Arenborn fought with a ferocity that he had previously never displayed, or would ever display again. He fought with such wanton savagery that his attackers fell back in dismay from his onslaught. He was not a man on the defensive, he was a man seeking one thing. Death.
He parried a swing of a club, and swiftly took the offending man’s hand in punishment. He punched the wounded, screaming bandit in the chest and stomped after him as he stumbled back. One of the fallen bandit’s two comrades intervened, getting between the hunter and his prey, swinging an axe wildly. Aren smacked it aside with the flat of his blade, swiftly bringing the tip of his blade back before plunging it into the bearded man’s stomach.
The corpse fell to its knees with wide eyes, and Aren kicked it over so it hit the earth with a dull thud. Turning, Aren swung his sword down onto the second man, killing him. Looking on the third, and final of his attackers, he advanced towards him. The younger lad dropped his weapon and ran for his life. He was unfortunately, too slow and Aren tackled him to the ground before rising to swing his longsword down on him over and over. Removing limbs and hacking open wide gashes in his torso. His victim died swiftly, yet Aren did not stop. With every swing he screamed a curse, roaring his anger and hatred. His lips moved, his tongue formed the sounds, but nothing happened. His rage was silent.
Anger can only last so long. Rage is only a temporary fuel for a man, and once it had worn off Aren realised what he had done. He looked down at his victim, barely recognisable, but might have only been fifteen years of age. He was no fighter, just trying to make a living by waylaying travellers for their purses. Yet here he was, lying in the mud made from his own blood. Aren began to cry as he knelt at the feet of the corpse. The corpse he had made.
The boy hadn’t taken his voice. It hadn’t been him that had killed his mentor and robbed him of his ability to speak. He hadn’t caused this exile. Aren wept, trying to apologise to the boy that lay before him, yet no words would come out. It had been two months, and he still wasn’t used to it.
