The shadow man stealthed through the makeshift tents under the cover of intense winds and sand. What looked like shadows were actually just folds of black cloaks that flowed with the wind, revealing a skinny form under intense faded bandages that covered most of his chest and arms. What wasn't covered on his skin revealed instead deep scars that collected dust and sand as he trekked out of the isolated oasis the clan was calling their resting place for now. It was a secluded place that hid in between large sand dunes to the east and a few lone mountains to the west that separated this small desert from its neighboring forest.
The shadow of a man wasn't concerned with the constant sands, as it provided cover for him, and it constantly buffeted him, it reminded him that he felt something, that he needed to feel something.
Screams split through the sands. They found the body. Only a few would know of what happened in that tent, and only one would know the truth. He only hoped that Clansman would live the rest of his life with no demons in his dreams. The demon-ridden would most likely be given a proper burial from his people, something to respect and honor him in the transition to their version of the afterlife. It was unfortunate that they would never realize he had been forever tainted with a minor demon. He would never see the afterlife, or any life now.
It was better, though, for them to remember him how they wanted to instead of how he actually was. It would be a monument to how he used to be, before he allowed an opening to something sinister.
The roar of the winds blotted out the screams and allowed the shadow man to move on without a hitch. His steps in the sands quickly disappeared under the immense amount of sand shifting in the high winds. No one would be able to trace him, even if they saw him leave the settlement. He was a ghost, even to the man who survived encountering him. He was a shadow, a skeleton in a closet long forgotten, and he wished to stay that way.
And so he traveled the excruciating journey west. It took many days. He only rested as the sun rose and as the sun set, only for a few minutes each time, and never slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he dreamt of the same thing that terrified him until he awoke, and every time he awoke, he could never remember what had so terrified him in his subconscious. And so he packed up what measly belongings he had, cleaned and polished his swords,and set back on his path. He was careful to trek alongside the dunes and around the increasingly large rocks that jutted from the sand. Once or twice he would see a patch of quicksand, but his shoes displaced his weight enough that they weren't a problem, even if they did slow him down. This schedule lasted for five suns and four nights until, on the eve of the fifth night, the sand mellowed out into rocky plateau which arched high into the sky in the form of three mountains. The Lone Mountains. These were what separated the infamous Forest of Tooth and Claw and the desert that cradled Draconis mountain.
He stashed his widened shoes into a small rucksack and sat down at the mouth of the largest mountain, crossing his feet and staring upwards. As he massaged his feet and fixed the bandages, his eyes scaled the full height of the mountain. He twitched as he felt something different on his right foot. Unwrapping the bandages revealed a thin, long piece of black glass embedded in the sole of his foot. He pulled out a crimson knife and jabbed into his own skin, digging around until he felt (something, anything) the end of the glass. Pulling out his knife, he then went in with his long, blackened nails and wrenched the glass to one side. It gushed out blood from the opening, but it was still embedded too deep for him to pull it out. So he wrenched it to the other side, and more blood poured forth, this blackened with infection. He used the blood to his advantage and let it loosen the glass before he wrestled it out. Blood flowed down his sole and trickled onto the stone beneath, painting it crimson. He set the glass piece aside and wrapped his foot back up, adding a small piece of dark cloth from his rucksack to soak up the bleeding. Other than that, he had nothing to aid himself, so that would have to do.
He picked up the narrow piece of glass and held it up, inspecting it. Instead, he felt it inspect him as he saw the painted mask reflecting back at him, with his own blood dripping down like tears. The mask seemed to be staring into him, boring into his soul, what little soul he had left. It mocked him for having to hide his face, because he only seemed more human wearing the mask of a dead demon than with his own face. He couldn't even call it a face, anymore. It was something he could never bear to see again.
He growled. The mask laughed in response. His hand tense and shook with anger and pain of remembering. He let out a growl and stabbed his chest with the piece of glass. He punched it in, to make sure it embedded itself, to make sure it would never leave to reveal his true self. He recoiled with dizziness, and fished out another worn bandage to cover his newest wound.
It would not be his last.
He adorned his climbing shoes and scaled the mountain. About halfway to the top, he reached a nook that led into a small level section. An old, crumbling circle of rocks held dust and ash from the last time he was there. He dumped his rucksack on the floor near the entrance and fished out the half-broken mask that he had once adorned. He tossed it to a makeshift stone table that was alit by a floating Runic Stone. It didn't hit the table, it didn't bounce, it floated. There, as it did, the mask mended itself, briefly shimmering a shadow of the past Fiend who became that mask, before it stashed itself on the wall, alongside several rows of dozens of others. In total, it could have been in the hundreds, but he never counted. That number never mattered.
The only one that mattered was the next one.
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