The sword slid free from the sheath. The subtle hiss, which normally went unnoticed, was more like a lion’s war call. It was not the sound, but the gleam from the blade that alerted all those around. It was a sophomoric gesture, but it did what it needed to do; silence the crowd. They all watched on, as the young man stood tall, his eyes locked upon his assumingly unsuspecting prey. His body had succumbed to the nervousness that was ravaging his mind. The once soft, youthful flesh was now cold and clammy. His once sturdy frame now was riddled with the shakes.

The once warm and inviting atmosphere was now long gone. The dirty mud crafted walls seemed like little more than a trap to the inhabitants who’s only route of escape was through the crazed youth. Yet, they knew this was the least of their problems. The candle light seemed to do little to set any other mood other than of the impending doom of the youth who’s prey did nothing more then simply chuckle; it was obvious his presence was known. It took a brave man to sneak up on him while he was awake. It took an even more foolish man to [i]assume[/i] he had a chance; this kid did.

He could smell it; the pride, the rage, it was boiling up inside the young man. He wouldn’t argue over the fact that it wasn’t a justified rage, he had killed the boy’s father, but it was on the battlefield. However, he was smearing his father’s name by being offended by such an action. To die on a the battlefield was to die gloriously, at least in Alexio’s mind.

“You killed my father! You lecherous dog!”

His voice was cracked, he couldn’t be [i]too[/i] sure if it was from the fear, of nature taking it’s course in the young man’s body. He didn’t have to turn around to know that he was young, possibly midway through his teenage years. He could smell the hormones as they were thick in the air, the boy was drowning in his own perspiration. 

“Go home, boy. This doesn’t have to end like this, your father died a proud man..”

He spoke in a rather tranquil manner, his deep, booming voice piercing the air that was thick with tension. He could feel it - the fear, it pulsated through all of the patrons. It wasn’t unjustified but at the same time it was slightly insulting. He knew that many within the village knew exactly what he was, yet it seemed his blood was just as good as that of the humans. They didn’t care that he put his life on the line to defend them, but yet when the time came for the people of this village to defend him they simply held their peasant tongues.

It didn’t matter, it wouldn’t be long until he simply wandered away. He had simply given them aid in their time of need out of request of another who he owed a debt to. His debt had been paid, and soon he would leave this village in the dust like so many before it.

“No! My father died by your blade, and now you shall die by his!”

Before the last syllable could leave the boy’s mouth he had thrown himself forward. Brandishing the sword haphazardly as he tried to cut down his foe. He listened as the boy’s body drew nearer, and he let his emotions simply fade away. There could be no emotions on the field of battle, he could not think of this boy’s age. He had offended his honor, and he would now defend himself and his reputation. His palms pressed firmly against the wooden bar countertop. Within a swift, inhuman motion he had avoided the blow. The boy’s sword was stuck in the cheap wood.

Turning around swiftly, his right hand clasped upon the boy’s throat. His finger nails seemingly growing to a grotesque length as he joisted him into the air.

“Your father died honorable, do you wish to tarnish his death with your own ignorance, boy?”

The nails soon pressed themselves through the flesh, the crimson droplets soon turned into a slowly slow-to-moderate flow of blood down the youth’s neck. His legs kicked, and soon his eyes dulled. That is when he struck, removing a slick dagger from his hip he quickly thrust it into Alexio’s arm. He instantly winced in pain, his arm seemingly going numb as he stumbled back and the boy fell to his knees. He could see the puss-like substance surrounding the wound. He instantly knew what it was, as he began to feel sickly in such a relatively fast time; Wolfsbane.

It wasn’t a strong concentration, probably watered down so that they could make a small amount go a long way; not the brightest idea, but he wasn’t probably dealing with a hunter or some one who was quite well versed in the macabre.

Suddenly, his body ached and he sat up. His body ached, and his skin was covered in a thick layer of sweat. He could still feel the wound, it pulsated and it reminded that him in the grand scheme of the universe he was still mortal - just not in a human sense of the word. The dream had plagued him the last few nights, and it seemed as though it was only getting worse. For nights on end he had been lead into the memory only to leave right before contact with the blade, on this night he remembered what it felt like to be wounded in such a deep manner.

He didn’t know why this memory was so prevalent. It wasn’t the worst he had ever been wounded, and it wasn’t particularly memorable either. The boy’s life ended on that day, and his had gone on. He had been chased out of the village, but he was still remembered for his heroic deed. Why was this memory haunting him so?

"God damn it..”

He muttered to himself, as his icy blue hues gazed upon his surroundings. His bed, for all intents and purposes was now on it’s way into tomorrows trash pick up. The sheets were torn off, and the mattress itself was torn into. It had definitely seen better days, but it looks like tonight would be it’s final hurrah. Sitting up, he planted his feet firmly to the mahogany floor. His toes stretched outwards, as his body began the slow descent into a relaxation he knew wouldn’t last long. It never did after nights like these, he had pattern for nights like these.

He slowly pulled himself out of bed, ignoring the pile of chaos he left behind him and simply gathering whatever clothes were the most convenient to his current position. Tonight, that would have been an simply flannel shirt of the dark colored variety. The shirt clung tightly to his chiseled figure, leaving very little the imagination as the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His legs would find a simple pair of boot cut jeans, their that of a dull rain or a storm-ridden sky. If he had cared for shoes, he would of placed them upon his feet but on that night he didn’t see a need to.

In this world, the closest he could get to home without looking like a fool was walking without shoes. But then again, to some people even that seemed quite foolish; he really didn’t care. It would be a few moments before he actually left his home. Those moments were filled with a trip to the bathroom, a quick drink directly from the faucet, and a raw piece of shredded round-tip steak. When those moments were over, he was out the door into the wonderland that was Melrose. He would simply see where the night would take him, if anywhere.