Keep your Humanity Petir

A ruined Castle in the eye of a storm, dark clouds swirling above while sickening green bolts of lightning strike anything which dares reach for the heavens. The landscape is rotten and desolate, anything which once had any life flowing through it has long since forgotten the meaning of it. Despite it all, there is one man fighting against the curse that befell this land.

Petir is moving towards the keep, wiping away the blood of lesser undead from his weapons. He moves past a black Iron gate, further into the territory of the Castle’s Lord. His ear perks up, he readies his weapons. All around him, undead rise from the ground once again, and yet none of them seem to attack him. They observe him, studying his every detail, until one of them breaks the silence between them.

“Welcome hunter. We both know that they do not pose a threat to you. Step forwards, and proceed into the throne room. I will face you there personally” A deep, booming voice emits from one of the ghouls facing Petir, its eyes glowing in a similar colour to that of the lightning above. Petir keeps his weapons at his side, eying the horde around him. They don’t move, and simply continue to watch him. With a shrug, he takes a few steps towards the castle, but comes to a stop again. He turns around, places one hand on the speaker’s head, and cuts through its neck with the other.

Holding out the head in front of him, he now marches into the grand hall before him. Though its exterior looked to be broken and overgrown, it seems to be a lavish mansion from the inside. There are countless doors on either side, leading to various smaller rooms, and carpeted stairs leading up to a second floor with just as many pathways. Pressing on, he asks one thing of the head: “Which way?”

It stays silent, though the same green glow within its eyes remains. Letting out a sigh of frustration, he shakes the ghoul’s head for a while before repeating his question with a sterner tone: “Which. Way.”

The head answers, though reluctantly it seems: “Up the stairs, go down the hallway on the right.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard.” He says, clearly joking, yet keeping the same expressionless face and tone as before. Following his guide’s instructions, Petir ventures to the second floor and follows the path down the hall, but not before dropping the head to the floor. He continually kicks it further and further down the corridor. Eventually, it seems to snap a piece of string connected to a trap, and yet it doesn’t activate.

“Your mistrust is understandable, hunter, but you need remember that it was I who informed you of my presence. Have I not made it clear enough that what I desire is an honourable duel on even ground?”

The head proclaims, being interrupted time after time as it’s kicked further down the path. Petir eventually responds: “That’s what you said, yeah, but I’ve found it to be a bad choice to trust the thing you’re hunting”

Shortly after, the head stops against a large, stone door. The head claims that they’ve reached their destination. Petir kicks the door open with a single blow, and is met with a luxurious throne room, decorated with various weapons and armours from the finest smiths in the lands. On the far side of the hall, atop a throne made entirely from the dominant hands of every duelist who ever dared cross paths with the castle’s lord.

Sitting atop the throne is a warrior clad in armour made of black steel, a myriad of scars from centuries of warfare cover the plates, laying atop decaying flesh. His face is rotten, his eyes are gone, replaced with a malevolent light within their sockets. The skin of his cheeks has already fallen, now displaying the stringy muscles underneath, and serving as windows into the undead lord’s maw. He leans forward, and beckons Petir to approach.

Petir acknowledges his request, and yet smears a drop of his own blood on the ghouls head, before throwing it into the throne room. Immediately, a wave of blades and spears emerge, eviscerating what flesh was left of the ghoul. Petir simply looks towards the Lord, who is laughing quietly to himself: “It was but a test of your intellect. It is one of your more famed features, afterall” With a flick of his wrist, the blades retract to clear a path for the Elven warrior, who approaches the undead, clenching his blades tighter than before.

“Is this all you’re after? I’ve faced your hordes, solved your riddles, and passed your poor excuse of a test. I mean, who do you think would fall for that? A lich using only a single trap, a mechanical one on top of that.”

“You’d be surprised by the amount of overzealous fools who’ve fallen for it. For what it’s worth, I am glad. Fights with children relying purely on their brute strength bore me. All I wanted was to prove you’re worth facing. That you may have a chance at defeating me.” Petir’s opponent lifts himself from his throne, thunder roaring outside as the storm worsens. They lock eyes, as they march towards one another. Petir’s blades flare up with lightning, coursing along its edges as he says:

“So what, you learned the secret to lichdom all to find a guy who can beat your ass?”

The Warrior draws his sword, shadows emanating from it, before stating: “I am Roarak, true servant of the Veiled Tyrant, gifted with undeath to continue my worship-”

Petir wastes no time, lunging forward with his dual blades whirling in a deadly dance. The chains connecting them at their hilts spin and clank, creating a mesmerising display of agility and precision. The lightning imbued into his weapons adds a devastating might to his blows.

Roarak parries Petir’s initial onslaught with expert skill, his longsword meeting the elf’s blades with a clang of steel. Despite being undead, Roarak moves with an unnatural grace and speed, his eyes burning brighter than before. Petir takes a step back and raises a fist towards the sky, yelling loudly as a blinding light emanates from it.

Petir moves in for a strong decisive blow before the spell wears off, aiming for the Undead’s neck. Once the light clears from the room, Petir sees his opponent gripping his blade. The Lich seems to be examining the quality of the sword. Swinging at him as he steps back, Petir takes a second to reconsider his approach.

“Impressive weapons, perfectly matching your skill with them. A decent grasp on magic as well, though its usage could be improved. Do you have the slightest clue how many have tried similar tactics? Now, take your time, come up with another plan. Show me your best strategy.”

The two circle one another, Petir’s mind racing to come up with the best possible approach. Petir sharpens his focus and reignites his blades as he charges toward the Lich. Suddenly, he brakes off his attack, feinting to the left before quickly switching direction and slashing at Roarak’s exposed side. The lightning-imbued blades cut through the undead warrior’s defences, drawing a hiss of pain.

Roarak retaliates with a powerful swing of his sword, fueled by necromantic magic. The blade slices through the air, draining a portion of Petir’s vitality with each strike. Petir grimaces, feeling the cold grip of death trying to take hold of him. A terrible sense of dread washes over him whenever the blade is close to him.

The battle continues, the clash of blades echoing through the corridors. Petir’s clothes are torn, and wounds cover his body. Roarak’s longsword has cut through his defences multiple times, leaving deep gashes that ooze blood. Despite the pain, Petir fights on, utilising every trick in his arsenal to gain an advantage.

In a desperate move, Petir wraps his chains around Roarak’s longsword, trying to disarm him. Roarak growls, using his own strength to resist, but Petir doesn’t relent. He pulls hard on the chains, trying to wrench the longsword from the Lich’s grip.

Roarak snarls, his free hand glowing with necromantic energy. He unleashes a blast of dark magic, aimed straight at Petir’s chest. Petir barely manages to dodge in time, but the blast grazed his shoulder, searing his flesh.
And yet, the pain only fuels his determination. With a primal roar, he yanks on the chains with all his might, pulling Roarak’s longsword free from his grasp. In one swift motion, Petir swings both his blades towards Roarak, the lightning and blood magic pulsing through them.

Before the blades connect, Roarak retaliates with a swift kick, sending Petir crashing into and through a wall, finding himself in a Library. Petir groans, struggling to regain his footing as Roarak closes in, his longsword glowing with necromantic energy.

“What’s wrong hunter? Have you reached your limit? And I expected so much greater from someone with your blood. But if that’s all you’ve got to offer, I shouldn’t dare drag it out any longer”

Roarak’s blade slams into the ground, sending dark tendrils of magic crackling through the stone. Petir just barely manages to roll out of the way, and retaliates with a desperate strike, channelling his blood into his weapons, they break through the warriors armour and tear into his flesh. But it isn’t enough.

Roarak’s resilience is astounding, and he counters with a strike straight into the elf’s gut, catching Petir off guard. Blood pours from previously opened wounds, staining his clothes crimson. He stumbles back, his vision blurry. Even worse, he begins to feel the aftereffects of his concoctions. This needs to end soon.

Petir spins his blades around him, rushing towards Roarak once more. The electricity radiating from his weapons sets the library ablaze. This time, he’ll give him no opening, no chance to breathe no matter what. The two warriors meet in a clash of steel and magic, their weapons merely a blur of motion as they fight with unwavering determination. In the midst of their fight, Roarak lunges towards Petir, slicing straight into his stomach.

Petir ignores the pain, and hurls his face toward that of the Lich. The blood pouring from his broken nose seeps into Roaraks wounds, forcing a searing brand to appear upon his skin. The Undead pushes Petir away from him, pulling his sword back for a final blow, yet his legs fail him. Petir smirks, the curse worked.

Petir strikes his opponent relentlessly, putting his full might into each and every attack. Roarak is left with no time to retaliate, all he can do is block the attacks raining down on him. Petir eventually manages to break the Lich’s guard, putting his full weight into the final blow; a crimson trail follows the blades as they drive through Roarak’s skull. Petir takes deep, rapid breaths, taking a moment to calm down from this confrontation. He props his foot against the Warrior’s kneeling corpse, prying it off of his blades.

Sheathing his weapons, he begins stumbling towards the exit of the keep, running into just about every bit of furniture decorating the castle’s halls. He leaves a dark, red trail behind him, as the blood doesn’t seem to stop leaving his body. His breaths are weak, If he breathes in too much, he can feel his lungs poking against his broken ribs. Slowly, he pulls himself onwards, and just as the gate leading out is in view, his vision begins to fade away, and his body falls to the ground.

When his consciousness returns to him, he finds himself in an unfamiliar environment. He hears the calm voice of a young man, one he’s familiar with:
“Don’t move too much just yet, the apothecaries said it was a miracle you survived. You have twenty eight lacerations and seventeen broken bones, and that’s after the healers worked their magic on you”

Petir, lying flat against the bed he’s found himself in, turns towards his former apprentice. “If you were following me Vadryn, I would’ve greatly appreciated the help” He coughs, grimacing in pain as he attempts to ease his breathing once again.

“I was looking for you, for a while now too, but I found you as soon as I could’ve. You think I’ll waste even a second if I hear rumours about a half-faced hunter hurling himself towards the most dangerous threat in the area?

Following a moment of quiet, they both share a short laugh under their breath. Soon after though, Vadryn returns to a serious tone, telling Petir: “I won’t beat around the bush too long, I’ve been meaning to ask something of you”

Petir pulls himself up to sit against the wall, clenching his teeth. Vadryn waited for him to be ready before continuing: “Our order, or what remains of it, needs a new leader. I know this isn’t something you want to take on, but I can’t come up with anyone else who could fit into that role.”

“The way I see it, they’ve already got a pretty good one. You went out of your way to ensure the order’s future, you clearly care for it. You’ve got a good head, and a willingness to reflect and improve. More than anything else, you’ve kept a lot of your humanity despite the augmentations.” Petir states plainly. Vadryn looks unsure, and seems like he’s about to refute Petir’s points.

Petir interrupts him: “Just look at me, Vadryn. I’m reckless, rude and anything but social. I’m good on my own, but leading people just isn’t one of my strengths. Hell, I can’t stand being around most of them anyways. What remains of our order will be in a pretty similar state to the one I’m in if I lead. Now accept the kind things I said of you and accept that you’re the only person who can take that responsibility.”

Vadryn wants to respond again, but Petir silences him with a flick of his wrist. He understands there’s no point trying to argue with his former teacher anymore. Vadryn stands up, and heads towards the room’s door. He looks back one more time, saying: “I’ll see what I can do. Good luck.” As he gently closes the door behind him. Petir sighs in relief, finally having some time for himself again. He closes his eyes, and tries to continue his rest.

He remains in the village for another week, making sure he’s healed enough to make it on the road by himself again. He finds himself atop a cliff close to town, with a good overview of the area, thinking about where the road will take him next.