Heroist
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—Well, I see. They can send things across a hundred lands, but when it comes to sending something useful, all you get are photographs. —He waves his hand dismissively, puts away the useless junk, and walks off in a random direction. —At least the second one is better, but the first one should have been someone who was actually interested. Did he really learn nothing in his life? Couldn't he have shared some information? Oh, forget it. Jerks.
Lost in his own thoughts, he doesn't immediately realize he's in the port area. This time, however, he continues on, through the deserted harbor, past the ships laden with heavy weapons, the bustling soldiers, and the unfortunate refugees. Rounding a well-trodden, clean beach, he steps into the shallow, warm pebbles heated by the spring sun. The divine luminary lazily rolls across the midday sky; to his left, the still-intact city hums, and to his right, the sea waters barely ripple.
Passing the last, drowsy buoy, he continues along a ridge of sickly-pale slabs, once spewed from the ocean depths by the powerful currents of a mighty water spirit. Here and there, he sees leaning wooden docks, and broken barrels and scorched planks scattered along the shore. Few passersby and fishermen notice the young man, and who in their right mind would venture out of their homes now? From here, you can't feel the soul-corroding shard of evil, you don't hear the mindless zombies moaning, the calcites-cannibals howling, the frightened townspeople screaming, or the guards giving orders. Only the call of the sea, so close and yet so far, is occasionally answered by the cries of seagulls.
—These are some good boots. —The young man murmurs approvingly, walking through the sandy dunes in his new outfit. —So this is what the first day of spring feels like! Exactly one year has passed since the beginning... And no one even noticed.
Climbing onto a rocky outcrop shaped by Mother Nature, he surveys the blinding, cheerless coastline. —And I missed my birthday again. Where was I then? Ah, yes, in the library, reading about obelisks. Not a day of rest since then. Just one endless, bloodthirsty nightmare. Thank you, fate, for such a wonderful gift. I deserved it, without a doubt.
Winding through the rows of sandy thorns, he reaches an old, abandoned pier. Like a rusty blade, it pierces the murky, mirror-like surface of the sea. Sitting on the edge, the scholar takes off his boots and lowers his feet into the cool water. —It's time to test Camistella's theory, to see if we can truly die. But I don't feel like it, because fate will do it for you soon enough.
Unfastening his backpack, he takes out Inak's instructions. He gently runs his hand over the crumpled cover, glances at the hastily scribbled notes. A fleeting, reminiscent smile appears on his face.
—I should have talked you out of it, my friend. You knew that even with Dog, you wouldn't be able to defeat the cursed soul. Forgive me.
He places the instructions on top of a damaged photograph.
—I'm not a man of faith, but wherever you are... I won't forget you. Even if I don't do it myself, my revenge will be passed on to someone else, and sooner or later, it will find them both. And before they plunge forever into the black void of eternity for their shameful and worthless souls, they will definitely see your face, as well as the faces of everyone they killed for fun.
He confidently takes a fishing rod in his hand, and the taut line cuts through the air.
—So, let's finally go fishing. We promised... And then, maybe Anuzish will see us with the king. I won't forget anyone.
A small cup is placed nearby, and a bottle of Barsikondian wine is uncorked.
—I wanted to save it for a special occasion, but there will be no other. To you, my friend.
Cast, throw, throw, cast. The water refreshes, the wine delights, and the sea breeze caresses his face.
—And who else? Ayya? She's more interested in noble knights. What can a weakling do against that? "Four-eyes." —He casually adjusts his glasses, which have slipped down his nose. —Nergal? He's always running away. New acquaintances? We're only together because of a common goal; otherwise, no one would even talk to me. Cherry? Too rational, and she would never consider me an equal. Zavirushka?... Well, yes...
Throw, cast, cast, throw. Whether there will be a catch is up to fate. And the wine is already gone.
—And the chance to escape... we blew it. Because I'm too weak-willed. A pushover.
Finally, he holds the photo in his hands, folds it into a paper airplane, and launches it into the ocean with renewed vigor. The water and salt devour the ink, and soon the last memory of the unfortunate fisherman disappears beneath the surface of the sea, which he loved so much.
—Although, maybe it's for the best... At least they'll help the homeland. And I... Useless, incompetent, having lost everyone close to me. And how did I end up like this?...
His head is thrown back towards the darkening sky, and a clenched fist is raised towards it, and his lips utter a desperate cry:
—Damn artificial meat!!
Lost in his own thoughts, he doesn't immediately realize he's in the port area. This time, however, he continues on, through the deserted harbor, past the ships laden with heavy weapons, the bustling soldiers, and the unfortunate refugees. Rounding a well-trodden, clean beach, he steps into the shallow, warm pebbles heated by the spring sun. The divine luminary lazily rolls across the midday sky; to his left, the still-intact city hums, and to his right, the sea waters barely ripple.
Passing the last, drowsy buoy, he continues along a ridge of sickly-pale slabs, once spewed from the ocean depths by the powerful currents of a mighty water spirit. Here and there, he sees leaning wooden docks, and broken barrels and scorched planks scattered along the shore. Few passersby and fishermen notice the young man, and who in their right mind would venture out of their homes now? From here, you can't feel the soul-corroding shard of evil, you don't hear the mindless zombies moaning, the calcites-cannibals howling, the frightened townspeople screaming, or the guards giving orders. Only the call of the sea, so close and yet so far, is occasionally answered by the cries of seagulls.
—These are some good boots. —The young man murmurs approvingly, walking through the sandy dunes in his new outfit. —So this is what the first day of spring feels like! Exactly one year has passed since the beginning... And no one even noticed.
Climbing onto a rocky outcrop shaped by Mother Nature, he surveys the blinding, cheerless coastline. —And I missed my birthday again. Where was I then? Ah, yes, in the library, reading about obelisks. Not a day of rest since then. Just one endless, bloodthirsty nightmare. Thank you, fate, for such a wonderful gift. I deserved it, without a doubt.
Winding through the rows of sandy thorns, he reaches an old, abandoned pier. Like a rusty blade, it pierces the murky, mirror-like surface of the sea. Sitting on the edge, the scholar takes off his boots and lowers his feet into the cool water. —It's time to test Camistella's theory, to see if we can truly die. But I don't feel like it, because fate will do it for you soon enough.
Unfastening his backpack, he takes out Inak's instructions. He gently runs his hand over the crumpled cover, glances at the hastily scribbled notes. A fleeting, reminiscent smile appears on his face.
—I should have talked you out of it, my friend. You knew that even with Dog, you wouldn't be able to defeat the cursed soul. Forgive me.
He places the instructions on top of a damaged photograph.
—I'm not a man of faith, but wherever you are... I won't forget you. Even if I don't do it myself, my revenge will be passed on to someone else, and sooner or later, it will find them both. And before they plunge forever into the black void of eternity for their shameful and worthless souls, they will definitely see your face, as well as the faces of everyone they killed for fun.
He confidently takes a fishing rod in his hand, and the taut line cuts through the air.
—So, let's finally go fishing. We promised... And then, maybe Anuzish will see us with the king. I won't forget anyone.
A small cup is placed nearby, and a bottle of Barsikondian wine is uncorked.
—I wanted to save it for a special occasion, but there will be no other. To you, my friend.
Cast, throw, throw, cast. The water refreshes, the wine delights, and the sea breeze caresses his face.
—And who else? Ayya? She's more interested in noble knights. What can a weakling do against that? "Four-eyes." —He casually adjusts his glasses, which have slipped down his nose. —Nergal? He's always running away. New acquaintances? We're only together because of a common goal; otherwise, no one would even talk to me. Cherry? Too rational, and she would never consider me an equal. Zavirushka?... Well, yes...
Throw, cast, cast, throw. Whether there will be a catch is up to fate. And the wine is already gone.
—And the chance to escape... we blew it. Because I'm too weak-willed. A pushover.
Finally, he holds the photo in his hands, folds it into a paper airplane, and launches it into the ocean with renewed vigor. The water and salt devour the ink, and soon the last memory of the unfortunate fisherman disappears beneath the surface of the sea, which he loved so much.
—Although, maybe it's for the best... At least they'll help the homeland. And I... Useless, incompetent, having lost everyone close to me. And how did I end up like this?...
His head is thrown back towards the darkening sky, and a clenched fist is raised towards it, and his lips utter a desperate cry:
—Damn artificial meat!!
Whatever