End of an Age ...

The street was a quagmire of mud, washed down from the gentle
incline of the forest above the village by the endless deluge of rain
ever present for the past three days. The muddy pools reflected the
faint light emitted by the oil-burning lanterns, their reflections
shattered by the few dishevelled stragglers making their way home from
the local taverns after drowning their sorrows with what passed as
alcohol in these parts. An endless cycle existed within the village
confines, one broken only when their boundaries were traversed. It was
an endeavour few within the village had the desire or courage to do.
Bav'Recony, or Journey's End to the few that managed to escape its
clutches, had two main industries within its boundaries: mining and
drinking. Almost everyone was versed in at least one, and those still
not familiar with either were quick learners. Traders passed through
mostly during the summer, weather keeping them at bay during the other
seasons, so new blood was hard to come by. The town had a decent
reputation money-wise, nothing more. Most within the village were born
to the life they led and for many, mining experience was the only
commodity they had to sell. Unfortunately, it was not needed much
elsewhere within Bav, a country whose land lent itself chiefly to
farming. As a consequence, those within the village walls led an
arduous life. They worked hard, they drank hard and they fought hard.
Men and women worked long shifts in desperate conditions, often within
the greedy clutches of death. Afterwards, once the dust had been spat
from their throats and mouths, they frequented the one thing more
profitable than the mines, the taverns. Risking the wrath of their
other halves, they drank themselves into oblivion, only returning for a
few hours rest. Most of the men and women of the village still living
life above ground prayed to Tamar, one of their many dieties, that once
the taverns closed, their partners passed out rather than administer
fumbled attempts at lovemaking or beatings. Those that were unfortunate
enough to be subjected to either, ignored the pleas for sympathy or
forgiveness while they nursed their abused bodies and stole what money
was left for food, an expensive commodity in these parts.
The resonance of rubbish impacting to the ground shattered the
comparative silence of the night within the village confines. Rats,
scouring the streets for carrion, scampered to the dark shadows of the
streets as they sensed the presence of danger. In the distance a man
picked himself off the ground, his shape barely visible in the light of
the full moon which was slowly being overcast by dark, bulbous clouds
swallowing the sky. He brushed clean his clothes as best he could that
were stained even at the best of times, wiping mud and rotten
vegetables off the fleece of his coat where he had fallen into a pile
of rubbish left by the wayside. Those still awake heard muttered,
indistinct curses as the man made his way south towards the crossroads
of the only main street of the small village.
A light mist began to fall lazily from the sky, ending the brief
respite from the rain that had been given to the villagers for the
first time in days. The small droplets of water were visible in the
light of the few oil lamps that bathed the main street in artificial
daylight. The rain did not help matters much for the drunkard who was
already finding the journey hazardous, but now with the added danger of
having to stagger successfully on wet, muddy cobblestones without
falling on the ground and injuring himself. 'The one sodding night I
get drunk,' he thought. The man raised his face to the skies, allowing
the rain to wash clean his face. 'Bloody rain!' he screamed until his
lungs neared bursting, his shouts fading into the bleak darkness. After
running his hands through his hair, he spat a goblet of phlegm and
continued his journey.
A passer-by dressed in Parson's garb saw the man stagger towards him
and then stumble suddenly on an upturned rock, falling hard to the
ground. Without thinking the Parson laughed aloud, but fearing a
confrontation he quickly put a hand over his mouth to try and suppress
any remnants of laughter which might antagonise the drunkard further.
The Parson pointed his head down towards the ground and continued
walking onwards, watching the drunken form warily from the corner of
his eye. He was in no mood to offer help, and was not going to get
covered in mire by helping a drunken fool to his feet. He had just
minutes ago finished preparing his sermon for the following morning and
was on his way home to his wife and family, eager to get out of this
miserable weather as soon as possible. The drunkard looked up at him as
he passed by and scowled, cursing everyone for his troubles as he tried
to extricate his foot from a muddy quagmire that it had lodged itself
in. The Parson noticed the drunkard overbalance onto his backside as he
managed to get his foot out from the mud. Judging from the sound of the
curses, the Parson guessed that it was minus his boot. Looking back to
see the drunkard flapping his arms in the air screaming in frustration,
he finally allowed himself to smile at the unfortunate circumstances
the man found himself in. Sensing enough distance between them, the
Parson decided to allow himself a brief bonus for the hard work he had
struggled through for his parishioners, and paused in the shadows to
see what trouble the drunkard would manage to get himself into. The
drunkard was on his hands and knees, struggling to get to his feet,
eventually regaining his balance but not before stumbling once again
into the mud with a curse. Biting his garb to hold back his laughter,
the Parson watched as the fool hovered over the offending pool of mud,
his tongue protruding from his mouth in concentration. He saw the
drunkard stretching his arms out to their maximum reach to try and get
his boot back from the thieving pool of mud, eventually shouting in
triumph at the heavens while holding it aloft. The Parson continued on
his journey, shaking his head wondering how a man could get so drunk on
the local excuse for beer that tasted like piss. His thoughts were
interrupted suddenly by the appearance from the darkness across the
street of a group of men making their way in the same direction as the
drunkard, four by his reckoning. By the way they kept out of the
diminishing remnants of light, he reckoned they were up to no good. It
was none of his business and he did not want any trouble this night.
Glancing furtively to see if he himself was in any danger, he moved
silently ahead, sparing a single glance backward to see whether the
drunkard was still in view. After suppressing an unwanted shudder at
the likely outcome, he continued on, moving to the shadows in case the
men did not want any witnesses.
The drunkard, unaware of the people shadowing his progress, struggled
to get his boot back on without falling flat on his backside. With the
help of a wall and some fiendish lunges to regain his balance, he
successfully managed to succeed in his task without further injury.
Taking stock of his surroundings as well as was possible in the drunken
circumstances, he tried to ignore the unpleasant feeling of his clothes
cementing themselves to his body, wet with mud and whatever else had
decided to attach itself for the journey. As the volume of rain began
to increase, he moved out from the shadows of the buildings, availing
himself of the opportunity to clean his face and hands and hopefully
sobering himself at the same time. When the only smells registering in
his mind were those coming from areas other than his own body, he
resumed his journey to nowhere, again moving to the shadows for what
little comfort they afforded him from the rain.
Rubbing his backside which was in agony, and shoving the nagging muscle
pains in his legs to the back of his mind, he started to make his way
down the street in a drunken gait muttering curses to whatever deity
had put him in this godforsaken place and situation. He turned a
corner, realising once again that he hadn't a clue where in Hel he was,
and sighed aloud in frustration. After wiping the rain from his eyes,
he decided to go down the street to his right and see where that would
take him. 'Bloody Hel, why do all these alleyways look the same?' he
said to himself. Wet, miserable and very drunk with the onslaught of a
hangover starting to make itself unwelcome, he staggered down the
street, his thoughts now on a warm bed and the company of a woman,
which brought him some comfort. 'Damn rain! Oh I am never drinking
again! Never!' The sound of the wind blowing through the alleyways sent
a shiver through his body. As the wind grew stronger, the wailing of
the signs suspended outside shop windows grew louder, sinister enough
to make those still outside wish they were at home in bed under the
covers and those still indoors awake in their beds burrow even deeper
underneath their covers. The man continued his progress down the
street, feeling even more miserable if that was possible, and pulled
his coat tighter around him to try and keep warm.
With little warning, an Axe came hurtling out of the darkness, it's
presence betrayed by the moonlight reflected off its deadly edge. The
drunkard saw the reflection off the Axe's blade from the corner of his
eye but could do nothing to avoid it, as his reflexes were dulled by
the effects of the drink he had consumed with abandon a few hours
earlier. The weight of his rain-soaked clothes made it even harder to
move quickly. Making light of his damp clothes, the razor-sharp edge of
the Axe sliced into his side and penetrated deeply. The force of the
blade smashing into his side sent him colliding into a door. Unable to
catch his balance, his body collapsed to the ground, his face smashing
against the cobblestones. 'Oh sweet Tamar, I'm dying!' He lay there on
the ground, the Axe protruding from his side, his head laying in the
gutter where the nights waste flowed downhill towards the towns
harbour. The smell of refuse, and death, hung in the air all around his
prone body as his lifeblood began to ebb away, turning the murky water
flowing by his body a shade darker in the pale light of the moon.
'Oh Tamar that hurts! Why does the bastard not finish the job?' he
thought, biting back the agony. The effects of the drink helped to keep
the pain at bay but was most likely the cause of the night's tidings.
His mother's favourite saying came back like an unwanted dose of the
shits. 'Good deeds will be rewarded in kind. Bad ones returned
threefold.' Pain hammered every fibre of his body, sending him
perilously close to unconsciousness, something he fought against with
all his remaining energy. He knew if he lost consciousness now, it
would most unlikely that he would regain it. 'Someone please help me!'
He heard the faint sound of arguing voices in the distance followed
quickly by the sounds of a brief struggle. Allowing himself some faint
hope, he tried to raise himself up off the ground but with little
success. He slumped down in pain, holding his injured side, afraid that
if he moved the Axe deep within his body he would bleed to death, and
if he remained where he was, his wound would get worse and infection
would set in. It was not something he would wish on anyone, especially
himself.
He opened his mouth to try and call for help, but an inaudible whisper
was all he could manage. He lay there confused and in pain, wondering
why this had happened to him, until the blackness overcame him and he
knew no more.