Chapter 53: Undead Guy.
Damien sat with both arms folded across his chest, wearing the sort of grumpy expression that made it look as though the entire world had personally offended him.
His blue eyes stared ahead without the slightest trace of enthusiasm, while his lips remained tightly pressed together.
Soft creaks broke the quiet as two oversized wheels rolled steadily across the packed snow, leaving behind a pair of narrow tracks that stretched through the camp.
The chair itself had been forged almost entirely from black metal, sturdy enough to withstand the frozen wasteland, with reinforced iron rims wrapped around the wheels to keep them from sinking into the snow.
Walking behind it was Hannah, both hands resting proudly on the handles as she pushed her latest creation along at a leisurely pace. She admired it for a moment before glancing at Damien’s permanently miserable face.
"Stop looking like someone just buried your favourite corpse," she sighed. "It’s not that bad. At least now you can move around without your undead carrying you everywhere."
Damien pouted.
"I like my undead. They add to my growing popularity, but this just makes me look like any mundane guy."
Hannah’s naturally endowed chest rose and fell.
"Wasn’t your undead the reason everybody was afraid of you?"
"Yes, and I liked it better when they feared me. Man, those were the days. Now I have to actually stand in line to receive supplies."
Hannah chuckled lightly. The wheelchair eventually rolled to a halt at the back of a long line, which only made Damien even grumpier.
"If you want, Damien, I can stand in line for both of us. You can roll around the camp. Besides, it’ll be good for you to exercise your arms."
Damien’s face immediately beamed. Without a second thought, he turned the wheelchair and frantically pushed the two wheels.
"See you when I see ya, Hannah."
Hannah watched him practically fly away. She was fascinated by how quickly he had recovered. It had only been a week since the incident, and yet he could already move most parts of his body, save for his legs. The only downside to Damien’s status effect was the fact that it didn’t allow the camp’s healers to heal his body with their Dormant Abilities.
... ...
Damien’s wheelchair rolled to a gentle stop, the wheels softly skidding across the packed snow. His attention was caught by a small gathering a short distance away.
A handful of men and women sat around a crackling fire, warming their hands while quietly chatting amongst themselves.
A few children chased one another through the snow nearby, their laughter carrying surprisingly far across the otherwise peaceful encampment.
Damien nudged one of the wheels with his hand, allowing the chair to roll a little closer.
The conversations gradually died down.
Several pairs of eyes turned toward him, curious rather than fearful. Ever since the explosion that had devastated the Eidolon army, word of Damien’s reckless stunt had spread throughout the camp. Most people had never spoken to him before, but almost everyone knew who he was.
"Hey, you’re that guy."
A little boy, no older than six or seven, pointed directly at Damien’s nose.
"That guy who? I’m known by many men and by many names."
The little boy skipped closer before casually slapping Damien’s thigh.
"You’re the creepy corpse guy."
Damien scoffed, turning the wheelchair slightly before brushing the boy’s hand away.
"Hands off, little gremlin. Listen up. I’m not the creepy anything. I’m the King of Death... FEAR ME."
Damien ruffled the boy’s hair, but instead of looking intimidated, the child burst into carefree laughter.
"Oh, so it’s true. You really are delusional."
Damien nearly barked.
"What? I’m not delusional. Who’s saying that about me? Give me a name."
The little boy only laughed harder.
The adults around the fire exchanged amused glances, a few failing to suppress quiet chuckles of their own. Damien spent most of his time wandering the camp with the sort of permanently grumpy expression that warned people to stay away.
None of them had expected him to argue with a child so earnestly, much less lose the argument. It made the infamous hero of the camp seem strangely approachable.
"You’re also here to pay your respects to Leslie and Paige?" the boy suddenly asked.
Damien went silent.
"I see, so this is like a funeral of some sort. That explains the atmosphere, but I don’t think either Leslie or Paige would want me here. They deserved it, but I was still their killer."
He lifted his head.
"I already paid my respects long before coming back to camp."
It was a lie, but the people bought it. They wore understanding expressions that mirrored Damien’s exhausted eyes. He made it seem as though he had tried everything he possibly could to save them but failed to do so. A typical story of the underdog surviving to see the next day, only to end up becoming the hero admired by all.
"Andrea was right, these people are really simpletons."
Damien bid farewell to the little boy and carried on. It had been a while since he had left his tent, so he intended to fully enjoy his afternoon.
Soon he found himself behind a long row of tents that stretched in a long line ahead. The place was pretty isolated, except for a single familiar figure walking in the distance.
Damien didn’t turn around. He rolled his wheels forward.
Vincent’s black walking stick met the ground with a sort of gentle grace, the sound echoing just loudly enough for Damien to hear.
Vincent’s figure passed by without a word. Damien was strangely relieved. Vincent struck him as the sort of man who did whatever he wanted, an egoist with enough power to back up his unstable state.
"Hey, you’re that undead guy. Damien."
Damien suddenly felt his wheelchair come to a halt. His hands were still pushing at the wheels, but it refused to move.
He gave up and turned his head. Vincent was holding on to the handles.
"Yeah, I’m the undead guy. And you’re a member of the Round Table, Vincent."