The sun was high and bright, the type of sun Tarik would have enjoyed if it weren't for his current predicament. Horses needed food, hay needed bailing, and porches needed sweeping, all things he should have been doing on a day like this. It might have been a day of work for him and the other farm hands, but he would have preferred their company over his current companions. Bandits are notoriously bad company, after all.
"Get movin', you." Growled one of the bandits, shoving Tarik from behind. Tarik stumbled, struggling to regain his footing, but managed to right himself, narrowly escaping what would have been a nasty fall. He didn't have to look back to know that the bandit found the sight amusing, as his chuckles made it painfully clear. "Watch're step there, farm boy."
Tarik had been tending fields like the one he found himself walking through all his life; in fact, it was his life. Tending a beautiful farm had been the pride of his life, the one thing he could brag about at the pub with his mates, although few of them genuinely cared about his passion either. Now his masterpiece, the culmination of five years of love and devotion, was nothing more than soot and ash. Tarik doubted he would ever get an apology for it either.
The bandits were upon the farm before anyone knew what was happening. An attempt was made, by the farm guards, to rally against them, but they were quickly cut down. Before long the screams could be heard across neighboring farms, but no help could be expected. Everyone had bandit problems, coming to the aid of another farm would do little to safeguard their own farm from the bloodthirsty savages. Within the hour, the bandits had their loot and hostages, leaving the charred carcass of the farm behind.
Five, including Tarik, had been taken from the farm, and two had already been killed for one infraction or another. Their bodies were left where they fell, and Tarik wasn't sure if they were the unlucky ones. He had never been this afraid before, never this scared of anything or anyone in his entire life. Tarik was sure his two friends felt the same, as they had all lived in similar way for many years. When he looked to them, it confirmed what he had been thinking of them. Their eyes were staring, vacantly, at the ground between their feet, and Tarik could see their mouths forming silent wishes of survival and rescue. As much as Tarik hoped for their wishes to become reality, his mind corrected his foolishness. None of us are surviving this, he thought, turning his head to give them both one final, sad look. "Eyes front!"
The order was followed by another shove, and Tarik stumbled once again. This time, however, his legs could not save him from the fall. Tarik tumbled, slamming into the ground with enough force to drive the breath from his lungs. He gasped, rolling onto his side to avoid breathing in chunks of dirt. His chest felt tight and empty, like his lungs were twisting into knots that wouldn't come undone. The fear he had felt was now pounding in his heart, as all the air in the world had seemed to abandon his doomed body.
Undoubtedly, Tarik could have braced himself from the fall if his hands had been in working order. Unlike his fellow captives, Tarik's hands had not been bound. Instead, their captors had seen fit to make an example of the fit young man, no doubt to curtail any aspirations of resistance or escape. Bracing his hand against a bare tree stump, they had set to work bashing his hands over and over with one of their mallets. Their laughter had been loud and raucous, deriving great pleasure from snapping of Tarik's bones and the sobs from his mouth. Now, his hands were nothing more than useless meat decorating the ends of his arms.
Tarik continued to wrestle with his lungs, blocking out the uproarious laughter from his captors. His eyes searched the faces around him for any sign of comfort, but they found nothing but amusement from the bandits or vacancy from the other captives. He returned his gaze to the dirt, at least that was something familiar to him. Then he saw something unfamiliar. Buried in the dirt and hidden by grass, Tarik saw the upper half of what looked like some kind of mask. It was ornate in design, bearing colors ranging from deep reds to dark purples painted within golden waves and ridges that ringed what Tarik assumed was an eyehole. Most of the mask was white, however, and Tarik could tell that if he saw the rest of the mask it would follow the same principles. In the midst of studying its beautiful visage, Tarik found his eyes drawn to one of its blemishes, a long crack beginning on the underside of the eyehole and disappearing into the dirt.
The crack was hypnotizing, and Tarik found this very strange as it was a mundane blemish on a long forgotten stage prop. So why couldn't he look away? He had long forgotten his struggle for breath, and considering he hadn't passed out he assumed it had worked itself out somehow. Although, his fascination with this mask might be a side effect of his lack of oxygen. It didn't matter, however, as Tarik was enthralled by its beautiful colors and imperfections. For some reason, he was convinced it promised him the world. Everything. Everything he had never thought he wanted, was now lying just a few inches away. Power. He could change the world, show everyone who had ever belittled him or patronized him that he was more than they thought he was. Wealth. He could have his own farm, his own land. NO, that's too small. A plantation, a huge one that would be the pride of Albion and envied by all. NO, worshiped by all. Love. He could take a lover, many lovers. As many as he desired, and he would have the complete affections of each and every one.
Tarik had never had these thoughts before, and he would have thought them disgusting and vulgar if he had been in control. But he wasn't in control anymore, the mask was. No, the other one was, its first master, he was the one in control now. The master was pulling him towards it, wrapping his influence around Tarik's mind. He felt it nuzzling at the back of his mind, comforting him almost lovingly. Whispering sweet memories of events not yet passed, but felt so real that Tarik could almost smell the scents that would surround his future self.
The pressure in his mind had built to a crescendo, and Tarik felt unbearable pain radiating throughout his body. I need it. It's mine. He lunged for the mask, pain shooting through his broken fingers as his hand connected with it. Tarik ignored this pain, as it was a sliver in the thumb compared to the infernal burning he felt in the rest of his body. He dug at the ground viciously, trying to free his mask from the clutches of nature.
"He's a nutter," chuckled one of the bandits. He took a step towards Tarik and snapped his fingers. "Eh', what the hell are you doin'?" Tarik ignored him, continuing to fight with the earth for his mask. Before long, his fingers were bloody and, somehow, more mangled than before. Yet it all proved worthwhile to him, as the mask came free from the clutches of his enemy, the dirt. He now had it cradled in his broken hands, and looked upon it the way a father would look upon their newborn child. "Eh', what the hell is that?"
The bandits had finally noticed the mask, and were now staring at it hungrily. At the mention of the mask, the other captives were roused from their stupor to look upon Tarik and the bandits.
"Ah, you found us some treasure. Hand it over boy." Ordered the bandit who had shoved him down in the first place. He grabbed for the mask, and that's when Tarik struck him. With his broken right hand, Tarik lashed out, striking the bandit square in his jaw. The bandit fell back, pressing a hand against his jaw, a look of complete indignation. "Y-You are a dead little-" But he didn't get a chance to finish his threat. Tarik was on him before anyone could react, and before anyone could comprehend what was happening, Tarik had torn out the man's jugular with his teeth.
They all stared in horror as this once gentle young man had become a savage, blood drenched beast. Even the bandits had been struck dumb by the vicious attack and its unlikely source. Shock covered their faces as Tarik rolled off of the man and reclaimed his mask, which had fallen to the ground in the skirmish. No longer was he content to hold it, Tarik turned it around and slowly raised it to his face.
Tarik, the farm boy, ceased to exist. The mask, it's master, was now inhabiting what had once been his body, but Tarik had relinquished all claim upon it when he dawned the mask. Tarik's face was now covered by the mask, with pieces of flesh and mask stretching out to one another in some kind of sick embrace, melting into one. "T-Tarik?"
The voice had been that of his fellow captive, a young woman who had assisted him in his chores on more than one occasion. He turned to face her. The young woman retreated as she saw his eyes. Soft brown pupils had now become a sinister gold color. As they settled upon her, an inexplicable sadness gripped her heart. While Tarik had been a peer, she couldn't have called him a friend. No, this was a sadness not born of loss or death. It was a sadness much deeper, something primal, buried in the deepest parts of her soul.
The bandits had finally shoved aside their surprise, and in its place was a boiling rage. After losing their comrade, the bandits numbered three, and would prove no match to their other two captives, but the masked man was a different story. He had already proven himself a vicious opponent to their now deceased comrade, but with his broken hands they still had the advantage.
Raising his broken right hand, the masked man regarded it with curiosity. The fingers were slightly bent, and the skin covering them was a sickly collage of reds, purples, and yellows. He then regarded his left hand in the same fashion. That was when he spoke for the first time.
"This won't do." His voice was deep and bore a sinister lilt, sounding as if it was whispering out of some kind of dark void. The onlookers seemed to recoil ever so slightly, as if their blood had turned to ice water. Then they heard the snapping, and their veins felt frozen solid.
The broken fingers had begun rearranging themselves. Shifting beneath the skin, and snapping back into place. The sickly sound of their repair carried to the bandits and their captives. Within seconds, the tendons and bones had all fully healed, and now, the bandits' odds were slowly starting to diminish. Bandits, however, thrive on their reputation. So whatever manner of witchcraft was repairing this freaks hands wouldn't deter them from relieving him of his masked head. The nearest one howled a guttural battle cry and began his charge.
He was on the masked man's right, brandishing a dull, blood stained cleaver, and would have had the advantage if this was still the farm boy whelp they had abducted from the farm. It wasn't. The masked man moved with an otherworldly speed, twisting out of the mans path. The bandit stumbled, but regained his footing, and whipped his cleaver around, hoping to sever his opponents head from his shoulders. The cleaver cut through nothing but air. Before the bandit, could prepare himself for another swing, the masked man appeared in front of him. As the bandit started to draw back his cleaver for another slice, he realized his opponent was no longer unarmed. The masked man now brandished a knife, and one very familiar to the bandit. It was his. The bandits hand shot back to his knife sheath and found it empty. Surprise would be the last expression his face would claim before his throat opened, spilling its crimson contents across his shirt and the grass beneath him. Life escaped him quickly, and his corpse landed in the dirt with a dull thud.
The masked man stepped over him, taking up a position before the last two bandits. One of the captives, a boy who had tended the kitchens, had made a run for it, his form disappearing over the horizon. The other, the woman, was rooted to her spot, horror and disbelief paralyzing her.
Their comrades death, while brutal, had done little to dispirit the last two bandits. Perhaps, it had even spurred them. Undoubtedly, their reputations would be in tatters if they were beaten by some farm boy in a silly mask. This time, however, they attacked as one, no doubt hoping to overwhelm their opponent. As one loaded a bolt into his crossbow, the other charged headlong at the masked man, brandishing his well worn mallet. Aiming for the masked mans heart, or at least what he hoped was a heart (as he was starting to doubt this man's humanity), the bolt shot from the crossbow and drove towards its target.
Once again wielding unnatural speed, the masked man twisted out of the bolts way, and it passed harmlessly bye. The mallet wielder had now closed the gap between them and whipped his weapon around and down, attempting to bludgeon his opponent. With ease, the masked man ducked the initial swing and stepped out of the way of the down swing. Expecting his enemy to try another sly trick like he pulled on his first victim, the bandit twisted around and swung the mallet wide, hoping to catch him mid move. What he didn't expect, was the masked man to rush him. The masked man lunged forward, his knife moving like a blur. Before any sort of defense could be mustered, the knife was buried in the mans side, not once, but multiple times in quick succession. Within seconds the bandit's strength dissolved and he fell to the ground and ceased to move from there on.
The crossbow wielding bandit had been too busy reloading his crossbow to come to his comrades defense, but now he had a bolt loaded in and was ready to defend himself. He aimed, this time for the masked mans chest, and loosed the bolt. It drove towards its target, and seemed as if it was going to strike the man. This hope was dashed, however, as the masked man dodged at the last minute, and the bolt went wide. The bandit attempted to load one more bolt, fumbling with the crossbow. He stopped, mid load and dropped the crossbow, which clattered to the ground and was soon forgotten. Indeed, the bandit was focused on the knife that was now buried in his chest. He had a few moments of muddled surprise before he fell, and joined his comrades in dirt and death.
Savoring his victory, the masked man regarded his victims. Fools, stronger men than you have- His ruminations stopped abruptly, as his ears picked up a sound. It was soft and pained, like some kind of wounded animal. He could also hear the fear in it. Then he recalled the woman, and turned back to where he'd seen her last.
Lying on her back in a lush patch of grass, she was nursing a wound to her stomach and winced as the perpetrator shifted. The first bolt from the crossbow wielding bandit had missed the masked man, but had found a victim in the young woman. It had pierced her stomach, driving straight through her midsection. Her skin had taken on a pale and sickly color, and her body was shaking uncontrollably. As the masked man took a step towards her she flinched, causing the arrow to shift. She screamed in pain, and tears began escaping her eyes. The masked man closed the distance now, albeit slower this time. Reaching her side, he kneeled. She looked up into his eyes and could have sworn that they had softened ever so slightly. "Are. . . Are y-you going t-to help. . . Me?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The masked man reached out and took her head in his hands, his thumbs seemed to caress her cheeks. Her heart lifted ever so slightly, and a few final tears slid down her cheeks and kissed his fingers. He leaned in and their eyes met. "This was inevitable." He said, and the illusion shattered. The softness in his eyes disappeared. His grip on her face tightened. A scream began to from in her throat, but it died before it was born as her neck snapped and her body went limp. The death was quick, and it took all the pain with it, leaving her empty, peaceful corpse behind.
A chuckle escaped the masked man as he stood, looking upon his handiwork. You wouldn't have escaped this, I was always going to kill you. The only one who might survive this was the runner, he had made it quite far, of course. But he wasn't out of the woods yet, so to speak, as the masked man already had designs on ending his life as well. Beneath the mask a wide and vicious grin formed, and he looked to the horizon as the sun was beginning to pass into sleep. Oh Albion, Jack is back.