It was one of those nights where light was up to the machinations of sentients. Both the sister moons hid and did not greet any with their grace.

The absence fit Kenan. As the land was dark his mind was in a deeper abyss. That void flipped from a quiet solitude of nothing to a raging hatred that would erode everything. In between these were periods filled with an emotional loss and sadness that would physically seize him.

He had taken to the night, and he felt that it took him too.

Kenan would only wake up after day now. Food was saved for him on a platter and his dinners were often breakfast for the others. After his conversation with the Parson, he began to explore out of his room, and past the Dawn Church that confined it.

The streets of The Village were empty, vacant, and despondent of the usual life that it held. Kenan stalked in between the buildings at night. He avoided the regular guard patrols or the occasional late-night traveler. He wanted to be alone, cold, and in the dark. At times he felt like a dark monster roaming for a victim, and other times he felt like he was just as he was. A lone, afraid, and timid child. Searching for a family that no longer existed.

For weeks he would do this. His muscles were slow to regain their lost strength, but each night marked a point of progression. He became familiar with The Village, its buildings, and paths of travel. Kenan explored abandoned townhomes, dark alleys, and other negative buildings. Such as the prison, the gallows, and the graveyard. The stink of each place, the death that permeated some of them, felt disgustingly familiar.

In an attempt to thwart his regular pattern and mood, Kenan forsook his regular spots. Instead, he climbed the steps onto the wooden ramparts of The Village. He stood a distance between the gate and another group of sentries. Kenan faced the vague northern direction of his home. Or rather, whatever was left of it.

Thoughts, emotions, and any other errant notions bounced off of his focus. The darkness beyond the wall, and the ditch just after that felt like a sickness. Kenan tried to pierce it, understand its insides, and how to ward it off. At times, he thought he saw creatures. Large, lumbering hominids made of inverse flesh and bone. Held together by stone or water. As he would try to peer closer. The amalgamation would disappear. The pattern repeated, and time passed.

“So you're the reason my guards haven't done a check here.” The voice made Kenan jump. It was infused with an accent that was too deep to be recognizable. “But it seems you have taken to keep watch over here. I suppose.”

A man took a similar stance to Kenan just next to him. It was hard to make out features in the night. But he had a dark mop of hair, was on the older scale of mortality and scars scratched his face. The scent of alcohol wafted from both his mouth and a mug that he casually held. “You’ve been harder and harder to watch, Kenan.”

Kenan looked at the fellow, confusion, and curiosity mixed. “Rufus?”

The man smiled. “Aye. I'm surprised you remember.”

“You don't sound like… that Rufus that day.”

“Ha! Yeah.” Rufus' laugh came to an abrupt, and gruff end. The man looked in the same direction as Kenan. Peered into the same darkness and saw creatures of his own. “My magics would be a distraction at night.”

“Did Doco send you to watch me?” Kenan did not want to wait to begin to pick at a question. His perception peeled back from the black as its contents didn't pose much interest at the moment. Nonetheless, he still sensed the grotesque monsters somewhere beyond the wall.

“He's doing as good as he could, I suppose. I think he takes solace in your life.” Rufus burped and turned to see Kenan's half curious half angry countenance. “Ha! I was told about your picky questions from your uncle. And well…” The man raised his mug and then poured just a bit over the wall. “It's hard to hide intention from a drunkard. A secret power.”

Kenan took away a portion of his sight to glare at Rufus. Then he glanced down to The Village. “What has he been doing?” Then he looked at his begrudgingly accepted companion, who had a one-sided smirk. Kenan cursed under his breath. “Fine. What is he doing about the bandits?”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The grin remained on the drunkard's face with bitterness. “Not much. Not right now. Scouts came back some time ago with their camp location.”

“And?’

“And there isn’t much we can do. The cold is already here. The freeze will soon be behind. Your uncle wants to wait till the campaign season to… well… campaign.” Rufus stood. Drank the rest of the contents in his mug with one go. Then threw the cup behind him with a clatter. “C’mon,” He started to walk away and turned to see that Kenan didn’t follow. “Don’t tatter about boy, follow me.”

Kenan had a sore itch to curse, but he dwindled the temptation to a jumbled mess of words beneath any loud octave. He shoved off the palisade and walked in the same footsteps as Rufus. He was led down to the ground and swiftly through the village. They stopped in a spot devoid of the regular buildings, and the only structure was a long-house-like construction. Dim lanterns were placed at regular intervals just close enough to form a small continuity of light. The grounds were made up of a long oval path that encircled six patches of sand on one side and another six archery targets on the other. Rufus did not stop his trek till he stood on a roughly square pile of dust.

“Come. We don’t have all day.” The drunkard said. Appeared somehow in his hands, he pulled a long drag from a silver and white flask.

“Night. We don’t have all…”

“Right, Right. Here you shite.” Kenan heard the small shift in dialect as the drunkard started to put use of the alcohol in his system. Rufus showed a stark askance look before Kenan moved the stand across from the drunkard. “Okay. Hit me.”

“What?”

“Can only an Ilithid make you think? Hit me!” The man did not move his hands, feet, or body. He was relaxed. Like a contrast of excitement with words, and lethargic body language. Kenan did not take the query seriously as he threw his arms up and went in for a simple jab.

Reason was slow to catch the feeling of disorientation and pain. A hand palm smacked the side of Kenan’s head and racked his brain as it bounced in his skull. Simultaneously his feet were hooked to send him head first onto the ground. “Oh! There is something to trying! Even though I think an Orc turd can strike better than you. Hit me!”

Something sparked. Then it was pushed away.

Kenan got to his feet. His head did not have the orientation or the sense to balance himself. Neither did it have the logic to understand. Its power went to the only want it could think of at that moment. He placed his legs shoulder width and readied his hands in front of him. The next punch was an overhead hurl. One moment Kenan was in action, the next he felt his chest cave in, his lungs expunged his air, and his back thudded against the ground. “Ha! Boars are less excited than you, and I've seen old ladies defend against worse than this. Kenan! Hit! Me!”

The spark churned. Yearning and lurching forward like an enraged dog. Its intentions were paved under a mixture of thought and will.

No thought went into the next movement as Kenan jumped back up. Instead, he used a source of instinct born from countless bouts between him and his uncle. He stepped into Rufus’ range and sent a quick jab that missed the target. The drunkard side-stepped while he sent a hook that bounced against a raised arm. Kenan once again stepped forward, and in conjunction, a fist targeted Rufus’ abdomen.

Expectation and reality mixed as he connected. His fist felt like it met a wall with an impenetrable nature. Pain from cracked knuckles burst from his hand and up his arm. Ultimately, the feeling was dispersed. Dampened and lost under the torrent of the raging inferno inside. The spark took hold of the kindling and burst forth in a roar. At the same time, Kenan yelled too. He punched again. The same thing happened. Again, and again, and again he punched. Each was met with an impossible stalwart force and a pain cast away with a blind maelstrom. Emotion burped from the fire. Rage. More punches. Each one pulled the full force of Kenan. Then something else, it offered less power but a bit more into Kenan. Uncertainty. Each attack generated some facet of his built-up feelings and they were transferred from his chest and out of his arm.

Time passed. Kenan beat endlessly, but his initial energy started to peter out. His knuckles were blooded and felt numb. While Rufus, on the wrong end of the rampage, stood stoic. Watching with passive, relieved eyes. After the last punch, Kenan’s legs lost their usage as he slumped to the ground. He wept.

The drunkard took a step back. “Control is good,” Rufus said with not a hint of inebriation. “Stability is fine too. Balance is key.

“Emotion is not often what you think it is. Hiding away from it is never good. As while you keep all the bad at bay, the rest will never come.” The man crouched and used a hand to balance himself.

Kenan, still in turmoil. Looked up. The sight made the churning abate for just a moment. A fraction. He looked at Rufus for what was the first time. Past the darkness, the alcohol, or anything else. He saw a deep, implanted sorrow that carved out from the soul and through the man's eyes. Intermixed was a regret so vibrant that it made Kenan's own conscience recoil. Despite that, the feelings lay flat on an emotional bed of peace.

Rufus offered up his hand. Kenan's misgivings were each assuaged by the trueness of the drunkard in front of him. The hand was taken and he was lifted to his feet.

Something in the darkness spoke. Like the ugly monsters beyond the wall climbed to the edge and clung to the rough spikes. They whispered. The sound so quiet that it was inaudible.

“People will teach you… I won’t… others will definitely,”