Garish voices cackled throughout the cavern like those of unruly children. The smell of decay and feces saturated the damp cavern.

“We’re gonna die down here!” cried an emaciate youth.

A jagged axe swung toward the boy’s neck. Its rusted blade met iron instead of flesh. A grim-faced man held the opposing weapon. He retracted his sword then thrust it into the belly of the attacker.

It was a hog-like creature. Grey, bipedal, with toad-like skin, and a mouth wide enough to swallow an infant. The man pulled his longsword from the beast, as purple bile spilled from its innards. Before him were several such monsters. They were clad in iron. Their prominent ivory tusks illuminated by pale light pouring in from behind the man and boy.

“Harold, get out of here,” the man said. His voice had youth in it. “If I don’t come out after you hear the storm carry yourself home.”

The boy protested, “no Haso! Let’s go together, you’d die down—”

“I’m not asking!” Haso barked.

Harold, who was shivering, paused at these words. He hesitated. Looked at the horde of monsters ahead, and the exit behind. Then darted up the muddy steep toward the light.

Haso turned to ensure the boy had left. He plunged his sword into a rock face to his right, its silver blade settled into the stone as though it were clay. The creatures squealed an unintelligible taunt at the man, pointing three fingered hands, fidgeting, and frothing at the mouth.

The young man held a repressed grin.

His faint blue eyes began to glow. And sparks flickered from the shoulders of his dark blue chest plate, to his brown leather sleeves, to his gloved palms. The variegated legion of grey, red, and black skin creatures ceased their taunts. They turned round, hearing the build up of unseen storm clouds, and ran.

“Leaving so soon?” he muttered.

Haso streched out his palms, streaks of crackling light leaped from them, causing a thunderous boom that echoed throughout the tunnel. The lightning struck the retreating horde. Light sprang from body to body creating a continuous web blue bolts. The creatures convulsed as their skin was scorched then charred. The smell of burnt flesh overpowered that of the blood and the other bodily fluids in the cave.

The light ceased as their bodies fell to the ground all in a single thud.

Haso wailed in agony. He threw off his gloves. Revealing flushed, pallor forearms, with bulging veins. He staggered to the ground. Trembling. The man plunged both hands into what looked like a pool of water in the dim hollow. The pain began to subside but his hands continued to shake.

In the almost total darkness. Haso watched streams of shimmering light flow from his forearm toward his palm. Just beneath the skin.

He came to his feet.

Reached for the sword planted in the stone face. His hand recoiled soon as his fingertip reached the rose coloured hilt. He put a finger to his ear, it stung upon contact, looked back at it to see a smeer of blood over the tip. He tittered, covering his mouth to sepress it.

Again he chuckled.

He squeezed his hand tighter over his lower jaw, before breaking into a full bout of laughter. He laughed until his eyes began to water, and the tears ran down his suntan cheeks. The laugher morphed into weeping as he went on. He looked to the obelisk ridden ceiling, blinking rapidly to dry his eyes, while fixated on the man sized cages hanging from the rock.

The man, no older than twenty three, looked around at the seared bodies of monsters and mutilated corpses of men.

“So that’s it then...” he said, “no more of you?” His voiced echoed back in otherwise dead silence.

“One day... But not today, Haso,” he thought.

The young man walked over to the body of a man impaled with an obtuse spear. He glanced at the man’s raggy attire: the skull of a large animal worn like a mask, bloody bandage wraps round his fists, a necklace of small bird skulls and dog teeth.

“Filthy bastard,” he thought, “well, live by the sword and all.”

Haso torn a cloth from the man’s waist and used it to clean his hands. He tossed the rag over the man’s face. Then, he noticed a glimmering object behind the man’s skull mask, near the jaw. He pulled off the mask to see a gold tooth still firm in place. Haso reached in between purple lifeless lips and in a single jerk plucked the tooth from it’s cavity.

“I wonder how many people you killed to get this made,” he said, as he admired the item. “It should never be said that the life of a bandit isn’t without its wages,” he added.

Haso spit on the corpse, pocketed the tooth, and wore his gloves.

Where he stood, Haso reached out for the sword. It began to tremor between the rock. The sword shot out of the stone through the air into his palm. It was half the length of his body, and he was a taller than most men. The double edge blade was a polished silver. Unnaturally clean. With three pearl-like emeralds near the quillon. But what stood out most was it’s rose hilt. Together the whole thing looked too ornate for the battlefield. He sheathed it in a scabbard on his waist, near his bow, and below his arrow bag.

Haso emerged from the pit-like tunnel into a lush forest. His sandy-blonde hair the first to met the afternoon rays. Haso’s eyes searched for the boy. He saw him standing several paces beyond the cave entrance, leaning against a headless chalk-white statue of a sword bearing angel.

He walked across the paved and tarnished grounds, amongst disheveled pillars, gargoyles, and similar statues as the one Harold stood by. He reached the freckle-faced boy.

“It’s Harold isn’t it? Are you alright?” Haso asked.

The boy was thin to the bone, his cloths tattered, and covered in dirt and blood. “I’m much better than I was in there... Thank you hero,” he said.

Haso was taken aback, that word grated against his mind: “hero.”

“Let’s get you home, your grandmother is worried to death,” he said, as the boy followed him. “What were you doing in those caverns anyway?”

“Well... How to say? The statutes told me to, last moon that is. Said there was treasure down there. Fat chance, nothing but a cave fulla grey-hogs! But I’d never seen em before you know. It was fan-tastic!”

The man glanced back at the chalk-white statue. “Old magic,” he said, “don’t come by these ruins again, Harold. And don’t listen to those things. They’re full of deceptions. Nothing else.” He wondered:

“An active demon-head this close to a residential area? How could the Guild have missed that?”

The boy frowned. “Alright hero. It’s just... I wanted to see something, something different, real magic! And I couldn’t stand it back home. Grandma is always nagging me, and her broom isn’t too soft either...”

The hero placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, his palm still stung under the dark leather glove. “She’s your family Harold, no matter what, you should be grateful to have her.” The man looked at the boy’s kipper brown eyes. In his heart he thought:

“You’ve no idea how much you’d miss her, if she were gone one day...”

The two continued to walk, moving beyond the ancient ruins, into a forest of tall trees. Dawn was approaching, and they found they’re way onto a dirt path, amongst sparce apple trees and lavender carrying bushes. The amber light was now fading quick, as sparrows returned to their nests, and hares to their burrows. The sound of an uneasy stream shot from below the wooden bridge they crossed.

The pair arrived at a crossroad.

A worn signpost forked the path. With an inscription lit under lamplight.

The right arrow read: “Theiform rosarium.”

The left: “Hazelwood.”

The two went to the right. They saw a house in the distance, and made they’re way to the little cottage. It was surrounded by roses, and made of oakwood. By this time the sun had set. But the moon was full, and two lanterns above the heavy door made up for the difference. The man’s knuckles beat on the obsidian lined wood. Shortly after, it opened. A hunched, bubbly old woman, was on the other side. She wore black and violet garments, and had thick eyebrows. The smell of freshly baked apple pie lingered from within the warmly lit home.

“You found him,” the woman cried, “thank Argus!”

“It’s alright gran,” the boy said, “this here hero saved my skin. You should have seen him, he’s the real deal! If not for him, I’d be in the belly of a grey-hog by now.”

The Lady moved from the doorway to the boy, and embraced him in a air stealing hug, “if you ever scare me like that again you’ll be plucking tulips from dawn to dusk,” she wept. The woman let go of Harold, held his pallor freckly face, “you go inside, I made your favorite.” Harold hugged his grandmother once more and ran into the cottage.

Haso stood there awkwardly, “I’ll be on my way now,” said the hero, “please excuse me madam.”

“Just a moment hero,” the woman said. “Harold! Go to my chest, the man needs his payment,” her raspy voice grated against Haso’s nimble ear drum. Harold came to the door with a raggy pouch in his hand. It was filled to the brim with gold. He handed it to his gran. And she gave it to the hero, “this is all I’ve managed all my days. But for this little bean, I’d give up an arm and an eyebrow.”

Haso looked around the modest dwelling. Rose vines grew from its corners, and coloured its bushes. He took one coin from the lot, it had a phoenix inscribed on one side, and an eye with six wings on the other. “A hooded man will arrive shortly asking for payment. Tell him ‘Haso’ took the quest,” He said this, bowed, and left.