Do I suck at writing? (someone who actually reads the whole thing)

A man with faded eyes, almost translucent, could be seen outside of the Greenvale Pivot. He was in great pain, which was evident by the gargantuan cuts that ranged across his chest. Crimson leaked out, but was hardly seen through the thick armor that he wore, for it too bore the reddish hue of blood, dyed in accordance. It was a trick of his, to conceal his true damage to the enemy, an optical illusion that came as a foolish mistake to some, who underestimated the damage that he could sustain. Although his wounds were easily discernable, he walked with a gait as fine as ever, and no limp impeded on his progress. His demeanor seemed comparable to Lord Ivanhoe himself. He seemed to be in a frenzy to reach the tavern, possibly to seek assistance.

He was not alone. His faithful malamute accompanied him. Its teeth were as long as they were powerful, and almost exceeded the length of its neck. The dog nurtured his master the only way that he knew how. He lapped up the blood with his tongue, and its warmth seemed to add vitality to his master. It was almost as if the dog was part of the man himself. The malamute's fidelity was only exceeded by its scars, which left the beast mortally wounded, and coated in a scarlet melancholy. There was something about this dog, something strange and erratic about this dog. This quaintness was the fact that no matter how much fluid that seemed to drain out his body, he was just as vital as ever, never needing assistance of his own. Perhaps it was the aura around him, his master's last chance to protect his best friend, or perhaps something deeper--the dog itself was holy.

The man, of the Shadow breed, wielded a sword of championship, of remarkable quality, and was held with an uncanny balance and, noticeably, skill. It was diamond-sharpened, fit for a Deity, and it seemed as if Zeus looked down upon him with a certain green discoloration in his face, one that made him appear to be plotting the conniving burglary at any moment. It was more than razor sharp, and was coated in a layer of blood so thick that it seemed to surge from the sword itself. It was black, not by dye, but of by material, the strongest, and perhaps most durable material of any land, and made with impeccable metallurgic skills. Its fabrication was flawless, and the sword seemed to have a soul of its own. Yet the sword was corrupt, and the abhorrence that seeped from its master had tainted it. It was in a rage, out to seek vengeance, whether its master had the heart or not. Yet, it could be seen that the sword was not always like this. Greed had encompassed it, much like it had its wielder.

An ebony cloak covered the Shadow, seeming to provide him with much needed warmth and energy, and shielded the multitude of scars, acting as a sort of makeshift bandage. It was not much, but provided the man with comfort, and helped him sustain his formidable appearance. Yet, blood still trickled from the cloak’s ends, and leaked down onto his crimson greaves. These greaves were veritably a bronzed hue (one could ascertain this because the top of the boots were not stained with these crimson tears---yet. Snow surrounded them, as they struggled to maintain their last inch of colour. A freakish snowstorm had blown in, and caused this Shadow much anguish, so much that it seemed that he could be hit with the most unqualified of weapons and double over instantly. His indigo face seemed bluer than ever, and was ridden with frostbite.

It was evident that this man had attained these wounds in a duel, with the most formidable opponent. His armor, as mentioned earlier on, was the same color as most of his body at the time. One could tell that the armor was astounding, ascending all other armors in defense and value. That is, the armor, when properly repaired, is priceless. Yet, due to this horrid altercation, the armor was damaged so tremendously that it appeared irreparable. Only the finest of blacksmiths could make ends of this ruined artifact. Everyone who gazed this man seemed to be stricken with a visage so confounded at what could have caused this atrocity that the exclamations and rabble in the bar appeared to come to a low whisper.

The man walked, with much haste, albeit the lack of vitality in his body. He never made it through the doors.

The Shadow was dead.

I walked up, and took his faithful dog, although he seemed reluctant to follow. What was such a holy and pious dog doing in the presence of such a horrible man you might ask?

I sat down at the tavern, with the reticent malamute at my cold side, and fed him scraps that were left on a table, including bits and pieces of randomly strewn orange pieces, and some half-rotten meat. His immune system was growing stronger due to my caressing, and it provided him with what he needed to soothe the aching in his stomach, and bandage the remains of his hurt soul, which had apparently dwindled from battle. He had lost his master… One can only wonder how is aura was at his full strength...

The bar reeked of rotted meat, and blood from the occasional unsanctioned brawl, usually taking place in the obscured corners. This indubitably hindered the atmosphere, yet nothing could really deprecate it, as it seemed to have a limitless attraction, this remote location on the Fort. The Fortitude was vast, but something, some charm lured people to its hellish haven. Perhaps it was the historical value? The Orc-raids, the battles for the lands nearby, waged for decades, centuries, millenniums. The mysterious dragon that seemed to hoard the most precious antiques in a cave in proximity to this landmark, clandestine, furtively moving throughout the land, never hunted, never aggressive. In this sacred hidden spot, which will never be found by the likes of any beast roaming the world currently, it is said that there is infinite treasure and wisdom--according to prophecy. Secrets of each clan are kept away in here, never to be told, or else cataclysmic wisdom should be let out. And everyone knows that with wisdom comes power. No, that can't be it. There was something more to this tavern, something unique about it. Although it was foretold to be invincible, never to be destroyed by any life whatsoever (except the prophesized end-of-the-universe nonsense that is known, of course, by the town drunkard, and only him), that was not the thing that attracted the people. When I walked into the bar, and saw the beautifully obfuscated countenances of the multitude of faces surrounding me, a feeling of sanctity swept through my veins.

Frankly, I haven't been truthful with my identity. I am aNatheMa. The slain man is my brother; the dog is our pet, which had an affinity for him. I loved my brother, with a sort of reverence, or make that jealousy. He was always more talented than me. He could do things before I knew how. He was a world-renowned blacksmith, well, at least, in the underground society. He was tainted to the core, purely evil. Yet people loved him. The world was his masochist. I could see through this facade, yet so many couldn't. I don't know why Vikken chose him over me. I loved that dog as much as life itself. I would do anything for her.

Back to the story at hand. My brother and I were always competing, for everything. His countenance was beautiful, and all the right scars seemed to fall in the right places to enhance his intrigue and mysteriousness. He always had women, myriad women, more than he knew what to do with. I was the one though, that kept women, because eventually he threw them off into the rubble of worthlessness as he does everything in his corrupt life. I have had relationships, whereas he has promiscuity. I cannot envy his flaws. His fiendishness is a flaw so hellish that I would never trade myself for his wretched prosperity.

There is one thing that I had that my brother did not. Willpower. Sure, he had intrepidity, but that could be earned. This was instinctual, and worth everything. I had the will to survive, to live, to sustain, which is priceless in itself. Nothing could break me; no contraption of torture, no doubtful thought that had been pressed stealthily into my mind could sway it. I was a creature of God for this reason and this reason alone. I was born sick, demented physically, yet pure and tough mentally. This created me as I am today: a walking paradox. I beat him with a combination of brute force and mentality. My mind mixed with my body overwhelmed him. I am the bestial figure that ripped his armor to shreds. I did it with my will, not with my strength. I could not overcome him. He was way too powerful and well endowed for me. Rich, and owning half of the underground market, he was a rogue among rogues, the idealistic representation of the capital of the echelon of sin. I defeated him. He maintained his pride every last moment. I had slain my brother.

I knew what I needed to do. I was an assassin. I was a rogue, much like him., but a pure and honest rogue. A walking paradox. I had tried to remove corruption from the environment, instead of add to it. He challenged me. The dog had attacked me too, which is the only reason that I struck her. She will never forgive me for her wrongdoing.

A man's best friend is a man's best enemy.

The thing that I realized that was necessary was to steal his demeanor, as we had the same semblance, and the only major difference was the way that he carried himself. We were not twins, but with the right attire, attitude, voice, and everything else that makes up for charisma besides looks, I could easily be mistaken for him. I wished to acquire his affluence, and it now seemed possible. I have my flaws, and I might just be taken over by greed much like he was.

After sneaking out through the back door, I took his body aside while it was almost completely snow covered, and now one could see me, and looted it of all the items that his corpse possessed.

"Shame, shame," I whispered to myself, while looking at the beautiful fabrication of the mithril armor.

Luckily, I knew someone who might be able to make ends of it, after all; but even with that thread of hope, it was a long shot. I might as well just let the malamute rest up and tend to my own atrocious wounds.

I start to wonder whether this is right, whether if all that I've done makes me as low as that scum.
"He deserves it!" I reinforce my initial thoughts in my mind. "I need an escape from my own reality anyways."

I'm not evil. I don't think. I hope not...