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| - Hours were spent pouring over volumes of information about potion creation. Ignorance fled but the more he learned, the more he knew he needed to learn. He would not find himself in a position of weakness or ignorance again. Never. As he stood to leave the hunched Forsaken gestured him over. In a quiet conversation, the Head Hunter learned of a plan being carried out by the brewer in Brill. Apparently, there was an experiment that could transform a warm-body into a Scourge before your very eyes. Vengeance and malice swelled in his dark heart and the death eater left the dark chamber at a run. Cursing his slow feet, Kopfjagger made his way to Brill and found himself standing before the local brewer. The sweet and sharp herbal smells from the herbalist pulled at his mind, but he remained focused on the task at hand. Bowing low, he rose to look the brewer in the eye. Master, I have heard that you could use assistance in a task that interests me. If you would have me, my blades are yours. He finally mastered wielding two swords at once and he was eager to try them both out. Kopfjagger was becoming used to hearing a hollow, deep voice come from his throat. It seemed more and more fitting. Hollow. Looking up from a book propped open on one hand, the other absently swirling a beaker, the brewer looked deep into the Forsakens eyes. A single nod and the book closed around the tattered ribbon keeping the page. Pumpkins, came his hollow voice. Bring to me pumpkins from the human farms near here and I will show you how to brew the concoction you seek. We have some captured warm-bloods that you can study. A grin wove its way across the brewers blue and torn face. We have found some that are not destined to pass over yet. It is interesting to see their reaction after each death. When they come back whole again it is most wonderful to witness. The cackle was echoed by the apprentice as he began his jog to the farms. He thought his life was over when his barn burned down. Only three cows remained and the freight would probably dry them up for weeks if not longer. When everyone he knew, and many he did not, showed up to rebuild his barn he could not hold the tears back. What would have taken him months to rebuild was finished in weeks. His neighbor even gave him a bull to help him rebuild his stock. GAVE. All he kept hearing from everyone that was there to help was, Youre a good man. My pleasure. It was a good life. Cloaking himself in stealth, forcing the light to bend around him by sheer force of will, his jog became a quick walk. His back was hunched, his blades out and swaying with his stride. There, before him, was a human outpost in this land of the never-dying. There, in the fields, lay pumpkins ripe for the picking. His eyes counted and evaluated the farmers guarding their fields. And their women. Thankfully he did not see any children. For some reason he did not think he had the heart to kill a child. He looked over the men and women once again, sizing them up. Yes. Today, everyone would die. The pumpkins could wait just a few moments longer. Circling his first target he summed up his opponent. Pitchfork and muscles hard from long labors were not enough to deter him. Once the idiot wandered far enough away from his fellow betrayers, the Head Hunter struck. The first blow stunned the human while swords spun and danced in sinister strikes, one after the other. How dare you abandon your kind in their darkest hour! he spat. The Forsaken knew that he was exhausting his energy too quickly, but he also knew that it would come back. Pitchfork shot at his ribs but he evaded, lashing the human across the leg, forcing him to lower his arm to protect it. You traitorous bastards! You have no idea what hell befell us while you fled! His rage was building as his blades demolished the tender meat of his enemy. Slash across the humans side to force the other arm inwards. Thrust into the stomach to force his enemy to lower his head. Now. In a motion smooth with practice, the humans lowered head was severed in a stroke. The Forsakens screams of rage brought others to him and he fought on. Screaming his agony in their faces as he felled them, one after the other, the dance of death continued. Men and women began to pile around him. During the lulls in combat he would feast upon them to regain his strength before seeking more to destroy. The impromptu festival that took place once the barn had been fully raised was impressive. Nearly thirty people had turned out to help and now it was his turn to provide the thanks. Two lambs were offered up on the table and even after all of their hard work, each person brought something of their own to the table. The drink was flowing freely and hugs were given with abandon. Triumph after tragedy is the sweetest feeling in the world. Standing over the carnage, swords dripping with gore, the Head Hunter stood as erect as his twisted spine would allow. Slowly he walked into the fields and began to gather the pumpkins. His stride was arrogant. His swords were his family now. The gore he left on his face and armor and swords. They were his prize and he relished it
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