Tykar Drass

Soul on Fire

Tykar Drass lay on the floor of his home, bleeding from a variety of wounds. He felt no pain, only a curious cold sensation that flooded his entire body. That and the blood leaking from his body, he could still feel that. He knew he was dying, there was no doubt about it; an expert in the matters of death, he recognized that the wound in his gut was mortal but he struggled to remain conscious, his mind filled with ragged hatred for the one responsible for his death. In the end, as he crawled along like a slug, leaving his own slimy trail as he made for the door, it was futile. Everything was futile. The weight of his failure to protect his family came crashing down upon him as he collapsed on the mat in front of his door and had no more energy to rise.

His family…

Xerth laughed, trailing his hand up the thigh of Dana as she screamed around the gag he had put in her mouth. “Such a pretty thing, Drass. Wherever did you find her and what did she ever see in you? You’re so soft, so weak…” Xerth’s voice was filled with contempt. “Well, the only way to fix a man who has become soft is to cut out the things in his life that have made him that way!” The knife rose and fell, again and again and something warm and sticky splashed onto his face. Blood… “Dana!!” He screamed but she couldn’t hear him, too lost in her pain and screaming as Xerth chanted in a dark, obscene tongue that should have been long forgotten my mankind, tracing sigils in the blood on Dana’s stomach in the runic markers of that same language… the language of evil incarnate.

At last, Drass gave up. His body tensed and then relaxed and his body gave up his life with naught but a rattle. The last sensation Drass had was of his blood pooling beneath him and an image of his wife’s face floating in his quickly fading mind….

***

Drass came to, surprised at having any sensation at all. In life, he had been aware of the gods and their various meddlings and machinations but he had never had a personal connection to one of them and so he had expected to just fade into oblivion, which had been the accepted theory at the time. Maybe he hadn't died after all; maybe it had been a bad dream...

A quick look around dispelled that notion and Drass immediately felt his heart clench as he lost his family anew, their terrible fate no longer consigned to a bad dream but to harsh reality. With that realization came a cold sensation that settled over his heart, seeping deep inside of him. Anger welled up out of the cracks of his soul and he roared. It was a bestial sound, primal and raw, echoing out into the nothingness around him. When his scream of soul-deep agony ended, he discovered that he was standing. Shocked, he nearly collapsed to the ground in remembered pain as his death came flooding back into his mind but he recovered quickly. The time for pain was gone and in its place came curiosity. He stood in a grey waste, devoid of feature and without a way to distinguish the sky from the ground. It was disorienting, to say the least. Choosing a direction completely at random, since the very idea of direction seemed relative in this place, Drass began to walk. After some length of time which he could not define, features arose on the horizon. What he would have called the ground fell away into a valley, ill-defined and without sharp lines. It was as if he looked at the world through an all-obscuring haze that was only partially melted in this one location. As he drew closer, he saw that there was some kind of city at the bottom of the valley and that the closer he approached, the more definition it took on.

Where was he?

"The Fugue Plane."

Nearly startled out of his wits, Drass spun in a circle, arms weaving in a cobra-like fashion as he adopted a combat pose. Where did the voice come from?

"Nowhere... and everywhere." The voice boomed, thundering through his head as the only noise beyond the sounds Tykar was making himself. His pulse raced. What was happening? He could hear the contemptuous laughter in the voice; it was mocking him.

It happened quickly. Where before there had been nothing in front of him, a vague outline appeared and quickly solidified, as liquid pouring into a mould. The vision in front of him took on definition and after a moment, stood in complete fullness. It was a creature, some kind of infernal creature. It stood twelve feet high, towering over Drass and its thick, frame covered with blood-red scales lent in an imposing presence. Clawed hands and feet matched with sharp fangs that jutted from its cruel mouth, dripping some kind of foul green slime that sizzled where it hit the "ground." With a leathery snap, the creature extended massive bat-wings from its back and draped them around its back and chest like a cloak.

"Ahh... much better. You have no idea what it is like existing as a formless being until there is someone to talk to." The creature said, toning its voice down to a more reasonable level that didn't thunder into Tykar's bones and threaten to shatter them.

Through it all, Tykar stood still, fighting off an irrational fear that flooded his body, a feathery snake slithering through his gut that made him want to run. He didn't understand it. He wasn't afraid of the creature, not in his head, anyway.

The creature gave him an arch look and smiled.

"Good, you do have some will about you, still. That is well, because I have an offer to make you, Tykar Drass."

"How do you know my name?" Drass demanded.

"What I know and how I know it are things immaterial, Tykar. I am a devil; I learn things. I know about your service to Zalzabra, how you were the Necros' best and favored assassin. I know about how you grew tired of your work, how you lost your edge and you faked your own death. We were very disappointed in you, I must say, we had such high hopes for you. And I know about Dana and your little girl, Vera. I know about Drakar Xerth. I know all about you, Tykar and you should be thankful that I do."

"How? We? Who is we? Who do your work for? Where is Xerth?!?" Drass sputtered at first but as his anger coalesced, he focused on the image of Drakar Xerth's face, the last thing he remembered of the mortal world. Anger such as he had never experienced in life flooded through his body, wracking him with adrenaline and a fury that set the nearly featureless grey world awash with the red of his rage. The creature laughed.

"You are in turmoil, Tykar. You have just died and that is a traumatic experience. Believe me, I know; it happened to me, many years ago before I was given this form by the Lord of the Eighth. What is important now is that you listen to the words of proposition that I have for you. You are depressed that you have lost your family and you are angry. Angry at your murderer but also angry at yourself because with all of your skills, you were not able to protect your family, were not there for them when it counted most."

Tykar's face tightened into a cold, impassive mask. "Get to your point quickly." He said, his words sharp enough to etch steel. The creature inclined its head in feigned deference.

"The Lord of the Eighth can give you what you need, the opportunity to get back at the being that killed you, you can take from him what he took from you. Wreak your vengeance upon him, Tykar. The Lord of the Eighth will give you power, the power you need to do what must be done."

"Power? What power?" Tykar snapped, eyes gleaming at the thought of retribution. The devil smiled toothily.

"Come with me, Tykar, and I will let the Lord himself tell you."

"Do not go with that devil!" A quavering voice cried out. Tykar spun around and saw someone else materializing out of the fog. It was a wizened old man in white robes, leaning on a gnarled staff. His voice creaked out of his mouth, heavy with age and disuse. "Do not go with him, he is a trickster! His kind does naught but deceive!! His promises are double-edged and will come back to haunt you!"

Tykar glared at the man. "What do you know of his promises, old man? I will have my vengeance, one way or another!" He snarled.

"As well you should, Tykar, he took your family, took your life!! He stole your honor, your dignity!" The devil said. With each word, Tykar's rage increased, as a fire with new fuel piling on higher and higher.

"He is manipulating you at a vulnerable time. Please, listen to me!!"

"No, I am finished listening! It is time to do something!" Tykar bellowed. "Take me to your lord, creature, and let me hear him out."

"No!"

"You heard him, old man. He has made his decision; leave him be." The old man's face slipped into a tired, defeated look and he turned and walked away without further comment. The devil turned back to Tykar.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

And then the world... flickered. It was like he had sneezed and for a moment, his vision was interrupted but when his eyes opened again, he was somewhere else. He had to blink for a few moments before his brain could interpret what his eyes were seeing, a new location entirely. He stood in a grandiose throne room of mammoth proportions. The floor was tiled with a mosaic of an angel falling out of the sky, trailing blood. It was very hot but despite this, there were all kinds of torches and braziers flickering with flame that cast a shifting dance of shadows all about the room. The back of the room dominated his vision though. There, on a throne made out of a single piece of obsidian, sat who he assumed to be the Lord of the Eighth. At his left side was a beautiful woman with a tail and a set of bat wings. She wore... very little and sat plucking at a lap harp. On his right side, there stood a dragon. It dominated Tykar's attention. The creature was massive, towering perhaps sixty feet in height, its red-scaled glory overshadowing the devil that stood next to Tykar. It had a prominent crest on the top of its head and regal, draconic features. Those great, reptilian eyes eyed Tykar with a cool disinterest that bordered on contempt, dismissing him as no threat to anyone that the gargantuan creature considered important.

"Welcome to Cania, Tykar." Said the being on the throne.

Tearing his eyes away from the dragon with some reluctance, and perhaps a little relief, Tykar let his gaze drift down the awesome bulk towards the throne, where his gaze fell upon the man. He was an interesting figure. His height was hard to determine since he was sitting but from the look of him, the slim but muscular figure, he seemed to be taller than Tykar himself. He had raven black hair and the most piercing gaze Tykar had ever seen. They weren't the eyes of a human; they were the yellow eyes of a wolf. His face was darker than Drass' but not like the natives of the jungle continents to the south of Graer, more like the island natives to the south-west, an almost mocha pigmentation. He wore black trousers and shimmering, long-sleeved tunic of red silk. A black cloak was clasped to him at the neck by a small skull-charm. The outside was matte black but the inside was the same shimmering red as his shirt. The man exuded charisma and power so readily that Tykar could practically taste it in the air. It was a potent sensation, one that he had never experienced before that moment. This man was powerful indeed and that only served to boost Tykar's confidence.

"I am Mephistopheles, the Lord of the Eighth. You may call me Mephisto, if it will roll off of your tongue more easily." He smiled, an easy expression that disarmed as readily as a parrying dagger. Tykar felt some of the tension leeching from his body. "I am given to understand by my associate that you have a certain problem that you would like to resolve. You've undergone a terrible tragedy, a violent tragedy, and you wish to do what you can to put this situation aright, yes?"

Tykar nodded.

“I can give you the power to avenge yourself, Tykar. If you sign the agreement that my associate has, I will grant you the powers of hellfire. Do not be put off by the name, it is merely to strike fear into the hearts of my enemies. You will be able to wield it against your enemies. You can use it to burn your enemies, even through the best of magical shields. It is nearly impossible to resist hellfire and you bring with you a host of other skills that will only serve to make it harder for your enemy to resist you.”

The devil handed Tykar a thick stack of paper, what appeared to be on initial glance a contract. He handed him a quill, holding a vial of ink in his other hand. Tykar briefly scanned the contract. It seemed to suggest, in many words, that he would be granted the power of hellfire and that once his mission was complete he would serve Mephistopheles for a time. Eager to get to the hunt, he did not read the contract in its entirety, he merely signed it. Mephistopheles and his devilish associate both smiled fractionally. After handing the contract back to Mephistopheles, Tykar stood waiting.

The Lord of the Eighth rose from his throne in a grand, sweeping motion.

“Well Tykar, we have an accord. And as per the terms of the agreement, I now grant you the power to wield hellfire.”

There was a pause. Tykar looked left and then right, chewing on his tongue. Wasn’t there supposed to be… something to show him that he’d received the power?

“T-That’s it? There’s no—ARGH!” Tykar clutched at his chest as a wave of rippling agony exploded out from his heart. It turned from mere pain to a burning sensation that raced through his veins. For a moment, a moment that felt like an eternity, he could count every vein and artery in his body as hellfire coursed through his body. The sensation ebbed and Tykar gasped. He opened his mouth to say something, or perhaps to scream but the pain returned. This time, it felt like something hit him in the stomach. He doubled over, arms wrapped around his mid-section as he dropped to his knees. Then he felt the real burning. Fire erupted from inside of his body. He could feel it burn, smell the cloth on his skin charring, smell the smoke as it wafted up from him. The pain was incredible… But he wasn’t burning! With that shocking realization, the pain ebbed.

A little.

It was still the most terrifyingly painful sensation he had ever experienced in his entire life and it was still a fight to remain conscious. Even as he realized that he wasn’t burning to a crisp, black spots wavered before his eyes and the world was washed with green speckles.

Drass opened his mouth to speak and flame bubbled forth.

“Wha--??” He managed.

Mephistopheles eyed him and spoke. “You must control the fire, or it will consume you, Tykar. Focus on making it go away. It is a fight, always a fight, to control hellfire. It is the essence of Hell. You must establish and maintain dominance, or it will overcome you. Concentrate! Clear your mind of all else but the fight. Do not try to push the fire, it will surround you and burn you to ash. Instead, summon it into you. Demand that it return inside your body, where it came from. Command it, Tykar, or you will not survive!”

Grinding his teeth as he focused his attention on the task at hand, Tykar willed the fire to do his bidding. He reached out and grabbed at the air in front of him, drawing fistfuls of air towards his chest. As his focus improved and his will stood steady in the face of the flames and the pain, Drass felt the pain ebbing, the fire lessening. As this happened, he grew stronger and the fire receded more quickly. Eventually, it completely receded within him and he was left kneeling on the tiles, the charred remnants of his clothing sending plumes of smoke up towards the ceiling.

The dragon chuckled, a deep, resonant booming.


“You have controlled it, for the moment. Here…” Mephistopheles waved his hand as he continued to speak. A portal sprang into existence.

Tykar eyed it warily for a moment but only for a moment. He was eager to return to the mortal world, itching to get back to Sarcera and to hunt down Drakar Xerth and hand him his own still-beating heart.

The portal seemed like such a simple thing. Step through it right into the place he intended to go. It even looked that way, an image of his home rippling across a heat-haze that the Lord of the Eighth had summoned into existence. So eager to get home, he hadn't even asked how it worked, just trusted that it would and stepped through. Entering the portal was akin to diving into a pool of water with a thick skim of oil at the surface; it felt slimy and disgusting but that was not the worst of it. As soon as he was completely encompassed, his vision of reality changed... warped. Things began to spin and to alter shape and form, until his eyes were assailed by chaos in its purest form, a maelstrom of colors dancing across his vision. His gut clenched and turned over, raging against him. Bile burned the back of his throat, which tightened up on him. Tykar could not remember his body reacting so badly to anything in his entire life, except perhaps for his death. Time seemed to stretch out into nothingness and things seemed to slow down. The frenzied rush of odd shapes and colors streaking across his vision slowed to snail's pace, drifting lazily across his vision as he hung in place.

SNAP!

In an instant, everything changed. Suddenly, he no longed floated in a void of chaos but he stood on the plains near his home, the building itself inside a few miles off. He dropped onto his hands and knees, vomiting profusely. His stomach had nothing inside of it but bile, which came up in great quantities until he was empty inside and could do nothing but go through the contortions and hope they would end soon. The world took on a green haze, black spots filling his vision until even that leached away. He struggled to remain conscious but failed and his last thought was one of disdain as he collapsed into a puddle of his own bile with a wet squelching noise.

The cool embrace of unconsciousness was welcome in its way and even more so once it had fled. Tykar's return to consciousness was not a pleasant journey. His mind's eye reached out to the last things he remembered as a mortal and played out the final minutes of his life again and again, a loop of his failure repeating in his head. When that faded, he was left with a montage of his wife's bloodied face against a black backdrop, the sound of his daughter's screams echoing endlessly in the void of his memory. He cried out for them and the scene changed.
Suddenly he was in his body, awake and alert, standing in a featureless black void lit only by what appeared to be a funeral pyre. It was some distance away, so he walked towards it. There was a woman standing there, his wife.

"Dana?" He asked softly. Could it be, was his wife really alive?

The woman's gaze rose slowly. It was indeed his wife but something was wrong, something about her face... She stood there, wrapped in the funerary trappings of one in mourning but her face was not marred by grief. There was bitterness to it, anger even. She stared at him with eyes full of loathing, her mouth twitching with disgust as she regarded him.

"You?!?" She asked, her voice seething with blackest hatred. "You dare to show yourself here, even after what you've done? You promised to protect us! You promised that your old life would never return, that they could never find you!" She stepped forward and hammered at his chest with balled fists, her voice peaking in a furious scream that degenerated into sobs as her anger was washed away by grief. When she spoke again, her words were interrupted with sobs.

"You said that it was OK if we brought a child into the world! You said that she would be alright, that she would have nothing to fear, that you would protect her!" Dana sniffled and then looked up into Tykar's eyes.

Something was wrong, her eyes were turning red! As he watched, Tykar saw blood well up from Dana's eyes and begin to spill down her face. She clutched the side of her head, shutting her eyes and screaming in agony but it wouldn't stop. Laughter spilled out of the darkness, cold, heartless mirth.

"Dana!" Tykar yelled. He rushed to her side but could not think of what to do. He was no priest to implore a god to heal his wife, nor a sorcerer with the power to mend flesh. All he had was the power to destroy and it seemed that was all he was capable of doing. Dana fell to her knees.

"That's where she belongs, Tykar!" A harsh whisper called out. It was nearby. Tykar whipped around, eyes searching the endless blackness for the source, finding nothing.

"She belongs on her knees; it's where she's at her best!" The voice said. This time it was from the other side.

"Ask her, Tykar; ask her what she did with me after you died! Go on, ask her!"

Tykar's face drew itself into the Cold Mask, his business face. His killing face. "Xerth?!? Is that you out there?"

Suddenly, he could feel Xerth's breath on the back of his neck. He turned and there he was, standing right behind him.

"Your wife was a pleasant diversion, Tykar. We've spent a whole week together. Once I finished with your daughter, she did everything I told her to. Oh, the things we did--urk!"

Tykar's eyes bulged in fury and he reached out and grabbed Xerth by the throat, his thumbs pressing in on his windpipe as he throttled the man. He roared inarticulately, an almost draconic cry of raw emotion. After the initial moment of surprise, though, Xerth just laughed as Tykar continued on, futilely.

"Don't you understand, Tykar? You have no power here, or anywhere! You're impotent! I always knew I was better than you and I finally got the chance to prove it." Tykar took his hands from Xerth's throat and stared.

"What? What is this place?"

"Now now, that would be telling, wouldn't it?" Xerth laughed. "You know, while you're here, wallowing in your own self-pity, I'm still out here, with your wife. You should be saving her... but you've shown that you're no good at that!" Xerth laughed again and continued to laugh as he melted away into nothingness. Tykar's gaze drifted over to Dana.

She lay slumped on what he supposed was the ground, a puddle of blood around her head. He knelt by her side and cradled her in his arms. Was Xerth telling the truth? Was she really still alive? Was there still hope?

The last rays of the dying sun were what finally brought Tykar back into the world of the living. He blearily dragged himself out of the dream world to discover that he had lain unconscious for nearly six hours. And that he was bereft of clothing. Some kind soul had relieved him of the burden of covering so that he could be at peace with nature.

"Demon's blood!" He swore. But his house was nearby and he doubted if anyone had been able to get to what was important.

Groggy and depressed, Tykar made the trip to his home. He felt vulnerable but that was more because he was naked and less because there was anything around that would give him trouble. The wolves wouldn't be out for several hours and he'd hear them long before they would be a threat. By then, he would not be worried about wolves. His home was as he remembered it. The door was ajar and there was dried blood everywhere. He stepped into the room where everything had happened and immediately staggered back against the door.

His body lay on the floor, face down, one arm still reaching towards the table from when he had reached for his wife as he died. The stench was awful but the flies and the sight of it all affected him much more. It appeared that his body had been there for quite some time, not just the day or so it felt like he had been gone.

Tykar swooned, leaning on the doorframe for support as his legs went numb and gave out beneath him. That… that was... him? How could that be? He was standing there, looking at his own corpse somehow. The world spun and Tykar clutched at his head with both hands. He lost his support on the doorframe and half-fell to the ground into a sitting position, staring at his own body. It was too much. In his time as an assassin for Zalzabra, he had seen and done many terrible things but it was somehow different here, now, seeing his own body in front of him. He could see the puddle of dried blood around his stomach and how it stretched behind him in a trail as he had crawled towards the door in a final effort to go after his murderer. He could see all the little cuts Xerth had made on his body with the shards of hot glass he had taken from the window Xerth had thrown him through. When it happened, he had been surprised and shocked for much of it and for the rest, his training had helped him ignore the pain but now… Sitting in his own home and staring at himself on the floor, he felt the pain of all the injuries Xerth had inflicted on him. Worst of all, he relived it in his mind and saw what he did to his wife and daughter as well… Tears stained his face as he wept in pain and depression. What had that dream meant, were they still alive?

He could still see Xerth’s face… “I'm still out here, with your wife. You should be saving her... but you've shown that you're no good at that!"

Tykar's face went hard with hatred and purpose. He reached for the cold mask and slipped it on. Tykar Drass was not important anymore, did not exist anymore. His family had been taken from him: Tykar Drass was gone. From the ashes of his life rose a creature from his past. If Drass was gone, then in his place was the most feared assassin Graer had ever known: the Dark Phoenix.

Something stirred, deep inside of him, something ancient and elemental. Anger welled inside of him, bubbling through the cracks of his control and spilling across his mind like fresh blood out of a wound, raw and dark. He rose to his feet like a vengeful wraith, his emotions building, simmering inside of him as a scream built itself up from deep down in his body. It picked up energy and roared out of his mouth like a pyrotechnic hurricane of shattering force. Tilting his head back, Tykar let loose with the a primal scream. Suddenly, he could feel it burning inside him, from the pit of his stomach and through his veins. Hellfire!! He tried to control it but it was too late, it was too strong! He flung his arms to the sky and it came from inside of him. Hellfire rushed from within him, exploding from his body with visceral force. He struggled to hold it back but to little success: great tongues and plumes rolled off of his arms, incinerating or igniting everything in its path. He roared with bestial fury, screaming at the sky in agony and loss while the fire from inside raged on. At last, unable to contain the hellfire within hi, Tykar fell to his knees as hellfire exploded from his body like the burst of a fireball, only multiplied a thousand times and tainted with the darkness of Hell itself. A shockwave blew forth from his body and Tykar was claimed by blackness.

Waking up was becoming a painful experience for Tykar; he woke to the smell of burnt flesh and the feel of incredible pain. His body felt burnt all over, burnt badly. When he moved, he actually heard crunching noises. Tykar struggled to open his eyes and felt burnt skin trickle down his face when he finally forced his mangled muscles to snap his eyes open. His left eyelid actually fell off of his face. He saw his body, ravaged by the hellfire within and knew he had failed to contain it this time, that the hellfire had won and it had consumed his flesh. He could barely move and he hurt like nothing he had ever experienced before. That was a theme for the last little while. Every moment was an introduction to physical and emotional pain like had never experienced before in his life. He had been taught that death was a cold, emotionless void; nothingness. Instead, he was finding that it was a place of fire and agony, of grief and loss. It became too much and he passed out again.

When he roused himself again, he barely recognized his surroundings. His home was burnt rubble, scattered around him. His first thought was that he was surprised he had not burned to death in the fire himself, before he realized he had caused the fire with his own body. Somehow, his corpse had survived, though it had been reduced to a mere skeleton. In a way, that was better; Tykar was able to distance himself from the skeleton because he did not have to look at his own face, twisted in its final grotesque mask of pain. His home was gone, as much so as the life he had once cherished. For two years, he was part of a perfect life. It was peaceful but filled with happiness, a fulfilling existence. He had a daughter...

Vera... He thought.

His little girl… His eyes burned with the need to tear but he would not let himself cry; grief was an emotion he could ill afford. Better to get angry; anger would fuel his crusade against Xerth and all that stood in his way. Tykar huddled on the floor, shivering with anger and barely contained grief. Something felt different… Tykar’s eyes opened and he saw that the black crust all over his body was peeling off, revealing new pink flesh beneath! It was amazing, he was regenerating! Mephistopheles had not told him he had such a gift, it was incredible, it was… itchy!! Augh! His entire body felt like he had been bitten by thousands of mosquitos, it was unbearable. Scratching it was a new sensation all on its own as he peeled black chunks of burnt flesh from his body, like giant scabs all over. It was painful and gratifying all at the same time, a confused sensation to be sure. Long minutes passed by until Tykar was finally able to stop. His body was a ghoulish mixture of raw, newly healed flesh and blackened crust but he was finally able to establish some self-control. It was amazing how difficult was for him. Only two years had passed since he had last lived the Life but he had gone soft, had lost so much… It was time to go, so Tykar got up and looked around.

It was all gone, everything. The burnt ruins around him served only to remind him of that fact that he had nothing left. It was time to get to work. There had never been a more fitting moment in his life than when he rose from beneath a pile of his own ashes and set to work; the Dark Phoenix had risen. Tykar made his way to what had once been his bedroom, moving debris aside as he sought a particular section of floor in particular. When he finally found the floorboard he was looking foor, he pried it up and uncovered the tunnel he had been seeking. Tossing the floorboard aside, he wriggled down into the tunnel and caught hold of the ladder, sliding down into his secret cellar.

The air was musty and his landing stirred up two years worth of dust, causing Tykar to choke some as he walked along a cramped hallway towards his storage room. He opened the last door and stepped into his storage room. Everything was laid out exactly as he had left it two years ago. All of his items were carefully organized on the shelves or arranged on the mannequin that stood in the center of the room or, in the case of his weapons, arranged on racks. His spiderweave nightsuit dressed the mannequin with his belts, his swords were on their rack, his herbs were neatly catalogued on a shelf, everything was where it was supposed to be. He had not been down into this cellar once since he had settled with Dana but standing there, staring at a mannequin made in his likeness, he could not help but remember the old days.

The hunt was on and Tykar loved nothing more than the thrill of being the predator. His mark was a foul psyker and a supporter of Zolas, no less, the hated enemy of his nation. The fool had fled into the jungles of the Jed Morath, thinking that the terrain would slow Tykar down but it was the reverse that was true; his quarry was hampered by the terrain while Tykar slipped through the jungle like greased lightning, as easily as a hunting cat on the prowl. The heat was his element, always had been. Tykar grinned as he hid on a branch well above the game trail his mark was following now, feeling secure that he had lost his hunter a long way back. He wore a simple outfit of green and brown with lots of leaves glued to it with mud and he carried little with him: a spear he fashioned from a tree-limb, a tindertwig and his knife. His patience was rewarded soon after as his quarry made his way along the path. He looked terrible, exhausted, dehydrated in a rainforest because he was unable to find water, he looked starved and he was nervous. The last was hardly unexpected, considering the man knew he was being hunted but Tykar did not care, it only made his job easier. The traitor stopped beneath him, bending over with his hands on his knees to take a breather. It was time. Tykar leapt from the tree, silent as the grave and completed a full flip in mid-air, bringing the spear down and driving it through the man’s thigh and into the ground, lodging it deep. The man howled in agony and tried to rear up, only to find himself pinned. He grabbed at the spear futilely and screamed in pain. Tykar walked around him, grinning.

“Not so cocky now, eh? No traitorous lies to spread about Zolas?” Tykar said, spitting the word “Zolas” from his mouth. The man whimpered and tried to form the words to beg for his life but Tykar would not let him. He moved in close and hammered the man’s throat hard… but not too hard. He left his mark gasping for breath and unable to speak.

“You’re time is up, traitor! For your crimes against Zalzabra, you are sentenced to death and I am here to deliver your sentence. Repent now and the gods may have mercy on your traitorous soul. I will even give you the death of a man and not a coward.” Tykar said, his knife appearing in his hand as if by magic.

The man looked up at Tykar, face a mask of pain and defeat but eyes shining with the fervor only brought about by purpose. Finally summoning the strength and breath to speak, he did so. “Never! I will not repent when I am not in the wrong! Zalzabra is a nation of villains who inflict unspeakable horrors upon their citizens! You may kill me but I am not alone! The people deserve better than your evil machinations!”

Tykar glowered at the man. “Then die like the pig you are!” He yelled. He drew the tindertwig from his belt and lit it against the man’s ear, holding it to the spear embedded in the man’s leg. After several long moments, the bottom of the spear ignited and Tykar blew the tindertwig out.

“Good riddance, traitor!” Tykar sneered.

The flames raced up the spear and ignited the man’s pants. He screamed wildly, desperately trying to pat the flames out while not falling and ripping his leg apart. Tykar turned and walked away as the man’s screams echoed into the jungle as the flames began to consume him, a smile on his face as he considered a mission well done.

Tykar shook himself from his reverie. He had always been a creative person. As a young boy, his parents had held great hopes for him as an artist. He had shown talent in sculpting and painting. After their deaths at the hands of Zolasian soldiers, he had been taken in by the monks of the Ebon Moon. They had given him the purpose he needed to recover from his parents’ loss, the training to be able to take his frustration and anger out on those responsible. They had given him a new life. In their hands, he had become an artist of death. He had lived that way for years, eagerly and energetically pursuing his duties for a long while. As the years past, though, he began to tire of all the killing and after he met Dana, it became too much for him. He faked his own death in a cataclysmic fire and moved to Zolas, a place on which Dana had properly educated him. It was nothing like what Zalzabran propaganda had made him believe.

Tykar looked at the mannequin and then began to undress it. He clothed himself in his spidersilk nightsuit and fitted all of his knife sheathes in place, then put on his belts and straps. He filled his backpack with supplies, a wondrous item of magic that he had taken from a mark long ago. It was perhaps his most useful item: it had a capacity far in excess of what it should have been physically able to carry. Finally, he rested his hands on his sword. It was a longsword, the hilt crafted from the bones of a fiend he had once slain, painted black and lacquered. The blade was forged of folded black steel and edged in diamond. The craftsmanship was outstanding and the blade itself was practically magical in its ability to slice through armor, flesh and bone. He sheathed the sword and looked in the body mirror on the wall, another item he had taken from a mark: He looked good until he glanced at his face, still mottled with burnt flesh. He looked like a mongrelman, a patchwork man but it did not matter. His appearance would not affect his goals. He had purpose, his tools and hellfire. Drakar Xerth would not be long for this world.