an unseen admirer ~ (open)

The Righteous Side of Hell.

Daniel wasn’t sure what had driven him to visit the museum today. He’d never been much of a fan where art was concerned, but some whim or another was leading him to indulge in a foray into halls filled with the finest examples of Ethean art on display. The mighty stone steps and looming pillars had held a certain level of majesty that even he couldn’t ignore. He counted them as he climbed—fifty-five in all—and wondered at why there were so many; perhaps it was to make someone appreciate the heights they must climb to gaze upon the splendor of Ethean culture. It certainly seemed like the sort of arrogance he’d come to expect from his homeland over the years.

The interior of the grand structure was equally as enthralling. Marble floors reflected the light cast by intricately crafted chandeliers hanging from heavy chains overhead. Gold and silver were in evidence, etched into the rails lining the curved stairways leading up to the upper levels. Imposing suits of ancient armor lined the foyer at intervals, clutching swords and shield and spears and axes of every make the empty guardians stood vigilant against the backdrop of scenes depicting great battles or turning points in history. There were statues galore to behold as well, many of them depicting the gods and goddesses that ruled over the realm and the mortals that dwelt therein. He caught sight of a depiction of his patron, Kalidas. It wasn’t Her true feminine form, but rather the manly, spear-wielding version that most of modern society imagined Her to be.

He smiled as he passed, offering up a quick prayer praising the goddesses name; old habits die hard after all.

The museum had more to offer in the way of grandiose frescos and artful depictions. A few of them caught his fleeting attention for a few moments before he moved on against the press of humanity surrounding him. It was amazing to him that so many people could be shoved into a single space at once simply to look at some old paintings and artifacts. Though he could admit that they were beautiful to look at, the point of it all escaped him. The old wolf wove his way through the crowd until he could breathe more easily. Perfumes and colognes were beginning to make his head spin. His heightened sense of smell—while a blessing that had saved his life on more than one occasion—came with the downside of sometimes registering too much information at once were strong odors were in abundance. A few minutes away would give him time to refocus his thoughts and filter out the smell.

Fortunately, there was a small tucked away corner with a muted painting of the night sky that no one seemed interested in when there were works with far brighter colors to draw the eye. He calmly made his way toward the painting and planted himself before it. Dark, almost black hues of blue dotted with flecks of silver greeted him. They lulled his senses back into focus as his thoughts began to wander before seizing upon a memory. He remembered the days of hunting out in the expansive wilds; many of those days were spent beneath the very sky the painting depicted. The memory held equal parts of happiness and sadness for him. Happiness because it reminded him of some of his best moments, sadness because it did the same for his worst.

He sent up another pray to ease the heaviness of his heart, though this one went not to Kalidas or Kupiec or Nevyne, but to Tatara, beseeching Him to grant those that he’d killed a better life in the next. They’d met their end at his hands, and it helped to think that they might live happier days. It might help erase the blood staining his hands.

The Righteous Side of Hell.

Daniel allowed his thoughts to wander further and further down the paths they had chosen to take. He closed his eyes and saw the image of his younger self grinning and laughing happily along with the rest of his squad. He watched as the fresh-face youth that had been learned from those around him and rose through the ranks of his academy, and then continued to rise further. He saw himself shortly after his first magi kill, grinning ear to ear as he stood victorious over his prey. He saw the celebration held in his honor. Then, his daydreaming took a turn south.

The image of the young man shifted and distorted into an increasingly scarred visage. His once smiling face soured until it seemed nearly impossible to think it was ever capable of a smile. The ice chip blue eyes narrowed from their wide orbs into thin slits that took on a more menacing light. Burning wreckage painted the landscape and the shapes of shattered buildings and fleeing bodies in violent shades of red that banished the calm of night as he waged war against his enemies. The sound of gunfire was in evidence, and with each turn—each flawless execution of pure skill at arms—something died. It was with a grim countenance that he slaughtered the magi fleeing before him like sheep in the presence of a wolf on the prowl. And though his face wouldn’t show it, there was no denying the simple thrill of the hunt burning in his eyes.

The old wolf dispelled the dark enchantment cast over him by his remembrance; a scream that only he could hear punctuated his return to reality. Daniel looked down at his trembling hand, which he used to seek the comfort of the large revolver resting against his hip. His hand steadied against the handle and he loosed a breath he’d not known he’d been holding. That period of six months had been a waste of his skills with the only exception being the magi who’s bones he’d taken as a trophy. Alaric was perhaps one of the only hunts he could be truly proud of. It was the reason he’d had the bones forged into his favored weapon, a trophy to remind him of the deed.

“If only all my hunts had been like that,” Daniel mused forlornly. He nearly took his hand away from his weapon when something caused his hair to stand on end. That sixth sense he’d developed over the years of bloodshed alerted him to the fact he was being watched. He sniffed the air like a hound seeking the lost scent of prey, hand tightening upon Blackhammer’s grip. There was nothing new on the air to indicate any changes, but the feeling of eyes upon him persisted regardless.

“Must be losin’ it.” Though Daniel’s hand would fall to the side, his posture would be far from relaxed. There was a threat of violence to his stance that any warrior would recognize.