Grayell's house is a run down barn for the most part and in complete disrepair. The door looks stern enough and a small storefront operated by him, occupies a much smaller room attached to the main house.
Smoke rises from the chimney and it appears that Grayell has gathered a few wooden barrels, though they appear to have little use at this time. The herbs that occupy his store have filled the air with a subtle yet dynamic essence, invigorating but probably too much to tolerate should one remain here long.
Last night it seems I made a friend. Serenity. A lovely name and a lovely woman. I, of course; impressed her immediately by placing my foot firmly in my mouth, assuming she was another 'just passing through and looking to share a bed' type.
I have to say, I am glad to have been wrong. Seems she's set up house in here in town and will likely be opening a store within the next few days. It is strange, to spend so much time alone and then find just one person that I feel like I could talk with for hours. I rarely met a chatty trader on the trail, too damned cold to stand about and parlay and not a great deal of importance when running trap lines.
We drank, laughed and then took a stroll to get something to eat. I offered a trade with the street vendor and should see him in the more to trade some herbs for the meal, I will remember him and be sure to purchase from him frequently.
It was somewhat funny, it is apparent that Serenity has had a proper upbringing - also apparent by the way she conducts herself - but I don't believe she'd ever eaten street food. I'll have to remember to tell her to careful though, trifling with the wrong food could have her ill if she's not careful.
There was the matter of a pair of drug peddlers though. They were dealt with easier enough but it concerns me that such an element persists in this town. Lawless or not, there are children in this town, good families and good people - and I wouldn't see that ruined by such scum.
It seems Serenity has quite the knack for magic too. I can't say I care for mages anymore now than I ever have but I suppose I will make an exception for her heheh. I was compelled to tell her that her clothing was in jeopardy with all that wind... but I confess it bothered me little. She's very beautiful, Serenity and I will have to be careful that some of the more callous types here in town don't give her any grief.
I'm most certainly not her type I am sure, but I have to say that it is thrilling to have a friend so witty, intelligent and pretty. I hope that her and I will spend more time together in the future, she brings a smile to my face - something I am not quite used to these days.
There was also something else. Seems I suffered a scratch in our scuffle. The scratch is of no consequence, but the tad bit of blood from it - well it acted unnaturally. If my blood is again beginning to stir I may be wrong. Regardless of my wants, I may have to return to the wastes and never again return to these populated areas. It is far too soon for this to happen.... but I will pay close attention.
I can suffer being alone again... but to end a friendship so soon would hurt me greatly. I don't want to leave again.
Grayell limped from his inside his home to what passed as a back yard. There was rubble and refuse laying about, this place was in a state of complete disrepair. He didn't have much of a gift for fixing things so he would have to make do with simply.... making do.
But later. He had many things on his mind this day, concerns and questions that he knew not how to answer. His leg was on the mend but it would be slow. He was not a healer, not on the level of practiced, learned healers and medicine men. He knew herbal remedies that allowed him to survive, to cease death if at all possible and given time and care, could mend his wounds. His scars weren't earned through magical healing and instant cures.
The tea he carried with him was terrible but he knew it worked. No matter how many times he had used it though, it still tasted worse than the human tongue could comprehend and it smelled no better. He finished it, the dregs in his crudely carved wooden cup tasting the worst. He winced, his mouth puckering and forced it down his throat.
Oh well, worse things in life.
He shuffled around and didn't much like what he saw. Sure, there were many things here he could make use of, improvise and adapt to better his situation, but his leg was slowing him down. In the wilds it could be a death sentence. With the unsavory elements here in town, it could be no different.
He spotted what he was looking for finally and grunted as he leaned over to pick it up. A piece of rock, crude but somewhat flat. He dusted the debris from it and then blew off the remnants, ran his thumb over the surface.
You'll do.
Grayell shuffled back into the shade and sat down upon an old crate. His sword was resting there already, it was what passed for a chair at this time. He placed the rock on his thigh and patted it, flipped it, studied it - and settled for the first face. He pawed a little dirt from the ground at his hand and after spitting on the face off the rock, sprinkled but a little of the grit on it.
He then drew his sword lazily and began the laborious task of sharpening. He'd need a strop eventually, but it would serve his purpose right now to get the edge more than functional. No, he needed it to be a weapon again.
My blood indeed stirs and truth be told, I am fearful.
I faced down a werewolf last night. Big bastard. Were it not for Serenity, he might have had me. Were it not for Serenity, I did have him. He has torn my leg though, almost grievous enough to cripple me. Those mongrels should be so lucky. I will not see my word unfulfilled while I draw breath.
He is not mine to kill though. The man in him struggles with what is left of his mind. Smatterings of memories pull at him and Serenity - it is clearly enough that she holds on to their love. He is her husband. She used the word 'ex'... but he is not dead and neither is their love. Should I have any room left for bitterness, that very fact might be the sole cause of such grief.
But, she is remarkable and I cannot find the will to turn from her. I am a damn fool, a man like any other; but it is not my loins that long for her company. No.... that woman, she - well she sings to me. And I don't mean literally, but her presence, her smile, her eyes and her laugh, the wind in her hair, the moon on her cheek...
Dammit. She entrances me, holds me bewitched and I enjoy every rapturous moment of it. Her very being casts a light upon my soul and therein finds what is left of me, huddling in the dark. Filling me with hope. Filling me with her song, though I know not the words. I reach out, stretch and rise to my toes to climb from the pit within me, desperate and hungry for her salvation, to feel her soft touch upon my skin, I die slowly wanting for but one simple instant in which she is real to me. But I pull away. I tear myself back, drop to my knees like a man whipped in servitude because I know too well that I am not enough for her, that me... pathetic, broken, haunted me is simply not good enough to enjoy the love that she brings into the world.
I am a friend. A dutiful, gleeful, ever indebted friend and that friendship will not falter, will not fail her. I will stand defiant against the next mongrel that comes for her, wolf, man or otherwise; and I will spit my hatred, my burning vengeance upon them in such horrific glory that they will simply cease to be. I will be the crop fire, the burning, cleansing maelstrom that quite simply eradicates any and all opposition to her enjoyment, her voice.
I am lost. The words run away with me and did I have such a gift, I would sing in such mournful a manner that the animals would likely migrate. Heh. The baying of an old wounded dog.
But, I have the scent of the bastard who wounded me now. He and her have unfinished business I imagine and it is not my place to interfere in that. Again, I am not the love in her heart but am instead the sword at her side. But should that dire bastard think to steal her from me once more, he will find himself severely opposed. I will know he is coming and I will be prepared. My blade has seen too much work. It needs to know it's purpose once more. It will draw but blood by my hand.
My blood stirs and I know not whether it is the presence of that damned beast or the stirrings of my heart that make it so. I will leave if it becomes a threat. I will not remain to see her endangered. And should it take hold of me, my own blade will be the end of the matter for once and all.
A pox on all Garou. I slew his underlings with ease. He will be soon. Should I be my own greatest threat.... well that should be a battle for the ages I dare say.
The sound rang out, a wet thud snapping and carried to anyone passing the front of his home.
THUMP.
Another, a lower tone. A groan, almost like a dog wrestling with a rope tethered to something that won't give.
SNAP.
Grayell saw red. His knuckles had given and were bleeding as he hammered at the large log that once was a grand tree. He'd thought it a shame someone had taken it down and left it here, probably planning on making some furniture - furniture he didn't have. It mattered little. At any rate, Grayell saw it fit to use as his training partner now and a couple of day's of hammering on the solid oak had left something of a weathered patch of worn bark and spatterings of blood almost half way around the tree.
He was not working fast, but instead hard. His shoulders pulled back and then rolled down, the left socket aching and grinding in protest. They pulled in as his elbows drew back, palms upward. He was dripping sweat, a fine sheen over his naked torso, muscle moving under scars loosening another bead that made a break for the ground.
His eyes were dark, his target was obscure. He didn't need to look, but to focus instead. His left arm lazily wafted upward, hand rolling over and pushing at an unseen something - the resistance naught but his own, hard control of his movements. Breath escaped to follow the arm, drawn out and deliberate.
His knee shot up, unchambered the foot.
SMACK.
The pain didn't matter, his shins would heal. The tree was getting the better of him, but Grayell was not concerned with his conditioning. He was hardy, no doubt about that and had taken more beatings than most, but speed was something age had robbed from him. He could not reverse years of wear and tear on his body, he could not mend remnants of broken bones, torn muscles and countless dislocations and sprains. He had come to be humble in his reduced capacity, though he vibrantly recalled when his youth caught up with him. Things hurt. Age old injuries that he had walked off now came back to taunt him. A grizzled face and a hard set jaw showed no concern.
That same leg chambered, slowly lowered to the ground now, closer to the tree. His hips lowered with the broadened base and his lead hand pulled in. He paused. A single drop of sweat ran the gamut from his brow to his nose and then lingered there, hoping to flee to freedom. His right hand now shot out.
CRACK.
The sweat got it's wish as his palm burst against the wood, fingers and thumb trembling as he pushed hard, seeing his target within the tree. He stopped there a moment, legs slowly dipping and swaying like a praying mantis though Grayell knew not of such exotic fighting arts. His arm shook, wrist and hand trembling against the oak. His had slid now, falling with little grace before he brought it back in, still shaking. That had hurt.
A roll of his neck and a sharp breath, he stood into a relaxed posture but cradled his hand, looked at it with intensity as though it held the secrets of the world within the palm. He shook it out, eyes narrowing and belying the pain he felt in his arm. He turned to the house and paced across his yard.
It would be some time. He might not ever be as fast as he used to be, but that mattered little. He had precision, the knowledge and intuition to strike but once. He had power and the ability to deliver crippling pain where it mattered most. His weathered hands were undoubtedly capable of tearing a man's throat from him, his palms quite capable of rupturing the diaphragm.
Nope, his years of flash and bravado were done for. The grizzled veteran had no use for them now.
In there place was the simple ability to tear an opponent apart with both surgical accuracy and a savage, savage ferocity. He would be back this evening and he would be stronger.
Grayell sat out back of his run down house under what was left of an old awning, large burlap sheets flapping in the wind. He had bumbled together a table - a couple of barrels and some planks, and a couple of crates for sitting upon. It was nothing spectacular by any means.
His hand was at work, he'd taken some sinew and leather from a kill earlier in the week and had produced some pitch with Golem Tree resin and ash. The tooth the great wolf had given him was tied and as he finished it, he slipped it around his neck without so much as a look at his handiwork.
Instead, his eyes were on the fragments of the blood stone he had collected from the battle with the corrupt mage. They seemed simple, pretty, like darkened rubies - but they had no sparkle or brilliance. Their deadly truth was a grim reminder of what blood magic could really do to people, how horrendous it's power was. His thoughts were many and his answers few, so he simply sat there and contemplated.
He didn't know if they were of use but the very thought didn't sit well with him at any rate. What possible good could such a grim relic bring about? His own blood had become something almost alien to him, haunted by the memories of his terrible, blackened past and what his blood use to be. A changed man, aye a normal man nowadays; things could have been much different. He told himself that in some small way he should be glad for blood magic or his life would be much removed from it's current state - but he could not forget the travesties that his very blood unleashed.
The screaming and sheer terror of many rippled through his psyche and his eyes pressed hard to close, his mind trying to suppress those ghosts. It was little use, he had no distraction and they would not be stifled. There was corruption there and it was entirely possible that his mind had fractured, become a danger in itself; for he looked at those stones and for but one moment in time wondered if he could regain some of that lost power....
He stood suddenly, toppling his seat.
Bah. Not that easily demons.
Grayell gripped the fang around his neck and walked into the yard. It was time for his work out anyways.
Zane walks up to what he believes is Grayell's house, at least according to the people on the street. He makes his way to the 'porch' and knocks on the door, praying it is actually his house
Zane gets no reply from the door. After waiting a brief moment and then idly looking about, Zane spots Grayell - or what's left of him. Grayell is half curled up, half sprawled across the ground and slumped against the outside wall of his small house. Black, dried blood spatters the ground by his face, remnants of blood drizzled down his chin and chest. His back, arms and chest are severely bruised.
Zane sighs and shakes his head. He walks to the closest well and draws a bucket of water, then makes his way back to Grayell and dumps the entire thing directly on his head and then slaps him a bit
Grayell groans and then coughs. His legs pull up first, hands reaching out and finding nothing to grab. His mouth smacks, then spits as his eyes slowly open. He looks around, spots Zane and groans again, his head dropping back to the ground.
He rubs his face after a moment and with a grunt sits up. One hand behind him in the dirt, he feels his jaw. Looking down at his chest he shakes his head.
Grayell takes his hand and lays a lot of weight on him to pull himself up, Grayell being a tad heavier than Zane might expect. He nods and then dusts off his pants, takes up his sword which has laid loose in the dirt. He takes a step and stops, hand to his head and his eyes closed.
Oh flarb this.
He leans back on the wall and coughs again, then hacks, a spray of leftover blood now on his lips. Grayell looks at Zane with narrow, completely tired eyes and then shrugs.
"Yes, there is something. Yesterday I was recruited by a lord to help hunt a creature. During the fight, one of our number was killed. Another of the group took the body with him. I think you may want to look into how the dead man is being used. The person who took it was named Skullduggery, and he was a walking skeleton... Hard to miss..."
Zane drops the grimace and instead switches back to his trademark grin
"Well, I'm going to go look for someone to train me with a sword now. My magic is too situational, and doesn't help all the time, so I want to try something else as well..."