguished screams of pain and mourning filled the tavern as Reaper stood dumbly in the door, absorbing the accusations with a stoic, yet heavy heart. It was true, he was a murderer, a thief, a good for nothing loner that had done nothing with his life. He was just an animal who deserved to rot in the sewers of Denocropolis.