In a Leather-bound Journal

Blood. The idea is not as gruesome as it is stunning. Every bitter, salty drop of it is dearly appreciated by my country, every severance of flesh another pint for the emperor to drink in. Not literally, of course, but it’s not as if that berserk bastard is trying to stop this hell. I suppose it’s kind of odd, really, to anyone who doesn’t live here… to those that haven’t seen and heard what all my kinsmen have. We’ve been at a bloody stalemate with our neighboring country, Osterland, for well over a decade. Neither side wants to relent for fear of being overrun with dissidents and lawlessness. Indeed, this war of independents cannot be stopped. At least, not yet.

I am Kane, one such competitor. I renounced my last name and the burden of peasantry with it, or at least, what was left of it. I left behind that rotting core of an existence, that dead end lifestyle for something fresher, for a real opportunity! My roots have been… less than helpful.

I can still hear the screams of my mother, burning alive inside the house that had been my home for oh so many years. But more than anything I can remember the smell… That awful wretched stench! It was like a mix between sweet burning wood and a thick, nauseating, sensation masked in it, a feeling that clutched your lungs and constricted your breathing. They told me that it was just some terrible accident. “It couldn’t have been helped” they said. But I knew the truth. My mother had been burned alive because she wouldn’t give in. She never let anyone steal away her most prized possession, and now it is my most treasured item. It isn’t anything special, really. Just a small pendant, blacker than night with a small semi-circle encompassing a delicate, ornate crystal eye. But she wouldn’t give it up. She said that is was some secret family heirloom, a symbol of our family’s lineage and inheritance. She held onto it even as the flames consumed her soul.

Sometimes I wonder how my life would have turned out if not for that night. But that is all in the past. I cannot change what has happened; I can only seek vengeance upon those that gave me this blood thirst. I don’t know who did it exactly but every independent I kill brings me one step closer. Many wonder why independents fight. We are not necessarily mercenaries, though there are those that fight for money alone. We are not murderers, though some revel in the taste of fresh and wanton slaughter. Even still, we are not paladins of justice, though there are the young who go on damned heroic crusades. But rather we are men and women, humans, driven by an ever present need.

So what is an independent? Perhaps we are simply opportunists, scoundrels, thieves, killers, soldiers, fools… no matter what it comes down to, we are the whole of the war. We are the economy and the currency. Through any means, we are the power of the world. In truth, independents are allowed to roam rampant because we are necessary. That is the truth of being an independent.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Kane found himself standing before the span of the door, to the place known as the Friary of Thorns. Beyond this old wooden gateway was his next job. He took a deep breath, the air damp and sinewy, with a hint of fresh game. For a moment, Kane recalled the events that had lead him here.

It was simple, really. It was a job involving a group a dissidents that had been causing some trouble in the area recently. It wasn’t much more than the usual, a group of people angry because of so-and-so who killed their brother or cousin or friend. These people were always around but every once in a while a group of them would get the idea to start interfering with independent work. And that, I suppose, is where he came in.

Kane had gotten the tip to take this job from a fellow independent, Malachi the Interpreter. He was the main distributer of information and inquiry in this particular region. Although he was a new acquaintance, he was in need of some additional funding so he took the bounty. A reluctant choice, at best.

It didn’t take long to find them. They seemed less covert at their operations than you might usually think for groups that decided to protest the Nordican Empire. In any case, he didn’t have too much time to think about such things. Something was happening inside, the sounds of yelling echoing lightly into the mid-morning mist. Kane scoffed. “Friary, Eh?” He thought “How quaint.” Releasing himself from contemplation, he proceeded onwards.
A burst of rotting air seeped from the hickory door as Kane stepped inside. At first glance something, indeed was terribly wrong. The room itself was a simple basement, but there was no furniture. No tables. Nothing, except for what seemed to be freshly severed human limbs strewn about the floor, on the walls, to the ceiling. Body parts, intestines, hanging in odd formations around the room, but still made to form something. Kane tried not to breath, but lost breath at the sight of understanding what it formed. The piece of flesh bled out to spell a word. His name.

Although that in itself was an unholy attribute of the place, a perhaps more disturbing and perverse act was the screaming. Neither in short bursts, nor all at once, but a continuous, echoing shriek emanated from beyond a hallway connecting this room and the next. His sword drawn, Kane started towards the room from which the wailing resonance from.
One step.
The single cry for relief began to change, splitting the ear with a piercing howl.
A faster pace, senses stretching out to sense ambush. His limbs became heavy, like something was pulling him back.
The howl altered once more, and became a chorus of wailing and screaming and sobbing.
Kane dashed at a full run down the corridor, the stench of flesh and burning wood filled his lungs. He heard laughter, he heard his name in the air, screaming at him to flee. The mocking darkness surrounding him, Kane darted towards the bright light beyond. He crossed the breadth of the entrance and!...
The wailing, the screaming, the smells of flesh and of blood, the burning wood and the voice in the darkness disappeared. Kane stood just beyond the doorway, inside a room with symbols carved all around. There was a perfectly square chestnut table in the center of this room, with a leather bound book upon it, near what appeared to be a letter. Upon the book’s cover was the image of a semi-circle encompassing an eye. The letter was addressed to him.

Taking a moment to compose himself once more, Kane sheathed his sword naturally. Pondering this odd turn of events, he picked up the letter and opened it gently, removing a small piece of paper the width and length of the envelope itself. The letter stated:

“To my dearest son, Kane.

I know not when I shall see you once again. Just know that I am alive and working to find you once again. Please forgive my absence. As a gift, I give you this book. Take care of it well. One day I will see you again.

Your father, Weis”