It was an old farmer who saw them first. He was returning from the market and was ready to go home and relax. Word spread quickly in the village that a storm was coming, so it was all the more reason for the farmer to go back home. Storms, in many farmers’ opinions, were beneficial things because they grew the crops. In this area, thunderstorms in specific were seen as bad news because they were rumored to attract bad luck. And bad luck, indeed, had arrived.
Highlighted by lightning, the bandits rode along, cheering and ululating. These weren’t stealthy bandits. These were ruffians, fast and lethal.
“Pitch Dragon comes!” the farmer yelled. The commoners scrambled in fright as the maelstrom of vagabonds approached, brandishing scimitars, rapiers, and whips. In mere moments, chaos was upon the village.
“Ha-haaah!” guffawed Voracious Malcolm, known to the villagers only as Pyre Sword. He twirled around his enchanted long sword which he’d stolen, and the long sword burst into flames. People screamed and scattered, abandoning their houses and running, hoping, to find sanctuary.
Only few made it that far.
Silastrix leaped from his black mare and kicked down the door of a nearby house, where he immediately began looting.
“Here, Pitch Dragon, come and fight if you are truly a man,” challenged a man, pointing a crossbow at Silastrix.
Silastrix laughed. “And I am not a man.” With that, “Pitch Dragon” removed his helmet, revealing that he was in fact… a she. She was a lady with pale skin and deep, fiery red hair. Her eyes glittered with such a deep green like emeralds, swirling with every gem-like shade and hue. “Not only that, poor man,” said the woman, her voice no longer disguised, “but my name is ‘Silastrix’, not ‘Pitch Dragon’. Do you know what ‘Silastrix’ means?”
The man with the crossbow held his look of loathing, but Silastrix could see that the hands holding the weapon were trembling.
“It means ‘half-dragon’ in the draconic tongue.”
“Liar! Dragons don’t exist!”
Silastrix scowled. “You know, I really hate it when people say that!” She straightened her shoulders and red draconic wings spread from her back. It was almost like the armor moved to let the wings emerge into the open. The man dropped his crossbow and gave a shrill cry of disbelief.
They’re always afraid of the retractable wings, thought Silastrix with satisfaction.
“Why are you telling me this?” demanded the man in a harsh tone, perhaps to disguise his fear.
“Because dead men tell no tales,” she replied with a deadly smirk. She extended her claws and swiped at his throat, where he fell and did not get up. With her helmet back on her head and her bag filled with the loot she could find, she exited the building.
Smythe leaned against the wall of the house, his arms folded and still wearing his cloak. “I heard you inside of the house,” he said, his tone somewhat petulant.
“And you’ve always known who and what I really was,” she responded, looking for the next house to raid.
“I’m not talking about that."
“Then what are you referring to, Smythe?”
“The part after you finished gloating when you said ‘dead men tell no tales?’”
Beneath that helmet, she gave him an upraised eyebrow.
“I happen to take offense at that, you know,” the skeleton continued, pulling back his cloak to reveal his bony fingers, which he waved and twiddled.
“Oh, Smythe, give it a rest,” snapped Silastrix, finding a new target house.
Smythe stood up straight and shrugged. A myriad of children wielding sticks crowded him.
“Give us our stuff back!” one screamed, a boisterous male child with an especially thick wooden switch.
“Dearest children,” he replied sweetly, “I took nothing from you, only from your parents.” The group of kids howled and one whacked at him with a puny twig. It was so thin that it broke in the connection. Smythe laughed—a humorless laugh—and dropped the hood of his cloak. His grinning skull lit with a ball of fire and his eyeless sockets glared at the children.
“Boo,” he uttered in his utmost serious voice. The children screamed like banshees and fled. One child stood there, gaping around. He was a blind kid, using his stick to feel around.
“Well, go on,” Smythe urged, steering him away briefly before turning back around and awaiting Silastrix’s return. He could care less that there was still plenty of room to be filled in his loot bag, and he had nothing better to do other than terrorize the occasional villager. He watched as Voracious Malcolm rode his horse in circles, laughing and waving his flaming sword at all who came near. Armageddon Snow—the only name the villagers truly knew—set a heap of hay on fire, her dark tan skin and black hair illuminated by the firelight, her white teeth glinting as she laughed. Armageddon was already a notorious villain before she joined the Guild of the Black Rose.
“Out of the way, out of the way,” barked Kyto, who had his long blonde hair braided. His muscular body dashed past, nearly ramming into Smythe.
“Someone’s got a case of road rage,” the skeleton man hissed. Kyto the Titan was an arrogant and obnoxious man, as one could tell by his self-proclaimed title. When the Guild of the Black Rose had no leader, Kyto, with no contest or vote, demanded to take charge. He was promptly pushed aside in favor of the two highest in rank: Lord Soth and Mortal Coil.
Bitterly, Smythe thought of Coil. Lord Soth was a much better candidate. Out of the rest of the others, Soth had been there the longest and had the best judgment when it came to plotting their targets. Coil was far too ambitious. He makes them strike more often, almost to the point where other places nearly had nothing to be taken from them. There will be a time, Smythe was sure, that Coil’s ambitions would take things too far and get them in trouble. Perhaps they would raid a large city and finally meet some successful opposition. And Coil—perhaps he would find himself in a situation where there would be no one left to back him up.
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