Wednesday, November 7, 2012

First, Finest and Last: Rillian

Oh hey, remember these? I must have been channeling Rill at work today, and I finally finished his version. So here it is, enjoy!

P.S. Rill isn't a very nice person. :P

P.P.S. In case anyone wants to go back and reread them, here are the ones for Pitch, Rheugan and Alanon.

I still haven't finished Lark's. :P Don't know why it's being so difficult to write, but I will keep picking at it. Also, my enormous epic writer's block seems to be gone! Wheee! \o/


His first had cost him five coppers, enough to feed himself for almost a week back then. But compared to his friends’ constant ribbing, he’d considered it worth the price. She’d laughed at him when he asked for her name, and when they were finished she’d called him a man. The only thing he could think of at the time was to wonder why he didn’t feel any different.

He’d bought the knife cheap, though he hadn’t thought he’d need to use it so soon. But Belgren was twice his size and three times his age, and Rill’s life was hard enough without adding a bully to the mix. He’d followed his target for a full day before picking his ambush spot. The knife had slipped as it went in, though, and it had taken nearly an hour for Belgren to die of the messy gut wound. It had taken two more for Rill’s shaking to stop, and then he’d booked it out of his home village for good, before anyone found the body. He’d been all of forty years old.

His first had been the dirt paths of the small transient village where he’d been born, there in the ruins of Morlos’Aran. His mother certainly hadn’t raised him –not that he blamed her, she could barely take care of herself. No, his teachers had been the streets and the surrounding wilds, where a mistake had rarely given a second chance. Rill had learned early on that not making mistakes was the best way to go.

His finest had been Lark, even as brief as it was. She’d lit a fire in him that no one else had before or since. He still didn’t understand why she’d called it off, saying they were both better off as just friends; maybe that was why he kept finding himself following her around like a lost puppy. He told himself frequently that he needed to get over her and move on… but Rill had never been good at listening to reason.

He didn’t consider any of them his finest. He just didn’t think of them that way; killing was just something he did to put money in his pocket and food in his mouth, or to simply survive another day. It wasn’t the kind of thing he bragged about, not if he wanted to keep breathing. And Rill was awfully fond of breathing.

His finest had been the elf that plucked him from the streets of a Hyjal village. Erelas had been looking for an apprentice, and Rill had been looking for anything that would get him out of the hellhole his life had become. Erelas and his hippogryphs had given him that way out, and he’d jumped at the chance without looking back.

His last had cost him considerably more than five coppers, but he hadn’t had to worry about money for a long time. He’d stopped trying to pretend they were Lark years ago – now it was simply a release. This one had been happy enough to take his money, and if he’d left her with a few bonus bruises, well, she hadn’t complained to him.

His last had been a while ago… he supposed it had been that gnome selling flowers. She’d been nothing to him, just another mark taken care of, a job like all the others. He’d lost count of the bodies he’d left over the centuries; all that mattered to him was that they were dead and he still lived. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

He was his last, and he was determined to keep it that way. Sure, he would take orders from whichever slouch currently paid him, but that was strictly business. Outside of work, well, he’d be damned if he’d let anyone else tell him what to do again.

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