Far from the warmth and light and life of the village, a figure watched the large plumes of the bonfire's smoke waft away into the moonlit sky. He watched them dissipate, disappearing among the lustrous stars and into the void between them.
'What a wonderful night,' he thought. He breathed deep the crisp air. 'What a wonderful, welcoming night.'
He was clad for battle, but light, in a complex array of leathers and straps. It was streamlined, athletic in a way that mirrored his own lithe build. Every now and again, a small, almost imperceptible, snap of ruby-red lighting arced across his frame. He had black, windblown hair cut short. Two long daggers, gleaming sharp and polished like wolves' teeth, hung from each of his hips.
He was clad for battle, but roughly. His armor was awash with nicks and cuts and burns, all poorly mended. It was smeared with soil and grease and dried blood. His hair was slick and oily, unwashed. Even his smile was filthy. The only thing clean about him were his weapons.
His name was Surge, and he was here for glory.
He stood aside a different fire than the one he beheld. His was smaller, more secretive. Around it, fifteen men were clustered in a haphazard arrangement of packs, gear, arms, and armor. His men.
Some wore leathers, some mail, a couple even had items of plate, but all were just as dirty as him. Their voices, not quite raised, produced a gentle hum of conversation that drifted out, into the night.
Their disposition was unassuming, but upon closer inspection one might notice sharp, alert eyes, and vicious, greedy grins. There was no fear here. No nervous anticipation. Not in these men, not around this fire. They knew what tomorrow would bring from ample experience, and they couldn't wait.
Humming softly and jauntily, Surge left his camp of killers and made for the ridge nearby. It was a nice spot, a good overlook. It allowed one an almost unparalleled view of the village far beyond.
Burrick. Their golden goose.
Their raid on the caravan one week prior had been disappointing, both in carnage and in compensation. Rather than plunder the valuable electronics and technology they'd hoped might be bound for the heart of Cell Uther's territory, they'd found nothing but foodstuffs, and meager ones at that.
The grub had gone quickly, leaving them hungry and disheartened at having to return home so soon. Their spirits turned, however, when they happened upon the small village.
At first, they'd been happy enough just to find something so close to the border of Uther's territory, after days of travel. Happier still once they noted the state of the hamlet's defenses. Food enough to replenish their supplies, and slaves to boot. Plus, plenty of bloodshed to satisfy the more…savage elements within their crew. Women never went amiss, either.
Then they learned about the Maw.
It was a chance thing, really. One of their rangers noticed the large party returning to the village, and managed to follow their tracks back the way they came. Which given the villagers' training, or lack thereof, wasn't hard.
Oh, the Maw.
The Maw changed everything. Turned this from lucky happenstance into their personal ticket to elevation, to the Aristocracy. Labyrinth loot was amazing, second to none. And the Maw being so fresh and so far from civilization, they could farm it for a while. Long enough to get what they needed.
Then it was back to Nycta, and their perfect future. Surge snickered as he reached the ridge. He clapped the sole figure standing there on the back heartily, resulting in a loud, clanging sound.
"Flange-y, Flange-y. Enjoying the view?" He asked his partner in crime.
The mountain of metal turned, revealing a somber, unimpressive face and shaved head. Flange stood almost seven feet tall, a true monster of a man. Clad in heavy plate from tip to toe, with a massive mace planted in the ground before him. Only his face was exposed at the moment, his helm resting in his palm. He frowned, a sluggish procedure undertaken by thick eyebrows and thicker lips.
"I don't like it," He murmured.
Surge's broad grin lost some of its luster.
"What?"
"I don't like it," Flange repeated.
"I heard you the first time, asshole," Surge snarled. "What do you mean you don't like it?" He pointed towards the smoke plume. "There it is. The village sits there. You've seen it. Pitiful defenses. Octogenarian men-at-arms. There it is, spread out before us like a whore's fucking legs."
He pointed again, stabbing his finger in the direction of the village while glaring at his partner's impassive face. "Look at it. Fucking look at it. What the fuck don't you like about it?"
Flange shifted slightly, not meeting his gaze. His partner gestured vaguely, widely, to the woods that surrounded them. "Too far north," He said.
"Too far north?" Surge replied, "We're barely at the fucking border-"
"Uther territory." Flange cut him off, looking straight at him this time. Firm. Insistent. "Don't like it. Been here too long. We should leave."
Surge snorted. "So? Soultaker hates those Uther fucks, anyway."
Flange looked unimpressed. "Soultaker hates everyone. He won't protect us."
"Oh, but my dear Flange-you're forgetting one thing." He stepped back with a flourish.
"The Maw. The Maw, my friend, changes everything. Think, Flange. Think of what Soultaker would give to deprive them of this. Think of how pleased he'd be to accept treasure stolen from under their very noses." Surge frowned, and shrugged.
"We can't stay here forever, sure. But weeks? Maybe a month? That's time. That's time aplenty. Time to enjoy the fruits of our labours. Time to milk that Maw for all its worth."
Surge's gaze returned to the smoke plume, and the village below. His smile grew yearning, longing. "He won't protect us, true, but we don't need his protection. We'll slaughter most, enslave the rest, and loot what remains."
He turned to Flange and began ticking items off his fingers. "That's fun, food, and ample time to delve. Then we return to Soultaker, bearing gifts and girls. Bing, bang, boom." He shot finger guns at his partner. "Then we get our own house under the Cell."
Flange turned back to the village silently, still unconvinced.
"Tell me, then. Tell me that I'm wrong," Surge pressed.
"Uther'll find out," Flange replied.
"And by the time they do, we'll be long gone," Surge countered.
His partner sighed deeply, hefting the mace into the air, gazing upon its surface consideringly. Haltingly, he spoke.
"Flange's…givin' me a feeling."
Surge's face twisted in annoyance. He threw up his arms. "Oh, fuck's sake. Fuck's sake, man. You trust that fucking thing more than you trust me."
Flange raised a big, bushy eyebrow, still staring at his weapon.
"Flange's not a thing. Flange's a mace." His partner turned slowly, locking eyes with Surge and holding his gaze this time.
Surge didn't scare easily. He had seen too much, done too much, for that. He knew plenty of pain and how best to inflict it. He even enjoyed it. But for him, it had always been a means to an end. A way to get what he really wanted. Money, power, women, respect. But his partner was different.
Flange was…broken. In some way. He had this presence to him, where he didn't even feel like a man. This slow, inevitable violence, that came about so rarely. And sometimes, when he stared right at you, it felt like he was slowly choking the life out of you from afar.
He didn't look at you like another human being. He looked at you like a predator. He looked at you like his next meal. And to him, violence was as natural as breathing. It was all he wanted. It was his way of life.
Flange continued, still speaking calmly, but not so casually as before.
"People lie all the time," he said, "Like breathin'." He tapped his mace. "But Flange never does."
He sniffed the air, once, twice. "Flange's givin' me red. Blood. Lotsa blood gonna be spilled in that village."
He smiled, an ugly thing that made Surge's mind conjure images of boars and blood sausage. "But I don't mind that."
He slammed his helm into place, covering his head entirely save for a pair of beady black eyes that glinted from within.
"You just stay sharp," Flange told him, as he marched back towards their camp. "Be an awful shame, any of that blood bein' yours."
Surge shivered once his partner was gone. He looked upwards, to the sky. The plumes of smoke had petered out, and clouds had blocked the moon. The stars were dim, and darkness encroached once more. The night no longer felt so welcoming, and his smile was not so big as before.
"Oh, don't you worry, partner," Surge muttered to the empty air, as his entire body flared with red lightning for but a moment. "They'll never even see me coming."