This is my first short story, so I will probably re-write some of it. I just wanted to see people's reactions, comments, suggestions, and corrections. Thanks for any responses. Criticism is welcome.
The young Breton admired his work. He watched the sky fill with grey black smoke. He watched the uninhabited shack crackle and pop in the night. He watched the timber catch fire and fill the air with warmth. A crowd of citizens watched the blazing house light up the night, unsure of what to do. They stood dumbfounded, as if they hadn't ever seen a bonfire before. The Breton smirked, thinking they were struck with awe. The sound of hooves filled the air next to the popping flames. Two legionnaires on horseback entered the scene. They stared for a moment at the flames reaching for the sky absentmindedly. They seemed to snap back to reality as they dismounted. Immediately they scouted the crowd for possible suspects, but gave up soon. Their attention was now focused on the fire. One of the guards, an Imperial, took his sword and poked an ember, watching it glow briefly. The other, an older Imperial, tried to kick down the smoldering door.
As he kicked sparks flew from the remains of the doorway and smoke billowed out of the doorway. A dry light wooden beam fell from an overhang, catching the older guard on the shoulder. The guard was stunned for a moment but regained his composure moments later. The smoke was rising quickly, darkening the sky. The younger guard went around curiously prodding and poking the soon to collapse walls. The Breton smiled, waiting for the final collapse, the final flames, the final rush. The older guard looked hesitantly into the smoking doorway. He began to step inside cautiously, when an old Nord stumbled out.
Wheezing and coughing, the Nord tripped into the surprised guards outstretched arms. His clothes were burned and skin red, charred, and raw from the fire. The old Nord, a man that could have easily been 75 years old, uttered a word in a raspy whisper, "You", pointing his finger at the Breton. The crowd around him backed away leaving the Breton in the center of the citizens semi circle. The Nord's arm wavered, and his wheezing faltered as he went limp. His arm fell, resting peacefully in the guards arms.
The old Imperial glanced at the body and then the Breton. As if he made up his mind, the guard unceremoniously dropped the fresh body and unsheathed his silver blade. The blade glinted in the light of the flames as he advanced on the Breton. Behind him the young guard appeared, drawing his blade as he saw the combat that was to ensue. The Breton backed up, the smirk no longer on his face. Instead it was the fear of having to fight not one, but two, professionally trained Legionnaires. Then the smirk returned and the Breton's hands began to surge with magicka.
The Imperials knew numbers were on their side and used that to their advantage. Even with the surrounding crowd, they tried to flank the Breton. The citizens moved with the Imperials' steps. When they moved out, the crowd moved out. The Breton took his chance concentrating magicka into his hands. Flames burst out of his fingertips, curving and twisting through the air. As quickly as the fire came, it receded back into his fingers. It disappeared leaving no trace it had ever been there. The Imperials now knew that they would have to be more careful in approaching the Breton. They slowly moved one step at a time closing in on the young Breton.
As they came closer, the Breton smiled once more letting them come even within a few steps of striking range. Then he concentrated his magicka into his hands letting a spout of flame to flow from his fingers towards the old Imperial. Flames engulfed the man, searing his flesh. His skin started to form boils and they popped letting loose boiling hot flesh particles. They spattered the Imperial's face, causing him to heighten his screams and claw at his own face. The man's skin peeled away like onion skin after being burnt to a crisp. It fell away in flakes leaving red, wet muscle and white, blobs of fat. The flames licked his arms, popping and snapping as they boiled away the moisture. There was no blood, as it was bubbling and boiled as soon as the flames neared it. The fat burned intensely, popping and sizzling, covering the man in flaming fat. The Breton knew the young Imperial would strike soon, so he whipped around. The flame moved with him, as if it was an extension of his limb. It moved with his breaths, retracting and expanding with his lungs. The orange flames turned with him leaving the charred heap that was once an Imperial. The Imperial's chest that was mostly untouched by flames was now getting seared and burned as the hot armor melted with his skin. The result of the Breton's vicious attack was a molten, viscous concoction of red watery blood, and melted iron covering and dripping from an almost entirely charred skeleton of a man.
As the flames found their new target, they sputtered and died. The Breton, exhausted and panting let his arms drop to his sides. Unfortunately the young Imperial was relatively untouched by the flames. The Imperial had watched in horror as his watch partner was burned to death by a young mage. He roared in anger and made an arc downward and across towards the Breton's neck. The Breton saw it coming and tried to sidestep the blow. Instead he caught it in his lower ribs, and clutched his side in pain. Still breathing heavily the Breton dropped to his knees spitting up blood while doing so. He wiped his mouth clean, and saw another retaliation swing coming for his neck. He dropped to his stomach and rolled to the side nearly dodging the swing. The Breton clutched his side and limped to a better position, farther away from the Imperial.
The young Imperial dissatisfied with his only strike began to rush the Breton. The Breton was almost ready to strike again. His hands glowed and he outstretched his arms and letting fire erupt from his hands. The blast of fire continued for a second, but the Breton lost all his will to continue the powerful spell during the middle of the cast. He collapsed from pain glimpsing at the outcome of the spell. The ground was burnt in a wide line towards a staggering man. He stumbled a few steps toward him holding onto his sword, and holding his armor to his chest. He fell next to the Breton. He realized then that his hand had been melted to his sword, and that his entire left arm was melded with the iron of the Legion cuirass. As blood spilled out of his wounds, their eyes met. Instantly they averted waiting for death to come. For death to become one with them. For them to become one with death. They waited.