Chapter 0003: The Unknown 1/2

Narniff said warily, "I do not trust strangers."

"I don't trust new people either," said the stranger. "I'm not like you."

Narniff produced his rifle from his belt, which boasted a plentiful of daggers, swords, gadgets and other weaponry. "I knew that. And I also know this: you're afraid of me— because you don't know who I am."

The stranger scoffed. "I know all I need to know. You're Narniff Jarun-Ine, son of Davao Jarun and Lizia Ine. Man-gone-savage, then turned pathetic pushover, then turned savior-of-Kirdan, then turned pathetic pushover again, and you work for Torin Haz-Balen, your fiance, daughter of lethal assassin Jol-Kirk Haz and Anza Balen."

"I am not who you say I am," Narniff gripped his rifle as the stranger closed in. "I am who I decide I should be. I am Narniff."

"And I'm a fool," cried the stranger in sarcastic reply. "You don the blade wielded by Charroth, angel of judgement, who once said, 'One hath not wield my blade unless I deem them worthy of such honors, nor have the spirit, heart, or mind of me, unless they don my blade with my intentions in theirs.' Charroth was an honest angel to the point of brutality. What makes you, the liar, worthy of wielding what might as well be the hammer Mjolnir?"

Narniff said with cold-intent. "There's been atrocities carved by my hand— that made own fist twitch with uncertainty."

The stranger reached into his coat. "Meaning?"

Narniff muttered, "I've done more than even my guts can handle."

"Like what?" the stranger cried.

Narniff pointed the barrel of his rifle at the stranger's throat. "If you want to find out with me— you can take a step closer... or you can leave, and we'll chalk this encounter up to a tie. The choice is yours: stay where you are and we call it a stalemate, or the boom-stick drops you where you stand anyway. Your choice."

"The Swarms are coming," said the stranger, emotionlessly. "Dangerous things of unimaginable strength and terror, far more powerful than any of you gunslingers. They'll rip you up and tear down your ego. You don't stand a chance, and without me— you'll perish alongside your pitiful bartender and selfish widow."

Narniff questioned, "The Swarms— when?"

The stranger smirked coldly. "They come in the night when all is calm, and all is bright— to bring forth terror, to bring forth fright. They see the screams and on them they feed— the blood and pain is their soul need. Their smiled bring cries— their blood a charcoal hue. They see your fearing gaze— and they're coming for you."

"Speak english." Narniff poked him with the barrel, pine-brown paint flaking off the muzzle. "Speak."

The stranger responded, "The Swarms swarm— they buzz and flock. They look for their next meat stock— and when it's found, and once it's found, they eat like hogs, feast loud yet attack sly. They drag you to their pig sty— then feast on their prize— and the weeping innocents meet their demise. They live through the pain."

"Swarms are a tale spoken by children— lost in time. They do not exist— nor are they feared." Narniff shouldered his rifle.

The stranger holstered his gun, and pronounced his name quietly to himself, and said, "You won't say that when they are eating your guts out."

Narniff asked, "And who are you to prophesy this series of misfortunes— who speaks of tragedies and blood, gore and death, terrors and frights— whose name remains as unknown as when the coming storm hits, and the precise day when the bird migrates back to its home?"

The stranger gave his final smirk. "Keshin De Brosse— Pleasure to make your acquaintance."