Broken

Wim was being drawn by his mind and the vial to follow the cult member. Twice during the night Wim had to hide from the cult member who backtracked checking to see if they were being followed. Wim pulled the cloak down low enough to hide his face from reflecting the moonlight and crouched low to the ground or stayed near a tree.

The cloak smelled like the young woman and it fed the anger in him and drove his pursuit. Late into the night the moon started to set making it harder for Wim to follow. With a bit of luck he found a tree that had a hollowed out trunk and hunkered down in there covering the entrance with the girl’s cloak.

Sleep came but it was haunted, haunted by the girls face, of the dead foresters and the wounded he left to die in the woods. He was haunted by dreams of the felfar calling him to drink and come promising rest. He was haunted by the trail that the cultist was leaving, even a more noticeable path than his. Was he being setup? What was he going to do when he finally caught up with them? Charge in with swords and to throwing knives. Heros were fools that normally would up dead.

A strong gust of air woke him by blowing the cloak down on him and he wrestled to get free of the attack. Why didn’t he check the bodies to see if there equipment he could use on them. No food, no fire, no comfort.

Wim pulled himself out of the tree to find the cold was even worse. It was not till he got to a ridge that the heat of the sun started to warm the black cloak. He pulled the cloak tight against him and breathed in the girls sent and the anger in him returned not as rage, but of determination against any god that taught young people to kill… Wim cursed each and every one of the gods, except Hoi. He cursed Orestes twice for good measure, bastard god that he was. He cursed the five pillars and the inquisitions.

About mid-morning he stopped and rested. His mind had no wild schemes, no elaborate plans for the future, just death. He would kill again today. He picked himself up and followed the trail.