Night of the Bruton (It really wasn’t their night)

Bruton was certain his current situation was born of injustice. His grandfather had lineage to some fine noble families (so he was told), so the expenses he incurred as leader of Pallew’s militia were, in a sense, necessary. How else could he fashion a mustache so fine without that self-care budget? Those fine silken shirts were better off improving his image as well! And his equally fine bed and the jewellery he had aquisitioned to charm Mona, Laira and Telles were only appropriate. It was only expected for a man of his pedigree - why not have a few admirers, and gifts to spoil them with?

Really, since he was in charge of the militia, it was just smart financing, but the village hadn’t bought that, and now here he was, with some loyalists, nursing a grudge, and ever tightening purses.

So, it really was everyone else’s fault – and their responsibility – to compensate him now that he was “freelance militia” providing roaming protection from other genuine brigands (fees to be determine after an unnanounced patrol was concluded).

Lamespring, however, had ideas of their own, and thus the injustice continued. Here he was, hiding in his covered wagon, and nursing his warmth while his loyal troops sulked around campfires in the woods.

All because a stupid Spirit was keeping them out, despite his best arguments to Arden and the others.

This was why his secret plan to confiscate the stupid straw man was finally getting his personal approval to go ahead. He had been wary of the idea for a while – especially since it hinged on that rotten artefact that scholar from Belzac had offered as a sales pitch – but needs must. At the rate things were going, his self-care budget was finally going to have to take a hit.

“Redith, Jorn, I have a very important mission for you two,” the militia leader announced while poking his head through the covers of his temporary mobile home (and also headquarters, the most important part).

Two reedy-looking men filed themselves before their commander, looking almost professional despite the dirt staining Redith’s breastplate - constantly worn, even in his sleep - or Jorn’s pants and sleeves fraying from too much time spent without rest.

Nonetheless their eyes burned as best as they could with loyal fervor – food and shelter were just outside their reach, were it not for that damnable scarecrow.

“I - we have had it up to here with that wretched thing loping about. Apprehend it, and bring it here. Once we show Lamespring we’re definitely not afraid of it, we’ll be able to bargain for everything we need!” Bruton confidently declared.

Redith and Jorn traded looks, before Redith carefully coughed. “Sir, I’m willing to do anything you ask, but we’ve tried to sneak in during the cover of night. That scarecrow is scary, sir. That Spirit can really affect us.”

“I know, but I’ve decided to unveil a secret weapon. Behold!”

Thrusting an arm out of the wagon, the mustachioed sellsword revealed a glass bauble on a chain. The two lackeys stared, uncomprehending, at the contents.

Something red and purple pulsated inside, like living sickly flesh, and it was unmistakable what it was.

“Malevolence, sir!? But… it’s dangerous!”

“I was assured it’d be safe to use as long as you practice common sense!”

“Assured by who, sir?”

“An expert!”

That seemed to be answer enough, as Jorn brightened up immediately. “I see!”

“Malevolence is equal to the Spiritual energies of this world! Therefore, as long as you carry this with you, you have nothing to fear! For you have tangible, safe, and usable power of your own!”

All things considered, it was as good of a plan as Bruton’s Beaters could assemble at the time, and the two bandits quietly slouched their way to the vegetable fields beyond.

In an instant, they felt that sense of unease as they stepped onto that soil. There was a sudden stillness that made them almost believe there was something prowling in the dark. This was how it always began on the nights they tried to “patrol” into Lamespring. The more steps they took, the more Redith had a sensation that he was being watched, and that the ground around him was dangerous. It would amplify with every step until their nerves would break, and they would flee once more to the forest. That was how the village repelled their important work every time.

This time, when he could take no more, Jorn put his trust into the bauble full of Malevolence. Reaching into the pocket and thrusting it out, the ethereal light of the little light seemed to be safety light in the darkness, and the unease dissipated, leaving only an ordinary patch of land.

Without any real way to communicate, Redith and Jorn could only give nods to each other before marching more confidently through the night, the little violet light leading the way until they finally saw their prize.

During the day it rose a horse, but at night, the Spirit’s prized home, known as Straw John, was hung from a pole. It was a little unearthly in the strange illumination, but compared to before, Redith couldn’t help but sneer at the dopey painted face.

“I’da burned you if I hadn’t been told to,” the armor-plated man spat, before jerking his head to his partner. “Come one, let’s get him down.”

“Sure, but he’s kinda high up. Maybe we need a ladder…”

For a moment, Redith considered the difficulties of locating a tool they hadn’t brought along, since that meant going further into the village, but with just their own two hands and an alarming lack of vision…

From the aether, a third voice drawled. “D’ya need a hand?”

Jorn was too used to people looking over his shoulder back at the camp to realize what was going on as he spoke back without looking.

“We need a ladder to pull this scarecrow down.”

“What for?”

Jorn scoffed, turning. “Well, obviously we need to—”

Swinging out his Malevolent light in the same motion, both Redith and Jorn’s hearts momentarily stopped at the sight of some ghastly thing standing before them, slouched and mildly unamused by the way it – he – looked at them. The fact it was a “he” calmed them down as they realized that they had been frightened out of their wits by what turned out to be a rather weedy old man, given his gray hair.

“Uh, who are you?” Redith asked after a moment’s pause, trying to regain the initiative.

“Paul,” the odd man retorted. “A travelling salesman. And you?”

“We live here, what’s it to you?” Jorn fired back, warily, as his hand drifted to the hilt of his blade, and he was met with a lazed tilt of a head.

“I was having trouble sleeping, so I felt like taking a walk out at night and seeing what the deal was with Straw John. What has the two of you, in the dead of night, deciding to move the town’s mascot?”

“Mascot”? Was that some sort of foreign term? Redith ignored it for now as he worked his jaw, trying to type out a response with his teeth that he could speak out.

“I, uh, want to give John a walk.”

There was a very dense silence in the air as Paul stared at the two, an icy, mirthless stare piercing clean through them. Slowly, he uncurled a finger to point at the glass orb on a chain.

“Before I call you two out for being horrible liars, can I ask why the hell the two of you are holding a necklace full of stuff from the Menace? The thing that apparently tried to destroy the world?”

The bandits shared a glance - and Jorn, of course, refused. He made his point clear by reaching under his shirt to pry loose a baton that he slugged down on Paul’s head, making him topple to the ground.

“Quick! Let’s get this guy out of here!” Jorn hissed, before grappling with Straw John’s suspended body. Redith quickly joined suit, and despite their lack of coordination, two sturdy men and four arms wrestling with a scarecrow eventually managed to at least snap the pole in half, bringing it down. With the straw body secured under one arm, Redith waved Jorn over to make a sprint for it.

As their backs turned, that was when a sudden wave of fear and malice washed over them, like a wave of Spiritual Energy, save… it wasn’t.

“Ow—what the hell…?”

The thick miasma in the air made Redith and Jorn uneasily turn around. Rising behind them was a formidable armored figure with a cape spilling over its shoulders, and a terrifying helmet bearing the rictus grin of a bone-white skull.

The full force of its presence was so great that a clamour broke out in Lamespring’s homes, with shouting and torches being lit, bringing the village to life.

Redith and Jorn stared at what they had wrought, and the imposing being then spoke.

“Oh, this stupid helmet is on again,” Paul’s voice echoed from within.

“Uh…” Jorn somewhat said, which only made Paul’s glowing gaze turn on him.

“You’re in trouble.”

Redith immediately acted, bringing Straw John up to shield himself as he wrapped one hand around its neck.

“Stand back! Or the scarecrow gets it!”

That made Paul halt at a half step, before slowly answering.

“...You’re threatening me with a scarecrow?”

“It’s a Spirit… Spirit’s home! If anything happens to it…!” Redith insisted, and this seemed to give Paul some pause. He rolled his shoulders, his expression completely inscrutable beneath the skull’s unchanging grin.

“Fair enough. What then?”

By then, a crowd was visibly gathering in the distance – at the forefront was Arden, with many more men armed with whatever sharp farm equipment they had on hand.

“Y-You better let us go! Bruton’s got the upper hand now!”

“Is that so?” The skeletal lord hummed, before shrugging. “Suit yourself. You can leave.”

“Yeah?”

“Call it a head start.”

Redith and Jorn looked at each other, worried about the implications, but seeing the crowd beginning to move towards them, they didn’t have much other choice, firing off a few final, feeble insults as they dissappeared into the night, bauble being thrust into a pocket to block out its light.

“You’ll pay for this!”, one of them shouted, and Paul had no idea what that meant.

He didn’t have any worries about the bandits. What was more important was shrugging off this armor before making his next move. With a quick wiggle, he immediately moved to prying the helmet off himself – the accursed thing was clearly clinging to him via Malevolence, the way it acted, like it thought walking around clanking and covered in metal was comfortable.

The moment his head came clean with an embarrassing pop, his ears also were clear to hear Granny Panza’s shocked voice.

“Paul!?”

This time, he turned, and found a large crowd full of farming tools, torches, along with Arden and Panza looking at him in disbelief.

Paul looked at them, and then down at himself, becoming crushingly aware of the . Quietly, his shoulders sagged.

“Ah, crap.”