Ventren sat on the cold stone ground of the ruins, the jagged edges digging into his flesh as blood seeped from the gaping wounds across his torso. His insides were spilling out, the grotesque sight a reminder of his current situation. His colossal axe lay beside him, its blade dulled by the blood and dirt from the recent confrontation.
Ventren gripped the handle with all the strength he could muster, finding the cold metal to be the only comfort in this moment of despair. It was a pitiful replacement for the warmth and loyalty he thought he had found in his friends, who had just turned on him, leaving him to die in the desolate remains of this once-grand fortress.
His horse lay dead beside him, its neck severed cleanly and his body crisp from the fires casted upon the steed by the assailants. They had known exactly how to hurt him the most, how to strip away everything left that mattered while simultaneously crippling Ventren's movements. He had named his steed Vesper, a loyal horse that had carried him through countless adventures.
Now, Ventren's own bloodied state seemed a cruel mockery of his faithful companion's fate.
It was a bitter irony that the only creature that had shown him true loyalty in the end was not humanoid—but animal.
Amidst the flashes of pain and anger, the image of Irina surfaced in his mind. Her pink hair, always a bright beacon in their party, now felt like a reminder of his stupidity. Irina, the cleric healer, with her petite frame and gentle hands, had been the one to tend to his wounds, whispering words of comfort while her magic worked to mend his flesh.
How often had he sought solace in those hands, believing her to be his one and only?
She had been his lover—or so he had thought.
The truth, however, had been a blade sharper than any axe, slicing through his heart. Irina had betrayed him, just like the others.
Stavros Cross, the self-proclaimed leader of the Blind Stars party, had led the charge. He ordered Ventren's demise. Stavros, with his brigandine armour and mercenary's heart, had always been about power and control.
"What a fool I was…" He spoke to himself.
Ventren had overlooked Stavros' ambition, trusting the man's pragmatism. He now realised that Stavros' pragmatism had made him disposable. Then there was Richard Green, the archer with a sharp eye and sharper tongue.
Ventren had never imagined he would find himself on the other side of Richard's arrows. It had been the arrows that first struck him down, the cold metal piercing his flesh between his armpits.
Rain poured down from the sky, drenching the crumbling walls of the ruins and mixing with the blood on the ground. The water felt like tiny daggers stabbing into Ventren's exposed wounds, seeping into his system, mingling with the blood that pumped weakly from his veins.
He could feel the life draining out of him with each passing second, the cold seeped into his bones, as if the ruins themselves were reclaiming his body. The rainwater washed over his skin, turning his wounds into streamlets that flowed away, disappearing into the cracks of the stones beneath him.
His vision blurred, the outlines of the ruins fading into a haze of grey and shadow. As consciousness slipped away, Ventren's grip on his axe tightened.
He refused to let go—he was not done yet. Betrayed and broken, he held onto the only piece of himself that remained, vowing silently to his dead horse and to himself. If he survived this night, he would make Irina, Stavros, Richard, and anyone else who had betrayed him pay for their treachery.
The rain continued to pour, a mourn echoed through the ruins, as Ventren, the Dullahan, lay on the brink of death, his vengeance the only thing keeping his spirit tethered to the world.
Magic is not very uncommon within this world, but the gap between abilities is massive. So much so that only a few hundred per nation could actually cast useful spells. Most are negligible, like watering mere household plants or starting small fires. Everyone had an affinity with up to two aspects of magic, but even fewer could use both effectively.
Ventren himself had a rare affinity with blood [Water] and star [Light] magic, though he could not use either offensively nor as effectively defensively. He had used blood magic to stop his bleeding as much as he could, but his ability was not skilled enough to help much anyway.
As Ventren was about to lose consciousness, a figure approached him. Ventren looked up at the figure, noticing her emerald-like eyes. She is wearing a black dress with transparent silk shoulders, and on her head a pointy hat.
There was no doubt this figure was a witch.
What is a witch doing here? Ah, this is a ruin… Perhaps she lived nearby.
"What… do you want… witch?"
The witch knelt down to face him eye to eye, all while smiling, her white teeth glistening in the moonlight.
"Someone's unfortunate. What is a warrior of your caliber doing here all bloodied and beaten?"
The rain pounds the ground heavily, making it hard for Ventren to hear the words of the witch. With some difficulty, he manages to piece together her question with the use of inferences and context clues.
The witch wasn't affected by the rain, it seems. Somehow, each drop of rain slipped through her garments and hat.
Are her clothes hydrophobic? Ah, no matter.
"No response? Oh! My my! I apologise, I didn't notice the blood, you're about to die."
Ventren loosened the grip on his axe, it's metal head falling into the ground and a clang sound was heard in the next moment.
Green glow emitted from the witch's hand, grasping the warrior's neck and clinging to his wounds. Healing magic. But why is it laced with purple light? It was highly unusual.
Ventren regained consciousness,
"Warrior, I will grant you my blessings." the witch said, with a smug. However, immediately after, her face shifted to a sinister grin. "However… You will wander the Earth forever! When the time comes, I will call upon you, servant. You are free to do as you wish for now."
He had been given no choice, though Ventren could not care less. Revenge is all he could think of, and he wants it bad. No matter the cost. Anger had consumed this man, and whatever the means may be justifies the end. The witch truly is granting him a blessing that he appreciates now.
"When you wake, you and your steed shall be reborn as du—"
He blacked out before she finished her sentence. The healing magic used forcefully entered his system and causing a complete temporary shutdown.