ã€ŠThe Magic of Madnessã€‹


 Chapter 1: The Fallen Warrior

    A chorus of bellowing laughter mixed with the stale air of the Gun & Dog pub. Burly men stood crowded together at the front of the room, so they could be closer to the source of the liquor they so gleefully drank. Their bodies were coated in layers of sweat, soot, dirt, and grime. With cracked calloused hands, they gripped tightly on the cold handles of their iron tankards, bringing the foam that leaked from the top to their unshaven faces. Each customer took turns telling stories to each other. Once they were done they would reward themselves with a large swig of ale, or a burst of guffaw.

    The owner gazed around the room, watching the men and the occasional woman, all having fun after a hard days of work. With an almost father-like look on his wrinkled face, the owner of the Gun & Dog carried on scanning his establishment. Looking for more familiar sights to soak up.  As his eyes neared the end of their journey, he was irked to see the presence of the stranger - still lurking in the unlit corner of his pub. For fourteen days now, this strange man had been coming to his humble establishment. The owner of the Gun & Dog had lived in the town of Maidstone for fifty-two summers, and was confident he knew the faces of everyone who lived in it as well. Yet, there was not a shred of recognition on the face of this unknown man. His accent sounded common enough, although the only words he had heard the man say was ¡®whiskey, cheapest, you¡¯ and ¡®got¡¯.

    It didn¡¯t help that the outsiders face was shrouded in vines of unwashed hair the colour of straw. As he carried on his mundane thoughts about his new customer, he realised that his eyes had lost their focus on their surroundings at some point in time. The owner suddenly flinched when he saw that the stranger was staring back at him. He recovered quickly when he realised he had been the one to start this unintentional staring contest. For the past minute or so, he been looking at the scruffy chap without even noticing. The owner suddenly found the floor and dirty tankards a lot more interesting, now that his cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.

    ¡°Hey Ned! Can I another four ales, please chuckaboo?¡± A middle-aged man several feet in front of the owner asked him.

    ¡°Comin¡¯ up, Bill!¡± The owner replied a little too enthusiastically. Thankful that he now had something to distract him from thoughts about the unkempt outsider. As the owner of the Dog & Gun was in the midst of pouring his third tankard, he finally forgot about the existence of the ruffian lurking in the corner of his home.

    *  *  *  *  *

    Ethan chugged the small puddle that laid at the bottom of his glass cup. He tried in vain to suppress the grimace he felt forming on his face, as the honey-coloured liquid found its way into his gullet. What shitty whiskey he thought to himself, as hot air was expelled from his nostrils.

    He¡¯d been drinking the same whiskey for hours a day, for fourteen days, all at the same pub. Yet, the poor excuse for a drink tasted as bad as his first ever sip of the nectar. Even though his internal thoughts grumbled out the taste of the drink, Ethan¡¯s tongue was still trying desperately to absorb the last few drops that clung to the bottom of glass. The alcohol was cheap and strong, and that was all he really cared about at the end of the day.

    With little grace, he fumbled in his coat pocket, until his hand felt the cool touch of brass metal. He took the brass object from the pocket and placed it in front of his eyes. The liquor he had ingested over the hours had given everything the appearance of being looked at through a stained glass window. It took several seconds of deep concentration for Ethan¡¯s brain to figure out what the two slim iron rectangles that slowly ticked across the brass object meant.

    ¡°Only a quarter to ten, ey¡­¡± Ethan mumbled quietly. He stared at the watch for another several more seconds, before concluding that he still had enough time to drink.

    He decided against the idea of walking up to the bar and asking for a drink from the owner of the pub. The old sod had been giving him a dirty look for the past minute, and Ethan couldn¡¯t be bothered to deal with disapproving eyes right now. Unless, if he had to, of course.

    Searching the room with his honey-glazed pupils, he quickly found the shabby establishments serving girl, in the midst of placing several tankards on a wooden table. He didn¡¯t see much point in getting up; just so he could get the attention of someone who could give him some whiskey, nor did he feel like getting the girl¡¯s attention by yelling. Deciding that he could handle the dry feeling in his throat for now, Ethan patiently waited for the server to get closer to him - before he got her attention.

    After waiting several minutes, Ethan was rewarded for his patience, the serving girl finally came close enough to greatly lessen the amount of effort he had to produce. The girl was about fifteen feet away from him, and her eyes looked in a direction that Ethan was confident; she could see him. He pointed his arm lazily in the air so she could know he required her assistance.

    Ethan was slightly annoyed that it took at least thirty seconds for the girl to finally walk in his direction, the girl had been halfheartedly cleaning the table, and he was positive she had seen him instantly.

    ¡°What can I get ya?¡± She asked him.

    ¡°The same, luv.¡± He replied, as he nodded to the empty whiskey bottle in front of him.

    She quickly took hold of the empty bottle, and left without a word. With nothing better to do, Ethan watched her leave.

    The girl¡¯s face was neither pretty or ugly, a plain face you can find on the heads of most women. But Ethan had to admit, he was mildly impressed with her behind. The girl''s body was slightly plump, a common thing for serving girls that work in unsavoury pubs. Though it seemed that the good Lord was kind enough to design this girls body to store fat below the belt. The shape reminded him of the childish drawings of a human heart, which made him think that maybe the drawing didn¡¯t have such a childish origin.

    ¡°Oi! Stop ogling my daughter¡¯s behind! Ya damn outsider!¡± The owner yelled, breaking Ethan¡¯s trail of thought.

    Stolen story; please report.

    The room was now silent. All of its inhabitants now boring into his body, some with eyes of amusement, but most with disdain. Ethan sighed internally. It was okay for the owner to glare at him for well over a minute, but if he admires the physique of the man¡¯s daughter for a moment, suddenly he¡¯s the one causing trouble.

    ¡°Sorry mate. Just gorming out, t¡¯is all.¡± Ethan responded casually.

    ¡°Oh that¡¯s all well ¡®n¡¯ good like, but you think ya can be gettin¡¯ away with it when it''s my blasted daughter?!¡± The owner asked. Each following word growing in venom.

    ¡°In my defense¡­ I didn¡¯t know it was your daughter.¡±

    ¡°Get outta my pub! Ya scruffy git!¡± He roared.

    ¡°Oh come on mate.¡± Ethan started, standing up and placing his hands in surrender. ¡°I¡¯ve seen plenty of the lads in ¡®ere giving your little one plenty of funny looks. Even seen a few of the braver ones cop a feel; I have.¡± Ethan admittedly regretted his words as he watched the faces in the room turn stout and even more hostile. Some even stood up, subtly flexing their muscles, forged from years of hard labour.

    ¡°You bastard! How dare you accuse my mates of doing acts like that. I¡¯ve known most of the lot in ¡®ere when they were babes! You fucker!¡±

    The poor sod¡¯s been blinded. If he¡¯d take a look at the rose on his girl¡¯s cheeks, and her sad eyes staring at the floor in shame, it might open his eyes. Ethan thought. He almost pointed out the state of the serving girl¡¯s face, but he decided it would be a fruitless endeavour. Coming to the conclusion that his best option was just to simply leave the pub, he began to walk to the exit.

    ¡°Where do ya think yer goin¡¯ son?¡± Asked one of the men, that now stood guarding the way out.

    ¡°Out. Doesn¡¯t take a genius to see that I¡¯m not wanted here.¡± Ethan said as he walked up to the man.

    ¡°Well that¡¯s all well ¡®n¡¯ good like, but you ain¡¯t leavin¡¯ this place ¡®til we all get an apology.¡± The man stated, folding his arms in the process.

    Ethan barely managed to suppress a sigh. His past pride was creeping back to life, and it was whispering to him. ¡®Hurt him¡¯ it said, ¡®make them apologise¡¯ it pleaded. ¡°Fair enough¡­ Sorry everyone. Especially you miss, and your father of course.¡±

    ¡°Not good enough. I want you to get on yer knees and beg everyone in this ¡®ere room.¡±

    Ethan stared at the man blocking his escape intensely. At five foot eleven, Ethan loomed over most people he met, and this man was no exception. Although, this man was certainly thicker than himself, both in muscle and especially fat. He could hear a chorus of snickering coming from behind him. With another suppressed sigh, he decided he would try to talk his way out one more time.

    ¡°I can¡¯t do that mate. I may be a sorry looking creature, but I still have some traces of the sin known as pride left in my bones. Sorry, but you¡¯re gonna have to let me pass.¡± He informed the man in a casual tone.

    The two locked eyes, a battle for dominance was waged in their irises.

    ¡°Hit ¡®im Mick!¡± Someone from behind Ethan yelled.

    ¡°Yeah go on Mick!¡± ¡°Hit the scruff!¡± ¡°Knock ¡®im out!¡± ¡°Kill the cheeky fucker!¡± The audience yelled.

    As soon as Ethan saw the man, that he now suspected was called Mick, pull back his arm, he drove his knee into the man¡¯s face. He felt bone crack and warm liquid spurt on his tan breeches. Ethan saw his foe¡¯s body go limp and allowed it to collapse to the floor. Not even bothering to check to see if the man is still alive, or look at the crowd behind him, he finally left the Gun & Dog pub.

    Ethan walked across the damp pavements of Maidstone, with little grace. The whiskey his body still clung to him tightly, making him slow, dull and clumsy.

    He was fortunate to remember where the inn he was staying at was, other nights he hadn''t been so lucky.

    It had been about ten minutes since the ordeal at the Gun & God pub, and Ethan was finally beginning to put the matter to rest in his mind.

    His late night walk suddenly came to its end, when he suddenly found himself on the floor. He wasn''t sure how he ended there. As Ethan attempted to stand up, he felt a force slam into the back of his skull, knocking him back down to the cold rough earth. As Ethan¡¯s lips kissed the concrete beneath him, he felt another sharp burst of pain appear on his back, and another, and another¡­

    It didn¡¯t take long for Ethan to come to the conclusion that be was being attacked. As he felt the white hot flash of crude metal colliding with his skin and bones, he wondered why these men were assaulting him.

    ¡°This is for Nick and Ellie, ya bastard¡± Yelled one of his attackers.

    If Ethan was more drunk and wasn¡¯t choking on his own blood, he would have thanked the man for answering his question.

    To Ethan, it felt like hours had passed while these men continue the bombardment of strikes on his defenseless self. Kicks, bludgeons, stomps, scratches, scrapes, cuts, laceration, stabs, he named them all to cure his boredom as he was beaten to death. A small and strange part of him was actually annoyed that it was taking so long for the gang of pub dwellers to kill him. You lot wouldn¡¯t last five minutes in a proper fight, He mused. Although, he was begrudged to admit that he wasn¡¯t much better. He hadn¡¯t even heard the lot sneak up on him, and he was down in only one hit. If his old squad saw him, they¡¯d kill him out of sheer embarrassment.

    Ethan awoke. He wasn¡¯t sure when he lost consciousness, or for how long, but he knew one one thing for certain, he was doomed. Even the thought attempting to move a single part of his body, caused his brain to shake with pure agony.

    Beaten to death for looking at some lasses¡¯ arse¡­ You¡¯d get a lesser penalty for asking the Queen if you place your nose in between her rosy rump cheeks and inhale. With that final thought.''Ethan once again drifted off to the peaceful dreamworld.

    In there, he met a man made of shadows and lightning.

 Chapter 2: A Second Chance

    With ears, nose and eyes devoid of their power, and a body that only has pain as it companion, Ethan was confident that he ended up in hell. When the revelation came to him, that he had fallen into the devil¡¯s playground, he wasn¡¯t particularly surprised. He wasn¡¯t a religious man by any stretch of the imagination. While he did believe in the existence of an almighty creator, he didn¡¯t really believe that worshiping an omniscient being was worth his time and effort.

    As he felt his body convulse - tearing his muscle tendons asunder, he supposed he should have least gone to church at Christmas or Easter. It Seemed it was too late now. The silver-tongued snake had claimed his soul, and Ethan doubted the fallen angel gives away his toys so willy-nilly.

    As an unknown amount of time went by, Ethan realised that the occasionally pain he felt was nothing compared to the desolate void that was his home. A small part of him actually looked forward to the pain, for it was the only sensation he seemed to be able to feel. Ethan had to begrudgingly admit that the devil was a most skilled and talented torturer. He was slowly turning the fallen soldier into a masochist - a man who was gradually becoming addicted to the feeling of his body being set on fire, and ground into dust.

    *  *  *  *  *

    While Ethan was counting the seconds in his head until his next wonderful sensation surprise, he suddenly started hearing a loud agonized scream. It didn¡¯t stop, the piercing wail continued to attack his ear drums. Wait¡­ He could hear again¡­

    In that instant of that epiphany, a bright light violated Ethan¡¯s eyes.

    *  *  *  *  *

    ¡°Finally! About time you woke up.¡±

    Ethan threw his upper body upwards. He tried to take in his surroundings, but even the slightest light that cracked through his eyelids, pounded his brain like a hammer.

    ¡°Stop moving so suddenly, you imbecile! You haven¡¯t moved in over nine months. Not to mention the load of tubes and needles buried in your flesh.¡± The same voice yelled at him.

    Ethan ignored this mysterious voices warning. He continued to thrash his body to freedom, no matter how much it hurt him. He tried to stand, but his legs refused to obey his command. Running out of options, he began to swing his body back and forth like a pendulum - quickly gaining momentum.

    ¡°Would you stop that, you¡¯re going to fall.¡±

    Ethan fell. He only fell a couple feet, but to Ethan¡¯s long dormant body, it felt like he had dove of a cliff. The force and pain of the landing knocked the air out of his body - making him gag and retch. He retched with such force, he slammed his head on the hard wooden floor, once again entering the devil¡¯s abyss.

    ¡°Bloody idiot¡­¡± He heard the voice say, just before his mind left the realm of man.

    Ethan awoke once again several days later. This time however, his eyes did not feel the assault of concentrated luminescence. Nor did he flail his body around like a fish this time around. For it was tied down to the surface underneath his body.

    ¡°Awake again, are we?¡± A familiar voice rhetorically asked.

    Ethan moved his eyes with rapid speed, but he was unable to locate the source of the gruff-sounding voice.

    He tried to reply to the voice, but all that came from his dry, cracked mouth was a series of grunts and low whistles.

    ¡°Can¡¯t talk ay? Not surprised. You haven¡¯t exercised those meat flaps of yours in nigh ten months. Unless you count all the screaming¡­ I don¡¯t. Not very eloquent.¡±

    Ethan was too confused and shocked to properly comprehend what the voice was telling him. He began to breath deeply and slowly - attempting to slow his thundering heart.

    ¡°W...w-w...Wata¡­¡± Ethan croaked with great effort. A thin and wrinkly hand magically appeared beside his face, holding what looked like a metal cup. The  freckled hand pressed the top of the cup to his lips; slowly tilting it. Ethan felt a small trickle of cold liquid fall into his mouth.

    ¡°Drink slowly now, don¡¯t want you choking.¡± Ethan obeyed the voice, sipping on the water as if he was a babe sucking its mother¡¯s teat. In several moments, the water was gone. Ethan relished in the cool moist feeling that now resided in his mouth and throat.

    He then began to cough deliberately, to help unclog his pipes. He didn¡¯t feel even a morsel of embarrassment when he spat globs of thick yellow phlegm, beside his head.

    ¡°So¡­ Who are you?¡± Ethan asked, his voice still hoarse but understandable.

    ¡°That¡¯s your first question? Not ¡®where am I and why am I tied to a table¡¯.¡± The voice mused.

    ¡°Thought I¡¯d ask that next. I can¡¯t move right now, so I¡¯ve nothing to do but ask questions.¡±

    ¡°I see. Well, my fabled specimen, I am the great Bartholomew Griffith.¡± The voice stated, in a manner that suggested Ethan was supposed to recognise that name.

    ¡°Sorry, but I ain''t never heard that name before.¡± He replied flatly, not bothering to humour the mysterious man.

    ¡°Really? Greatest natural philosopher in all of Britain¡­ Accomplished physician¡­ Mastered calculus when he was nine¡­ Wielding of lightning¡­ Ring any bells?¡±

    ¡°Nope, sorry mate.¡±

    ¡°Bloody plebeians! Never knowing anything more than drink and the dried shit in between their arse cheeks!¡± Bartholomew grumbled.

    Ethan wasn¡¯t sure how to respond to the man, so he waited to see if he would change the subject himself.

    ¡°No matter¡­ Not like I can expect all the common folk to know my greatness.¡± He said to himself, once again returning back to his husk neutral tone.

    ¡°So, where I am? Mr Griffith.¡± Ethan asked, deciding being overly polite was the best way to address this man at the moment.

    ¡°My, aren¡¯t we a respectful pleb? You¡¯re in my home, which is located about a mile away fromt the town Ramsgate.¡±

    ¡°Ramsgate? But I was in Maidstone when¡­ When¡­ Wait! Didn¡¯t I die?¡± Ethan yelled, his heart rate rising as his thoughts became more confused and erratic.

    ¡°You did. Six times actually. Good thing I have a few tricks up my sleeve to get a heart beating again. I found your corpse as I was passing through Maidstone. Must of found you shortly after your demise, since you were nice and fresh.¡±

    A flood of questions invaded Ethan¡¯s mind, but even in the torrent of questions, there was one that stood out from the rest. ¡°Why..?¡±

    ¡°Why what?¡±

    ¡°Why did you save me?¡±

    ¡°Oh that¡¯s simple. It¡¯s not easy find corpses to do experiments on. Especially ones as young, strong and fresh as yours. Not to mention it seemed like no one would miss you. Ya know, cause you had been beaten to death and left on a public pavement.¡±

    ¡°I see¡­¡± Was all that Ethan could muster in response. In a way, he was relieved he hadn¡¯t been saved from a kind hearted soul, good Samaritans made him uncomfortable. ¡°I suppose I should thank you.¡±

    ¡°Do or don¡¯t, I don¡¯t give a shit either way. I learned a lot from experimenting on you. And now that you¡¯re going to be working for me, that¡¯s thanks enough.¡±

    ¡°Work for you? I don¡¯t remember agreeing to that.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t exactly have a choice in the matter. Your life is chained to mine. Without me, you die.¡±

    ¡°And why is that?¡± Ethan growled

    ¡°Because of those two huge batteries in your back.¡±

    ¡°What the hell are batteries?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll explain that later. For now, let''s get you up.¡± Bartholomew said, as he moved closer to Ethan¡¯s defenseless body.

    Once the philosopher was done releasing the thick heavy leather strips that had him pinned, Ethan slowly raised his body - stretching all the while.

    ¡°Why¡¯d you free me? I can easily run away now, ya know.¡± Asked Ethan, as he massaged his sore arms.

    ¡°Not as easily as you would think, boy. And like I said earlier, you''re chained to me now.

    "What does that even mean?"

    The old philosopher sighed. ¡°I wanted to wait a bit before we did this, but I guess now is just as good. Follow me.¡± He said, as he turned one hundred and eighty degrees, and began to walk.

    Ethan pressed his bare feet to the ground, and slowly applied his body weight. His legs began to burn, shake and throb in response to his actions. He breathed deeply and gave his legs a gently shake. His face flushed crimson from the demanding task. His mouth scowled when the sensation of needles being stabbed into his flesh appeared.

    Stubborn pride refused him the sense of taking this process slowly. When he eventually managed to stand up, knees wobbled and joints cracked. Suddenly, an object came flying at Ethan¡¯s face. He caught it in his left hand just before it struck him. The object was long and made of wood. The blunted hook at the top of the stick told Ethan that is was a stick designed to help people walk. Gripping the hook, Ethan pressed the bottom of the shaft to the floor, allowing it to take some of his weight.

    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    The stick helped him walk, but it was designed for someone much shorter than himself - making him have to hunch his back like an old man.

    Ethan eventually caught up to Bartholomew. The two walked side by side, it frustrated Ethan that he was struggling to keep up with the old man, when it should be the other way around. Together, they traversed corridors so dark , that Ethan was unable to describe them.

    They eventually reached a large door that seemed to be made entirely of iron. Ethan wondered how they would open such a heavy thing, but instead of opening the door, the old man simple knocked. After a short pause, the door slowly opened - screeching as its mouth was forcibly opened by an unseen force. The philosopher walked inside without pause, Ethan begrudgingly followed after him.

    This room like everywhere Ethan had been, lacked any light, it''s decorum hidden in shrouds. But what happened next awed the frail man. Bartholomew disappeared in the darkness. A moment later, Ethan heard was sounded like a click, but instead of fingers, it sound more like two pieces of metal striking each other. Immediately after the click, a roar of steam came to be. A symphony of gears and pistons collided with each other. The sounds came from the entirety of the room. Ethan threw his head from side to side, but was unable to locate the primary source of the sounds.

    Then, there was light!

    Ethan slammed his eyelids shut, his body defending him from the sudden brightness. After several seconds, Ethan allowed cracks to form in his skin shields - allowing him to see glimpses of the outside world.

    Through the cracks, Ethan was able to see the light source. Globes of glass that had somehow managed to imprison the sun¡¯s rays, were scattered across the room.

    ¡°What is this!?¡± Ethan marveled, his eyes now fully open to the majesty of the room.

    ¡°Light my dear boy¡± The old man replied, like it was a stupid question.

    ¡°I know that old man¡­ But how does this light come to be? I see no wax. No oil. Neither wick nor flame. Be this sorcery?¡±

    ¡°Sorcery, ay...¡± The philosopher himself seemed to light up at the word. ¡°Afraid not lad. This is natural philosophy at it¡¯s finest!¡±

    ¡°Natural philosophy¡­¡± Ethan tasted the words. ¡°You used those words together before. What does it mean?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll try to keep it simple for you. Natural philosophy is the study of everything in this world. From the human body, to the skies. The earth, metal, gems, medicine. Energy sources like wood, coal and steam. We natural philosophers study these things, and dedicate our lives to improving them.¡±

    ¡°I see. Fascinating - I¡¯ll admit¡­ So, how are these lamps powered?¡± Ethan asked, as he was drawn closer to a globe of light; a moth to a flame.

    ¡°Why, lightning of course. When used like this, philosophers like to call it electricity.¡± The philosopher spat forcefully on the floor, emphasizing something Ethan didn¡¯t quite understand. The thick chunk of phlegm made an audible smack against the wooden ground. ¡°Such an ugly term, don¡¯t you think? I myself call it Potestas Electricus! sounds much nicer, doesn''t it?¡±

    ¡°Sure.¡± Was Ethan¡¯s response, unsure how to reply to the old man¡¯s ravings ¡°This is very impressive and all, but what has this got to do with me?¡±

    ¡°I was getting to that. Kids these days, no patience¡­¡± He paused, considering his next choice of words. ¡°You see, like these light orbs, they need a constant supply of electricus to keep them alight, and so do you.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand¡­¡±

    ¡°Well, after the third time your heart stop beating, a jolt of electricus was not enough to get the thing going again. No, this time it needed a constant supply of electricus to keep pumping, and that¡¯s exactly what I did. Touch your back.¡±

    Confused and a tad scared, Ethan did as he was told. He moved his feeble arms around and began rubbing his hands across his back - looking for something amiss. It didn¡¯t take long until he felt the cold touch of metal on his fingertips. He slid his hands up and down the metal, until he again met skin. The metal covered all of his upper back, felt cylindrical in shape, and protruded several inches from his skin. He didn¡¯t truly start to panic, until he tried to move the metal, and it wouldn¡¯t. He pulled harder and harder, but they didn¡¯t budge. Each tug pulled his back along with it, causing him to stumble.

    ¡°Would you stop that!¡± The philosopher huffed ¡° They¡¯re fused to your back. To pull them out, would take your insides with them too.¡±

    ¡°I-I don¡¯t understand!¡± Ethan gasped.

    ¡°Like I said, your body needs a constant supply of electricus to survive. Those two titanium and tungsten hemispheres sticking out your back contain batteries. Batteries store the electricus, so you don¡¯t have to be chained to a bunch of wires for the rest of your life, if you can call it that.¡±

    Ethan did his best to calm down. Every method failed until he thought of his life in the King¡¯s army. He was so strong and brave back then. Now look at him, turned into a freak because he his murdered by a bunch of common thugs¡­ Pathetic. If fate had decided to give him a chance of redemption, by turning him into a mockery of God¡¯s creations, then so be it...

    ¡°Okay, I think I¡¯m beginning to understand. Am I really alive though?¡± Ethan pondered, his composure once again becoming an poorly tempered iron rod.

    ¡°Of course. Your brain is still ticking after all. You¡¯re not just some corpse that I¡¯ve turned into a puppet with electric shocks, like my previous patients. No, you just need a little help to keep ticking, like a pirate needs a wooden peg to replace his old leg.¡±

    ¡°I guess that¡¯s not so bad,¡± Ethan thought, but he wasn¡¯t a fool, there must be a few ¡®complications¡¯. ¡°What are side effects?¡±

    ¡°Ah, not a complete  buffoon then.¡± He praised. ¡°Let¡¯s see¡­ You will need to charge your batteries at least every four days, or you¡¯ll flop on the floor and meet whatever deity you worship¡­ again. Your body also constantly leaks a small amount of electricus, so you need to be properly insulated, or you¡¯ll cause so serious problems.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean by problems?¡±

    Before answering, Bartholomew picked up an iron rod and walked towards Ethan. ¡°Touch it.¡± He ordered, holding the other side of the rod towards Ethan. He gripped the iron rod with his left hand. Instantly he saw  a cascade of small lightning bolts travel down the iron rod, suddenly disappearing when they reached the philosopher''s hand.

    ¡°That¡¯s amazing! Am I doing that?¡±

    ¡°Do you always ask people stupid questions?¡±

    ¡°Alright, old man, just checking. How come the lightn¡­ electricus isn¡¯t harming you?¡±

    ¡°Now that¡¯s a less stupid question. You see the gloves I¡¯m wearing? They¡¯re made of rubber, and electricus can¡¯t travel through rubber.¡±

    ¡°Interesting. So does that mean I¡¯m going to have to wear rubber from now on?¡±

    ¡°In a perfect world, yes. But this isn¡¯t a perfect world and I¡¯m quite poor. For now you will have to wear wool. Not as good as rubber, but certainly better than nothing.

    ¡°I see¡­ And do you have any wool clothing for me?¡±

    ¡°Of course not! You seem our height difference lad? I don¡¯t own anything that will fit you, except maybe a curtain.¡±

    Ethan looked down at the old man and noticed that there was indeed a huge difference in their heights and builds. It was times like this when Ethan cursed being five-foot eleven, in a country where the average man is five-foot five. The philosopher looked even smaller than that. ¡°Wait! If I was in your care for over nine months, how come you didn¡¯t prepare me some clothes in that time?¡±

    ¡°You deaf lad? I said I¡¯m penniless. Any sort of income I get, goes straight to my experiments not clothing some overgrown boy!¡±

    ¡°Then what am I supposed to do? I can¡¯t go out in just my pants,  with a body that threatens to vaporise anyone I touch.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be daft, at most you¡¯d burn someone or put them in a seizure if you touched them long enough. But I see your point¡­ Can¡¯t have my new bodyguard naked. We¡¯ll have to find some coin and a tailor who¡¯s filling to travel to a shady manor, next to the roaring ocean. Over a mile away from civilisation.

    ¡°Bodyguard?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t sound so surprised. What did you think you¡¯d be doing, cleaning? Cooking?  No lad, I¡¯ve got to know your body quite well over the months, and I know it was built for fighting. Sure you¡¯ve lost a lot of muscle mass due to your comatose state, but you¡¯ll get it back.¡±

    Ethan thought over what the old man had just said, and he had to admit it made a lot of sense. If he was going to be this man¡¯s unwilling servant, he¡¯d rather slay his enemies then iron his clothes. ¡°You at least got a weapon I can use?¡±

    ¡°Lad, I don¡¯t think you¡¯ve been listening to me...¡±

    That¡¯s a no then. Ethan sighed.

 Chapter 3: Dawn of a New Day

    Ethan awoke from his slumber. His eyes were blinded by the morning sun, that bore from the cracks in his curtains. He was beginning to get real tired of being blinded.

    It took several minutes, and a painful amount of effort, until he was no longer laying in his bed. He stood shakily beside his new bed made entirely of wool, gripping tightly on a boat oar - which he had christened as his new walking stick. The one the old man had given him last night was much to small and thin to support his weight comfortably. Unable to touch metal, he was forced to use the old oar he found in the corner of his new bedroom.

    Ethan had absorbed nine months of information in the span of six hours last night. He thought the sheer amount of information would keep him awake, but he surprised himself. He slept like a log, and judging by the position of the sun, a damn lazy one.

    Now that it was light, he shuffled towards the large mirror in the room, so he could finally have a good look at himself.

    It wasn¡¯t pretty. His skin was pale, paler than anytime he had been riddled with fever. His body had been stripped of even the smallest of hairs, he was not a fan of seeing his cranium so bare. His already formidable collection of scars was further added. Some he suspected were the work of the ruffians in Maidstone. The long ones that ran across his arms, legs and chest, that looked to have been done with surgical precision, he had a good idea of who gave him those. While he found now of these new changed pleasing, all of them very eclipsed by the body that hosted them. His body was thin, so horrifically thin. The muscle he had accumulated from years of fighting and hard labour had all disappeared without a trace. Even the fat that was slowly appearing when he was in his darker days, was nowhere to be seen. Every single bone he possessed made its presence known, all protruding from his paper skin. The combination of bare white flesh, pronounced skeleton, scars, and natural azure eyes, he certainly looked like a creature that had been brought back from the dead. The giant pieces of metal fused to his back, that pumped lightning into his body, wasn¡¯t helping either.

    Having his fill at looking at his new body, Ethan made his way to his bed. He grabbed the wool blanket, which possessed the weight of lead, in his bony arms, draped it over his body and left his room.

    As he was leaving his room, he noticed that a piece of paper was stuck to the front of the room¡¯s door.

    - Specimen, the Kitchen is Downstairs. I will be in the Room I showed you yesterday. Do not disturb me! I will summon you, when I require you. -

    Ethan was glad that he paid attention in school and could understand words, unlike some of his fellow soldiers.

    As he was making the arduous journey down the spiral steps, it occurred to him that his new employer/master didn¡¯t know his name. He wasn¡¯t even sure he wanted him to know his name, he himself wasn¡¯t even sure he was Ethan Baker. He felt like that man died even before he was beaten to death.

    He put his thoughts on hold, now that he had retched the kitchen. The place was fairly clean, which surprised him. There wasn¡¯t much of a selection, nothing but bread, potatoes, cheese, apples, and some strange looking meat. Ethan ate a third of the kitchen¡¯s contents before he was content. He felt a little guilty for eating so much, but he hadn¡¯t had a proper meal in over nine months, and was in desperate need of body mass.

    On that thought, since the old man didn¡¯t seem to need him yet, he decided to spend  the time until then exercising.

    *  *  *  *  *

    It wasn¡¯t until several hours past dusk that Ethan was told to meet the old man. Until the point of him finding another note on his door with the order, his day had been spent walking up and down the stairs, and pressing his body weight against a wall.

    The manor he now lived in had three floors. His bedroom was on the second and the master¡¯s was on the top, along with his rooms he uses for his various research.

    Ethan had to pause mid ascent up the stairs so he could catch his breath. His exercising had made even weaker, but after some rest, he¡¯ll be stronger than he was yesterday.

    After about nearly ten minutes had passed, Ethan finally made it to the room with all the light globes. Unsure on how to enter, he knocked and waited. Like yesterday, the door opened as if it was being pulled an invisible force.

    ¡°What took you so long?¡± The old man yelled across the room, not even bothering to turn around to see if it was actually Ethan.

    ¡°Have you seen my body?¡± Ethan panted slightly.

    Bartholomew turned around and stared hard at him. ¡°Fair point.¡± He admitted ¡°I hope you''re dedicating free time to get that body of yours back to fighting shape. Otherwise, you¡¯re not getting paid.¡±

    ¡°Of course I am! I can¡¯t stand the way my body is right now, so- Wait! I¡¯m getting paid?¡±

    ¡°Perhaps. I¡¯m not sure yet. Definitely not anytime soon. I need someone to pay me first.¡±

    ¡°Thought so. In the future, when reviving someone so you make them into your inhuman body guard, make sure have money to equip them with something beyond a blanket,¡± Ethan complained, as he took note of all the metal to avoid in the room.

    ¡°Would you quit your belly aching. If I knew you¡¯d be such a whiny baby, I would have left you for the crows.¡±

    While the philosopher didn¡¯t sound serious, Ethan still felt a pang of guilt. ¡°You¡¯re right. I should be more grateful to you. Even if I am now an abomination.¡±

    ¡°You make it sound like being an abomination is a bad thing. There are many a folk out there that would make all sorts of sacrifices and deals with demons, for the power to conjure lightning from their fingertips.¡±

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    Ethan had to admit. the man made a good point. Once he got the right gear and got used to it, having electricus pouring through his body will certainly be handy.

    ¡°But I am loathed to admit, you are right. I can¡¯t have something walking around discharging electricus everywhere, could do some serious damage - not mention ruin my experiments. . . In one month a tailor will be round to take your measurements and make you some wool clothes. Until then, stay away from the top floor.¡±

    ¡°Erm, yes sir.¡± Ethan replied as he made his way back through the metal door.

    ¡°Wait before you go! I should give you a name.¡±

    ¡°You may have a leash around my neck, but I am not your pet.¡± Ethan growled

    ¡°Oh don¡¯t be like that. I¡¯m not going to name you something like Spot, of Blackie. No I¡¯ll give you a good name. Something strong and awesome. Besides, you have failed to tell me your name, which tells me you wish for it to be forgotten.¡±

    Ethan wondered if all natural philosophers were this annoyingly condescending and perspective. ¡°Fine. Name away.¡±

    ¡°Hmmm¡­ Let¡¯s see¡­ You¡¯re tall. Blue eyes, fairly wide jaw, strong brow, blond hair - or least did.

    Your accent tells me you''re from the south of England, most likely London...¡±

    ¡°Very impressive, but can you hurry this up¡± Ethan interrupted.

    ¡°And rude. These qualities all tell me you¡¯ve got germanic blood in your veins, a lot I¡¯d wager. Using this information, I shall christen you¡­ Werzdalvin.¡±

    ¡°Little fancy don¡¯t ya think.¡± Ethan retorted, unsure how he felt about the name.

    ¡°For you, most certainly. But that¡¯s the name I¡¯m going with.¡± The philosopher replied proudly.

    ¡°Werz-dal-vin¡­ It¡¯s pretty long; isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°People will call you Wervin, for short - if you prefer.¡±

    ¡°Wervin ay. I¡¯ve heard worse. Does it mean anything?¡±

    ¡°Of course it does! I didn¡¯t just put it together because it sounded appealing to my old ears. It¡¯s the combination of several different languages. You want to know what it means, I suggest you start reading some books.

    ¡°I accept your new name.¡± Wervin isn''t so bad.

    ¡°Good. You may go now, Werzdalvin.¡±

    ¡°Yes sir.¡± Wervin replied. Just as he stepped through the doorway, he turned his head back around.

    ¡°Sir?¡±

    ¡°What is it?

    ¡°I suggest you double your grocery shopping.¡±

    The philosopher stared at his new servant. ¡°Very well. You better be worth all this extra coin.¡±

    ¡°Oh I am Sir. I am.¡± He stated boldly. His old cockiness slowly returning.

    Not waiting for his master to excuse him again. Wervin carried on his journey again.

    Two weeks had passed since Wervin had woken up on Bartholomew Griffiths table. Apart from the day after, where Wervin was given his name, the old man had not once summoned his new servant.

    Apart from the couple of times he had to go upstairs to get his batteries recharged, the two had only seen each other on several occasions - each brief. Wervin had stayed true to his word, spending almost all of his time awake training his body, only stopping to eat, drink, shit, piss, and on rare occasions, read. The master had also stayed true to his word and provided Wervin with an abundance of food. His diet now mostly consisted of lard, cheese, nuts, spinach, milk, eggs and fish. All bought for the specific purpose of growing muscle. He now no longer clung to the wooden oar so desperately, only needing after his training. It seemed that the electricus was aiding his body, for his muscles were coming back quicker than he anticipated. He believed the tingling sensation he constantly felt throughout his body, might have something to do with it.

    After finishing his daily crunches, Wervin got up, and donned his blanket - which now had a hole he put his head through. One of the few things Wervin had noticed over the past two weeks was that he no longer sweat. The master must have done something to prevent him from doing so. He believed it because of what happens when electricus touches water. He was also to familiar with the phenomenon thanks to his daily baths in sea water. Another thing he noticed was that his body no longer grew hair, which upset him terribly so. His body was also now surprisingly  heavy, considering how skinny he was. Probably because of the metal sticking out of his back and all the hidden goodies lurking inside his body.

    As he made his way to the stairs, so he could do his daily walk, he heard scurrying coming from behind him. He looked back but saw nothing. This wasn¡¯t the first time he had heard footsteps behind him; yet saw nothing. Wervin had long suspected that he and the master weren¡¯t the only one living in the manor. He had met the man who delivered the weekly shopping, but he lived somewhere in Ramsgate. The manor was always moderately clean, plus the old man had mentioned past specimens, so the chances of someone else living were high. He wasn¡¯t surprised that the master hadn''t said anything about any other residents, but the old coot only even said as much as he felt was required.

    As Wervin began his walk, he pushed the thoughts of his stalker to the back of his head. He doubted the person meant him harm, so he will just have to wait until they find the courage to finally confront him.

 Chapter 4: First Day on the Job

    From the moment he found himself tied to a stranger''s table, it took six weeks and two days for Wervin to finally wear clothes.

    In the late morning of 1824; fourteenth of September, Wervin was having his measurements taken by a plump little tailor called Margaret. At least, the master insisted she was a tailor. Wervin suspected she was just an old woman who had some experience in knitting.

    The old lady was obviously frightened by Wervin¡¯s appearance, not that he could blame her. He was just glad her constant flinching didn¡¯t affect her measuring ability.

    After twenty minutes of having everything on his body that could be measured, measured, the woman informed him that she was done.

    ¡°My word you are a big one.¡± She marveled. ¡°Though, if you want me honest opinion, you could use with a few extra pounds.¡± Continued the tailor, trying to be as friendly as she possible could, with a monster.

    ¡°I agree. Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m doing my best to put on some weight.¡± Wervin replied in a light tone. He was relishing in talking to someone other than the old man, or to the pitter-patter of footsteps that sometimes followed him.

    ¡°That¡¯s good deary. I¡¯ve got everything I need to know. I¡¯ll get to work on your clothes as soon as I¡¯m home. Should take about a week.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s wonderful to hear Misses Twine. May I escort you to the front door.¡±

    ¡°No!¡± She yelled unexpectedly  ¡°I mean. . . Don¡¯t trouble yourself deary. I¡¯ll be fine.¡± With the final word from her lips, she packed up all her belongings and left the room.

    Wervin never thought he¡¯d be so sad to see an old woman he didn¡¯t know leave him. For years he shunned companionship, and now it shunned him.

    He suddenly began doing some squats - hoping that it would distract him from the gnawing pain inside him. On the bright side, in a week he¡¯d no longer have to wear that infernal  blanket.

    One week had passed and Wervin was in the midst of swinging his oar in a large empty room. He no longer required it as a walking stick, but he still used it as a method of training. He swung it from over his head and slammed it down through the air - never touching the ground. The motion was similar to swinging an axe down on a piece of wood.

    Wervin was pleased with his physical progress, but he was still barely half as strong as he used to be.

    He heard footsteps outside the room and went to investigate. Outside the door was a pile of neatly folded clothes. ¡°You¡¯ll have to show yourself one day little mouse.¡± He yelled down the hallway. Wervin picked up the clothes and walked to his bedroom.

    Once there he appraised his loot. Two white shirts, two pairs of black trousers, two pairs of black socks, one navy-blue coat - all made of wool, of course. One leather strip and a single pair of wooden clogs. He never thought he¡¯d be so happy to see clothes, but he was, oh so much.

    Wervin quickly donned all the clothing, minus the duplicates, and stared at himself in the mirror. The clothes hung a little loose of his skinny frame, but he asked the tailor to make them like that, praying that he will eventually ¡®fill them out¡¯. The coat was a little too big however, dropping nearly to his knees, on the bright side, it hid his batteries well. The clogs were a little tight, but bearable. All in all, he was pleased with his new attire. Remembering his master''s orders, he marched upstairs.

    In no time at all, he had reached the dreaded metal door and knocked. As usual, the door magically opened and he entered. This time his master was waiting for him, standing in the middle of the room, ready.

    ¡°Well, you clothes are a mockery of what the youth call fashion, but they certainly look better than that blanket you¡¯ve been wearing.¡±

    ¡°Thank you Sir.¡± Wervin replied, in too much of a good mood to feel his master¡¯s cynicism.

    ¡°Here.¡± The philosopher threw something at Wervin, who immediately caught it. ¡°Put them on.¡±

    Wervin inspected the contents in his hands. ¡°Rubber gloves.¡± Stating the obvious. With little delay, he put the black rubber over his hands, and was pleased to see they fit perfectly.

    ¡°There. now you''re finally insulated enough for me to trust you don¡¯t blow this place to smithereens.¡±

    ¡°So, now what?¡± Wervin asked.

    ¡°Now? Nothing. But tomorrow me and you are going into to town. There you can finally begin your guarding duties.¡±

    ¡°Great. I was getting tired of doing absolutely nothing.¡±

    ¡°Help yourself to anything you can use as a weapon. Nothing with a metal handle, even with your new gloves, I want you to touch as little of the stuff as possible. And nothing too conspicuous! Don¡¯t want you drawing attention to ourselves.

    Wervin did as he was bade; he began his search for a weapon.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    He found sledgehammers, mallets, a couple of knives, two wood-chopping axes, wooden sticks, and a wide variety of heavy metal bars. He almost choose an axe as his primary weapon, but changed his mind at the last second. He feared he was not yet strong enough to wield a heavy axe in combat. Also, looking at the wood-cutting tool strapped to the leather strip tied around his waist, stood out way too much, and he stood out enough.

    After a great internal struggle, he finally decided on a thick wooden pole - about four feet in length, as a club. While his new cudgel would be effective at breaking bones and deterring thugs, in instances in which he would need to end someone¡¯s life, it was woefully inadequate for the task. To solve this problem, Wervin equipped the second largest knife he found and stuck it in the gap between his makeshift belt and trousers. Still feeling a tad naked, he filled his coat pockets with stones, with the intention of using them to stun his potential adversaries.

    With all tasks complete for the day, Wervin picked up the two rocks that now lived in his room and began to curl them. An hour later, he was asleep.

    *  *  *  *  *

    It was a quarter past eleven when the natural philosopher and his new bodyguard left his manor. With no horses, ponies, or even a Shetland, the two had no choice but to walk the mile to the town of Ramsgate. A mile wasn¡¯t a great distance by any stretch of the imagination, but Wervin looked at his ancient scrawny master, shivering as the ocean wind touched his body, and was a smidge concerned. The old man was wearing similar clothing to himself, but they were of finer quality than his own, and came with a scarf and top hat. Both had a cane in their left hands, but while Bartholomew''s was made of a fine wood and used it to aid in his walking, Wervin was just a stick made of oak - which he struggled to carry like a gentlemen.

    *  *  *  *  *

    They arrived in town in about half an hour. The two hadn¡¯t said a word to each other the entire journey, which made Wervin a little uncomfortable. But, as he saw the large amount of pedestrians walking to and fro, he remembered that he was here not as a companion to the philosopher, but as his protector.

    Wervin dug deep for his military training and began to scan the crowd for potential threats. The two carried on their silent walk to a destination that was unknown to himself.

    ¡°See that house there?¡± The philosopher suddenly asked him.

    The guard froze for a split second, unprepared for his master¡¯s random question. Quickly regaining his composure, he examined every detail of the house he was told to look at. ¡°What about it?¡± was Wervin¡¯s response, unsure what was special about this house, apart from its size and the apparent wealth of it¡¯s owner.

    ¡°A man called Darwin Windlesnorf is the inhabiter and owner of the establishment.¡±

    ¡°Oh. . . Good for him.¡± He mused.

    ¡°Indeed. A grand place for the fourth most wealthiest man in Ramsgate.¡±

    ¡°Only fourth most wealthiest, ay.¡± Wervin took in the design giant structure. Made entirely of cobblestone and around four stories tall. ¡°Surprising amount of rich folk in this quaint little town.¡±

    ¡°Yes. . . quite queer wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I would so. Quite queer.¡±

    The philosopher  didn¡¯t respond, he just once again began his walk. Wervin hurriedly chased after the man, which didn¡¯t take long as the old man walks, well like an old man.

    The two once again walked in silence. Wervin¡¯s curiosity about Mr Windlesnorf¡¯s manor was forever growing, due to the fact the two kept walking around the place for almost an hour. Wervin felt there must be something special about this place, so he did his utmost to record everything he saw on his journey.

    ¡°I think that¡¯s enough lollygagging for one day. Let¡¯s head home.¡± With that statement, the two did just that.

    *  *  *  *  *

    It was nearly three o¡¯clock when the pair arrived back at the manor. The old philosopher immediately headed to the larder and found himself a pear to dine on.

    ¡°Did you pay good attention to Darwin Windlesnorf¡¯s house?¡± The old man asked with a mouth full of half chewed pear.

    ¡°That I did. But why did we marry around the place?¡±

    ¡°Why, isn¡¯t it obvious my dear boy?¡±

    ¡°Afraid not, Sir. You got trouble with this Windlesnorf chap?¡±

    ¡°Not at all lad. Couldn¡¯t give a toss about the man.¡±

    ¡°So what was the point of looking at his house for so long?¡±

    ¡°¡±Because lad-¡± He took another bite of his pear. ¡°We¡¯re going to rob it!¡± A childlike grin spread across his fruit stained teeth.

 Chapter 5: The Man of Spice & Mystery

    ¡°You ¡®avin a laugh?¡± The guard squawked.

    ¡°This is no joke, my new servant.¡±

    ¡°I knew I¡¯d be up to some shady doings when I decided to keep on living as a monster under your care. But I didn¡¯t agree to robbing some bloke who¡¯s done us no wrong.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you have such morals, and a little disappointed, to be honest. How do you think I make my money?¡±

    ¡°I d¡¯know! I assumed you were selling your inventions, or sommet.¡± Wervin reasoned as he began to pace the kitchen back and forth.

    ¡°I don¡¯t sell my genius like some unconventional whore. . . I¡¯m not like most natural philosophers. My achievements are my own. Not some plebeians who can¡¯t even begin to comprehend the effort and majesty that went into them!¡±

    ¡°Well, that explains the whole poor thing I guess. Always wondered why I¡¯ve seen machines that have defied all common sense, and yet have to groom myself with a variety of twigs I found outside.¡±

    ¡°Look, Werzdalvin. . .¡± He sighed. ¡°I am not a cruel man. Evil? Cold? Ruthless? Sure. But not cruel. I have stole from and killed many, but none that didn¡¯t deserve it. This Darwin Windlesworf is not a nice man. He makes most of his money from drug and child trafficking, not from the fine pottery he sells; like he claims. Everyone in Ramsgate knows this, yet they do nothing. I do not condemn this man for what he does, for we all get by in this world one way or another. Still, if a man of his. . . Tastes losses a portion of his gold, I will not grieve.¡±

    Wervin processed what the old philosopher was telling him. The man was right about him lacking in morals, and he wondered himself why he was so against the stealing of this man¡¯s wealth, he¡¯d actually done it on several occasions in the past. Maybe now that he was a freak of nature, in servitude to a wannabe-sorcerer, he felt like stealing would push him of the side of good forever. Yet, he had to admit, they were in desperate need of coin and the man they planned to steal from sounded like a real arsehole of the typical kind. Wervin had encountered many twisted rich folk as a redcoat, most of whom were his superiors. He had seen what some of them did to their ¡®toys¡¯ and so many times, his comrades had to stop him from ripping the shriveled stones from their bodies.

    ¡°I¡¯ll give you sometime to think about it¡­¡± Said the philosopher, breaking Wervin¡¯s internal monologue.

    ¡°No need. . . I¡¯ll do it.¡±

    ¡°Excellent!¡± The old man beamed at once.

    ¡°So, when do we doin'' the unsavoury deed?¡±

    ¡°Nine days from now.¡±

    ¡°Nine days¡­ That doesn¡¯t give us a lot of time to prepare, and I have no experience in breaking into somewhere so fortified.¡±

    ¡°In nine days, the master of the manor will be out of town, along with most of his guards. It¡¯s the best chance we¡¯re going to get in a long time. Don¡¯t worry about your lack of experience, you won¡¯t be doing this alone.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re coming along old man?¡± Wervin said incredulously.

    ¡°Of course not, don¡¯t be ridiculous. I¡¯m no fighter and much too old for sneaking around. No, one of my other employees will be helping you.¡±

    ¡°Bully! I knew I wasn¡¯t the only one for got my ankle chained to you.¡±

    ¡°Good to see you not completely dense.¡± He said condescendingly.  ¡°Yes I have others working under me. Unlike the one that keeps hiding from you, this one hasn¡¯t been in this manor in the past seven months. They¡¯ve been away on a mission for me, and should be returning tonight.¡± Before Wervin could respond, the philosopher continued. ¡°That will be all, I¡¯m tired of talking today. You¡¯re free to do what you want until my employee finds you. I¡¯ll be upstairs, do not disturb me.¡± With that, the old man was off.

    Used to the philosopher''s rude behaviour, he simply shrugged and found something to eat.

    *  *  *  *  *

    It was around midnight and Wervin had been asleep for several hours. His body tired from training and waiting for his mysterious associate, he decided to get some sleep before he showed up.

    Wervin stirred from his slumber. He felt like someone was watching him. Not allowing his body to change from its placid sleeping state, he laid perfectly still - straining his ears in an attempt to hear something amiss. He heard nothing. No breathing, or rustling. Yet, he still felt like he could feel the calculating eyes of a predator boring into him.

    ¡°How long are you going to pretend to me asleep?¡± Asked a strange voice in the darkness.

    Wervin shot up and grabbed the wooden stake he kept under his straw stuffed pillow. He lunged at the direction of the voice, but only hit the still air.

    ¡°Too slow, my amigo.¡± The queer voice mocked.

    Enraged by the it¡¯s casual tone, Wervin pivoted on his heel - once again locating the voice. stabbing wildly again, and again felt nothing.

    ¡°Oh, so close that time.¡±

    ¡°Wervin unleashed a roundhouse kick. A foolish mistake. He threw too much of his weight into the kick and when the leg collided into nothing, it simply kept going, making him lose his precious balance.

    ¡°You fight like angry child.¡± It tutted.

    Wervin roared! He became a tornado of punches, elbows and stabs. Attacking in every direction in hope that he¡¯d eventually hit the owner of the irritable voice.

    ¡°I think that¡¯s enough fun. . . ¡±

    Wervin keeled over on the ground. Something struck him with enough force to knock him to the floorboards, and force him to cough saliva.

    As he was hunched on the ground in pain, he heard a pair of footsteps walk away from him. A candle was lit in the corner of the room, and then another at his bedside.

    ¡°There we go. Now we can get a good look at each other. The voice mused.

    Wervin got to his feet. His cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment. ¡°I¡¯m guessin¡¯ you¡¯re the associate the old man was talking about.¡± He hissed.

    ¡°That I be, amigo.¡± Said a man with tanned skin, well oiled black hair and pointed moustache. He looked to be about half a dozen years older than Wervin¡¯s twenty-six. The man was thin, but even in the darkness Wervin could see compact muscle bulging from the his clothes.

    ¡°Amigo ay. . .¡± Wervin tasted the strange word. ¡°The old man has Spaniards under his employment as well. He truly is cracked.¡± Wervin did not have anything against the children of Spain, but most Englishmen were born with a slight distrust of their darker skinned cousins, and he was no exception.

    ¡°S¨ª! What gave me away? Was it my beautiful bronze skin? My impeccable onyx hair? My voice that makes the se?oras melt?¡±

    ¡°Nah. You could well be French with that arrogance of yours. But the French don¡¯t tend to stink of oil and spices, unlike you Latin folk.¡±

    The Spaniard laughed at that. ¡°And you posses a tongue that can¡¯t go five seconds without insulting someone. You¡¯re a limy alright.¡± He smiled.

    ¡°Too right I am mate.¡± Wervin replied, smiling back. ¡°The names Wervin.¡± He stated, as he stuck out his left.

    ¡°Never heard that name before. My name be Juan Dami¨¢n De Cervantes, fourth of his name.¡± Juan replied proudly, placing his right hand in Wervin¡¯s left. As soon as he touched Wervin¡¯s skin, he yelped - swinging his arm back.

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    Wervin couldn¡¯t help but laugh. ¡°That¡¯s for watching me sleep and hitting me in the stomach, you arse.¡±

    ¡°Guess I deserved that.¡± Juan chuckled while he shook his hand. ¡°The Hechicero warned me you leak lighting from your body. I didn¡¯t think it would hurt so much. Sure would come in handy in a fight, amigo.¡±

    ¡°True, but I¡¯d rather not use it until I know more about it. Also, accordin¡¯ to the old man, it drains my batteries quicker, and I need them to live.¡±

    ¡°Enough talking amigo! Now we train!¡± Juan spontaneously yelled. At the time he shouted, he swung a cudgel at Wervin. A weapon a mere blink ago, was strapped around his Spanish waist.

    Wervin managed to dodge the wooden baton just in time. Instead of retaliating, he sprinted to the side of his bed and grabbed the oak cane that was propped beside it. As soon as he felt the smooth wood in his hand, he swung the stick behind him, not even bothering to check his surroundings. Unlike their previous skirmish, Wervin felt a slight shock in his hand, when his cudgel collided with his foes.

    He then let out a flurry of jabs with the end of the cane, using it like a rapier, relying on his weapons longer reach to win this battle.

    Juan effortlessly dodged the barrage of bone crushing pokes, like they were moving in slow motion. Wervin struggled to see the details of the Spaniards shape, the lack of light in room shrouded his already dark skin.

    The battle waged on throughout the dark morning. Neither never giving up. Their stubborn macho pride demanded they collide until a winner is announced.

    The scuffle finally ended at dusk when Wervin collapsed on the floor in exhaustion. His body was flushed red and swollen with bruises. Apart from the slight sweat that trickled down his tanned brow, Juan looked no different from when the two first met.

    ¡°You fight like brute, my bald amigo. You rely on your strength and speed to overpower your opponents. I¡¯m sure that worked fine against ruffians and your common soldier. But your time on the Herchicero¡¯s table has weakened your body. You¡¯re in a new world now, amigo. Can¡¯t just rely on brute force to win anymore, because I guarantee, you¡¯re going to be meeting monsters that will make you look in your prime, look like crippled child.¡±

    Wervin wanted to retort, but his mouth was entirely focused on taking as much air in his body as possible. He thought it was funny how a year ago when his captain would tell him of the monsters he would fight, they were always ordinary men, sadist and skilled aye, but still just humans. Now that he had become a monster himself, he could imagine much, much worse.

    ¡°I¡¯m off now, amigo.¡± Juan said. ¡°Get some rest. You and I are going to be doing some serious training, before the heist.¡± Wervin heard the man¡¯s footsteps disappear into the distance, as his head found comfort on the cool wooden floor. His body was so sore, and the ground so inviting, he slept right there and then.

    *  *  *  *  *

    He woke once more at half past four. His body strained to stand, but it managed. He wiped the drool from his face, that sizzled and bubbled as it touched his electrified skin.

    Wervin quickly got dressed and went down stairs to find something eat.

    Shortly after his visit to the kitchen. He knocked on the giant metal door that was now in front of him. His free hand held a wedge of cheese and his mouth was stuffed with grapes of various solidity .

    ¡°You¡¯re late.¡± A gruff voice stated from the distance.

    Wervin walked from the doorway, now that its iron, rectangular guard had once again moved itself out of the way, with magic. ¡°Sorry boss. I met my new protege last night, and we ended up spending the whole night together.¡±

    ¡°Not surprised. He likes to test the worth of his comrades. I hope he didn¡¯t find you too wanting.¡±

    ¡°Nor do I Sir, nor do I.¡±

    Wervin walked up to where his master was stood and waited. The philosopher began attaching large wires to the batteries on Wervin¡¯s back; beginning the charging process.

    Like every time he charged his batteries, Wervin began doing body squats to pass the time. After ten minutes had passed he became too tired to carry on squatting. He filled the remainder of his time reading. He typically read boring books about mechanics and physics, so he could understand his new self and his master better. However, his sparring match with Juan had made him realise just how lacking he was in fighting prowess. So, in his hands was a book about a French fighting style called: Savate. The style that focused mainly kicking, something Wervin had little training in since it was considered unsportsmanlike in England. The book contained many different illustrations and instructions on how to perform certain kicks, when to do them, and the best exercises to improve them. Wervin greedily absorbed the information, and had immediately began to do the splits. A leg stretch that will help him kick higher. He did wonder why the old man had a book like this in his library. His sincerely doubted the ancient philosopher was secretly a renown fighting master. He probably just liked collecting information, regardless of what it was about.

    An hour later, Wervin was fully charged and free to do what he wished.

    Motivated by his new book, he found the empty room on the second floor he had been using as a training room, and practiced the movements he now saw in his mind.

    *  *  *  *  *

    ¡°Good to see you¡¯ve already warmed up.¡± Said an accented voice in the doorway.

    ¡°I was wondering when you¡¯d show up.¡± Wervin replied, not even bothering to look at the owner of the voice.

    ¡°I wanted to give you enough time to rest up. Seems I didn¡¯t need to, however.¡± Juan walked into the room.

    Wervin noticed that the man was no longer in his immaculate clothing, his upper body was laid bare. His only attire was a pair of tan wool breeches, his hair and moustache however, were still zealously oiled. The Spaniard was densely muscled like Wervin suspected, and almost had as many scars decorating his body as he did.

    ¡°Put these on.¡± Juan instructed, as he threw a pair of thick leather mittens at Wervin.

    Wervin instantly fastened the bulky gloves around his hands. ¡°Afraid I¡¯m gonna hurt, mate?¡± He teased.

    ¡°Don¡¯t be silly. Without all this padding around my hands, there¡¯s a good chance I¡¯d kill you. And if by some miracle you do manage to hit me, I won¡¯t have to deal with that annoying shock of yours.¡± He retorted, as he tied his own pair of leather mittens around his hands.

    Once the two were satisfied their gloves were on tight enough, they squared off. The two were dressed similar; Wervin was only wearing a pair of wool trousers when the Spaniard came in. While Wervin was taller than Juan, the tanned man was clad in more muscle, and extruded the confidence of an experienced killer.

    Wervin attacked first with a right jab, unable to wait any longer for the fight to start. Juan dodged the blow and returned with his own.

    The two were locked in combat for what felt like hours. The entire fight, Wervin was desperate to try out his new moves, and survive.

    *  *  *  *  *

    Over the week, the two trained fiercely with one another. Everyday they sparred, each time with a different weapon. One day with mauls, another with axes, mallets, knives, sticks, and sometimes with nothing but their bodies. Juan didn¡¯t just teach Wervin how to fight. He also taught him the basics of pickpocketing and lockpicking. How to sneak, and how to blend with the crowd. How to observe your surroundings, and how to talk your way out of a sticky situation.

    He taught all these things and more, until the day of heist finally came.

 Chapter 6: The Running man & Robbing Man

    The day of the heist had finally arrived. Huddled in the manor¡¯s library together was the owner of the establishment himself: Bartholow Griffith. His bodyguard: Werzdalvin, and his hired rogue: Juan Dami¨¢n De Cervantes - fourth of his name.

    The three were stood around a large oak table in the centre of the room. The table was covered in various schematics, doodles, drawings, diagrams and stone diaphragms. All of which were somehow related to a one: Darwin Windlenorf¡¯s manor, his servants, guards and the likely location of where he hides his money.

    ¡°So, you know the plan, yes?¡± Juan asked.

    ¡°Basically, you sneak in, find the money, get the money, escape, while I wait outside in case you need me.¡± Wervin replied solemnly.

    ¡°Excellent! You have brain like sponge, my amigo.¡±

    Wervin couldn¡¯t help but sigh. He had been so against this robbing business to begin with, and now that he was finally on board with it, he discovered he only coming along as backup. He wondered what the point of all the intense training he had been doing these past nine days.

    ¡°Will you quit looking so miserable!¡± The philosopher huffed. ¡°Did you really think I¡¯d send you inside the place along with Juan, just because he taught you a bit about to sneak and pick locks?¡±

    ¡°Well, not when you put it like that¡­ It¡¯s just-¡±

    ¡°I know - I know. Your role may seem insignificant now, but if anything goes sour, you may well be the only thing that can save this mission.¡± The philosopher''s words surprisingly helped Wervin feel better about the situation. Albeit, marginally.

    ¡°Now, get something light to eat and prepare your gear. You two leave in half an hour.¡±

    The two employees did as they were ordered and left the room.

    Wervin was in his room preparing. He had just finished eating the smoked sausage and apple he brought upstairs with him.

    Laid out on his bed in front of him was his coat, his knife, Juan¡¯s cane - since his broke in training, a small pile of rocks, a brown wool cloak, a brass pocket watch, one plain wooden mask, a tattered top hat, and a rucksack.

    He strapped the knife into his lash belt, put on his cloak, filled its front pockets with rocks, placed the cloak, mask and hat in the sack, grabbed his comrades cane. Completely prepared, Wervin headed downstairs and waited.

    ¡°What took you so long, amigo?!¡± Juan asked from the bottom of the stairs, as Wervin walked down them.

    ¡°I thought I was early.¡±

    ¡°Well you¡¯re not, let''s be off!¡±

    The two hurriedly left the manor; walking side by side to their goal.

    With nothing to do for the moment, Wervin appraised his companion. Juan was dressed in a stereotypical English gentlemanly fashion. A black suit with a white shirt, white gloves,no top hat or cane though. At his waist was a rapier of common design, and an expensive looking flintlock pistol. Wervin wished so childishly that he had some kind of firearm.

    *  *  *  *  *

    In a short twenty minutes, the two reached their destination. Wervin was relieved that there was a lack of guards, compared to his previous visit to the manor.

    ¡°Now what?¡± Wervin asked.

    ¡°Now the fun starts, amigo. Find somewhere in shadows to watch for trouble. Remember, don¡¯t intervene, unless you see they chasing me, you know I have been caught, or I give you the signal.¡±

    ¡°Fine. . .¡± He said begrudgingly. ¡°Good luck in there, mate.¡± Wervin said, suddenly sounding a lot more serious.

    The Spaniard grinned. ¡°Do not worry, amigo. I have done worse than this a many a times, and don¡¯t forget. I am the best.¡± He stated, with a grin so wide, it threatened to wrinkle his entire face.

    Wervin couldn¡¯t help but smile warmly at his new comrade in return. The two clasped hands and went on their way.

    Wervin quickly lost sight of Juan as he ventured into the shadows. Mimicking his mentor¡¯s actions, Wervin placed himself in an alleyway, clung to the walls and became one with the darkness.

    When he was sure he was alone, he opened his rucksack and equipped the contents. It was his idea to wear a disguise, for it would be unfavourable for them if someone recognized him if he had to fight.

    His attire made him look like a stage magician of poor income. The wooden mask on his face lacked any design, except for the lazily painted white that covered the wood.

    He had to stop himself from frequently looking at his pocketwatch. It had been around twenty minutes since the heist began, and Wervin was getting anxious.

    He wasn¡¯t sure how long something like this would take, but as he went through steps that would have to be taken to complete this task successfully in his head. He wouldn¡¯t be surprised if he was here for hours.

    Over and hour had passed since he lost sight of Juan. Wervin¡¯s eyes only left the manor when he could no longer resist looking at his watch.

    His heart almost stopped when he saw two guards converse with each other. He couldn¡¯t help but think they were talking about how they killed an intruder. Breathing deeply, Wervin tried to calm his anxiety. It was going to be a long night. . .

    *  *  *  *  *

    Another forty minutes passed, until Wervin was confident the guards had discovered his accomplice. What made him so certain of this, was the ringing of bells, scrambling guards, and some bloke repeatedly yelling ¡°INTRUDER!¡±. Wasn¡¯t Juan supposed to be good at this kind of thing?

    For now, Wervin remained in the shadows, waiting for some kind of signal that he should join the fray.

    His signal finally came when he saw a silhouetted figure run past one of the manor¡¯s large windows, quickly followed by a bunch guards brandishing a variety of weapons.

    ¡°Juan!¡± Wervin cursed under his breath. With no idea on what to do, he did the only thing he knew how, fight.

    Wervin sprinted and climbed the manor¡¯s wall in one fluid motion. He charged  like a bull at the guards that were now in front of him. They didn¡¯t even notice him until he was upon them. One made the mistake of turning around, his neck was completely defenseless from the masked the stranger. Wervin thrusted his cane into the man¡¯s Adam''s apple, killing him almost instantly. The deceased wasn¡¯t even able to muster an audible protest of his unplanned execution.

    Without giving his foes a chance to recover from their surprise. He slammed his cane into one of the still breathing guard''s jaw, and stomped on the other¡¯s knee. The one with the now crushed knee fell to the floor, allowing Wervin to easily to bring his wooden shoe down on the man¡¯s head.

    He had managed to kill one guard and render two at least unconscious in the span of three seconds, but he knew it was going to be a different battle from now on. Wervin had now lost his element of surprise and the remaining guards were in front of him. All aware of his presence, and ready for it. It was unfortunate for him that the closest enemy was at least fifty feet away from him. It was even worse that some of them were wielding muskets.

    Just before they could unleash their barrage of lead pellets at the masked stranger, he dove behind a line of large ceramic plant pots, his body now hidden from their sight.

    Wervin felt the pots beside him explode from the impact of the miniature cannon fire. One of the lead balls brushed against his shoulder, luckily the pots had absorbed most of its force. All it did was burn a tad, and give him a superficial cut.

    Wervin thanked God for the slow reload speed of muskets. Unfortunately he had no idea how many had actually fired their weapons - not to mention the guards with swords and cudgels coming towards him.

    Dawning on the conclusion that fighting at this exact moment would be nigh suicide, Wervin once again jumped over the garden wall - vanishing into the night. He prayed that the guards were foolish enough to follow him.

    It seemed his prayer had been answered; he heard a sympathy of enthusiastic stomps of men, encumbered by armour and weapons. Wervin ran down the alleyway he had just moments ago been hiding in, and waited.

    He heard the footsteps slow and attempt to muffle themselves as they grew closer, it seemed they weren¡¯t complete idiots.

    ¡°Why are you taking so long little ones? I¡¯m right here. . .¡± Wervin asked the men as he appeared from around the alleyway corner. Using the most deep and menacing voice his throat could muster.

    The two men at the back of the group aimed their muskets at the masked stranger instantly, but they did not fire. For they could not. They had foolishly allowed themselves to be corralled into a roofless tunnel. Their comrades blocking the target.

    Wervin couldn¡¯t help but smirk behind his mask, as he watched the realisation of their mistake appear across every man¡¯s face. Using the moment to his advantage, Wervin made the first move.

    He lunged forward and stabbed the butt of his cane into the man closest to him. Twice in the past ten minutes, he had felt and heard the gross squelching sound of a crushed Adam''s apple, he suppressed a grimace. With one now down, there were six left, Wervin remembers seeing more at the manor, but he guessed that some stayed behind.The front four men charged at the him with unsuppressed rage.

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    Wervin whipped a rock into the face of a man with a spear, seeing him as his biggest threat. The spear-wielder filched as the rock ricocheted off his cheek bone. Wervin used that opportunity to swing his cane upwards into the man¡¯s chin. Brittle bone shook from the force of the blow. Before the spear-wielder collapsed to the ground, a guard leaped at Wervin, holding his sword above his head like an ax. Without missing a beat, Wervin pulled back his cane and fired it into the man¡¯s stomach, winding him and making tumble to the damp ground. Wervin released  the knife from his belt-sash with his free hand, as he was about to jam it into the winded man¡¯s neck, another guard lunged at him with surprising speed, forcing him to jump backwards. He fell into their trap. . . The one who had forced him back dove to the ground. The two guards at the back with muskets brandished now had a clear shot at him. Unable to dodge in time, Wervin felt a powerful blast penetrate his stomach. He forced the bile that appeared in his throat back down. Wervin felt the electricus coursing through his body leak through the hole in his stomach, tickling him at an inappropriate time.

    The guards that now had smiles plastered on their faces, believing they had won this fight. They certainly didn¡¯t expect the man they just shot to charge at them with such speed and ferocity, they began to doubt if they even hit him. Maybe he just faked it. . .

    He hadn¡¯t of course. However, for someone like Wervin, who had been shot, stabbed and bludgeoned countless times, not to mention his new lightning laced flesh, a single pellet in his belly was nothing. He placed his knife into the armpit of the man for forced him backwards. He withdrew the iron blade with nothing more than a slight ¡®plop¡¯ sound. The two with muskets didn¡¯t bother to reload, instead relying on the spike bayonets fixed to the barrels of their guns. Judging by the way one of them looked at their gun, and the lack of a second hole in his body, his musket must have misfired. Wervin threw his knife into the shoulder of the left guard, causing him to drop his musket in an agony of overworked nerves. The other guard thrusted his bayonet at the masked stranger, but was dismayed when it was effortless parried by his cane. A second later, he saw nothing. For Wervin had cracked open the man¡¯s skull with his cane, using it in a way a blacksmith would strike molten metal on his anvil. He took the knife out of the shoulder of the remaining guard, and casually rubbed it against the man¡¯s jugular.

    Allowing himself a minute to catch his breath, he inspected the cane given to him by Juan. He was amazed to find the stick didn¡¯t have a single scratch, nick or dent on its body. Wervin wondered where the Spaniard had found such a study piece of wood. Wervin cleaned the blood of his knife and place it back into his sash. Deciding not to waste this opportunity to procure a free weapon, he began looting the dead.

    With the excitement of a child in a sweet shop. Wervin wished he could spend a hours on this foul dead, alas, his friend was still in need of his assistance . The only weapon he looted was a worn-looking broadsword - that lacked the typical basket guard on the hilt. Wervin lightly ran his gloved finger across the blade, and gave it a few practice swings. The blade had been poorly maintained, but it was still sharp and made of good quality steel.

    Content with his new weapon, he took of in a sprint so he could once again be of use to the mission. He almost regretted not taking a musket with him, unfortunately the awkwardness of carrying and reloading the gun, outweighed its use.

    For the third time, Wervin climbed Darwin Windlesnorf¡¯s garden wall. Which was a lot harder this time due to the fatigue of battle, and wielding two weapons in both hands.

    The two guards stationed at the front door noticed the masked stranger as soon as he was over the wall. Luckily for him, the two lacked a ranged weapon of any kind. The two were unsure of what to do. They saw this strange man run away, chased by six of their comrades, and now here he was again, holding a sword that looked familiar to the both of them. Their fear of their boss barely managed to win their fear of this man, but win it still did. They held their ground, clasping their decorative spears with white knuckles.

    Wervin boldly walked casually towards the men. An act used to intimidate them, but also because he still had yet to catch his breath. His stomach was becoming heavy and poisoned by the lead that now lived in it.

    He was now about ten feet away from the door guards. They had the advantage of numbers and reach, but Wervin could see the way they held their spears, they had little training and were terribly frightened.

    ¡°Run now and I shall not pursue, little lambs. . .¡± He told them, using the same deep scary voice as earlier. He saw that in there eyes they so desperately wanted to do as he bade. Yet their bodies remained fixed. Either they were too scared to move, or this Darwin fellow was more fearsome than he realised.

    Wervin took a large step forward and the two stabbed the tips of their spears in response. He easily sidestepped the attackers and slammed the handle of his new broadsword into the back of the skull; of the man on the left. A hair of a second later, he struck the temple of the remaining man with his cane. The brave guards now laid still upon the ground they were paid to protect. Wervin hoped they didn¡¯t die. He deliberately dealt them non-killing blows. He had no qualms about killing, but killing a a of no qualms, who didn¡¯t want to fight, would leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

    Now that the area around Windlesnorf¡¯s manor was empty, Wervin was unsure on what to do next. He was reluctant to go inside, encase he got lost or even captured.

    It seemed that fate was kind to him at that moment. For a young maid was unfortunate enough to peer through the front door at that time.

    ¡°I heard noises is everyth-¡± A nervous sounding girl said behind Wervin.

    He whirled around when he heard the voice. The girl screamed when she saw the bodies on the ground and the tall masked phantom, brandishing weapons in front of her.

    The girl slammed the door shut, unfortunately for her a cane blocked the door from fully connecting with its frame. Wervin lunged forward and swung the door open. He let go of the cane; grabbing the terrified maid before she could run away.

    ¡°What happened to the intruder?¡± The masked man growled.

    The girl was about to scream in response, Wervin clasped his hand around her lips before she could do so. Her eyes bulged and watered when she felt one of oxygen pathways had now become blocked. He pretended not to see the wet stain appear on her dress, nor smell its birth.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to hurt you, girl. . .¡± He told her, using his masked voice in the friendliest way possible. ¡°But I will if you try to scream, run away, or fail to answer me. Nod if you understand me?¡±

    The girl froze for a moment, before furiously shaking her head.

    ¡°Good¡­ I¡¯m going to let go of your mouth, and you¡¯re going to answer my questions. You¡¯ll know what will happen if you don¡¯t. Don¡¯t you girl?¡±

    Once again the girl nodded furiously. Wervin took his hand away from her mouth.

    ¡°What happened to the intruder?¡± He asked her again.

    ¡°T-the intruder. . . Um, he. . .He escaped. T-he guards chased ¡®im, but he jumped out a window. . .And vanished. . . I swear he did! Sir! He did!¡± She stammered.

    He looked into the girl¡¯s eyes for a hint of betrayal, but alas saw nothing but fear. If she was telling the truth, he had killed all those men and got shot for nawt. Wervin couldn¡¯t help but chuckle, which terrified the girl even more. ¡°Thank you, girl. I believe you, but I¡¯ve been fooled before. I have this time. . .¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve t-told you the honest truth I ¡®av Sir ! I swear on the g-good Lord ¡®imself, I do!¡±

    ¡°Fair enough¡­ You can go now. Get yourself cleaned up. And would you be so kind as to wait a minute before you told anyone about what you saw outside. . .¡±

    Before she could say anything, the masked man grabbed his cane, ran through the door and disappeared into the night.

    *  *  *  *  *

    Wervin arrived at his master¡¯s house two hours later. He took so long to get there, due to sneaking through forgotten alleyways, encase anyone was still searching for him.

    As soon as he walked through the front door, he heard a familiar voice yell from the kitchen. ¡°What took you so long amigo?!¡± The annoying accent asked.

    Wervin walked into the kitchen and stared at the man sat at a table in front of him, who was happily tucking into a steak pie. ¡°I saw you being chased through the window, so I charged the guards, hoping I¡¯d distract them so you could get away.¡±

    ¡°Ah. . . That explains why they so suddenly stopped chasing me when I jumped out of the window.¡±

    ¡°What, no thank you? I fought over ten of the bastards. Not to mention got shot in the stomach, made a poor girl wet herself and had to spend hours sneaking through gutters to get ¡®ere!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re right, where are my manners. . . Would you like some pie?¡±

    Wervin stared slacked jaw at the man, sighed, then sat down. ¡°I¡¯d love some.¡±