Roosters cawed.
Babe stretched himself out, a small grin on his face.
Yet he was disappointed in being unable to deliver the finishing blow. If Feather Sword was anything like most warriors, he'd never let him hear the end of it, and he vowed to defeat the next champion on his own, even if it took a thousand years.
His armor was chipped, scarred, soot ridden, and his flail's spikes were so dull it'd be miracle if bread was scratched.
After putting on his robes he made his way to the dining area.
"Good morning weary traveler!" The innkeeper said, a white headband covering her right eye.
He nodded, accepting his usual breakfast, and headed to the bar, where Feather Sword sat alone.
The Phoenix Blade turned to him and waved. "So, the rumors are true. One of the Soulless, the mad Brute of the Woods."
"Babe," he said, holding back a grin. "My name's Babe."
Feather Sword raised an eyebrow. "Baby?"
He growled, "Not baby, Babe!"
An odd silence, then Feather Sword laughed.
He ignored him, taking the ale placed before him by the bartender and chugging it all down in one go.
"Paracles, son of Paragas, House of Dahariss," Feather Sword said, holding out his hand.
Babe shook it, then went back to drinking ale.
"You fight well," Paracles said, sipping from a cup of wine, "though you're a terrible fighter."
"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"
"Gods be with anything with little fight intelligence that gets in your way, however anyone with the slightest bit of formal training's liable to carve you up."
Babe sighed, needing another round of ale to get what came next out of his mouth. "You've my thanks."
Paracles smiled. "As you have mine. After you bled out, light shined from the center of the battlefield, enough gold and treasure to raise an army, along with one of Razelael's blades."
"Raza-what?"
"The Champion of the Graves, a long-forgotten angel who once served the gods themselves."
"Oh," Babe said, smelling roasted chickens within a furnace.
The innkeeper brought over his breakfast, and he ate while Paracles told him of the treasure Isaac almost ran off with.
The Phoenix Blade convinced the cunt lord not to belay the agreed upon bargain, lest for any more reason to slander House Pyr. Something about a war going on in the western lands, a fight amongst the great kingdoms for the past century, and his majesty was under pressure to be victorious or thousands more would perish.
"Your share," Paracles said, handing him a necklace made of pure mithril-gold, enough for him to repair his armor and feast like a king for months. "A bit less than what was agreed on, and though I do recall you had a request upon finishing the battle, Isaac was in a hurry to make for the capital before dawn."
He sighed, taking a long chug of ale.
"What could've been more important than a necklace worth a hundred villages?" Paracles wondered.
He looked to the innkeeper, who smiled greeting adventurers and townsfolk alike. One punch was all he needed, enough to bruise Isaac permanently.
"I see," Paracles said, tapping his empty cup. "Though I was adamant his lordship compensate the girl and offer a sincere apology, the old Pyr temper is as defiant as ever."
"If I were him," Babe snarled, "I'd hope we never meet again."
Paracles grinned. "For your sake, you'd better hope I'm not under contract."
"She's just a child."
"Indeed, a child in this merciful beautiful world we call home, ye' who are Soulless."
Not another thank you, battle well fought, safe travels, or any fuckery of the sort. Paracles left a silver coin on the bar and left, bowing to the innkeeper on the way out.
At last no more conversation, and he drank in peace, promising himself after rebuffing his weapons and armor, he'd give most of the leftover gold to the innkeeper.
Babe.
Some fucking name, but it was better than nothing.
At noon he went to the town blacksmith, the best in all the kingdom, and one of the Elfstone Guild's warriors was there as well. The blacksmith, a sturdy muscular man a bit shorter than most, went over the details about some fancy blade for the Elfstone lad, the latter turning to greet him.
"The Bane of Razelael himself! I was hoping to run into you."
He ignored him, dropping off his armor and weapons with the blacksmith. "Same thing. I'll return later after sellin' this."
Mithril necklace in hand, he held it up for the blacksmith to see.
"Mighty impressive!" The blacksmith grunted. "I'll give ya' a few improvements here and there, somethin' fit fer a man of yer stature."
"Impressive indeed," Elf boy said, touching his shoulder. "A word, if I m-."
"I'm busy," he muttered quickly.
An odd silence, as the blacksmith went to work right away on his armor, and he believed the gods were punishing him for slaying a poor broken angel.
Elf boy cracked a small grin and broke the silence. "You're not much for talk. I understand, but you've changed things. No one believed the Champion of the Graves could be defeated by just two men, even if the other was a Phoenix Blade."
"Then the cursed lands are free of plague?" Babe asked, rolling his eyes.
"Of course not," Elf boy said sternly, stroking his auburn hair. "Those woods lead to several paths, one of which being warband territory leading to the western battlefields. His majesty may have a chance to secure that route, however I imagine rival kingdoms will make for the trails once rumor of the graves being liberated reaches them."
"Nothing's liberated," Babe said, unsure of what the word meant. "Those woods are still cursed, and there's much more beyond 'em, I can feel it."
"True," Elf boy said, touching a sword cross beneath his collar. "You don't plan on going farther, do you?"
"Aye, I do," Babe said, leaving before wasting anymore time.
Elf boy wanted to ponder more, a spineless weasel who wasn't into adventuring the way one ought to be.
He made for the market, getting different appraisals from merchants all across the kingdom who bid against one another for the necklace. One claimed it for over fifty thousand gold, and many within the market looked his way as he received three pouches with gold, coins of all different sizes, some with or without silver-white edges.
A few days later he returned to the blacksmith, and his armor was almost unrecognizable.
It was dark, blacker than any iron, and there were slits over the armpits and elbows which would protect his joints. It was heavier, according to the smith, but he'd grown so much stronger that he didn't notice. Horns were on his helm, either side like a bull, sharp as steel at the tip and hard as steel.
His flail was longer, the studded block of steel with spikes sharp enough to pierce stone, and he held it with pride before slinging it over his shoulder.
After paying the smith he had a little over thirty thousand coins left, and he made for the inn for lunch where the innkeeper greeted him.
"There's fresh caught salmon from the river hun!" She said, looking towards the kitchen. "Plenty to go around!"
"I'll take a couple dozen," he said, reaching in his pouch.
He handed her a few more coins than were necessary, telling her to keep the change. Though she insisted not, he ignored her making for the nearest table, and several minutes later a plate of smoked salmon covered in black pepper and diced tomatoes was brought before him.
A little bit at a time, he told himself, and she'd receive plenty compensation for the trouble Isaac caused. Best not to hand it to her all at once, for if grave robbers weren't looting the woods they were looting pockets.
He drank ale, how much he didn't bother to count, then made his way to the woods.
Skeletons ignored him, even giants, the farther he got inside.
His breath whitened with every step onward. Something older was in the woods, much fouler than any grave.
Whatever it was, he'd find it, for the sake of his memories.
And the thrill of the hunt.