Ruin at Dusk (short story)
Title: Ruin at Dusk
Author: Yardie
A little more than a week after the summoning at Alabaster Spire, Yardie still considered the demon’s chilling words about the Dark Elf’s future. As with most predictions, it differed from his desires and challenged his current approach to the dangerous game he played. One one hand, he felt as if he were home again at the Spire. Yet, despite his enjoyment and immersion among his own people, he also felt the same as he did way back when: unworthy, lesser than, inadequate. Such was the price for lacking the touch of magic. Such was the price for not achieving great feats. With this new identity, Yardie mingled with others while hiding his truth from the rest of Elanthia. Severe consequences awaited if they discovered his past transgressions, for they violated Faendryl law.
Perhaps Iskandr and Draelor noticed Yardie’s conspicuous behavior. Perhaps they simply wished for the Dark Elf to come out of his shell and loosen up his reserve demeanor. Whatever the case, the two extended Yardie an invitation to the Duskruin Arena. A bi-annual event, the bravest and most daring of combatants stepped against the champions in a battle to the death. It differed from the serene and quiet nature of his stay in the treehouse, but it seemed a nice change of pace from the monotony of study. Yardie accepted the invitation. He’d arrive late, of course, but he’d be there, nonetheless.
The group sat with food and drink strewn on either side of their seats. Yardie assumed the two rangers made great preparations for the night’s festivities. Mugs of ale and bottles of libations spread across the seats while the pair munched on snacks, fueled by the sheer brutality of the fighters. Among them were other individuals unfamiliar to Yardie, save for one young female Dark Elf that once met during a late night at Pauper’s. He recalled the young lady’s boyish face, her red hair, and ashen skin. Waved to join the group, Yardie took a seat and focused on the arena floor.
Iskandr nudged the rogue. “So when are you going to fight? Now seems like a better time as ever.”
Yardie scoffed. “I’m not one to battle for sport.”
Draelor, the Aeotoli, shook his head. “Yardie, you’re too uptight. You need to learn to live a little. Take risks. Have fun.”
“I am living, by being safe,” Yardie replied cryptically. “My idea of fun is staying in one piece.”
For those in attendance watching the bloodbath, the battles showcased the right amount of violence and savagery to whet the appetite of the fiercest fighters.
For Yardie? The arena was an exhibition of all the different people that could kill him with little to no effort. Warriors tore through the carapaces of killer beetles, cleaving them in half as a pus like liquid oozed out of their shells. Rangers impaled the eyes of basilisks, quelling their hypnotic stare with little effort. Even Mayor Leafiara, a cleric by profession, effortlessly smited champions, waving them off at workers dragged their lifeless corpses out for the next opponent to take a daring chance. In seeing the glowing tinge of red in her eyes, he knew that they stood no chance. Fear swelled up in Yardie’s heart, its bitter taste burning at his throat. How long could he keep up this charade before the walls came tumbling down?
Yardie reached into his coat pocket for a pair of cigars. Offering one to Iskandr, he took the other. One alit, the chicory and rum scent wafted his nose, and with a few long pulls, his hands steadied. The others appeared to be having a good time, jeering and heckling the combatants with jabs on their “lackluster” performance. It took a bit, but Yardie finally loosened up, chasing his smoke with a few drinks of vodka. Before long, Yardie heckled with the best of them, reciting roguish mantras and cracking jokes in his own rite.
“Are you not entertained?” shouted one of the fighters from below, his massive arms spread invitingly.
“Meh,” Yardie responded.
“No,” Iskandr bellowed. “Do better!”
The evening brought about lots of fun. Food, drink, and good times often cure the world’s worries. However, every now and then, Yardie stole glances at Juspera. While polite, cute, and funny, she seemed quiet and jittery, constantly looking over her shoulder, sitting uneasy as if she were being watched. This familiar behavior shook Yardie from his lulled state. Soon, he, too, scanned his surroundings. After a few quick glances, his eyes locked at a particular location his eyelids squinting into tiny slits. After a long pause, Yardie returned his attention to the fighting as he took another pull of his cigar and steepled his hands.
As the night waned, people made their exits out of the arena, starting with Juspera, then later with Draelor, and then others. Staring in the same direction as before, Yardie decided to make his leave. He gave Iskandr a friendly nod and snuffed out his cigar before standing up and making his leave.
Alcohol made Yardie heavy-footed, and as he trudged his way back to Wehminster’s Landing, his legs fought to maintain equilibrium. His pointed ears stood at attention. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that moonlight shone upon his form, creating a shadow that cascaded behind him. No. That shadow hovered too far behind and thumped with noticeable footsteps.
Yardie sighed, lamenting upon the realization that he was being followed. Too late to hide without drawing suspicion. The Landing’s gates were quite a ways away. Was this a mugger? A bandit? He quickened his pace, only to hear the voice from behind call out for him. “Hey! Hey come here.” Fidgeting hands trembled towards his pockets.
“I’m talking to you!”
Yardie quickened his pace, his eyes low to the ground.
“Agresits!!!”
Yardie jolted to a stop, as if a current of energy held him in place. The word cured his intoxication. Agrestis. The producers of the Faendryl: the farmers, miners, and producers of the nation. But for the young Dark Elf, it meant something more. Someone discovered his identity. But how? He was so careful, so precise. Where did he slip? Was it at the Spire? In Wehnimer’s Landing? Or was he followed from Icemule Trace? His heart thumped with maddening fervor. Sweat formed upon his brow. Slowly, he turned to face the shadow, staring at him with eyes wide as saucers.
“I remember you,” the voice continued, moving closer into the moonlight and coming into view. He had dark skin and piercing green eyes. His mouth curled into a sinister snarl. “You were the magically inept worker. The demon cowerer.” Wagging his finger admonishingly, he snickered. “To think you’ve made it this far without tripping over your own shadow. I’m quite impressed.” He seemed to delight in Yardie’s palpable fear. “It’s no wonder you’ve aligned with others for safety.”
Yardie tried to reach for a cigar, but his arms went through seismic tremors. “Y...you’re mista---”
“---I’m sure it’s you,” the stranger insisted. “I know you are, Yardie. Or would you prefer to be called…”
“Okay! Okay!” Yardie belted, his arms extended. “There’s no need for that.” With tremendous effort he steady his left hand enough to reach for a cigar. “W...we can talk this out.”
Yardie’s newfound friend shook his head. “There’s nothing to discuss. Niadriel organized a summoning under false pretenses and without a Palestra to oversee her safety. She plotted an ill-advised attack. You were a conspirator amongst the group.”
“I had no choice!” Yardie pleaded. “I was threatened! My family was threatened!”
The Dark Elf standing before the rogue removed his cloak and Yardie noticed the gleam in his right hand. His stomach turned at the realization that this person was not out to turn him in. Faendryl were forbidden from killing each other. But that never stopped those from more underhanded tactics. It was as he always feared. Someone attempted to take his life. The Faendryl brandishing the dagger spoke low and subdued with a velvety tone as he delighted in what was to come. “Your attempts drew the ire of Niadriel’s family. You created a new identity to escape punishment, a bold attempt on your part. Bold, but foolish.” He stepped closer, crouching low in a predatory stance. “You knew this day would come. Of course, they couldn’t be bothered to take matters into their own hands, and so.” He took a graceful bow. “You’re all alone, Yardie. Your ranger friends can’t save you now. And now, you will disappear, just as she did.”
And so, he thrust the dagger at Yardie’s ribs. Had it been at the worker from long ago, it would have found a home between the rogue’s rib cage. Had it been the coward the world perceived, Yardie would have met the quick and uneventful death he so often feared. But that was the worker from yesteryear. A quick sidestep avoided the attack, and the rogue answered with a vicious stomp to his target’s foot. Not waiting for the attacker to recover, Yardie balled up his fist in a fighting stance and threw a quick jab followed by a right cross that snapped his attacker’s head back like the training dummies at the rogue’s guild. Finally, Yardie took a step and leapt off his back foot before snapping it against the bridge of his nose.
The dagger clattered to the right as Yardie’s opponent flew back, a volcanic flow of blood spewed from his nostrils. His head spun, concussed from the speed and power of Yardie’s fist. Backpedalling, he looked up through teary eyes to see the once frightful worker closing in on him. The once heavy-footed, inebriated walking shifted into a silent and purposeful gait. Shaky hands steadied into cool, precise fists. But most striking were Yardie’s eyes. Once a scared adult had now been replaced by a calm gaze with violent, violent eyes. He was assertive, confident, and calculating in his demeanor. Yardie lowered himself to a crouch and stared at the downed opponent, steepling his fingers and letting out a long sigh.
“I really have to thank Juspera,” Yardie began. “I would have been lulled into complacency had it not been for her.” He flexed his long, slender fingers before lacing them together again. “You know I could never return home after Niadriel’s failure. She set us all up masterfully, I must admit. But after being on the run, away from my stint of captivity, I thought I had shed that life away. I thought I escaped my pursuers and saboteurs. Wehnimer’s Landing provided that refuge. But I must have been negligent if you found me. Perhaps it was that night with the two during Malluch’s first appearance.”
“The two rangers,” he hissed as his lips met the taste of his own blood. “They were a decoy. You were using them.”
Yardie scoffed. “No. I understand the meaning of loyalty. I’d trust them with my life.” Raising an eyebrow he nodded at his own epiphany, “But it is advantageous to have a pair of trackers that can pick up a scent or determine a trail. I would be remiss to deny that.” Yardie tapped the man’s shoulder. “I’m on a path to redemption, perhaps one that I can never garner in the eyes of the Patriarch. But I have a grand opportunity to find some sort of purpose, and I shan’t have you or the others deny me any more. I’m not the same worker you once knew.”
Yardie cracked his knuckles and they answered with a few satisfying pops. With a slow exhale, he looked at his attacker for what would be the last time. “Ready?”
And so, the distant roars of Duskruin Arenas drowned out the twilight sounds of crickets, combined with the stifled whimpers of the attacker’s final moments of life, and then immediately met by the snapping of one’s neck.