Art stepped off the half-mud path onto the wet cobbles and stopped. There was a sign to his right: “Houghton.” The sign looked the same as it did thirty years ago, despite that not being possible. He looked out over the sleepy town; he could almost feel the heat from 33 years ago; he could almost see the flames reaching towards the stars. He began to cough– once, twice, thrice… and no more. Blessedly, it was not a fit.
Art was dressed in what could be described as too many layers of clothes– undergarments, a padded shirt and trousers, a waistcoat, and stiff leather armor, topped by a long hooded cloak, the color of the forest; in addition, a thick scarf was wrapped around his neck and mouth. Underneath the clothes was a thin and pale halfling; at 3’2”, he was taller than average, but not by much. Though little of his face was exposed, one could catch glimpses of his unkempt gray hair and long sideburns.
A man walked up– a human, nearly twice Art’s height. “You okay there, halfling?” he asked. Art looked back up and narrowed his eyes. “I am fine, good sir.”
The man looked back out towards Houghton. “Quite a town, am I right? You know, apparently this town burned down thirty years ago. Hard to imagine in this weather!”
Art looked out as well. “I’m well aware.” he said disgustedly. The man took the hint and continued on his way. Art just stood there, watching the rain pelt the hill-homes. There was something holding him back… a memory. He shuddered.
—
When Art was only twelve when he caught the attention of the president of the military academy while scaring off a pack of wolves. The president saw something in him – latent talent, perhaps? – and offered a seat. Art’s parents jumped at the chance to give one of their children a life beyond the farm, and sent him away.
Art quickly rose to the top of his class, with a notable prowess in dueling. He was not just a martial adept, but a quick learner of the rest of the material, including military history, wilderness survival, and the art of war.
One of the instructors took Art under his wing and began tutoring him privately, including the introduction of magic. This raised Art even higher above his classmates, and he became a minor celebrity whenever he returned home on break.
But slowly, he began the change. The school took a ruthless approach to war, and Art was receptive to this message. He grew bolder and more commanding. In his mind, however, he saw something created that he didn’t quite want: a certain bloodthirstiness. A taste for war.
It scared him.
—
The rain had finally stopped when Art found himself in front of a handsome hill-home near the outskirts of the village. Behind it, a farm was spread, showing rows of barley stalks and grape vines. The last of the summer flowers decorated the rest of the land, including on top of the hill.
Art’s heart pounded, far harder than he thought it was still able. His mind raced and his stomach turned; he knew it would be wise to turn back. Every second he spent in Houghton was another second someone could pass by, recognize him, and report to the authorities. He stepped up to the door.
There was someone behind it. It was unmistakable: there was a shadowy presence behind the frosted glass, someone looking out. Waiting. Art squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to let his memories overtake him. Not now, not when he’s so close. All he has to do is grab the knocker, knock four times. Raise his hand, grab the metal. Once. Twice. Thrice. And one more.
Art clutched his knees and coughed. Once. Twice. Thrice. And one more. And another. He couldn’t stop. All he could do was let it flow.
—
Art returned to Houghton when he was 20, ready to take on the world. Houghton always played a neutral party in any conflict, and it had recently undergone a regime change. And with it, the village had undergone a change as well: two guard posts were built, local militia from Pearl Sands were a frequent sight, and new laws were erected. Villagers were now expected to pay taxes for the upkeep of their protection, and to treat the militiamen as their own soldiers. Art needed a target, and they were a good one.
Of course, there was already resistance from several of the more active-minded villagers, and Art set about organizing them into a true force. Slowly, they began to make themselves known: missing tax records, misplaced weapons, lost materials. The militia responded by assigning more guards– and buying sturdier locks.
Art was too well-known to be active in the field, so he settled for simply leading it from the shadows. Besides, he was busy making a name for himself in the daylight. He styled himself a noble knight, willing to help the poor and downtrodden, and willing to strike back against the oppressors– especially if the job involved bullying the militia.
It went well. For a while.
—
When he had returned to his senses, Art found the door opened. Before him now stood a stout halfling, clad in simple farmer clothes and a straw hat. His hair quickly graying, especially in the short-clipped sideburns, but it still was recognizably blonde. He was looking down at Art, and had pity in his eyes. It was Art’s elder brother, Lewis.
“God, Art, what happened to you?”
“Lewis…” Art managed to gasp out before stumbling into the foyer. Lewis shut the door before helping Art to the dining table. He then went to grab some medicinal tea.
In the meantime, Art had managed to regain some composure and made sure to wipe his mouth; no blood this time. He looked around the dining room he had spent so many feasts in, before locking his gaze outside. The farm looked completely different than what it had 33 years ago. No more weird crop-lines, no more stumps.
Lewis returned with two steaming teacups containing a bitter concoction of strange herbs.
“Drink up.” he intoned.
“I’ve got some right here.” Art replied, bringing out a copper flask from his cloak. He uncorked it and took a swig, but they both knew it wasn’t medicinal tea. The liquid was far too red.
“You didn’t tell me it was this bad.” Lewis said.
Art looked his brother in the eye. “It’s been this bad for a while. I can’t do anything about it now.”
“I’m sure there’s some cleric somewhere that could help, at least a little.” Art cast his gaze back down. Lewis raised his voice. “Art, this isn’t a way to live! Or die!”
“Well, go blame it on our parents! Or our parent’s parents! Or whoever decided to-” Art’s voice rasped to a halt, and both men looked at each other. A beat passed. Someone several rooms away began making their way towards the brothers.
“Lewis, I threw my life away thirty years ago. You understand tha-”
“Art, what the fuck. That’s- That’s such-” Art interrupted him by coughing. Lewis decided that his sentence wasn’t worth finishing. They sat together in silence, feeling the weight of the past.
—
The sky the color of blood. The smoke the color of night. The wind the smell of death. The air as heavy as lead.
Art had gotten brave– bold– cocky– bloodthirsty. He went with a crew to do a little midnight raid on a guard compound near the outskirts. They were expected; unfortunate news, but Art’s prowess saw them through. Into the compound they went, smashing furniture, breaking weapons, shredding papers. When they exited, Art stayed behind, to write one final message: he lit the building on fire. It was clear: the regime was not welcome in Houghton.
But the fire spread. Almost immediately, he had realized what he’d done. But there was nothing to do– the fire burned fast and hot, and its advance couldn’t be stopped. All he could do was watch, and back away.
But behind him, there was something else. A fight– a riot. The tension had finally broke, the camel’s back snapped like a twig. A brawl between the scared militia and the angry villagers broke out as Art’s crew ran through the streets, and it had finally reached him.
In that moment, Art realized what he had wrought: blood and ruin, death and despair.
And so he fled. Out of the village, of the countryside, away from the fire, the smoke, the wind, the air. Away from himself, from his family, from the death that he bought with his actions. But then the day dawned, and he found himself still running; this time, away from his cowardice, his fear, his betrayal.
Finally, he made it into the mountains, several days’ hikes away. And there he found an abandoned church, all gray stone and green moss. It was to be his new home.
There was a hamlet nearby, and soon, they found him. He struck a deal: he’d live in the church, keep it in repair, and do small tasks, while the residents would let him stay and be his connection to the outside world.
So it went, for twenty years. But then the disease came. A cough, an ache, a paling, a weakness. His family always had this, but they grew herbs to stop its advance. Art had no such herbs, and didn’t know what they were. He experimented with many, and learned much, but the disease steadily progressed.
Eventually, he swallowed his pride and sent a letter to Lewis, hoping that he would at least be ambivalent about his brother. Instead, Lewis offered to reconnect– and sent seeds as well. For the next three years, Art tried the herbs, but it was too late– no effect.
Art finally realized his end was near– and it rocked him to his core. His legacy would be blood and ruin. That would not stand, he decided. So he set out to become a force of good, to atone for his past until it killed him.
But first, he wanted to take a final visit to Houghton.
—
Lewis’s wife, Vaely, walked in on them, with her son, Alder, trailing behind. When she saw Art, she stopped dead in her tracks. When Art saw her, he did a weak wave.
“I see you’ve got your life all sorted out, getting with the love of your life.” he said to Lewis. Lewis shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Vaely regarded Art with a cold stare.
“Arthur, it’s a surprise to see you around here.” Her voice was like ice.
“I thought I’d see my former home one more time before I kick the bucket.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
By that time, Alder had made his way over to Art. He stopped and stared up and the pale, gaunt halfling. “Who are you, mister?”
Art smiled a weak smile. “I’m your uncle Art. I’m afraid you won’t be seeing much of me.” He looked back over at Lewis and Vaely. “But I hope what you’ll hear of me will be good.”
Art side-eyed Vaely for a bit before deciding to get up. “It was lovely to reminisce, but I’m afraid I must be off.”
Lewis got up as well. “Art, there’s something I want you to have.” He sped off to another part of the house, and Alder followed out of curiosity.
After standing for a bit, Art turned to Vaely.
“Vaely… I’m sorry. For it all.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me, but… I just wanted to say that.”
Vaely turned to him. Tears began to form in her eyes. She sighed.
Suddenly, Lewis came back, carrying an amulet and a leather pouch. Art saw him and began to step back. “Lewis, I- I can’t-”
Lewis raised the pouch. “This is a little money, to help you on your way.” He then raised the amulet. “And this is something Pa wanted you to have.”
Art continued stepping to the door. “Lewis, I can’t accept this. This isn’t-”
Lewis shoved the objects into Art’s hands. “Art. Pa wanted you to have this. I want you to have this. Please.”
Art swallowed. He put away the pouch and slung the amulet around his neck. “I’ll make both of you proud.”
With that, he left.
—
The Whitewhiskers never heard from Art again. He died ten years later, in a grimy alley in a far-away city. The drunken dwarf that saw him die swiped the pouch of money that Lewis had given him, but left the rest untouched. Art hadn’t spent a copper of it.
Art Whitewhisker gained a small amount of renown, but never enough to make a splash. However, he was seen by powerful people with notable plans. And when he died, using every last drop of his life to try and do good, they made their move.
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