Memoriam

Wrote this for some friends playing d&d

There was no sun shining down on the tiny village as the old mare plodded through the mix of mud and gravel, visibly burdened by its heavily armed rider. His grim expression matched the cold ashen color of his platemail, and the heavy great sword on his back clicked rhythmically against it with every hoof drop.
Crumpled in his hand was a battered piece of parchment that had brought him to the small, quiet hamlet of Aise. The rider stopped, and dismounted in front of the largest building he could find, and stepped in to find a modest looking tavern. Only three others were inside; two patrons and an elderly man who seemed less than interested in the new potential patron.
The armor clad stranger made a direct line for the counter top and slammed the parchment down. "I am Yoherm of the North crest, and I have come to claim the bounty!" He voice was foreign and hoarse, and had a mixture of annoyance and defiance.
The patrons on each side looked towards the other and then the barkeep, who's disinterest seemed to transform to a mild amusement. "Another bounty hunter. I had a feeling." He drew a fresh mug and filled it, placing it in front of Yoherm. "Have you heard the stories? Do you know what you're getting into?"
"I have heard what I need to hear about this wretched warlock, and I do not drink until my work is done."
"You keep a code to boot!?" The old man chuckled. "That may come to help or harm you, I guess time will tell if you have the nerve to get the job done."
"You question my fortitude?" Yoherm's demeanor darkened further, and the two other patrons slid away in their stools slightly.
"No." The old man replied unphased. "But you wouldn't be the first to come to Aise slamming a bounty on my counter either. There's a temple on the edge of town, if you need supplies they can help you. The reward will be here waiting, should you succeed."
Yoherm scowled and left without so much as a nod. There was a young plain looking priestess who greeted him at the temple. She explained in finer detail where he would have to travel to, as she gathered a few days rations, a torch and a map for him.
"It's no more than three days away, the site of the old town." She explained. "I added an extra days worth of dried meat in case you get turned around or lost. The marshes can be tricky this time of year." She was petite in stature, and her hair was unkempt which only added to her disorganized and fidgety persona. "It's nothing short of a crime you know." She stated when she finally stood still for a moment. "All those people.... a whole town, burned to the ground. I hope you can bring that horrible monster to justice."
"Say what prayers you will for me." Yoherm muttered. Without another word, he collected the meager supplies, mounted and headed north.
Despite the complications of the marshlands, Yoherm made good time. He took only short rests to feed himself and his horse, traveling through the night and only sleeping once when he found himself just a mile outside of the old town where the warlock was said to reside.
Many had heard the stories as he had; the town had been called Derry, a major exporter of pork and rye to the surrounding areas. The people were well off enough, until one season a sickness fell on the area, ravaging the livestock and rye, and making the townsfolk fall ill. Only days later the old man arrived, and finished off what the sickness started. Men, women, and children alike incinerated in their homes. The only survivor died shortly after arriving at the village of Aise. Whether out of a sense of justice or perhaps fear, the township issued the bounty shortly after the survivors death. As the tavern keeper implied, there were many who answered the call, but none succeeded. Yoherm intended to buck the trend.
He waited until dusk, grazing his horse just on the outskirts of the town and taking only a torch and his arsenal: the large wicked great sword sheathed to his back and a pair of throwing axes. His order of the north crest was an old one, and its members trained and lived by a creed of eradicating evil magic and its use. The bounty in truth was just an added benefit for Yoherm, it would be his absolute pleasure to remove the head of this treacherous murderer.
He whispered an incantation of protection upon himself, and moved slowly into the scorched carcass of the former town of Derry, keeping against the burned shells as he crept towards its center. He knelt in the shadow of some towering rubble, scanning over the old town square for any signs of movement. A charred obelisk seemed to be the only thing still left standing, like a tombstone of a lonely unmarked grave. There were no sounds to be heard other than his own pulse in the drums of his ears. The town was truly dead.
Hours went by before Yoherm heard a feint voice. "If you too have come for the bounty, show yourself. Stop hiding and meet your fate like your predecessors."
"I do not cower, but nor do I trust a creature as vile as yourself!" Yoherm shouted back. "Show yourself and I shall do the same. Let us be done with this." After I brief moment a flicker of light shot out from the dilapidated bell tower straight across the town square and the charred heap he knelt behind erupted in flames. He drew an axe and heaved it towards the crumpled building the ball of fire had originated from, drew his sword and charged head long.
He could hear the clang of his axe ahead, and another stream of fire shot out directly over his head. He could feel its heat just above him as he raced forward, but he could also see his mark, a near skeletal looking figure straight ahead. The warlock seemed older and at first glance not as villainous or menacing as the stories foretold; he was bald with a long unkempt white beard and full eyebrows that hid his eyes underneath. He was draped in mud stained and heavily worn robes that appeared as if they were a size too big, tied tight to his gaunt frame with an old piece of hemp rope.
It was in his left hand however that he brandished the one thing that stood out about him, a jagged off white staff. It looked as if it were bound together from separate materials, like a series of sharp birch sticks fused together haphazardly. It was from this staff that Yoherm saw the other stream of fire dart towards him, crashing into the ground right where his foot was about to drop.
It launched him into the air and slightly off to the left. The burst of light blinded him, but his memory held true as to where his foe was standing, and in the same fluid motion a painter would pull a brush across canvas, he drew and let his second throwing axe fly. There was a different sound then the last time. The sound of metal sinking into cloth and flesh. The patter of rain dancing in the mud around Yoherm as he lay on his hands and knees trying to recollect himself.
He propped himself up and looked toward the pile of dirty wet robes that lay in the not so far distance. They were moving ever so slightly, the handle of his axe on a arch. Yoherm got to his feet, picked his sword up and limped over to his fallen foe.
The old man was shaking, holding the staff up when the grizzled and slightly singed bounty hunter reached him. "It's.... not... fair." The warlock stammered over and over in no louder than a whisper, tears welling up in his eyes.
"All men sorrow when they meet their end sorcerer. Drop the staff."
"No... her...it's not... fair"
Yoherm's curiosity peaked "who?"
"Take it!" He continued to hold the staff up, his arm shaking from the weight under his failing strength. "Take it! I never..." his arm dropped into the mud and sent the crooked staff rolling out of his palm.
Reluctantly, Yoherm took hold of the jagged staff. In an instant the tiny hamlet was no longer a burned husk but a loud chaotic commotion of angry men and women surrounding him. He grasped the staff tightly against himself defensively, but it wasn't him. He was small, and frightened. Everything seemed blurry, as if his vision was clouded and wet.
The world around him spun as hundreds of hands grabbed at him and pummeled him, knocking him to the ground and picking him up, and finally slamming his small body into a large wooden pole. Yoherm looked down at a tattered dress. He was looking through the eyes of a little girl. A little girl being bound atop a pile of lumber to be burned for sorcery.
There were no pleas that could be heard over the shouting and screaming of the mob, not until the fire lit. An unearthly howl shuttered through the small body as the growing flames licked at the child's legs and eventually consumed her entirely. It grew dark. Cold water sprinkled down from the sky over Yoherm's head and dripped into a puddle that had his shaken face staring back.
"What did you do to me?" He forced allowed. The question was met with silence, as his foe had passed some time ago. It didn't matter. Though still in some disbelieve, he began to come to terms with the answer. It was the staff. The wicked, gnarled staff the old warlock had on his person. He gave it freely as he was dying because it was a burden. Not his burden, but that of a small scared child who knew no better and payed for it. It was some perverted form of justice more warped than the staff that lay in front of him now.
This man had seen the same vision when he came to the staff, and took the liberty of passing vengeance in turn upon the ignorance that took place in this small simple hamlet. And now that Yoherm knew, he could not blame the warlock for his actions, in good faith and in the place, he may well have done the same.
He returned to the village and handed the staff over to the local temple. He accepted no payment for the completion of the bounty he had traveled so far to complete other than a night of lodging.
The staff passed between many hands through the town, each owner complaining of horrible nightmares of either being burned alive or having an axe come flying straight at them. In short time it was decided that the staff was cursed, and was therefore cast off into the wilderness.
From there it traveled far and wide, passing through the hands of wizards and witches, parlor tricksters and street magicians. Many claimed it gave them great power, but None held the staff too long due to its peculiar drawback. Somewhere along the way, the clearly powerful but equally tormenting artifact gained the name memoriam.