Macabre Maquis

"Elves." the gent of twenty-two harvests old spat. "I'll never understand what purpose they serve. About as useful as cockroaches and more deadly than a red scorpion." Arijit's once beautifully rich medium brown complexion now ashen, branded with the most exquisitely delicate lace-like lines scribed in an unnatural sickly white. Fairer skinned victim's skin presented the same affliction but in an inky black. It was not acquired by choice. Yet it is what brought this misfit band together.

There was no cure for this disease, this inherently magical affliction. There seemed to be no rhyme or logic as to why any of them contracted it.

Bitterly Arijit laughed to himself. If it wasn't for this accursed mark they would all still be living their separate lives. None of them would have ever met. Their backgrounds were as vast as their races and species. And yet here they are, all wretched outcasts. Each tethered to an invisible hourglasses as the sands of time slip through frighteningly quick. Fortunate individuals might have the sands suspended for a time.

But it was never long enough.

What seemed like a decorated tattoo in the eyes of the ignorant, was in fact is a magical parasitic infection; the more the marks grew the more the tainted magic overtook the magically receptive host, burning through their vitality and life force. Even the 'elders' never reach thirty harvests old. Cold dirt buried the all too simple handmade casket before they could live to reach it.

Magically or otherwise there was no cure.

The mark had become the branding of the Macabre Maquis; their unique fighting force trained to curb and contain the Elves, the frontlines to keep the monsters at bay; protecting the very populous that shuns the Maquis. Some of his friends chose to see the curse as a divine blessing giving them purpose. Arijit did not. Very few of their numbers saw this life to be a better one than they had left. Arijit still remembers what was stolen from him nearly six harvests back. He was well educated. Lack was not a word in his vocabulary as would be expected of a prince. The prized jewel of his family. The day his mark appeared was when everything came crashing down.

Shortly after awaking he happened to notice the mark on his shoulder. At the time he thought his sisters had been playing around again, using him as a template to practice mehndi as he slept. He assumed he would just wash it off in the bath. Day after day he would scrub his skin nearly raw. The mark did not budge. Even worse was the mark was growing at an alarming rate. Barely a week later and his shoulder was white, the design spreading outward. Nothing remained but white where the mark originated.

Countless times the scene played in his mind the moment his father discovered this vile affliction. Never once had he seen him react with nothing but strength. Forever branded in his thoughts is his father's look of horror, pure disgust twisting his face upon seeing that incriminating mark. Arijit felt as if he had done the worst thing possible when he had done nothing at all. His father disowned him, banished him, as if he were a lowly peasant. Stripped of everything he had ever known. Even now he bitterly recalled watching his own lavish funeral procession from a distance. It was as if his father was attempting to erase his own son.

Arijit's story was not unique. All of the Maquis had similar tales. Each one finding themselves in the hands of their patron.

"Lady Death." Shaken from his contemplation Arijit was startled to see the tall woman appear. He never knew what role she had in this grand scheme. He had his suspicions that she was just some magic user willing to aid them yet would appear and disappear at will. Others believed she was the divine death god but Arijit found that to be preposterous. Why would an entity who's sole purpose is to take lives bother with the Maquis at all?

"Where is Gregor?" concern filled his words realizing his friend was not with her.

"He sleeps in my shadow. He has found peace at last." Her words soft, caring, yet it did not dull the wrenching news they brought. Shock pulsed across Arijit's features forcing him to bite back the tears welling up.

"His troop was able to make significant headway but the Elves still hold the far end of the valley. I need your group to finish what he started."

Clenching his jaw determinedly he nodded his head. This is what their existence had become. Dark heroes of a sort, battling endlessly. Arijit wouldn't do this for the ungrateful peasants who recoil at their very presence. He would finish this battle in Gregor's memory. A flawed man to be sure but still a true friend and mentor.

Magical flame wings burst from his shoulder blades, blazing bow materializing from his fingertips.

"Maquis, the Lady calls! Fall in!"

Obediently the magically tattooed soldiers followed the command.