Sarachan

Rain. Always rain. He supposed it was fitting, really. The wet pines gave off a heavy smell, the trunks glistening with raindrops and wet lichen. The spongy ground gave slightly under his feet as he tramped through the grass, his shins being whipped with low twigs and strong stems.

The feeling in the pit of his stomach grew more intense as he neared the clearing. He was early – he’d been waiting for this moment for years, in a way – and he was far too scared, too exhilarated, to be late.

He was at the clearing now. It was around 15 metres wide, with thick tufty grass covering its floor. Taking a crumpled packet of cheap cigarettes from his pocket, he found he was shaking slightly in fear. The rain put paid to any efforts to light one, though, so he shoved them back in his pocket and moved slowly to the centre of the clearing, feeling very exposed.

The setting sun lit the trees on the side of the clearing with fire and blood. His breath made clouds in the air, thick fogs that hung in the motionless air, and even the birds seemed to have fallen silent.

Piercing his reverie, it came. A soft, sibilant whisper, cutting through the air.

“Brentt…”

He turned, and saw what he had been waiting for, what he had been fearful of. The man. The beast. The Immortal. Sarachan. Or, to give him his full title, Sarachan The Endless. He was tall, dark. Hair flowed like an endless waterfall to his waist, jet black and poker straight.