Disparity - A Short Story feature

Blythe surveyed the ruins, watching for any sign of movement. Yet they remained still, eerily still
and watched him back. The once neatly piled stones now were toppled, some piled
in heaps in the grove, with little more than flies to give it any sense that
there was passage of time. Bodies littered the ground in between and in amongst
the piles of rubble, from this short distance Blythe could make out the
horrific lacerations which marked their bodies, some missing vital components
of a normal figure. The stench of death was in the air, a smell Blythe was very
used to.
With careful intensity, Blythe moved down the slight incline towards the ruins, hopping over a totem pole as he passed under the shadow of its still upright partner. Here the ground
levelled out, crude paths winding its way in and out of the structures,
standing or otherwise. Blythe hoped the soldiers hadn't stayed here too long,
else there would be little loot remaining. Determinedly he made his way towards
the temple, knowing that is where the best haul would be. Bodies scattered the
way in front of him now, and he could see more clearly their features. They
were not people, he thought to himself, looking at their distinctly different
features, darkened skin, pinched face, dark hair, face paint and even their
strange clothing. All attempts Blythe had made to communicate with them in the
past went ultimately unrewarded as they stared at him blankly, muttering their
incomprehensible language.
He had long ago abandoned any attempt at trying to speak with them, they were a daft people. But it did not matter what they were, Blythe thought knowingly to himself, it was what they
had which interested him. Tall vases and bowls inlaid with strange stones,
weapons topped with precious metal. All this he would sell to the equally daft
nobles for a ridiculous sum and be off on his way. But lately, as the Empire
moved its troops to the frontier of this Tribes lands they left behind piles of
riches in the ruins and Blythe was making a fortune out of it. Blythe smiled as
he thought of her smile when he brought home the sack of silver that Duke
Fulshawe had given him. He tried not to beam as he put a name to her face, her
long auburn hair framing any recollection of her, Brittney.
He had originally thought to relax for a while on his new found wealth, but when word reached of the war the desire for the hunt overtook him. Despite the relatively cool breeze blowing in
from the north Blythe felt that same desire burning within him now. He reached
the base of the once even stairs to the top of the temple, but now a multitude
of loose stones were strewn about, making for a precarious, if short, climb. But
thankfully Blythe didn't intend on going up there, that was never where
anything of worth was. It was underneath which they stored it all. Walking
around the steps to the door on the side he spotted a broken vase. Spread around
it were precious yellow tinged stones, which Blythe was already bent down to
pick up. Holding the base of the vase was a Snake, his finger clenched around
the broken bottom as though to keep it from the likes of Blythe. Stuffing the
dull gold stones into one of the packs he continued on to the door. It was a
very odd door, but then again everything about this Tribe was odd. Its frame
was made out of wood, with red paint adorning it. The door itself was made out
of a very darkened type of wood Blythe didn't recognise and green and blue metal
adorned it in a neat pattern. Some of it had already been pried off but
nevertheless he pulled out a longer one of his knives and wriggled one out of
its socket, deftly placing it into a pack. Realising he was wasting his time
when there were greater riches inside he opened the door.
He was immediately hit by the darkness, in stark contrast to the midday sun outside. As his eyes adjusted he took in the room, it was roughly rectangular, the walls were of the same make
as the ones outside however the roof was made from wooden beams. Dust hung in
the air, sticking to him and everything else. In the centre of the room stood a
short ornamental table with a strange knife laying in its centre. How it still
remained there Blythe didn't think, but he went straight for it clutching the
hilt with greed. This small sacrificial knife was worth a small fortune in
itself let alone the other things in the room, he placed it carefully into his
pocket. Methodically Blythe searched the room, discarding what he thought was
too heavy and taking what he thought could sell. It was easy because the room
had already been upturned, casually, yet not thoroughly, ransacked by the
soldiers. Sickeningly he found a small bowl filled to the brim with blood, he
did not want to think what the Snakes did with it.
Blythe moved toward the door, the packs strapped to his back jingling as he went. Excitedly he thought of how much he could get for it all, enough to live off for a lifetime perhaps? No
enough for him and Brittney to live off for a lifetime. He gripped the handle,
his palms sweaty and slowly the light flowed through as it creaked open.
Stepping out into the now blinding light, he glanced around waiting for his
eyes to adjust. Little did he know it would be the last thing he would ever do.
Pain erupted in his chest emanating out faster than he could possibly gasp, he hit the rough stone floor on the inside of the temple unevenly, jolting him and making him breath in
involuntarily. Blackness enveloped him, enshrouded his mind, offering warmth
and comfort over the pain, gladly he took it and slumped down on the ground as
his muscles relaxed. The arrow sticking upright in his chest.

Jakkr'a smiled grimly, his mind racing. Dropping the bow on the ground he jogged forward desperately searching the ground for it. He pictured the knife in his mind, its yellow hilt made out
of estran. The blade itself was made out of the green metal so favoured by his
people. His people he mused, he doubted they would accept him now. He stared
down at the dead body of his father once again, his hand clenching the prized
vase in his death grip. Jakkr'a was almost of age, the time when his father
would name him a man and designate him a job. He would have been a temple
guard, he didn't doubt, the highest esteem he could have gotten short of being
one of the priests himself. But now that his father was dead he was an outcast,
never to fully become a member of the tribe and he could not touch his father's
body without further desecrating his name.
He began to thoroughly search through the man's body, slicing open the packs on his back with his knife. Piles of assorted stones and bands rolled out stained red as it mixed with the
pool of blood forming around the man. He saw his pocket were bulging and
grasped for the dagger, ripping it out of his pocket crudely. This was his
father's dagger, the dull blade representing him perfectly, this was the only
thing Jakkr'a would take to remind him of his past life. He was an outcast now,
the thought struck him with stark clarity, breaking him out of his reverie. Standing
up he stumbled out of the village, stopping only to pick up his bow.
His thoughts were turning over his hatred for these deceitful men who wandered his homelands, their strange buildings and clothing only serving to highlight their oddity. He contemplated
all this and more as he wandered out of his village, he was a dead man, but as
a dead man he was entitled to do whatever he wished in the world of the living.
And he knew exactly what he wished to do, he wanted to kill these men.