text: Hi guys, this short piece is about a Hellfighter called Atlas and what he has to offer an ill-prepared town of lost individuals, people who are on the brink of giving up hope. As always, let me know what you think, I’m appreciative on any feedback. Cheers, Lordchimp “They’re not impossible to kill, they’re just exceedingly difficult.” Upon hearing Atlas speak those words, in the dimly lit alehouse just off of the main streets, he experienced a beautiful warming feeling that blossomed into his mind, searing away the doubt, pain, fear that had entombed him for so long. An emotion that he had buried away deep down in his soul and it’s sudden emergence, splintering away the shell of darkness that he had cocooned himself in, nearly brought tears to his eyes. It was as if he had been wearing chains of iron and steel around his neck all these years, and with one single sentence, this man had cast them off as easily as a snake sheds its skin. The man exuded confidence, all of his actions, even down to the smallest movements of his body made it seem like he had all the time in the world. As if he needed to prove the point, he calmly struck a match and ignited the plain wooden pipe that hung lazily from his lips, puffing gently as the tobacco smoke curled into the air. Atlas wasn’t quite what Oland had pictured. The stories had painted him as a remorseless warrior, a ruthless veteran who gave no quarter and asked for none in return. A man of fierce stature, who possessed a will of steel and let his blades do the talking. But the man sat in a few tables in front of him was a different person entirely. Where he expected someone broad and muscular, he was thin and wiry, whatever muscles he did possess were hidden completely behind his worn travellers clothes. The battered leather garments seemed to hang off of him, as if they were a few sizes too big for him, or he was a few sizes too small. He didn’t expect the scars either. It made sense that a hellfighter would have such terrible scars, after all, it was expected from anyone who was in the business of fighting monsters. They were a sign of experience, of prowess. Three long scars ran down the right side of his face, from his temple to his chin. He was fortunate, for the wounds had scarred well, not pulling his skin too tightly, not ugly and inflamed. It almost didn’t suit the slim man, as the scars were a brash contradiction of his casual, easy-going demeanor. “Tell us something we don’t know. I don’t need some poncey outsider to come here and tell me the obvious.” Deckland growled through his teeth. He used to be a blacksmith and his rough treatment of metals had carried through to his social manner, him having little time to spare for the words of others. Deckland had a fair few kills under his belt, represented by the five long, serrated teeth that hung off of a rough leather cord he wore around his neck. The room that had been bustling with excited talk and cheerful laughter was suddenly rent with silence. All of the voices stopped. Everyone seemed to hold their breaths at the aggressive comment from the former blacksmith. Atlas however, seemed completely unconcerned, puffling carefully on his pipe, filling the quiet air with swirling, rich tobacco smoke. “How many have you killed?” Atlas asked purposefully, although Oland suspected he already knew. Deckland sniffed and spat onto the wooden floor with narrowed eyes. He made a point of raising up his necklace and giving it a few jagged tugs. “Five.” He spat. Atlas leaned forwards and took the pipe out of his mouth. “I’m on forty two-” “Bollocks. Nobody’s killed that many. Not even Illian.” Deckland interrupted. Everybody’s eyes went back and forth between the two of them, Orland’s included. “Well, I can tell you in full confidence, he’s killed more than that...I should know...I’ve met the bastard.” Atlas said with a wide grin, showing all of his teeth. Deckland paused for a few moments as he deciphered the words that entered his mind. Once he had fully understood just exactly what Atlas had said, he exploded into action. The table let out a pained groan as it was scraped across the floor, the mugs and plates atop it rumbling and clattering with dismay. The floorboards groaned as they had to bear Deckland’s sudden bulk, creaking and grumbling under the weight of his heavy frame. He drew a hatchet from his belt with a practiced ease, then buried it into the table with a firm click. “You dare?!” He bellowed, furious rage shining brightly in his eyes. “You dare mock us?! When so many from here have given their lives so that you can sit where you sit?! I should gut you right here, right now...” The alehouse suddenly burst with the sound of angered voices, flipped over furniture and the wild snarls of vicious animals. The room full of men had turned into a pack of dogs, hissing and barking at either Atlas or Deckland, to show their support or hatred. A few had drawn blades and were waving them threateningly at each other, who up until a few moments ago had been firm friends. Brothers in battle. The frightful scene continued for a little while longer until Atlas brought his hand down upon his table with a righteous smash. “ENOUGH.” He roared, his arms held down at his sides where his hands had balled into fists. Surprisingly, the room quietened at the force of his shout, or maybe it was the threat that it had implied. “Are we to fight with beasts inside your walls as well?!” He asked, venom dripping thickly from every syllable he spoke. The aura of violence and aggression was snuffed out in an instant, like a puff of wind on the flame of a flickering candle. “I did not come to bicker and acuse like children. I came to help you.” He sunk back into his seat, his face suddenly showing years of weariness that had not been their mere seconds ago. Most of the men inside the room still stood standing, but one or two settled back down into their chairs slowly. Orland was shocked to see himself stood up, with a hand curled around the handle of his knife at his belt tightly. Ashamed, he softly returned to his chair, unable to look any of the others in the eye. “You want to defend your homes without losing half your brave souls every month?” He asked them all quietly, as if the weight of a thousand stones hung off his tongue. A few more men sat down. “I will show you.” He picked up his pipe which he had dropped on the table in front of him and relit it with another match. Only when more smoke had settled comfortably into the air around him he addressed them all again. “In two days time, I depart for the woods to the north. In two days time, I will destroy the nest that is there. In two days time, I will show you that it not us who should be afraid of them.” He looked around at the misguided men all around him with steel in his eyes and iron in his jaw. “I will show you it is them who should be afraid of us.