Tyloric
Illogical Process of Elimination
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Ghosts of Westcliff
The night was young, the stars glistening in the sky like they have for countless ages. There was no moon on that night; it had chosen to hide itself three days sooner than usual. The inhabitants of Westcliff took no notice of this, no tolling of alarms. They went about their night as they always did.
There were the muffled cheers from the arena; it never closed and was never empty. There was rarely a time when there was at least one combatant fighting their way up the ranks of the fouls that plague Albion.
The bar was always full to the brim with occupants at all hours of the day; the people of this town were shameless with their ale. Whores, women and men alike, lined themselves in front of the entrance to the pub, as well as the bar itself. No one used the inn that was located upstairs for sleeping.
These things were the essence of Westcliff; it was a warrior town, filled with both bandits and honorable men. They all had their purpose and the town itself was equipped to fill any need. There was a blacksmith, a barber, a tattooist, a shooting range, even a fresh foods vendor.
Tents lined the hills and beach that surround the beaten up town; there wasn’t enough room to actually build properties, though the establishments that were there had be built and other completely repaired within the last few years, with Hero Sparrow’s guidance. All of Albion owed Sparrow something; be it their homes or their lives, but Westcliff especially was learning from the example he had set. He was a stout, loyal, honorable man that had saved their country from Lucien the Betrayer.
Fitz knew all of this, but only by reputation. He was not a native to Albion.
He stood at just beyond the site of the gate guards of Westcliff, keeping to the shadows the trees that lined the trail provided.
Fitz was a complicated man, and calling him that was more than he deserved. He had long sense lost his humanity, his appearance was fake, a mere memory of what he used to be.
His black-as-night hair was kept short, cut closely against his skull, his face clean shaven. His eyes were where his humanity was defiantly called into question; they were a deep blood red, and if you were to look close enough you would swear they glowed. No real man could have eyes such as his.
He wore tight-fitting sleeveless leather over his torso, the sleeves of his red undershirt pulled up over his elbows. Black leather pants held taught against his legs, offering just enough room to keep his full range of motion. He wore a blue bandanna over his face, concealing everything below his demon-like eyes.
Fitz inhaled deeply through his nose; he could smell it. It was here. He could feel it as if it was a part of him. How it had come to be here was still a mystery to Fitz, but non-the-less. He was close. That was all that mattered.
It would be his again, one way or another.
-------------------
And~ there is the introduction. I will be updating this story every now and then; it's a side project of mine.
Ghosts of Westcliff
by Tyloric
by Tyloric
Prologue
The night was young, the stars glistening in the sky like they have for countless ages. There was no moon on that night; it had chosen to hide itself three days sooner than usual. The inhabitants of Westcliff took no notice of this, no tolling of alarms. They went about their night as they always did.
There were the muffled cheers from the arena; it never closed and was never empty. There was rarely a time when there was at least one combatant fighting their way up the ranks of the fouls that plague Albion.
The bar was always full to the brim with occupants at all hours of the day; the people of this town were shameless with their ale. Whores, women and men alike, lined themselves in front of the entrance to the pub, as well as the bar itself. No one used the inn that was located upstairs for sleeping.
These things were the essence of Westcliff; it was a warrior town, filled with both bandits and honorable men. They all had their purpose and the town itself was equipped to fill any need. There was a blacksmith, a barber, a tattooist, a shooting range, even a fresh foods vendor.
Tents lined the hills and beach that surround the beaten up town; there wasn’t enough room to actually build properties, though the establishments that were there had be built and other completely repaired within the last few years, with Hero Sparrow’s guidance. All of Albion owed Sparrow something; be it their homes or their lives, but Westcliff especially was learning from the example he had set. He was a stout, loyal, honorable man that had saved their country from Lucien the Betrayer.
Fitz knew all of this, but only by reputation. He was not a native to Albion.
He stood at just beyond the site of the gate guards of Westcliff, keeping to the shadows the trees that lined the trail provided.
Fitz was a complicated man, and calling him that was more than he deserved. He had long sense lost his humanity, his appearance was fake, a mere memory of what he used to be.
His black-as-night hair was kept short, cut closely against his skull, his face clean shaven. His eyes were where his humanity was defiantly called into question; they were a deep blood red, and if you were to look close enough you would swear they glowed. No real man could have eyes such as his.
He wore tight-fitting sleeveless leather over his torso, the sleeves of his red undershirt pulled up over his elbows. Black leather pants held taught against his legs, offering just enough room to keep his full range of motion. He wore a blue bandanna over his face, concealing everything below his demon-like eyes.
Fitz inhaled deeply through his nose; he could smell it. It was here. He could feel it as if it was a part of him. How it had come to be here was still a mystery to Fitz, but non-the-less. He was close. That was all that mattered.
It would be his again, one way or another.
-------------------
And~ there is the introduction. I will be updating this story every now and then; it's a side project of mine.
