Murder

Arthur looked distinctly out of place in the market that he walked in. His dark clothing contrasted sharply with the gay surroundings of a bustling square. It was a wonder that he had not aroused any suspicion just yet, but that was probably because none of the guards expected any trouble. No one ever did in this part of the country. Especially not in the early summer when everyone was in high spirits. The village clowns were out entertaining the children with their decidedly idiotic antics while an elaborate stage showcased the latest work by the maddeningly emo writer, Jasper Erathor. Arthur could feel the jolly energy grate at his conscience like a spiked mace dragged across the back of a condemned criminal. But he had to contain himself. He would get the last laugh yet.

Slowly shuffling himself, he maneuvered so that he had a good view of the crowd. His arm shifted slowly, creeping towards his waist. His mind cleared in anticipation of the rapture that was in store for himself. The rise and fall of his chest steadied, his earlier agitation put behind him.

Then he exploded. In two quick strokes, he had drawn his weapon and sliced open the chest of the nearest person. Before the first scream could be heard, the curved blade had already slashed two more times, each one slicing deliciously into the flesh of the victims. Arthur was ruthless, and he was in his element. The people would pay for what they have done to him. Not even the knights will stand in his way.

The crowd understandably stampeded. They bowled each other over and trampled the ones unfortunate enough to slip as they ran. But the roads of the marketplace were narrow, and the exits, narrower still. The square was turning into a cauldron of insanity. Arthur knew that he had to bring some form of order to the chaos that was before him; the irony of the fact that he had started everything eluded him completely.

The methododical murder kept its pace until Arthur's eye caught a glimpse of a familiar face. Sprawled on the ground, and trying desperately to get back up again was a woman in a long skirt and jet black hair. She had a subtle tuft of brown hair at the front of her head, marking her as a sorceress. One gifted in the magics, who use it when necessary, but are completely unaware of their immense power. Arthur had long advocated the purging of these witches, but no one ever seemed to be agreeable to his cause. Even if they did see the threat, they were quick to change their minds the moment they made any attempt to destroy one of the sorceresses. He wasn't surprised.

Arthur paused for a while. He looked her in the eye and saw the terror that he inspired. But he also saw a grim determination to survive and a glazing over the eyes that normally marked a subconcious invocation of elemental magic. Grinning like the like a demon in hell's torture chambers, he flung one of his daggers at the woman. He could vaguely remember the face. He remembered that it had existed in a time when times were not quite as dark as they were for him now. It was in the distant past, a memory so clouded in conflicting emotion that everything seemed warped and unreal.

The dagger sunk itself into her eye, ending the threat that she posed. He felt a strange vindication, like he actually had done some kind of service to humanity. It was a strange sense of misplaced heroism, something that he rather enjoyed. For a while. Before long, his objective of systematic murder overruled everything else and his face went blank again.

And his blade kept singing the song of death.