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 Post subject: Knock Twice - Alatriste
Unread postPosted: Wed May 02, 2018 6:16 am 
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Joined: Mon Aug 08, 2016 3:13 am
Posts: 9
“What the hells?!”

That was all Alatriste could articulate as he pressed himself harder and lower against the fast deteriorating wall he called ‘cover’.

That … that thing was out there, stalking the other villagers, melting everything it looked at, and by his last count it had tried looking at him eight times. As he crouched and strained his senses, he took a precious few seconds to curse today’s scheduled route.

Just when did this little village become the fertile breeding ground of demons?

It was as if an oven was being held over his head. Alatriste lunged to the side and tumbled behind the steps to the nearest house. His eyes caught the top half of the local temple igniting in gray motes of ash; and then watched those gray motes of ash ignite and flash into an incendiary aerosol, burning the rest of the building down.

The thing stopped looking at him, which was good, because Alatriste noticed that he had arrived at one of his drop off locations. Perfect. He knocked once. Predictably, no answer. He knocked a second time. Somewhere behind him, something exploded in a hail of broken glass and fire. He quickly shuffled through his pack, withdrew a letter addressed to ‘Elisabeth Vinyard, 715 Place’, blew the ash off of it and slipped it under the door.

The scintillating air behind him informed Alatriste that the thing out there was looking at him again, and that he should probably move immediately – he did so in earnest, bailing once more to the side and tumbling to the nearest body sized object. 715 Place, the delivered letter, and the nearby village well spontaneously combusted.

“I. AM. GOING. TO DIE. BECAUSE EVERYTHING. IS THE FETH. ON FIRE.”

He ran past a smoldering tower.

Finding the blacksmith should have been staggeringly easy, given how many times he’d been there before, but redundant plumes of smoking, fiery debris and the remaining structures alternately robbed him of sure footing and clean sightlines, respectively. It should have been just a hop, skip and a ju- there it was.

He slid behind the anvil, swinging his pack in front of him with practiced eas-

“AH!” said the smithy.

“AH!” said Alatriste.

“Shhhhh!”

“You ‘shh!’ What the hells is going on?”

“The Elston lad went and played with magic circles he weren’t supposed to be playing with,” the smithy hissed, pulling more and more straw over his body to hide himself.

“Straw’s pretty flammable,” Alatriste remarked as the smithy glared daggers into him. He ignored it and held out a parcel from his place on the floor. “Here.”

When the smithy didn’t take it, he threw it on top of the man. “Your delivery." He paused. "There’s usually a tip.”

The smithy managed to unsheathe an impressively large and impressively shiny knife among impressively rude words, but Alatriste was already moving and pulling a small parchment from his pocket, rereading the contents for the umpteenth time.

What could only be described as every sound known to man rocketed through the village and he looked through patches of smog at the setting sun and … sighed.

Unfortunately, hiding in cover wasn’t on today’s schedule.

_________________
Alatriste - Postman


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