Primus – The Judge

"Unworthy." The Lawbringer's quiet voice was met with a solemn silence that was felt within each member of his audience. Tears and whimpers could be seen and heard respectively throughout the small wooden structure that acted as a rudimentary meeting hall for the village.

The Iron Legion's Lawbringer was here to judge the village. Depending on whether they were worthy of defense or not, the Iron Legion would either send legionnaires to the village or abandon it entirely. And right now, he had judged it to be the former—something that was very bad for the village, for they could do nothing against the Vikings and their barbaric assaults against Ashfeld.

"There aren't enough Iron Legionnaires to defend you. We're already spread too far apart." He continued after a few moments. "You're unworthy of protection. I pity you, but I cannot stay. I must return back to Harrowgate for the ensuing Viking horde."

"No!" An older woman in the back screamed, her voice breaking and filled with fear and disappointment. "You must stay and help us! Please!"

The Lawbringer, who had been called Dante, looked at the woman before motioning for two armored Iron Legionnaires to force the commotion-maker out of the room. With tears streaming down her face, she reached for the man as she was carried away, her cries being heard through the thin walls even from outside.

"Then what of us?" Asked an older man. His eyes were becoming colorless, and his hair was a deep shade of grey, showing that he was one of the elders of the village. He was devastated by this news, but he kept his voice strong and hopeful, not for him but for the other villagers in the building.

"You must find someone else to defend this village or leave offerings to the Vikings." Dante said, leaning back in his wooden chair before looking down at some bread and wine that sat on the table between him and the older man. "Perhaps those barbarians have some compassion left in them."

The old man audibly breathed out from his nose in a sign of frustration. However, he knew that there was nothing that could be done to change the mind of the Lawbringer that sat across from him. He sighed, closing his eyes as he did so. He could only imagine the pain and suffering that would be thrust upon the people of this village, and it saddened him.

The old man could tell the villagers to pack up their things and leave, but he knew that would not be beneficial. This village was all that they knew. If they tried leaving, then they would almost certainly die in the unknown that extended beyond the people's small lives. He could also try telling them to learn the blade, but that wouldn't work either, for they were nothing but farmers.

It seemed hopeless, and perhaps it was.

"I must leave." Dante said, pushing himself up from the wooden chair. His heavy black iron armor shifting and scraping as he did so, the screeching sound of metal against metal filled the silence. "I can't say that it's been pleasurable, but I do wish you luck with your problems."

The Lawbringer looked around the room, his eyes locking with the eyes of the villagers. He knew that if these people were to die to the hands of the Viking hordes, then the weight of their deaths would fall on his shoulders, as he was the one to sentence such a thing upon them. However, this was not a new thing for Dante. He had become acquainted to such a difficult feeling. So much so that it was barely difficult anymore.

A pair of eyes—dark brown and angry—watched Dante from the back of the room. The eyes belonged to a young woman of perhaps her late teens to early twenties. Her hair was a luscious brown, but it had been dirtied with mud. Her figure was thin, but she was taller than most of the other women in the building. This woman watched the Lawbringer with hate and anger, which were things that many in the room felt but did not portray.

The figure knew what had happened. This man just sentenced her and her people to a life of suffering, pain, and eventual death. Who was he to sentence them to such a fate? What gave him power over people's well-being and lives?

A ghost.

That is what they called the figure. It would travel from town to town in the Myre, slaughtering any criminals that it would come across mercilessly. This ghost, which was infamously called Sakura by those who had feared her, had found this way of life to be hers. She knew that this was her purpose in life: to kill those unworthy of life. Who were those people? It was up to her own discretion.

Sakura remembered the day she became this ghost vaguely. It began with a mountain, a calling, and rain.

The executioner knelt in an unending silence atop a rocky hill. Rain fell in great amounts from the heavens, forming pools of the cold liquid in puddles. Sakura shuddered as the water rolled down her leather gauntlets and soaked her outer layer of deep red cloth. She did not shiver because of the rain, however. It was because she felt the Spirit of Death move within her. It was time for another execution.

Sakura took a white mask that had been stained with dirt and blood. After fashioning the human-looking façade to her face, she grabbed her Fuetsu that was resting against a large rock just off to the side. She used the large axe to push herself to her feet, a variety of wooden shrunken heads hitting one another as she did so.

The figure began her trek to a remote village. It took many days of walking, but she did not falter nor stop. She walked in a kind of trance. She did not sleep or eat when she walked this journey. She would often not move her eyes from the direction of the village for long periods of time. It seemed as though something otherworldly or supernatural controlled her every move.

The muddy paths that twisted and curved through the Myre were overrun by nature. Thick bushes and large jungle trees sprouted along the roads in sporadic places, making the once clear trails into a maze of dirt and stone. Still, this labyrinth of trees did not falter the woman. She knew every nook and cranny of the Myre completely. Sakura had lived under this canopy of jungle for her entire life, and there was nothing that happened within the Myre that she did not know.

When the ghost reached the small village, night had come and go thrice over. The moon was shining brightly when she had entered the grounds of the seven or so scattered buildings. All of these buildings were built along one strip of a dirt road absent of any torches or light. The silence was unbroken in the serene night, and Sakura made sure to keep it that way.

The man the ghost was here for, Ryoshi, was a fisherman. Contrary to what one might assume, Ryoshi's humble job was not the only thing he had done. He was a murderer. On a night similar to one like this, he had murdered two innocent women. He had slept with another woman, but he was caught by his spouse. In a blind rage filled with shock and hate, he struck down both his wife and the other woman, hoping to cover up his dishonor. However, it only caused the Spirit of Death to call out his name.

As Sakura walked down the muddied main road, the night's silence remained unbroken. She approached a certain building on the cliffside by the ocean. It was a simple wooden house without any architectural expertise. Simply, it looked as though it was a peasant's home built of what he could find in the woods with minimal work. It was suitable, however, that such an ugly house fit such an ugly person: Ryoshi.

The ghost marched up the building's front steps, completely disregarding the need for silence from earlier. The sound of the floorboards creaking underneath the heavy weight of the vessel of death must have been loud enough to wake the old fisherman, for a lantern within the house was lit. Soon after, a face lined with greying hairs and a balding head peered through the windows, its expression changing from annoyance to horror as the two brown eyes looked at the figure.

"No!" The man screamed, pushing from the window and, presumably, towards a back door or exit. Loud, clumsy footsteps could be heard as he ran along the creaking wooden floor. Sakura quietly—which was too quietly for a woman of her size—and swiftly made her way around the house to catch the fleeing fool.

Sakura quickly made the perimeter around the house, catching up to Ryoshi in a short time. She grabbed the man by his collar and threw him behind her onto the ground. Turning on her heel, the two dead eyes of her wooden mask locked with his. There was no moment before then that he felt fear, for he did not know the true meaning of the word until he locked eyes with the embodiment of death.

The ghost took a step closer the man in the mud before putting her right leather boot onto his chest, pinning him onto the ground. The man's chest closed in as his screams began to soften, but they had already alerted the rest of the village. Some men and women along with their children walked out onto the street, for they wanted to see what the commotion was about.

Sakura looked around at the gathering crowd, her mask as emotionless as ever. The onlookers gazed at the executioner, their eyes filled with horror. Fathers ushered their wives and children back inside their homes, and the mothers tried to sooth the cries of their babies; however, the babies' cries were not silenced on that dark night.

Her Fuetsu resting by her side, Sakura dug her left foot into the ground, and she moved her right foot off the man's chest, digging that foot into the mud soon after. The man's already widened eyes widened even further, as he knew that his death would soon come. The ghost's grip around the handle of the weapon tightened and audible breaths could be heard from behind the cold mask. And in the blink of an eye, the face of the old man was split in two with blood spurting from the wound, his brain clearly visible beyond a thick layer of blood.

As she pried the heavy blade of the Fuetsu from the face of the dead man, something moved within Sakura. Something within her told her that she could not leave this town without liberating it. She turned on her heel and locked eyes with the crowd's. Her false enemies' eyes dilated as they realized what was about to happen. However, unlike Ryoshi, they did not run, for it was futile.

First, the children—the innocent and future.

Then, the women—the backbone and nurturer.

Lastly, the men—the flesh and provider.

Blood and bones covered the ground when it was all done. Heads, which were still covered in flesh and hair, littered the premises. Eyes—free of their eye socket constraints—littered the muddy ground, being paired with the villagers' pulled teeth. Sakura sat there amongst all of these things in this horrid scene.

Something was different about this ghost. She no longer killed for justice against thieves, murderers, and rapists. Now, she killed for the thrill of it. For the want of blood. Of pain. Of misery. And even though blood covered almost every inch of this executioner, her mask—which she now considered her true face—was untouched with no blemish or scratch. It was as clean as humanly possible.

However, Sakura could no longer stay here. Something moved within her once again, and it was not to be unheard. The Spirit of Death called for more blood and killing, and who was Sakura to deny her it this thing?

This is the first in a series of "Inter Capitula" ("between the chapters" in Latin). They will be numbered but in Latin (Primus = First). They are part of Nos Sunt Lupi, and they are meant to serve as extra exposition that I didn't want attached to an actual chapter. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and happy reading.