Warm breezes brushed his face.
Were he in the inn, there'd have been roosters cawing, and the villagers stench of piss and sorrow would've made him cover his nose with a moldy blanket. Smoke filled his nostrils, meat, deer meat, and fish.
He sat up, and examined a fire with a doe, roasting over a fire with a few trout on either side.
Dany gnawed on a rib, then looked up with a slight blush.
She paused chewing and said, "There's plenty left for you."
After ripping out a leg with one hand, he snatched a pair of trout up with the other, though his forearms ached. He slowed down a bit, arms writhing with sharp stabs, then fed for the first real time in weeks.
"You're an angel," he muffled with a mouthful.
Dany looked down, then kept eating.
He finished all that was left of the doe by the time she finished her rib, and he wondered how in the hell she got so lucky.
"While you were sleep, it was limping along the hills," she said, pointing towards a fogless hillside. "It didn't try to run, even stared at me before I cut its throat."
He looked behind himself, and all his weapons and armor were accounted for, his shield a cracked hunk of metal.
They rested on the fogless side, a few dozens paces up from the river. On the opposite side was cold cursed mist, endless screams, and a war which was liable to last for centuries.
"I tried following it," Dany said, pointing at the river, "but around a half mile or so the fog starts to shroud everything. I almost lost my way coming back, no more than an arm's length from it."
"How long have we been here?"
"Two days. You were resting so peacefully, and nothing's come from the fog since you slayed Livarza."
A hand on his chin, he shrugged.
He won, the mute was still alive, and he was still free of Allison for the time being.
In fact, he was free without question, as what kind of half assed employer is among the first to get killed? Still bothered about the fact he let a handful of ghosts and vampyres humiliate him, he was eager to return to Marryvia.
However the river was cool, air warm, and Dany only needed to go so far to retrieve more trout. For another day they stayed camped along the fogless hillside, waiting for any sign of Allison or Arthur.
Aside from thanking her for the fish, or greeting her whenever he woke, he said little else to her.
His arms didn't throb as much, though a decent punch or just an attempt to lift his flail brought about sharpness. Tight cloths around his forearms relived some of the pain, but he still couldn't fight. He'd not last against anything worth fighting, but at the very least a warband wouldn't bother him, nor Dany.
The moon was full on a warm evening, and he thanked Dany properly for retrieving his gear.
"You saved my life, my lord," she said, standing straight, clasping her hands at her waist.
"Not a lord," he said, picking his ear. "You fought well. Livarza'd lost most of her bearing when you cut her achilles."
She nodded, then sat beside him, silent and odd as ever.
"What kept you from freezing?" He wondered, breaking the awkwardness.
Hesitant, almost looking away from him, she replied, "Cold has never really bothered me."
"Hmm," he sighed, then they went back to watching the foggy hillsides.
It was quieter than usual, but every so often swords rang. Orange light shined on the horizon, and Dany drew her sword, examining it whenever she wasn't watching the sky.
"Alrieon's why we're here," she said. "If the mountain elves lose their best rider, they won't be so inclined to take to the field so often. Right now, nothing can stop them, and Creahllacia's their easiest target."
Unsure of what Creahllalala was, he asked, and she explained it was the kingdom ruled by House Pyr, most common for the average adventurer.
"What happens if the fire lords end up losing?" He asked, recalling Fat Carl's face and Isaac the bone lord's tiny squashable skull.
"None of the other kingdoms are as tolerant of Soulless," Dany replied, sheathing her sword, "and, thousands of innocent people would be slaughtered."
"We're not the only one's out here, are we?" He asked, thinking of the pretty cloaked guilds.
Dany nodded. "There is a reward, for anyone who can bring down the White Rider."
"And here I was thinking Al's intentions were almost pure."
She frowned. "She has a golden heart, more than most."
"Aye," he said, looking to the fog ridden hills, "and I wonder if she'd bother with such a task knowing there's no way to clear this shit."
"It wasn't here when we rode through with Nathan and William. There was hardly anything out here, except near the trails themselves."
"What could've caused it?" He wondered. "Razelael's dead, and I doubt Livarza or a gargoyle could cast a spell revolving so much around daylight."
Dragon fire raged within the fog, miles away, and they watched the skies until smoke rose into the clouds.
Yet even after another full night, nothing crossed the river, and he donned his armor after filling his belly with trout and a rabbit Dany caught. She was hesitant at first, but became eager, sharpening her sword as he finished cleaning his flail.
"Where's the spear?" He asked as they made their way uphill
"Gone," she said, hand on her hilt. "The night you slew Livarza was the same day Arthur died. His weapon returned to him, same as any soulless' does upon reawakening at a keeper's mark."
"Keepers," he said, feeling The Brander's eye sockets beneath his fingers. "Strange lot."
She looked at him, and it was still tough to tell whether she was intrigued or bothered.
It mattered not, as he felt free for the first time in months, not a bite on his throat nor the bickering of a saint like Al. Dany may have been a tiny dove, but with enough time he'd have her as something terrifying enough to ward off gargoyles or an undead army.
Upon reaching the top of the hill, a slope of over a half mile at least, they stayed a few hundred paces from the cliffside. A week would have them back in the village, and he'd be right back where he wanted.
What was more, Dany was much like him, unsure of herself, not even a memory of her past life worth mentioning as a hint.
"I was a young woman," she told him at dusk, the two sitting beside a stump. "There was screaming, but, I think that's when I died."
"You remember dying?"
"No, well, maybe," she said, rubbing her hands together. "I don't know."
She grew a puzzled, frustrated look, and he gave her nudge. "Nothing to worry. Enough time with me, and you'll have a few champions under your belt."
Still a slight puzzled look, she smiled, and it was better than nothing as he was certain all the poor creature knew was misery.
Within a valley, darkness overtaking the sky, she stayed tight by him. Similar to their position against the gargoyles, she covered his rear and he stayed ready, even at the idea of having to break his arms. Nothing more could've been in the hills, Marryvia's borders at least three days away, and they were so far from the warring front the fog's cold breeze didn't reach them.
If it was to be a quiet march to village so be it, and at dawn he stayed awake as Dany slept.
Was there really so much difference?
She was quiet, as he was before he started making more encounters than usual.
Where he was ready for a fight, hungry for the chance to bury something beneath his flail, take a blade through his chest, or across his throat, and smile with a face full of blood and sweat, she wanted something else. Like many, she likely just wanted his strength, whether for some sense of duty like Nathan or to get the edge on other adventurers like Al. The latter pestered him more and more, and there he was trudging through a fog barren wasteland with little to show other than broken arms and a dull shield.
He'd get more answers out of her, watching her sleep with her sword in hand.
She'd never be what he was. In all his time he never considered where he was headed, not until Arthur brought it up.
How much had death taken from him? Was there anything left? Would he go mad, becoming what he did whenever he took a sip from that flask?
In his hand he held it, half full since his last use, and all he needed to do was wake up in a keeper's home and it'd be at the brim once more.
Sunlight warmed his face, and he woke up to Dany practicing with her blade. It was a poor display, her footwork was sloppy, though he had a firm thrust. At first sight of him she turned red, sheathed her blade, and they continued making their way south.
Rot filled the air, sour flesh with flies swarming flesh stripped corpses. Mail, rusty armor, leather, and some with nothing more than rags. There were a handful of soldiers who made it through the fog, though not so much farther.
While they examined a small corpse, a lad likely as old as ten, trees shook.
Upon unslinging his flail, he smelled the fresh forged armor, similar to his own, its wearer at least a full head taller than himself.
"Run," he told Dany, who was already at his rear. "Get to the village!"
"You can't face him alone," she said, The Nemesis appearing from beneath a small slope.
Hammers drawn, his foe's armor was trimmed with silver edges. Claw marks ran along the Nemesis' breast plate, helm, and right thigh, though he walked upright, not a stint in his step.
He kept his flail down, unable to hold it higher than his waist without his arm writhing. The idea of holding his shield made him shudder, though he kept it out, cursing at Dany.
"Unless you want to be at the end of my flail, get the fuck out of here!" He growled. "I'll not be myself against him."
"You were fine against the gargoyles," she persisted.
"This one's different," he warned, the Nemesis raising both hammers. "He knows me."
Grazing the steel heads against one another, the Nemesis snorted. Steam rose from his sockets, and he charged.
He tossed Dany, heaving her over a dozen paces away, then faced the Nemesis.
Contact knocked him backwards, though he kept his footing. His shield arm broke, and he felt nothing but writhing stabs protruding his skin. He tried shoving back but didn't budge The Nemesis. The latter heaved hammers down, shattering his shield.
There was no room for flail, and The Nemesis pummeled him in the breastplate. Against a tree he kept what was left of his shield up, hammers raining down like boulder sized rain drops. His helm cracked, and he cursed at his foe.
Against his belief, his bastard rival stopped bashing his chest in. He choked up blood, and the Nemesis smiled, a crooked a bloody grin with razor teeth. The bastard turned, storming within the woods, twirling the hammer in the right hand.
"Stop," he wheezed, blood filling his mouth as he fumbled for his flask.
He dropped it, then picked it up, and cold breezes froze blood on his lips.
Trees shattered, severed at the stump in a single blow. He limped onward, inhaling his flask, then saw Dany crawl backwards, the Nemesis towering overhead with hammers down.
"Stop!" He shouted, muscles swelling.
One hammer smashed Dany's head to bloody smithers. Another burst her upper half open, organs flying like black serpents.
Whether he yelled or spewed fire, he couldn't tell.
Fiery burns churned his belly, his love of ale and rum making the flasks burning properties enjoyable, and he felt his flail as his own once more.
His nemesis faced him, blood stained hammers.
Not a scratch on his flail, he ran with the whirlwind of death above him. The bastard ducked, shuffled, and leaped away. One hammer swing missed, and the flail kept the Nemesis light footed.
He slammed the flail down, cursing and spitting blood.
The Nemesis charged, and he almost smiled. Helm down, he ran forward, horns pointed down.
One penetrated the Nemesis, through the eye, and the bastard roared as he drove forward with a wide stance. He uplifted the bastard, still goring him through the eye, then ran him into a tree. Hammers down, the bastard upper cut him in the belly, and he coughed up blood. Both hammers wrapped his waist, the Nemesis holding him close.
"All these years and ya' still won't learn," the bastard bickered. "You make it too easy!"
"Fuck you! Fuck your whore bitch, your cocksucking mother!"
Steel brimmed hilts cracked his spine, the Nemesis squeezing with a bloody mouth.
He bit the bastard's throat.
The Nemesis squeezed harder. He bit into bone, blood not his own filling his mouth. One toss sent him through the air, and he landed with shattered ribs. It took every shortened breath he had to sit up, leaning on his flail hilt.
Blood leaking down the throat, the Nemesis stomped towards him.
Hammers rained down, he slung his flail like a whip. One hammer knocked from the Nemesis' hand, the other missed him by inches. He swung his flail again, sweeping the bastard's ankles. The Nemesis collapsed beside him, and he rolled over, holding the head of his flail.
Both hands on the hundred kilogram spiked head, he bashed the Nemesis' head. Even against a steel helm, he broke through, breaking his rivals skull, blood spurting every direction until his hands trembled.
He rolled off the Nemesis, listening to thunder.
Blood leaked, forming a pool round them both within minutes. He crawled away, his palms feeling to be against steel pins. Muscles draining, his head ached, he laid against an old trunk, and he growled at the thought of Dany.
Drizzle fell, then rain soaked him within a few minutes.
Within a cold downpour, all throughout the night, he tried to stand but it was no use.
In the morning, death would be his namesake.