Chasing Eden in the Nocturne Cage [Obi]

[eVeryoNe-wIll-sUffer-noW]

He wondered how long it'd been since he'd been on even footing. The path was days- weeks?- behind him now, and his bare feet, the soles wrapped in strips of cloth, were raw and sore. He tugged his brother's heavy coat tighter around himself and pushed up the sleeves to pull himself over a fallen tree. The extra material of his oversized pants snagged over the bark, but it was the too-large white peasant-shirt that caught on a knot in the trunk and made him lose his balance, toppling him into the dirt on the other side. The boy sighed softly and pulled himself up, brushing as much of the mud and grit off his filthy clothing as possible and shaking out his dirty mane of champagne curls before moving on, pulling a twig out of the tangled pale gold and tossing it aside. Pulling his sleeves back down over his pale arms, he squirmed through a collection of brambles and half-stumbled half-slid down a muddy slope, throwing his arms up as the heavy canopy cleared above him and spouted a shower of sunshine into his eyes.

[Obelisk]

There were many thing in life that Sighard regretted, or Gareth, rather, as was the name he had adopted. This latest bungle of his was just an addition to that ever-growing list. Gareth, being something of a freelancer now, had chosen to put his skills in battle to use through a different outlet. Who was once a knight was now a mercenary, accepting the odd job here and there, tracking down bounties on monsters and what not.

His latest endeavor was to eradicate a small group of goblin-like creatures that had taken up residence in the forest. Goblin-like because they weren't actually goblins. Uglier and a little more intelligent, though that wasn't saying much. He went into the fight confident and had tracked them down easily. Goblins and those like them were messy creatures, leaving a trail that was impossible to miss by a trained eye.

Confidence, or over-confidence, had been his sin of the day. He'd grown careless during the slaughter and had missed one of the creatures lurking in the undergrowth. The bastard had dug a jagged, poorly-crafted knife into the bounty-hunter's thigh. The tool had broken off by the hilt and the blade was still lodged within his flesh. The weapon was undoubtedly laced with some manner of poison -- hydra venom, Gareth had guessed due to the familiar feeling.

His muscled burned and he felt impossibly heavy. The man's breathing was hoarse, the poison hindering his lungs ability to function. It was a mild case of venom, Gareth had survived worse. The man, dressed in leather armor, a green cloak, and shin-high boots, was leaning against an old, decaying tree. Around him were the bodies of the not-goblins he'd recently dispatched. The foul smell of their blood permeated the air and Gareth knew that it would attract other creatures. If he hadn't killed all of the humanoid monsters, and they arrived to see the slaughter he'd dished out, Gareth knew he would have a struggle on his hands.

He grabbed his sword, grip tight around the familiar hilt of it, and stared forward. His vision was blurry, his hearing off. The dull throb in his thigh started to burn and Gareth started to consider the possibility that this was his fate -- to die in some forest betwixt here and nowhere at all, surrounded by the stench-ridden corpses of goblins.

Not the kind of honored death the once-knight had dreamed of, sufficed to say.

[eVeryoNe-wIll-sUffer-noW]

He stumbled down another slight incline, felt his foot catch on a root, and crumpled, tumbling haphazardly the rest of the way down and lurching to an awkward halt against something heavy and slightly malleable. Drawing his arms from his face, h looked over and came face-to-shattered-skullcap with some manner of dead creature. With a sharp, breathless gasp, he jerked away, scrambling back until his back hit a tree and he found himself staring at an open clearing filled with bodies of slain gremlin-like animals. No, not entirely slain, and not entirely the ugly little creatures. A human- a man- stood propped against a trunk across from him, bloody, head drooping, sword dangling dangerously from one hand, but possibly still alive. Slowly, quietly, the small boy pushed himself up and crept forward nervously, stepping carefully over the fallen bodies until he paused a bare few feet from the man. Lowering himself to a crouch he edged forward, peering up at the shield of heavy dark hair covering his eyes and much of his face through his own pale curls. He was breathing, but appeared unconscious from what the boy could tell, and after further examination, he discovered an ugly gash on his thigh. Cringing sympathetically, he reached out and gingerly traced the outline of the cut, brows furrowed and lips pouting with pity.