Ravenous
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Albel Nox believed he had done himself well by rejecting much of society’s ignorant opinions on fighting. Along the expanse of time someone had somehow conceived the notion that there was an art to battle, a system to war, a dignified approach to combat. If Albel had taken those inconsistent philosophies to heart, he never would’ve gotten anywhere in his life. Fighting was primitive. There was nothing elegant or skillful about fighting. Fighting is the sport of animals, primal and instinctual. Any grace or sophistication that one acquired throughout their lives was lost and forgotten under the sentient stare of the battlefield. Men became beasts, as violent and barbaric as any other common animal. For man was, in actuality,an animal himself, but had forgotten his true place in the world through his egotism.

Albel Nox had accepted this, acknowledging the fact that as long as he held a sword in his hands the only attributes he needed where reflexes and blood lust. To bathe in an opponent’s blood, to take any advantage offered to you, to capitalize on every weakness; this was the most logical, efficient level of combat. For the past few months, Albel the Wicked, as he was so often called, had been every bit as feral and ravenous as any other carnivorous, snarling fiend that stalked the forests, the mountains, or a child’s horrid nightmare.

That warrior…that child had beaten him. He was outwitted, outmatched, outfought by an amateur, defeated by someone who couldn’t even begin to comprehend the level of enlightenment he himself had attained through his toiling years of blood, sweat, iron, and fire. His years of torment, of relentless training and conditioning were all for naught in that single moment of defeat. In that one moment, he had felt weak. For the first time in years, there was something that didn’t grovel, battered and bloody, at his feet. That time, the roles that should’ve been dictated by the very nature of the universe, were inverted, Albel the Wicked being forced to kneel. The Dragon bowed to the lizard…the wolf turned tricks for the mutt…the canary outshined the Phoenix!

It would’ve been a fitting end to such a marvel of militaristic strength, had that boy possessed the common decency to let his sword drop upon Albel’s crown. But no…he left, leaving Albel to suffer, to weep, and to wallow in his despairing limitation. There was a moment when Albel considered accomplishing the task himself. He had the sword in his hand, and heheld every naturalright to drive it down into his gullet, to spill his innards in the most grotesque form of self-torture that most men could imagine. He had planned to make it painful, a self-inflicted punishment for his inferiority. He would’ve driven it several inches into his gut,instead of fully impaling himself, then would proceed to twist the blade in excruciating half-turns, digging deeper and deeper until hebore intothe tender flesh of his stomach. He would leave that sword in, waiting in agony on the ground as the life drained from him. It would be a fabulousdemise for him, for if anyone would ever inflict that kind ofhorrendous damage upon Albel the Wicked, why not let it be himself? He rid his mind of this twisted plan, however, concluding that it would simply be an act of cowardice. He never retreated from the enemy, not even through increasingly worse pain and suffereing. And so here Albel remained, in the desolation of Urssa Lava…training and waiting for his adversary to return to him.

Albel reveled inthe ferocity of his new lifestyle, gaunt frame no longer toned, but emaciated and malnourished. He had brought rations for himself, but only enough for one month. However, Albel had made them last for three months. He had been in those caves for six months now, surviving by slaughtering any creature that crossed his path. If he was lucky, said creature would possess a bit of edible meat for him to sate his hunger on. Fierce and wild, alive with intensity, Albel had never felt more at home then there, starving himself to the bone with the most lowly and vicious of animals.

The Wicked One had done away with his needless metallic gauntlet, having ripped it from his flesh in frustration and slinging it to the wall. That boy that had defeated him used a rather large sword, which, in turn, would be a very heavy sword. So, without the extra weight of an arm, he would be faster. He didn’t need the strength of his gauntlet…he needed speed. One never needed brute power if their weapon was sharp enough, and his katana served nicely.

He already knew how to defeat him. Holding his quick katana in his one remaining arm, he couldn’t block attacks from such a heavy weapon, but he could parry them. Simply knocking the incoming thrust away would not work, but combining that with a well placed sidestep would. He would strike then, and he would bayonet that boy with a single, resounding thrust. He would then proceed to hack away at that lifeless corpse untilhe stained the cave walls with every ounce of crimson the boy’s body had to offer in a single, glorious, animalistic display.

He had been enacting this scenario in his mind with enemies that existed only in his imagination, repeating the process again and again and again. He was getting faster each time, sharper, more accurate, more deadly. If anyone saw Albel Nox in the condition he was in at the moment, they may have mistaken him for a cadaver. Horribly underfed, his ribs could be seen distinctly under his flesh. His cheeks had become hollow, his skin even paler, his eyes dark and haunting, or even more so than they once were. His hair had been cut, him feeling that the weight of it was holding him down. So, he took his katana and hacked most of it away. He recalled how he made use of it, rolling his sliced coif into thick ropes to make snares with which to entangle any passing rat or other small mammals. His midriff shirt was also gone, having been shredded to nothing from the number of times he had willingly thrown himself to the ground to train himself for violent impacts. The draping cloth about his hips was also gone, being far too billowing for him to be efficient. A single shred of dark cloth, cut from the remains of his shirt, held his decency, and even then he was stretching it, for he knew that even that sparse piece of material slowed him down, for even just a millisecond.

With a single arm…barely clothed…he scoured those caves like the animal he was, eating anything lesser than him in the evolutionary chain, or at least trying to, for as previously mentioned he was lucky to find anything with meat that could even pass for food. He was ready for him…ready for that one person that had managed to best him. He waited…and he waited…and he waited, and waited, and waited. But he never came. Days became weeks…weeks became months. And still, he was left alone. Where was he? Why had he not come to bring Albel the closure he sought? Victory or death…those were his possibilities now. He was doing this on purpose, Albel deduced. Making him wait…making him squirm…laughing at him! All of them were, jeering at his nakedness, his weakness. They knew nothing of him! They experienced nothing like he had. Ignorant and arrogant, every one of them, mentally kicking him about like the dog they believed him to be.

They were around him, spinning in a circle with malicious smiles curling at their smug lips. Albel swung, and found only stone. With a yell, a hellish gleam in his eyes, he swung again, finding but air. He screamed out in his futility, in their accusing eyes, in those flames that suddenly surrounded him and thrashed mercilessly at his nonexistent arm. They were burning him…his father bellowing in the heat of their demonic fire, those peoplegiggling maliciouslyat it all. He continued to strike out, unable to find the satisfying snap and squish of flesh or bone.

He fell to a pitiful heap upon the ground, panting, body covered in a thick film of perspiration as he seethed and gritted his teeth. His chest heaved with labored breathing, the shell of a man then convulsing into a hacking, bloody cough. He then saw it…saw the truth that was held in his blood. He had no rations left…he had no energy to hunt for food, or even make it back to Airyglyph. Albel the Wicked suddenly calmed, the expression of his face shifting from contorted anger to humbling realization. He was going to die here...

“…Why? Why haven’t you come? Why can’t you show mercy?”

He struck his fist into the dirt-covered rock beneath him, slashing open his knuckle as he did so, but continuing to pound his fist in anger, in sorrow, in helplessness.

Please! I just want it to stop! I want you to come back! I want you to finish it all! Kill me or stop making fun of me!

He heard a sickening crack in his hand, but didn’t desist, not until his knuckles were but a bloody, bruised pulp. Albel the Wicked…the most feared Captain in Airyglyph’s history…began to sob, to wail, to weep like the child he knew he was. Cold streams of tearsstung at his cheeks, him burying his face into the ground, body racked with his crying. His sides hurt, his voice became a rasp, his eyes became swollen and red, but hesimply couldn't find the ability to stop himself. He curled into a compact, writhing, pathetic ball on the ground,knees drawn to his chest, quiveringas he bawled.A child…and not an animal. In that one moment…he didn’t want to be an animal…and he saw the vice of the animal. For an animal, in their obsession with dominance, eventually brought about its own downfall. No one had forced Albel here…it was all on his own. And yet…he wanted that boy to be there…for Fayt Leingod to be by his side so that, in the very least, he didn’t have to die alone, so that he could feel one last shred of human warmth before the icy dark of Death overtook him.


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“Albel? Albel!”

“Are you awake? Albel!”

“…You came back…”