Vilstram: Final

Josh Vogt (TheLorian)

When Vilstram showed up at the place, an open intersection in the middle of the town, the snow flurry had turned into a full blown blizzard. He could hardly see until he put on the glasses, and the snow almost seemed to disappear, a filter over his perceptions rather than a barrier to sight entirely. He saw someone approach from his right, and though he had no idea who they were, they seemed to be wearing similar glasses as his own. The figure walked straight up to him without hesitation, and though the confidence jarred him, he stood his ground and tried to look professional.

“You Squirrel?” the figure asked in a high, raspy voice that rattled Vilstrams bones in an uncomfortable way.

He sighed, dreading that the name was catching on, “Yes. You are?”

“Unimportant, just follow me and stay out of my way,” he barked, gesturing for Vilstram to follow without questions.

“Fine,” he whispered under his breath, “ass.”

They made their way through the streets until they reached a building with enough handholds to climb to the roof, at which point his partner took off at a dead sprint. Vilstram wondered if he planned to leap off onto something in the street that had been planted to secure a landing, but he jumped with no safety net to the building across the alley from them. Vilstram gulped and followed, as they crossed from building to building to make it to a particular side road, one of the bigger, yet less traveled ones that they apparently expected to find someone on. Surprisingly, as they stopped, crouched, on a particular rooftop, he could see a cart coming their way in the storm.

Looking over the cart with his partner, Vilstram was growing more and more nervous. It was way too late to be having misgivings this large about the whole venture, not that his accepting the offer was exactly a discussion. He had gotten too lost in thought and the cart had gotten up ahead of where they had planned to set up the ambush. He sighed and looked over to his nameless associate with a shrug. The other guy gave Vilstram a dirty look and moved up to catch up to the cart, leaping across the large gap between roofs, somehow managing to make it look so easy without slipping at all.

“Show off,” Vilstram sighed and slipped down off the roof, following by the alleys and being careful.

They caught back up to the cart in no time at all, but the poor man driving it was now shivering horribly, looking like he’d just as soon die from the cold in his desperate attempt to simply survive. It was only at that range that he started to recognize the man, but couldn’t quite place him, remembering him sort of fondly. Yet here they were, about to mug him for all that he had left, which judging from the cart’s contents, was either a whole lot of wind chimes or Vilstram just couldn’t see the useful stuff hiding underneath it. 

Suddenly it was time to go, and Vilstram rushed the cart with his nameless companion, searching for some other route, some other way, but before he knew it they were both on the back of the cart, overlooking this poor shopkeep who had never done anything wrong to them. That was when it hit him who the man was. His name was something that started with an “A”…eh, it was unimportant. He had given Vilstram food over the years, even though Mr. A had never really had much for himself or his family if he had one. What if he had a family waiting for him? Or friends? Or…what if hurting him might leave a child orphaned and all for what? He hesitated, noticing that the other thief didn’t have the same misgivings.

His partner drew a dagger and raised his arm, ready to end a life, but something in Vilstram just snapped and he tackled the monster, desperate to keep what little humanity he had left. He wouldn’t be made into a murderer, he wouldn’t destroy someone else’s life like his own had been so long ago. He wouldn’t—and then the knife sunk into his ribs and everything went dark. The last thing he saw was the shopkeep sprinting off into the snowy streets, as his killer gave chase. He prayed for the man.

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