The moon bathed a dirt road in light like a carpet. It extended further to a destroyed wagon, the carnage presented to any unfortunate passersby in stark relief. Blood and severed limbs dotted the highway, stuck somewhere in the long middle between towns.

On a small hill overlooking the massacre, two brigands hurriedly scarfed down the food they had managed to scavenge from the wreckage. Normally they would have taken their blood-earned winnings further away, but neither had eaten for days. They were once a merry band of five, then it became whittled down to four. Soon after, they were halved to the two louses greedily tearing at bits of chicken skin and shaved meat. The sea wasn't too far from where they were standing. They had camped by and bathed in the past two days. Now they were feeling the high of finally finding something to fill their bellies.

Their lives were evidently not the most luxurious. After all, their fellow vagrants had up and died on them in the span of a single month, although they could find new mates soon enough. They would always find a way to survive because there was no other choice for them. Mothers may tuck their children in at night telling them stories about the monsters that patrol the roads beneath the stars, waiting to steal them away and be devoured. They were meant to be stand-ins for the real villains that sprung up, but their cautionary tales could never match the terror of reality: These were ordinary, simple men driven to an extreme.

"Figures the first thing we come across in week couldn't feed a rat!" said one.

"What, you want to dine at the tables of royalty?" the other replied tersely. "March up to their castles, see how long before you get an arrow stuck in your throat. You won't be able to swallow much then, eh?"

"Ah, piss off, will ya?" The two could only communicate in barbs at one another. The life they led had diminished them to one fundamental aspect of their humanity: survival. Constantly on the lookout for the next threat, men like them take every opportunity to see if they can find a fight they can win, even with each other.

"If only we were one of those Elf pricks, huh? The tree huggers have got it easy I tell ya."

"And what, get up every morning to pray to some forest bitch? Nuh uh. I ain't got the dedication to pull that off, in this life or the next."

The first brigand grunted in agreement. "'It's a shame, really. Not as if they want for much. If only us sorry saps could sustain ourselves off their planet energy or whatever."

Licking his fingers, the second bandit shook his head. "Strange how they've managed to isolate themselves even more than they did before. The war musta done a real number on them."

The first brigand seemed far more interested in digging out a stubborn piece of earwax but allowed his partner to continue on. This had been the longest the two had talked for some time. "Aye. I mean, just look at us, huh? If we've been driven to this, you've gotta wonder what they're up to in their forest country."

"Out of everybody, Garesh got hit the hardest. Their royal family killed, government usurped and their princess still missing. So whatever they're dealing with can't be as bad as them. Hell, can't be as bad as us either, I'd argue."

As they were chatting, the men didn't notice the quiet, crouching figure slowly making its way toward them. Slowly putting their hand on the hilt of their dagger, they cast a glance at the wreckage of the caravan. Composed and calculated, every step they took thereafter was fast as a bolt of lightning.

The conversation between the two brigands continued. "Say, what d'ya think elves actually eat? They can't all be vegetarian, right?"

"Eh-URK!"

Their conversation met an unceremonious end, as the last thing they saw were each other's face in the dirt, bleeding out from their throats. The oxygen being prevented from reaching their brains left them little time to register the pain, blacking out permanently a few seconds later.

Their assassin stood up and wiped the dagger across his leather gauntlet, shoulders pushing against the inside of his white cotton shirt and brown vest.

Heading over to the destroyed wagon, he quickly rummaged around for survivors. No such luck. Not that he was keeping his hopes up, but it was always best to check. The horse that would have drawn it had fled once the attack began. Further perusal of the wreckage yielded a small chest. Inside was a lock of hair, a sealed letter and a tiny scrap of paper marked with an infant's thumb print in ink.

"Husband, huh?" The voice was gruff.

Looking over the wreckage again, of the three men that were killed he guessed the youngest had been the father. Family business. Looking at the letter, he saw it was addressed to a Mr. Gren Kelvin, a fashion merchant known locally for his original designs and high quality fabrics.

Reasoning that it would be better for the bodies not to be strewn across the road, the man carried them over onto the hill after pushing as much of the wagon to the side of the highway as he could manage. He slung the corpses of the bandits over his shoulders and dumped them far from the road on top of one another. Another round trip back from the bloodied camp site, and he had a small torch in one hand, unhooking his ale flask from his belt and emptying out the remaining contents onto the bodies. He threw the torch onto them.

Returning to the campsite for the final time, he made sure to lay the victims out as gently as possible. He felt rather ridiculous matching severed limbs with their severed stumps, but it was the best he could do. He placed a tarp he had found in the back of their wagon over them as well, promising that he would come back to bury them himself if he couldn't find anybody in Asphodel to retrieve their bodies for themselves.

Still, it was rather strange that two bandits who couldn't have possessed anything more than some rusty shivs and dulled swords could manage to actually sever body parts. That is, unless...

"Hmm." A glint of steel caught his eye in the grass. Walking over, he saw a rather well-maintained sword covered in dried blood.

"Must've belonged to the victims." They might have even lived if they kept a closer eye on their own weapon. Sighing, the man wiped the sword with a cloth he pulled out of his pocket. Observing both sides to see if the blade was clean of impurities, he brought it over to his vehicle further down the road where he had stopped upon seeing the wreckage.

Resting on a worn and slightly rusty kickstand, a vehicle known as a zeitcycle sat on the road. Sliding the sword he had picked up into the metal pocket at the end, the man looked off in the distance across the plains. He could faintly see Asphodel in the distance, and he knew he must steel himself for a teary welcome once he found the family of the men who had been killed here.

Just as he was about to start the engine, the sky began to be tinged red. Looking to the east, the man smiled faintly. He revved the engine and was off, savoring the break between night and day.