3
"Hold your fire men, he's alone."
The guards at the once strong gates of Benji saw Monake tread heavy steps.
"How can you tell sir?" asked one of the guards. The general spoke in soft but firm words. "No man from an ambush would walk so deep in the earth."
He replied.
"What if it's all a trick?" the guard posed. " And you know this how?" retorted the general. "It's not possible. An army would not wound its own man to attack one town."
It was true; Monake had suffered from wounds of the last town. The evil had grown into his left hand, leaving his appendage to rot when fighting…
Of course that had not stopped him from skirmishing the blades of one hundred villagers thrashing away at his drained body.
Thus he could not fight, for if he did, his hand would unsheathe his gleaming sword and surely decapitate someone. Or maybe reach for his bow and kill an unsuspecting civilian… "Must stop hand…. must stop hand…." He thought.
Many nights were restless for him, for his dreams were flooded with nightmares of death and gore. In which state he was only to wake up to such madness that his nightmares had come to reality.
A trail of blood fell behind him as he trudged his exhausted body towards the gate. But where was the wound? It could not have been in his torso, for he would not have so much energy to carry himself across abandoned fields to do so.
It was the seething scar on his left hand that had opened up and began to travel up his forearm. It was not truly a wound from the villagers; it was a wound from the darkness of the scar that hampered him.
The curse was growing.
"Hold your fire men, he's alone."
The guards at the once strong gates of Benji saw Monake tread heavy steps.
"How can you tell sir?" asked one of the guards. The general spoke in soft but firm words. "No man from an ambush would walk so deep in the earth."
He replied.
"What if it's all a trick?" the guard posed. " And you know this how?" retorted the general. "It's not possible. An army would not wound its own man to attack one town."
It was true; Monake had suffered from wounds of the last town. The evil had grown into his left hand, leaving his appendage to rot when fighting…
Of course that had not stopped him from skirmishing the blades of one hundred villagers thrashing away at his drained body.
Thus he could not fight, for if he did, his hand would unsheathe his gleaming sword and surely decapitate someone. Or maybe reach for his bow and kill an unsuspecting civilian… "Must stop hand…. must stop hand…." He thought.
Many nights were restless for him, for his dreams were flooded with nightmares of death and gore. In which state he was only to wake up to such madness that his nightmares had come to reality.
A trail of blood fell behind him as he trudged his exhausted body towards the gate. But where was the wound? It could not have been in his torso, for he would not have so much energy to carry himself across abandoned fields to do so.
It was the seething scar on his left hand that had opened up and began to travel up his forearm. It was not truly a wound from the villagers; it was a wound from the darkness of the scar that hampered him.
The curse was growing.