#retson

Hoyt had spent two hours cooped up in what used to be a merchant’s flyut, sandwiched between a norn that wouldn’t stop biting her nails and a charr that had no concept of bathing. Those two continuous hours had been some of the longest he could recall in his many years of life.

But they paid off.

A throat cleared from behind the counter in front of him, and Hoyt had nearly somersaulted forward when his name was called, prefixed though it was with “mister.” It put a burr in his beard to be called by anything remotely official, but, he wasn’t about to reprimand the chocolate-skinned asura that stared up at him from her seat and ushered him into the door that he had seen so many people go in through but so few people leave. If he did, he might have to go to the back of the line-- worse, he might get booted out.

With heavy step he pushed his way through the old green door, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the bright glow of the great asuran holoprojector that dominated the center of the room beyond. It was detailed in gold and exquisitely carved from black stone that seemed to drink up as much of the glittering green light as it could. But it didn’t drink up enough; Hoyt could still make out the finely dressed, flat features of the room’s only other occupant, a Krytan man with thinning hair and an expensive monocle.

“Please state your name for the record,” the man sniffed, lifting up a violently pink feather and dipping it in red ink.

“Hoyt Retson,” said Hoyt.

“What is your purpose for contacting us?” asked the monocled fellow as he scribbled in Hoyt’s name.

“Posting a bounty,” Hoyt said, sticking a thumb in his belt as his other hand dug into a pocket.

The man scribbled nothing, probably because that was what almost everyone did when they came into the room. “Do you represent a law agency under the authority of a sovereign state?”

Hoyt shook his head. “Nope.”

An ‘X’ was scribbled. “Is your target a ranking member of any military, criminal, scholarly or educational organization?”

“They’re a cutthroat and a murderer that sometimes kills for pay.” Hoyt jutted his bearded chin out as his hand found what it was looking for.

“Yet,” asked the man, raising a finger, “not affiliated with any mercenary company or warband?”

“Not anymore,” said Hoyt.

"Are you looking to hire a specific individual?” asked the Krytan, scribbling away. Hoyt grimaced and shook his head; he couldn’t trust that just one son of a bitch with fancy magic and a knife could do the job, no. He was paying good money, mildly honest money, and he wanted results.

“The bounty’s open to any bastard that can take it,” said Hoyt, pulling a fistful of gems and Elonan jewelry from his pocket, enough to make the man with the quill adjust his monocle and lean forward in obvious interest. “I don’t care who, or how, just that he’s dead.”

“I see... at this point, I would normally ask for the bounty payment plus the handling fee, but I see you can provide both and then some.” The fellow re-inked his quill and continued to write as he spoke. “All guilds, companies and freelancers will be notified, as will any other individuals and organizations we see fit. We will contact you, of course, once the contract is settled... all I need is a name, and, if applicable, a relation to the target on the part of the poster. You know-- to stir up interest.”

“A relation,” sneered Hoyt, thumbing his nose as he walked forward and set the riches down onto the projector, where little metal arms sprung forth and began to snatch it all away, “Oh, he’s a relation alright. The mark’s name is James Retson, my good-for-nothin’ nephew, and I want his fuckin’ head on a spit.”

((Enough is enough and the long-awaited day is at hand. Contact me on discord @313_Revenant#0984 to get in on a bloody, brutal and hopefully satisfying Discord (I can’t do in-game, my shit’s broken) scene in which James Retson is cornered and killed. If nothing happens by next Friday, you will see what becomes of him. I’m dead ass serious this time. If tagged let your boy know if you’re down or not and hit up relevant people that aren’t cunts, you know who.

Boot met door and the dark farmhouse was suddenly illuminated by the raging fires outside. A pair of screams sounded off from inside; the wife recoiling with her child, the husband charging forward with his grandfather’s sword.

Retson leaned to the side, curling his lip beneath his mask as he viciously punched the man’s outstretched arm aside, sending the sword point into the door. A gagging noise followed as he grabbed the farmer by the throat and, with strength given to him by his gauntlets and his elixir, hoisted him into the air, carrying him halfway across the den before slamming him into the table.

“You’ve been blindly supporting Jennah’s reign,” he said, casting his eyes to the woman and her daughter, both wide-eyed. “Your neighbors see wisdom, why don’t you?”

“We don’t have anything to do with it, we don’t support anyone, please, just let us be!”

“I’m told you’re withholding supplies and manpower. You’re clearly supporting someone.” Retson glanced to the feebly stirring patriarch. “Give what you’ve got to the cause and I’ll be on my way.”

“You’ve already torched the village! We have nothing to give!”

“I’m much more reasonable than the White Mantle proper, believe me. Hand it over.”

The mother’s reply was cut short by a roar of fire from the closet: a streak of magma and flames struck Retson squarely upon his chest, knocking him back into the wall and setting the rug aflame. From the closet stepped a girl of no older than fifteen, with a makeshift scepter clutched in her hand and motes of fire swirling ‘round her hands.

“Clarine, no, no no no, stop, what’re you doing?” cried the mother, in hysterics. Her daughter charged another bolt, fury in her eyes, as Retson shifted to the side from where he sat slumped against the wall.

“Stopping this. It’s not right. They’re monsters, they’re--”

Shots rang out as Retson pulled and emptied his gun in the span of two seconds, blasting bloody holes into the girl’s chest and sending her staggering into the closet, painting the wood red. The mercenary pushed himself upright with an angered grunt, and took in the horrified scream of the mother, the heartbroken cry of the now kneeling father.

A wet crack cut through the noise as he slammed his boot into the man’s head, and another followed as he crushed throat and spine with one spiteful stomp. The mother had drawn a butter-knife, then, far beyond the point of screaming or speech, and half-hid her youngest daughter behind her. Retson drew his other gun, and put a singular, wall-splattering bullet between her eyes. As the child recoiled, he squeezed the trigger again, and the girl fell, redness spreading across her chest.

Sightless, staggered, he wandered the soul-wastes for an eternity. Black ectoplasm, ostensible blood, poured from his throat and flowed into his corpora through the hole in his chest. Nothing reached his ears but his own muffled footsteps. Nothing filled his nose and he hadn’t any urge to breathe to begin with. Blood and gunpowder on his tongue. Chill wind on his skin, in his bones.

The powers that be could not satisfyingly punish something without feeling nor coax such a savage entity into peaceful dissolution, but neither was he to be admitted into any sort of paradise. So it was that he was sent to a place without prey, without purpose, condemned to exist in perpetuity with nothing but the knowledge that this was his eternity.

In time, he would grow lesser, shedding the few scraps of humanity he had long since learned to bolt to his being and thoughts. In time, surely, he would finally collapse and dissolve into the void, one with the roiling Mists that extend into eternity. But until then, he lingered, a foul vestige of predatory instinct wandering to wander.

Perhaps he was called to give testimony.

Perhaps he was restored, if temporarily.

Perhaps some poor fool would call upon him, what was left of him, for power.

Perhaps the good people of Tyria would let him fade in indignity, content with letting such a wretchedly malicious being lie.

Whatever would happen to James Retson, it wasn’t what he deserved, because he undoubtedly deserved worse.

Retson beat back a gnarled branch as he trekked on through underbrush and shrub. Behind him, the dead-eyed, sweaty, pale-as-a-sheet new father of three dragged his feet and didn’t mind that the branches and leaves struck at his face, at his sweat-soaked shirt. The massive, bloody sack he had hung over his shoulder didn’t mind either.

“Short hike up this hill,” said Retson, “no grass. No risk of flooding.”

His companion said nothing, and Retson simply pulled out a flask as he began working his way up the hill, steel-toed boots crunching on leaves and twigs.

“Nobody will find anything, unless they actively go looking. If you did all you said you did you ought to be fine.”

Still nothing. Retson took himself a drink and double-stepped his way over a thick, mossy rock.

“I don’t need to tell you what happens if you tell anyone about this, right?”

“No,” muttered his companion, turning his eyes aside. “I know.”

“Good. You don’t want to be visiting this place again, huh?”

Retson gave himself a small, cold smile and gestured, grandly, to the hilltop; rimmed by thick trees, covered in soft, loamy dirt. In said dirt was a deep, long hole and a worn, muddy shovel, stuck into the earth beside it. The man gave a small shudder when he laid eyes on the thing, and then, for the first time since Retson had been traveling with him, he almost ran towards the grave and fell to his knees, opening the bag

Retson took a long sip from his flask as he watched his companion pull out the limp, still-nightclothed body of a boy, no older than perhaps 10, whose face and upper skull were little more than an indescribable, gory mess. His brows rose and he made a sort of “huh!” face while he guzzled cider.

The man didn’t look at what was left of his son as he began to push him into the grave, and stopped when Retson made a noise of displeasure past the mouthful of apple.

“No, clothes off, they won’t decompose as fast.”

The man gave him a sort of incredulously hollow look and Retson just stared back, eyes glinting green in the setting sun. “Like I said, do you want to get caught, or not?”

The man made a small, pained noise in his throat as he stripped the body down and then, shaking, threw it into the hole, facedown. Retson slid his flask into his coat and grabbed the shovel, starting to fill the hole back in.

“Tell Vic your payment’s settled,” he said, once the boy’s form was fully dirt-covered. The man just stared at him, still on his knees.

“I didn’t pay you anything.”

“This one is a charity deal, if you tell me why.”

“Why?”

Retson gestured in a little circle with the muddy head of the shovel. “Why.”

“I didn’t mean to.... I just...” the man turned from a sickly tint of pale to a sickly tint of green. “He was being... loud...”

“Who saw?”

“Nobody-- nobody saw.”

“You had a few smaller ones, I’m told.”

“No. No, they didn’t see.”

“You better hope they didn’t. Kids remember. That shit...” Retson gestured at the grave. “This shit. It sticks with them. Sometimes they just don’t know it. Sometimes they fixate on it.”

“Have you... do you have a...”

“No, Grenth no, I don’t have any.”

“But have you ever... done... I mean, buried--”

“Would you like for this to be a for-profit charity deal?”