The Revenant sprinted across the plains and roads. He did not eat or sleep or rest. The towns and villages he passed through would often remark about the black-cloaked stranger with a veil over his face.
“Did you see his sword?”
“Which one?”
“He had more than one?”
“Yes, a great, big one on his back, and one strapped to his side!”
“He was tall too, taller than a horse!”
“I heard the guards tried to chase him down, but after an hour the horses were too winded to continue!”
“Strange times we live in, strange times.”
The Bel’Tasq paid them no mind. Something was drawing him west, further west, and he traveled on. He felt the sun rising, scorching his back in the morning, searing across the sky before it set, then blazing into his veiled eyes as it dipped and sank below the horizon. He paid no heed to the twinkling of the stars overhead, nor the bright moon as it lit his path in silver and shadow. He ran on and on, west, further west. He did not eat, or drink, nor slept.
It was when he neared a town based at the foot of the mountains that he slowed. It’s walls were half in ruin, half in use. Not wanting to argue with the city guards, he found a suitable crack, waiting for the guards to pass by, and slipped inside the town.
He wandered the streets then, smelling the rancid refuse pooling in the gutters, burnt tallow and wax, alcohol and urine. First he went left, then right, then veered right again, unconcerned to the direction he was going, but slowly feeling out the edges of his sensations, that hook around his navel that pulled into the sky when he died, now drawing near and more near to his charge.
He did not know when he grasped his claymore, he only knew that he drew it when he heard it rattle out of its sheath and he felt its heft and weight in his hands. Commoners dressed in threadbare rags saw him draw his weapon and scattered. His hulking steps drew him further down the street.
“GUARDS!” shouted a voice to his left. The Revenant spun on his heel, kissed his blade through his veil, and took a running leap, crashing through the window of a tavern. Screams and shouts filled the room. Cloaked men with drawn swords spun to face him. He towered, far, far above them.
Smiling behind his veil, he drew his claymore back and took one mighty, giant swing.
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