Andarin: The Mountains: Nievian;

“This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face.
The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown.:
The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout 'Save Us!'...:

...and I'll look down, and whisper, 'No'"

The world was a harsh place, even for those who had barely begun to live. Some, he knew, had never loved, had never known the joys of children. Some never even got the chance. Nicodemus is not sad by that fact, but angered. It made him want to do something, it was what caused him to fight what was wrong without being known. Ah, the life of the vigilante. Nicodemus too held many names, though they were titles, whispers. Things that he’d rather ignore. He wanted to be called for what he was and not what he had done. It was always in him to reject titles and trophy’s and fame. Humility was the mark of a true hero. He too had always been alone. And such was his way of life, though it was not something that he would wish on others.

“Sometimes people do things because they don’t know what else they can do.”

He had been told that once, long ago, before flames had graced his body. Now it would seem only proper for him to do so as well. They were more alike than she would ever know. Because strangely, he too feared abandonment above anything else. He, Nicodemus the recluse. I nearly want to laugh at that notion. But he Sees, what fears are in her mind, and what thoughts there lie. About his scars and his pain and other things. Perhaps it is because she reminds him of himself that he smiles.

“Nicodemus means ‘victory of the people.’” He chuckles too. A silence passes them, and he wasn’t sure how long it had passed before he had spoken again. “Would you like to hear a story?” Rather different mood he was in. Nicodemus rarely spoke to anyone about anything, and yet here he was, offering a story to a girl he barely knows. And not just any story….but a story of his past. Something even moreso unheard of from the normally reluctant stallion.

SEER

**NICODEMUS**

Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It's us. Only us.