#breakingbridges

Rains and local terrors had brought the brave, the scared, and the desperate to the local tavern. The feint echoing chorus of chattering voices filled the air. A constant static, whispered gossip, the buzz of alcohol tickling cheeks and conversations alike. Or it was safe to likely assume, as they cared not for the chatter, refusing to focus on any of it, and thus no words were shaped. Mouths moved across the room, indistinct faces producing the sounds of humanity with a subtle mixture of insects humming. Crickets, a few confused cicadas, the looming presence of night attempting to creep in. A deafening silence, as the room turned upon them, staring. Each face blank, features, clothes, heights, gender, all were lost, but the collective thought, the single question ringing from them all. “But where were you?”

A blink. The room corrected itself, the static of shared drinks and meals resuming. An odd familiarity restored. They knew this place, they knew sounds of wooden chairs and stools dragging on the floor, of mugs clunking against each other or tabletops, the warmth of a fire in the corner meant to help with the cold of the rains and night, to light a path for the fearful. The slight smell of coffee wafting from the mug clutched in their hands, fingers gently tapping against the side of it. But where were they? They were sitting at a table, against the wall, close enough to the fire to hear it, but more importantly, where they could see the door, and the bar. No, not the bar in particular, but the entry to the kitchen. The coming and going of staff, and orders. They had been there for awhile, the weight of time hanging loosely in the back of their mind in the way that it might in dreams. The moment only feeling as if a minute, but the certain knowledge that it had been long enough for the warmth of their coffee to have long faded, and that while they weren’t likely to be chased off, they were on the boarder of an overstayed welcome. Anxious finger tapping. Had it always been a habit? Or did it simply fit their mood? The consideration slowly pulled at their eyes. Staring down into the mug, the reflection of all too known eyes. The white glow piercing and unnaturally still atop the surface of the fluid. Known but alien. The chirping of crickets creeped into the room again, an almost painfully loud cacophony as it pressed in closer and overwhelmed. A ripple of movement hit the coffee, the reflection of their eyes shimmering against the liquid, distorting til it looked as if the night sky full of stars had poured into the mug instead. Somehow, it felt more natural than seeing their own eyes. The whole room pressed its attention to them again. The cries of false insect chatter vibrating directly against their horns ears before the silence consumed them. “False. Why were you?”

Another blink. A soft reset. The reflection in their coffee now showed eyes of soft gold before quickly tearing away at the sound of foot steps. Plates of food were being taken to a larger table nearby. Hunters. It was the only term that truly came to mind when gazing on the collection of individuals, armor and weapons scattered about them to mark them as such. The scent of seared meat, of fresh bread, of grilled vegetables, all drifted towards them. Or perhaps a trick of the mind, the concept of food enough to imagine it, to remind them of a hunger burning in their stomach. As they stared out, they remembered having collected coin through pity, not enough for lodging, not enough for a meal. The itch of recollection continued to pull at them, that they were tired and wary, that the scraps of bread they had managed to get with their mug of coffee didn’t even make an effort to hold them over, but instead teased their hunger. Deep consideration blocked out most other thoughts as they began to salivate staring at the other table’s plates of food. They knew they could not simply ask for any of it, and to ask to join the cause of hunters would either get them laughed at or worse accepted for a cause that would surely be their end. It was odd to have a fear of death writhe inside their mind. As odd as it was also natural to feel their hunger in their stomach, acid clawing away from within. It ate away at them. There was always a fear of being lead by their hunger, and the consequences it might bring. Their vision of the room dimmed, the movement and chatter of the room halting all together. Grey, dimmed, paused, all hung heavy. Yet they couldn’t stop moving their gaze to what they had known to be the plate of bread crumbs that remained on their table. Instead they were met with meat. Flesh and bone. The face of a man, eyes clawed out, mouth agape in pure horror. Partly plucked for sustenance, partly crushed. Red poured out, bones exposed and piercing into what remained of their innards. It would not appease their hunger, but part of them still wanted to reach for it. Their hands felt wet. The rest of the room faded, the sight of an all consuming void focusing on them. “Later. What were you?”

Another blink. A soft reset. A gentle skip. Their focus was still held by the plates of food presented to the table of hunters, even as they began to dig in. They couldn’t recall the last time they had had a full meal. Hunger and fear lead them to a conclusion, and a decision. There was no point in staring at food they would not be invited to eat, but perhaps, if they were to excuse themself and stumble through, they could trip and misplaced hands could knock the food upon the floor. While it was likely to get them a kick, at least they would have more than bread. As they found their resolution and stood up, a hand found their shoulder. The first face that had any features to it, yet it was like staring through frosted glass. Their mind didn’t want to hold them together. He was tall, and they felt warmth from him, but perhaps that was the golden nature of his skin and smile. Dark hair, loose. Muddled, dark eyes that theirs couldn’t seem to meet. “Careful now. You don’t want what they have.” His voice poured out, and it soothed and ached them like stumbling on a lost treasure. The kind that hurts, but you can’t help but never replace. “If I can see it from the look in your eyes, it won’t be a convincing show. But why don’t you sit at my table, reconsider it with a bowl of stew?” They opened their mouth, knowing words had come out, but all was ash on their tongue. Tasteless, empty, burnt and spent. The shape of their mouth was wrong, the way their tongue rolled with the words was foreign. But the man seemed pleased with whatever answer had escaped them. “What’s your name friend? So I can introduce you to the table.” And again, they opened their mouth, knowing words were meant to come out. An old exchange lost to time and their mind. As their mouth opened, it opened wide, their skin cracking open. Light, pure and brilliant, cold and empty. Skin flaked off, and the light continued to burst its way out of them, filling the room with blinding white. It streamed from their eyes, and pooled from their mouth, it burned off their flesh. They felt bones forming, rippling against their back as they tried to pierce their way out.  And just as the room had filled with their light, just as they felt their skin would give to this new form entirely, they felt the hand on their shoulder tightened, and the sharp pain of a knife thrust into their chest pierced through it all. They looked down, shock and confusion, silence clinging to the pair. The new found wound dripped with pitch, with ichor, with shadows and void. All they could do was stare as the light gave way to darkness.