Solomon slumped in the gutter, licking at a freshly loosened tooth and ruminating on a life that had strayed tragically far from expectation.
As merry drunks made their way through the night — and substantially less merry drunks were flung into the night — a familiar sense of frustration began to wash over him; dread and anger mixed into a lingering sense of urgency he could only ever meet with a crippling lack of will. Uncertain where he should drag himself next, he chose…to have another drink.
Solomon reached inside his breast pocket, worked his fingers past the loose threads that caught on his unkempt fingernails, and fumbled until he found his prize. His hand emerged to reveal an ornate turquoise flask of suspiciously high quality.
The delicate design of his most treasured possession was a stark contrast to his soiled attire. A torn jacket and trousers displayed hints of their regal past, but the designs were too eroded by time for others to take notice. It was once elegant garb now caked with the musk and grime of a man who no longer saw the use in bathing.
The flask Solomon held in his hand was a remnant from that time, it stored within it the broken promises of a once bright future. He allowed his eyes to linger on the flask's intricate design — the marbled patterns swirled like sea foam, the edges plated with an elegant golden finish, it always had a way of absorbing his gaze. It had been a gift, given to him by his mother on the night they announced his engagement. 'To take the edge off her' she had said.
His eyes closed as he lifted the flask, inhaling the liquid calm, savoring each swig of shine that warmed the back of his throat.
"I once served below the King's banner, you know." A low voice spoke up from beside him, just audible enough for his ear to catch.
"s'that so?" Solomon replied as he finished his taste.
A spike of irritation shot through Solomon, it seemed the spirits just couldn't leave him be. He considered relocating to a ditch with fewer imbeciles, but that was a daunting task for a man as intoxicated as himself. Besides, he had become accustomed to the delusional ramblings of vagrants.
In the black canals of Riesling there was no shortage of forgotten heros or forlorn nobles, he supposed it was normal to dream of a more grand life when you spend your days covered in shit.
Solomon, on the other hand, he was a man of blood. Pure. Thoroughbred. He was not the offspring of some back alley whore, he did not need to steal his honor as others had. His mother was the highest pedigree. The second daughter of a reputable family, she was good stock — he was good stock. So why was it th—
"I didn't belong, truth be told."
His rumination was once again interrupted by the man's hushed voice, "This squallor feels much more familiar to home."
Solomon's jaw clenched. If he had a blade he'd thrust it and be on his way, but with nowhere to go, and no steel to rend, doing much of anything seemed rather pointless. So, instead, he gritted his teeth and chose instead…to have another drink.
Spirits willing the wretch would say his piece and then find another ear to infect, the mad ones always seemed to bring about the most trouble. Solomon lifted the flask to his lips and once more allowed the sensation of shine to burn through him.
"I was taught the world's cruelty from a young age, but not of its abundant varieties" the man's voice rose and Solomon froze with the flask still on his lips. He recognized that voice.
"For that I suppose I share some of the blame, for my naivety." There was no longer a hush to his tone, no longer a need for the farce.
An oddly comforting terror fell over Solomon, no more living in dread it seemed. The blood drained from his face and his heart began to thump to a frantic rhythm; he had been aware this moment was inevitable and yet shock still caused his mind to fall completely blank. Uncertain how to proceed…he had another drink.
He finished his dose then reached deep within himself, grasping for the one shred of courage, the one shred of dignity that remained inside. Cautiously, he lifted his brow to meet the gaze of the dead man, but the wraith did not meet his eyes. Instead, the creature was staring off into the distance, his visage obscured by the hood of his cloak; tattered but well kept, this man was no vagrant.
"My mother bled out birthing me, you know" The wraith's head tilted back, as if to look longingly at the tips of the spires invisible to those mired in the canals. "When I learned of my father, I chose to climb."
Solomon's courage wained at the words, his eyes retreating to the flask. A deep breath calmed his heart and once more his gaze returned to the wraith beside him.
"We were never kin, Rahm" Solomon found his voice through the tremors, his words more sober than he had anticipated. "You were just some mutt that wandered off the streets"
Rahm's stare remained unchanged, locked onto that same strange point far off in the distance. He began to speak "We share the same blo—"
"The blood of awhore!" Solomon found his feet, the rage that had been bubbling to the surface finally finding its intended target. If today were to be his last, he would at least say his piece. "We may be of the same loins but you were never anything more than the son of a whore. You bested yourself, your aim was too high"
It felt good to finally release his pent up fury. Solomon no longer feared the creature standing before him. "A shiny object that caught too much light, you thought you could take wh…"
"I did not take anything!" Rahm's head whipped toward Solomon with such ferocity that he didn't even have time to be startled. For what Rahm had become, he did not appear all that different than he had 16 years ago. A more harsh complexion, ice blue skin that appeared cold to the touch, hair that had shifted from jet black to stone white, and there was a deep darkness to his eyes that emanated through Solomon's entire being.
He froze, his body locked in fear. "If you had killed just me, I wouldn't be here, would I?" Rahm crept ever closer, his eyes now inches from Solomon's. "Give me your hand, brother"
Solomon gazed into his brother's eyes as an inky black dispersion of Ichor washed over them, they no longer resembled those of a human. They absorbed all the light surrounding them, two pitch black voids that pierced through to the core of Solomon's soul. Then…he began to lift his arm.
Solomon struggled against himself, willing his body to heed him with every fraction of his being, yet his arm continued to rise. The beast took it in his hand and slowly began to squeeze.
Pain….unlike anything Solomon had ever experienced before. It felt cultivated, the way every sensation in his body gave way to agony. He burned from the inside out, his blood boiled in his veins, his vision faded as a searing light consumed his eyes, every nerve ending in his body cried out for death, but the torment persisted. An eternity of suffering in only a few brief moments, Solomon's limbs eventually fell limp and his lifeless body collapsed to the ground.
Rahm knelt down beside the corpse of his brother, eye sockets charred black and viscera where his eyes should be. His emotions were once again vacant. Moments earlier his temper had flared, that was unusual. How many years had it been since he felt…anything?
In the moment he believed it had been a sign the spirit was loosening its grip; Solomon had been the last living member of house Tyr, but now his lifeless body was sprawled out on the cobblestone and Rahm's lust for vengeance remained unquelled.
Rahm rolled his brother over so that his face was obscured by his jacket, just another drunkard passed out in a ditch.
'There must be another' Rahm acknowledged as he rose to his feet, the impulse was still too strong for it to be anything else. All those he knew from house Tyr were gone and, to his knowledge, the title remained unclaimed.
'A bastard?' He thought to himself, as he retrieved the ornate flask from beside his brother's body…he chose to have a drink.