It had taken two weeks for Gangrel to leave the town: there was something comfortingly normal about that place, even if no one ever spoke to him and the horses were the only creatures that didn't glare in disgust. The gold he'd taken from the thief was starting to run out-having been spent on food, drink, and fresh clothes-signaling that the time was right to depart.
Being on the road was a lonely affair, but the Mad King did not care for company: low as he might be, he did not need someone simpering over his every misfortune. No one passed him except a band of identical merchants who tried to sell him anything he might have wanted, if he were any other man.
By day, Gangrel pressed forward, striving through all kinds of weather and difficulty of terrain. By night, he laid by the roadside, wrapped in his cloak for warmth. Days blurred together, as did the towns he passed through. He encountered nothing that he couldn't overcome and as such, continued on in misery.
However, Gangrel should have known better than to expect perfect solitude. As he came closer to the coast, the more people passed him on the wayside. He should have realized that not all of them were just minding their own business.
A pack of rough-hewn men clustered all across the road, blocking the way. Gangrel hesitated, before reminding himself that caution was overrated, and walked on. As he passed them by, several turned to watch him. When he was in the thick of the group, someone called out: "Ahoy there!"
Gangrel turned around and saw-to his surprise and frustration-the same man who'd spoken to him in the tavern some weeks before. This time, however, the brigand leader was surrounded by friends, all of whom were capable of killing any traveller who fell into their midst.
"I hardly recognized ye!" the man continued loudly. "Lookin' so cleaned up and with a much lighter purse I'd warrant!"
The whole pack of brigands roared with laughter as Gangrel bit back a harsh retort, reminding himself that he was less than even the lowest. The leader squinted at the Mad King when no reaction came.
"Forgotten how to use your tongue, have ye?"
"No more than you've forgotten to bathe."
The words slipped off his tongue before he could stop them and Gangrel cursed himself, the never ending insults that flowed in the back of his mind becoming louder, sounding in his ears. The brigand leader ran his fingers over the axe blade strapped to his back in a threatening motion.
"Well, you're more a man than you seem to be," the brigand leader sneered. "The last man to say that to me an' live was the former king of Plegia. Is that who ye think ye are?"
"You tell me," Gangrel snarled, wanting to wince as he heard his past self mentioned. "I only know I'm not a craven dastard like you."
"Mighty hypocritical," the leader snapped, losing grip on his temper. "Ye say yer better, an' yet you talk so rude to your superiors here, dog. But I'm a generous man, so long as you turn over yer gold and forget ye saw us here."
Gangrel looked over the group, measuring his chances as best he could.
They were large men, but the Mad King was still a full head taller than even the biggest of them. Still, there were twenty of them, and only one of him, and he was armed with only a dagger.
Yet...the former King wanted to fight. He craved the thrill of cutting down an enemy, standing victorious over a pile of bodies, putting himself into action with actual consequences. His bloodlust raised, he could hardly deny such an opportunity. Looking straight at the brigand leader, he said clearly: "You can rot in $*#&, dastard."
The bandits didn't disappoint: as one they charged, axes and swords drawn. Pulling his dagger from his boot, Gangrel rushed to meet them. This aggressive tactic surprised his attackers, who faltered for a moment. It was all the Mad King needed: with a well placed lunge, one of the brigands suddenly found a knife in his stomach, his sword in the hands of the enemy.
Laughing as he hadn't in weeks, Gangrel cut a bloody swath through the ranks of ruffians. Many didn't even have time to try blocking. Then the lot of them began to get organized: circling, they trapped him among themselves with little room to maneuver. The Mad King fought like a man possessed, ignoring the cuts and bruises accumulating on his body. Finally, from both blood loss and exertion, Gangrel collapsed, breathing hard.
An axe blade entered his field of vision, and he saw the bandit leader's scarred face glaring down at him. Gangrel bared his teeth in exhausted defiance.
"Ye killed me crew," the brigand leader snarled. "You've sealed yer own fate."
Gangrel smirked with satisfaction. Now it was over. What had been started would be finished, all debts repaid.
"Still..." The husk of a man on the ground felt his sense of fulfillment fade at that one word, disappointment settling in. "Yer one das't fighter. I could use a man like ye in me crew, seein' as how ye owe me fer their lives."
"I would rather-" Gangrel cut himself short, his instinct for self-preservation drowning out his every other thought and desire. Nearly choking from the effort of holding back the words, he heard himself accept the offer. The scarred face above him broke into a wide grin-an expression that, if anything, was worse than his scowl.
"Now get that %#$ of your of the ground," his new employer ordered. Gangrel stood up slowly, swaying as he was hit by a bout of light-headedness from losing a near fatal amount of blood. The brigand watched with critical eyes, nodding in satisfaction as the red-haired man held his ground.
"You will call me Captain. Capitan Zanth if ye be feelin' right and proper. Ye have a name?" There was no response forthcoming, as the new employee was unwilling to share anything about his past. Zanth turned to the surviving members of his crew and asked what they thought they might like to call their new crewmate. Several suggestions made the crew laugh loudly. Gangrel turned a deaf ear to them, more concerned with bandaging what injuries he could.
"We'll call 'im dirt!" A voice rose from the crowd. " 'E's the lowest of 'em all, 'till we get someone new, after all!"
"Naw, that's n' insult to dirt!" someone else called. "He's even lower! He's a maggot!"
The crew laughed loudly at the last one, and Zanth nodded in approval. "Ye hear that, maggot?"
Gangrel curled his hands into fists, resisting every urge to throttle the lot of them. He turned to his captain, and stiffly replied, "Yes sir."
"Good. Now the maggot can make himself busy by picking up all the weapons and take 'em with us to the ship."
Zanth's tone held every expectation to be obeyed. The newly christened maggot did not disappoint, picking up the weapons of the dead, taking weapons from the living and injured as well. It took all his strength to support the load, but he did not let a single blade touch the ground.
"Let's go, lads," Zanth ordered. The crew shambled after him, falling into order-which put Gangrel behind them.
I am not king any more, he reminded himself. The Mad King died on the border wastes. I'm just a maggot now.