Vignette of The Harbinger

This was what I was talking about in the previous post. I kinda like this guy, and might end up using him in some other story eventually. I’m thinking he might fit well into some part of the Kyreth saga, but we’ll see. You never know, with this sort of thing.

“I heard he killed fourty-six guys in a pub last night.”
“Really?”
“And it wasn’t just him going around slaughtering them, either; they all ganged up on him once they found out who he was.”
“No way, man. Nobody could…”
“He did! I swear! I heard if from my buddy Jake. He was there, or something.”
“So what does this guy look like, then?”
“Well… Ordinary, supposedly. Doesn’t stand out in a crowd till he pulls out his knife.”
“Yeah, yeah, ordinary, whatever. I mean what does he actually look like?”
“Oh, um. I dunno. Jake just said he saw some messed up brown hair. He was kinda…”
“Hiding in the shadows?”
“Yeah, pretty much… So, yeah, he didn’t really get a good view of the guy. But apparently they’re calling him The Harbinger.”

Adam Delvinwitch walked down the street, one slow step in front of another. He pulled his suit vest down tight. Wrinkles, untidiness, and chaos irked him, which was quite ironic given the mess his hazel hair was permanently in.
He ran a hand through it, a nervous habit. He supposed eternal nervousness and occasional fits of madness were a byproduct of committing one’s life in full to mastering one thing and one thing alone.
He was new to this town, and he liked it so far. There had been a bit of a scuffle in a bar last night, as apparently some half-drunk goon there had heard about him from someone in a town Adam had previously visited.
Anything can be turned into an art form, if studied and practiced zealously enough. He had taken his art further than that. It was no longer art – art was art because no art was truly perfect, and thus the beauty could be found in the imperfections – this was perfection. He allowed no untidiness and chaos in his actions; they were carefully planned and executed to fully satisfy his self-expectations.
The thing that irritated him the most – besides sloppiness – was fools who claimed they were the best in some area, to the very degree that he himself was, but were no more than punks who got lucky a few times. He wasn’t a violent person by nature, but if prompted enough in a certain way, he would react with calculated strikes and end things cleanly. That being said, he would enjoy finding those ill-fated fools who claimed such things and show them how idiotic they were.
There had been others who had gained the perfection and dedication to certain things in the same way as Adam was, he knew. He was not so vain to suggest that he was the only one who had completed such a feat, and he knew that with each additional confrontation he faced, he gained even more skill; he had felt it himself. But he did know enough to know he was, truly, the best in his chosen “art” living at the time.
He needed to relax, so he stepped into a bar. A drink would do him some good.

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