Romulus peered out over the lake, a ghostly fog crawled over its still surface. A crow cawed from the tops of the sparse woodlands at the water’s edge. Several old watchtowers from the Avarric Wars sat in ruins at the other side of the lake, one partially collapsed into the water. Dusk was falling—the ritual was to commence shortly.

“I’m going to fucking freeze to death,” exclaimed Osto as he stripped down to his undergarments. “Elvor, you sure this is going to work?”

“It should—whether or not you survive is a different matter,” said Romulus as he began walking down the steep incline towards the lake’s shore. He knew this was going to be difficult. He had only attempted this ritual a couple of times prior with varying success. Undead bastards are difficult to dispatch when they enter a blood lust, and that’s exactly what Romulus wanted to provoke in this creature—a state of unbridled rage.

“It’s going to be difficult, perhaps the most difficult thing you’ll ever do, Osto,” said Romulus, looking back at Osto who was staggering behind him, shivering, his eyes fixated on the rising moon’s reflection as it drifted across the lake’s surface.

The two men were silent for a moment as they walked through a thicket of reeds and onto the shore’s sand. Osto listened to the gentle lapping of water, seeking some sort of meditative refuge, something to soothe the intense feeling of dread that plagued him.

“Bladed one, should I have brought a dagger, something to defend myself from this thing?”

“A dagger?” questioned Romulus. “No, you’ll be unconscious—you’re going to lose quite a bit of blood Osto. That’s how this ritual goes. Consider yourself fortunate. If the creature tears you to bits you may not even feel it—perhaps just the passing sting of his teeth in your deep sleep. Now if he gets me it won’t be good. It won’t be good at all. Undead bastards like to toy with their prey, their screams of agony only further the creature’s playful viciousness.”

Osto stared out at the surface of the lake again. The moon’s reflection now stood still in the center of its black waters.

“Playful viciousness?”

“Yes.”

Osto looked down at his own shivering body. His gut hung out from the bottom of his cloth undershirt, his fattened toes were red, the cold night air reducing each step to a blistering sensation of prickles.

“You’re scaring me Elvor. You’re really quite good at that—the whole menacing presence, the brooding nature,” said Osto as he fastened his pace to walk parallel with Romulus. “I don’t want to die, Elvor.”

“Osto, I know that—men rarely desire death, let alone being torn apart by the undead aberration of their bastard son.” Romulus stopped at the edge of the lake, several feet away from the rolling tide. He looked over to Osto. “Listen, whatever is drifting through your head right now, whatever emotional distractions are pestering you, rid yourself of them. When you come to moments like these, moments when tragedy teeters on a pin’s head, you’re better off not wasting your energy on such annoyances. No amount of fear, anxiety, anguish, will change your present situation—you have an undead bastard, he could kill you and tear through the entire village of Etka doing so, but I can help you break this curse. Those are the facts. Don’t dress them in your fears or worries. They are what they are.”

“I know, I know—but fuck me, I feel like I’m about to snap, I can’t help it.” said Osto while watching the ethereal fog roll onto the sand. “Lady Mona, she didn’t want to join us?”

“No,” replied Romulus.

Osto sighed. His mind was racing. Though Romulus’ advice was sound, he couldn’t help but look for distractions.

“She knew you, didn’t she?”

Romulus remained silent.

“I may be a drunkard, Elvor, but I’m not a fool—I’m much more perceptive than those blabbering, piss-drunk commoners that hang around the taverns. It’s a power of mine really, to be able to eye the smallest innuendos, to read the slightest nuances of an individual’s body language, all while intoxicated. You’d be surprised how often I can come to diplomatic agreements or win bargains when the other party takes me for an inebriated fool.”

“Innuendos, nuances?”

“Yes, innuendos and nuances—Gods, they’re like a language in themselves. People can spew the vilest of lies yet they still betray themselves. Your eyes, Romulus, and her eyes. What a dance of glances the pair of you had in my hall at Etka. You two looked like some foolish youth caught in the heat of some desperate romance.”

Romulus didn’t reply.

“Well, I suppose—”

“Osto,” interrupted Romulus. “We should begin.”

Osto didn’t say a word at first. He noticed his hands were trembling and he was beginning to sweat. His stomach became uneasy—he was afraid, very afraid.

“Go over it again, Elvor. For my sake.”

“Fine,” said Romulus with a sigh. “The lake is water, just water, but I can change that. I will bleed you out in the water. You will lose a lot of blood because that’s what’s required.”

“Yes, yes…” said Osto, nodding his head, his voice quivering.

“Once a sufficient amount of blood is released into the water you will, no doubt, be unconscious. I will then drag your body out of the lake, bandage the wounds, and hide it in some brush. I will say a few sacramental prayers and bless the water. The water will become a sort of holy water. But this holy water is special, it will carry the essence of your living flesh. To an undead bastard seeking to devour its target alive, the lake will be irresistible—even more irresistible than your unconscious body. It will dive into the lake, immersing itself in the holy water. The water will injure it but paradoxically it will desire to remain in the lake, its raw instinct for vengeance provoked by the essence of your flesh. In the water, the creature’s skin will burn and it will become mortal, killable. I will attempt to kill it then, but it will be hard, very hard, because the creature will be in the heat of a blood lust prompted by the scent and taste of your flesh—it will be in a primal rage, a sort of violent madness”

“A nightmare, isn’t it?” Osto asked quietly.

“Yes.”

Osto was still for a while, his eyes wide and teeth chattering. A crow in the distance cawed twice. Romulus felt bad for him. Human nature, thought Romulus, was perhaps the hardest thing to dissect. Saints and sinners is an idyllic way to divide the world, but it may be entirely false, he thought. Perhaps such a division served merely as an organizing principle to grant folk a false sense of security—a sense of order, knowing clearly who is evil and who isn't. Even Osto, thought Romulus, could be pitied like a beggar. Watching him trying to warm himself in his undergarments, his body shaking and sweating with fear, made it no longer clear to Romulus that Osto was, at his very core, that wretched and evil thing he mistook him to be. He was no saint, he thought, but perhaps he wasn’t an irredeemable tyrant either.

“Romulus,” said Osto as he squinted off into the distance, eyeing the other end of the shoreline.

“Yes?”

“—the fuck is that?”

“What?”

“Lights, look—lights!” said Osto pointing.

Romulus looked in the direction of Osto’s index finger. A fluttering crowd of torchlight in the distance was growing. He could vaguely make out the flashing of blades among the flames.

“Shit,” exclaimed Romulus. “Soldiers.”

“Soldiers? Whose soldiers? We don’t have soldiers around here, save for mine. Even then, those fucking dogs I would hardly consider soldiers. They—”

“Osto, these soldiers aren’t yours unless you commanded a posse of them to confront us with swords drawn.”

“Well, whatever it is, it's clearly a misunderstanding. This lake is technically my land, bladed one, I own it. No coup wielding a few blades can change that.”

“I don’t think they are mistaken about whose land they are on. They look intent on meeting us.”

Osto immediately walked right up to Romulus, his arm extended and his hand open.

“Give me something, Elvor! A blade, a fucking dagger, knife, anything. I want a fighting chance.”

“No way in Inferno am I giving you a weapon. I don’t trust your temperament.”

“I command you!”

“The word command doesn’t change a thing.”

“Are we to talk then? Just talk? By the Gods, fucking talking rarely solves anything when your opponent has his sword drawn. Words can’t stall a butchering!”

“Calm down,” said Romulus as he began to wrap his mithril prayer chain around the palm of his blade-wielding hand. “I was able to convince the great Osto the Tyrant to place his trust in a wayfaring rogue with just words.”

The two men waited until the group of eight soldiers caught up to them. A pale white horse strode out in front of the soldiers. Mounted on its back was a well-built man with a weak mustache, his dark hair parted down the middle of his scalp with a generous lathering of pomade. He wore a pristine set of polished steel armor, the pauldrons large, his breastplate ornately carved with an extravagant sigil of a raven, its wings fully extended.

“Aha, I must say gentlemen, I hardly would have expected to find you two scoundrels in such a sorry condition," said the man on the horse. "A dirty vagabond and a naked lord. I suppose the fates don’t deem a dignified death to all men.”

“What is this?” demanded Romulus. “I’m here on special business for Lord Osto—this is a private affair. You wouldn’t want to upset the great tyrant of Etka, would you? His men patrol these areas crucifying dissenters with little discretion.” Romulus flashed a slight scowl and took a step closer to the horse.

The man dismounted his horse, his armor making a heavy clank as his large boots impacted the sand. It was then that Romulus noticed something atop the horse in the torchlight. A white dress, a beautiful woman. Myrian had been riding on the horse with him. She avoided eye contact with Romulus. The man took two large steps towards Romulus, looking down at him. He rested his large gauntlet on the pommel of a large claymore sheathed at his side.

“Romulus the Mad, Romulus the Crazed—pleasure to meet you, I’m—”

“Sir fucking-Jakob Fransil,” Romulus interrupted, snarling. “Come here to stop my little ritual?”

“Well, kill—kill you, yes, I’ve come here for that. And him, your bloated friend over there, I’ve come to kill him too.” Jakob spoke with certainty, his voice carrying a posh accent, the hallmark of a knight, thought Romulus—an egoistic fool.

“Do you have any idea what you and your beloved mage have done? Toying with the metaphysical boundaries of this plane, manifesting a necromantic curse, raising the dead. How many innocents has this thing consumed? What if it reaches Etka in search of Osto? How many babes will it kill, women, innocent farmhands? You’re a monster Jakob, a fucking monster.”

“I’ve given up on the undead bastard, Romulus. I’ll kill Osto myself. At least I can watch as his dying breaths—”

“Mona!? My Lady Mona!” shouted Osto as he hobbled to the horse Myrian was mounted on. “Did these vile imbeciles seize you, my love? What wretched game are they playing with my heart?!”

“Osto!” shouted Romulus. “She betrayed you. She’s not who you thought she was. She’s not who I thought she was.”

“What?! No! Is this true my love? Have you—”

“Osto!” hissed Myrian. “You’re a drunken, slobbering idiot who has gravely hurt my beloved Jakob. You destroyed his poor sister. Step away from the horse.”

Osto confusedly walked backward from the horse as two of the soldiers held their swords out towards him. His face quickly went from bafflement to despair.

“Beloved,” muttered Romulus in a mocking tone. “You may not know it Myrian but you’re as naive to Jakob’s manipulation as Osto was to yours.”

Jakob shoved Romulus aggressively.

“Shut your fucking mouth you—”

“No, listen Jakob!” Romulus shouted. “I’m going to perform this banishing ritual, and the undead bastard will disappear. There’s no need to keep this thing around, stalking the roads and valleys, killing innocents. Murdering Osto now won’t solve anything either—the wraith will seek a new target, a substitute for its vengeance. It will go back to killing innocents, feeding, growing, until it finds its new target. And who might that be? The innocent milkmaid that denied him a cup of milk, or perhaps the child that called him a vulgar name once? You willing to fulfill your personal vengeance at the expense of spilling innocent blood? Not very knightly to me, Jakob.”

“It's no concern of my who else this monster will kill, just let me avenge my dear sister, my lovely Ovylia. She didn’t deserve what this filth they call a lord did to her. Her fragile mind couldn’t handle the shite he told her, his insistence on forcing her into his awful life.”

Jakob slowly began walking closer towards Osto, his face twisting into a hideous expression of anger.

“And then he dares to take her child from her!” shouted Jakob. “What a beast! He will die!”

Jakob grasped the hilt of his claymore, ready to draw it. His eyes were set intensely on Osto.

“No, Jakob. Stop!” Romulus shouted as he quickly unsheathed his blade, its black iron glinting as he swiftly stroked upwards.

Jakob parried with his claymore, a quick flash of white sparks produced by the blades’ collision. Osto began to run, frantically heading towards the incline they came down.

“Get him! Someone get Osto!” Shouted Jakob. “Pin him down, save him for me!”

Three soldiers ran after Osto, their speed, even in armor, nearly doubling his.

“Jakob, stop, if you keep this up I—I will have to kill you,” said Romulus with a cold certainty.

Jakob ignored the warning and gestured the remaining soldiers to attack Romulus.

A flurry of strikes were exchanged as Jakob disengaged Romulus, trying to escape the fray to head towards Osto. Romulus parried and dodged the swinging blades from the soldiers who were now surrounding him. In a smooth motion, he sliced deep into the leg of one soldier, viciously severing his thigh muscle. He collapsed onto the sand in a cry of pain. Precision, thought Romulus, precision will win this fight—choose your strikes, don’t exhaust yourself, make every motion of your blade count. The four remaining soldiers were relentless, exhausting themselves with their blows. Romulus was too swift, narrowly dodging each blade as it slashed at him, the iron flashing with the mesmerizing colors of reflected torchlight and the blue night sky.

Four soldiers remained. One needed to be turned into an example, a catalyst for intimidation. Produce raw fear in a crowd of combatants and suddenly their stances begin to shake, their hands quiver, and their focus wavers. Two soldiers lunged at him simultaneously. Romulus leapt away, instinctively spinning the blade of one soldier. He successfully disarmed the soldier, his sword spiraling several feet away from him. Romulus slashed aggressively—a gasp and loud scream, a spewing of blood on the pale sand, and a flash of onyx. Romulus cleanly removed the soldier’s right arm. The torch he was holding fell to the ground, its flame beginning to die in the sand as Romulus watched the soldier writhe in pain. And then, twirling around, Romulus used the momentum of his body’s motion to finish the soldier, severing his head off. The body fell limp as another spurt of blood flew into the night air from his neck cavity. A thud a few feet away could be heard as the dead man’s head hit the sand, his jaw slack and eyes blankly staring forward.

Romulus looked back at the three remaining soldiers. Two were terrified. He could see how rapidly they were breathing, their eyes darting haphazardly between Romulus and their butchered comrade. The one other soldier, however, was berserk. He ran out in front of the other two hesitant soldiers and grasped his sword in both hands, dropping his torch to the ground.

“You fucking animal!” shouted the soldier as he hammered three consecutive strikes at Romulus. Romulus parried two and attempted to dodge the third, but was unsuccessful, his left arm deeply wounded by the flying blade. Romulus ignored the pain, producing no more than a faint growl in response. The soldier swung again, his sword cutting diagonally downwards. Romulus blocked the strike, but the soldier returned quickly with another blow. Romulus quickly whispered an incantation. His prayer chain began to vibrate—he could feel its arcane energy transferring to his sword. Suddenly a flashing burst of white light, lasting no more than a second, emanated from his blade. The soldier was dazed, partially blinded by the flash. He disorientedly attempted another blow, his sword high above his head. The soldier's abdomen was exposed—an opening. Using a horizontal strike, Romulus cut a gaping wound in between the folds of the soldier’s leather armor, a mass of blood pouring from his stomach. With a gurgle and an incoherent string of curse words, the soldier’s eyes rolled backwards, his body collapsing face first into the sand.

Romulus looked back at the other two soldiers, they had ran away towards Osto. He saw Jakob and the remaining soldiers in the distance forcing Osto onto his knees at the water's edge. Jakob had his claymore above his head, ready to slash downwards and behead Osto. Romulus looked briefly up at Myrian. She was still on the horse, her expression bewildered and terrified. Tears were in her eyes.

“You're an irredeemable fool, Myrian,” muttered Romulus as he started to run towards Osto. “Jakob! Stop! Please, by the fucking Gods, stop!”

The claymore sword fell unevenly. It stopped halfway through Osto’s neck. Romulus continued to run towards him. Osto’s body jolted into a jittery shock, his voice producing a dry shriek. Jakob leaned down towards Osto’s shaking body and whispered into his ear.

“Fucking degenerates don’t deserve a clean beheading.” Placing his boot on the blade lodged into the back of his neck, Jakob stomped down on it, the sword crudely cutting through the width of his neck until Osto’s head was separated.

A flock of birds suddenly flew into the night sky from some swaying trees near the edge of the lake. Something had disturbed the area. A wheezing scream pierced the night air. Everyone froze, no one said a word. The scream sounded again, this time transforming into a hoarse howl. A silhouetted figure, hunched and deformed in shape, slowly crawled out into the gray moonlight at the lake’s shore, its large talons carving through the sand with every step. It was on all fours like a hound, its hind legs massive and muscular. The creature was nearly eight feet in height. The undead bastard had grown and transformed considerably. It was now an amorphous amalgamation of sinewy flesh and mounds of muscle. It still had the decaying face of a child, but its massive razor-lined jaws contorted, stretched, and split the face in various areas. A forked tongue dangled out between its fangs. Its haunting yellow eyes were glowing, staring at Jakob and his men.

Jakob fell backwards onto the sand. His eyes were reduced to smoldering sockets of burnt flesh, columns of smoke rising from them. He was dead. Myrian screamed, and the other soldiers ran.