arrow Another Realm - Dalrin Castle - Guarding the storehouse
Darrow shivered uncomfortably under his short half cloak, the pristine red interior of the cloak lacking the fur or wool to be anything resembling warm, the cotton exterior blocking the characteristically cold winter winds not at all. Darrow had never cared for the extravagant cloaks, but they were mandatory attire for every castle guard, a status symbol his Lord enjoyed flaunting to the lesser nobles that visited the relatively small castle. For a simple guard wearing such an extravagant black cloak with red silk lining was hardly common in these rough lands. Dalrin Castle was thirteen miles in land of the border between the civilized nation of Tantra and the steppe wastes of the Kalgan lands, and while it saw little action like the border forts, it was considered vital in the defense of any barbarian invasion; the final bastion of Tantra.
Of course, no barbarian invasion had happened in hundreds of years, Tantra had been at peace for so long that defense was rarely truly considered; and as a result Dalrin Castle was just some backwater Lord's Hall that those in the capital lands looked down as lesser than them. Darrow's Lord, Faldar Dalrin, was a young Lord perhaps two winters older then Darrow whom had lived nineteen years. He had taken the Throne after his father had died of illness earlier this summer, and most in the Castle loved him. He was kind to his retainers, kind to his subjects and seemingly kind to everyone he encountered.
Darrow had only truly met his Lord once, when Faldar's father had sworn him and the other guards in some three winters ago when Darrow was still sixteen. He had seemed a shy man, rarely meeting the eyes of any around him. When he had ascended to his Throne that had all changed, and it seemed he became a man of great character if the gossip was to believed. Other gossip existed, unmarried and showing no interest in such it seemed he favored the company of men, or so was the rumor. In the lands of Tantra that was not frowned upon, but a Lord was expected to continue his line and his apparent refusal put a dark spot on the Throne as a whole.
"Guard." A voice from the left of his post called, Darrow was a low ranking guard, and as such he guarded the store house near the rear of the castle. It had no action what so ever, and no visitors or even much to look at other than the stone walls and the wooden storehouse itself. Occasionally a shy serving lass or two would come, giggling as they pushed past him to get something. Darrow was considered, at least by most standards, an attractive man. A strong jaw, high cheek bones, a rough dark stubble and short messy black hair with soft green eyes he was the muse of many of the serving girls who frequented the castle, the charming guard of the store house was apparently his nickname.
So when he turned, he expected one such lass. Standing some ten paces away, with a thick cloak hiding his frame and the large hood hiding his features the man was lithe in frame, but around the same 5'7" of Darrow himself.
"Halt! Who goes?" Darrow demanded as he tightened his reached for the winged spear he had laying against the wall of the storehouse. The man threw his hood down quickly, looking around with some apprehension. Darrow froze instantly, quickly though he regained his senses and dropped to one knee and averted his gaze downward.
"My Lord! I apologize!" Darrow stammered, wincing as he thought of the Guard Captain berating his foolishness and not realizing the cloak the man was wearing was far to expensive to be anyone but his lord, in its brilliant purple. He could try to make excuses for the night, but that would only get him flogged and berated.
"Rise, rise. Faldar insisted, reaching down and nearly hauling him up by his pauldrons. Darrow made sure to keep his posture straight but his eyes looking both at but beyond his Lord.
"What can I do for you, my Lord?" Darrow said firmly, though somewhere in the back of his mind he had a strong idea what was about to be asked of him.
It had seemed not only serving girls had noticed him.
"You are as cute as they say, but so stiff. Relax, relax." Darrow stifled a laugh, the sheer absurdity of his situation forcefully relaxing him as he focused simply on not laughing at his Lord. Darrow had no interest in entertaining the man, but it was unlikely he had have much choice if he insisted.
Perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was divine intervention, but the high pitched crash of air sent all thoughts to itself. Somewhere, just beyond the castle gate something had happened, as if something had imploded and sucked all the air into itself. Within seconds wails of horror broke the brief silence, and Darrow reacted quickly. Grabbing his spear and shielding his Lord Darrow quickly escorted the man to the rear door he exited from.
"Get to safety." Faldar nodded, fleeing into the dark portal and barring it behind him.
The horn of alarm followed. Attack.
Darrow charged from the storehouse to the front gate, a short sprint. What met the young armsman was indescribable. Scaling the walls like some sort of massive insect came horrors beyond comprehension. Simply setting eyes upon them made ones vision swim, a fuzzy blackness overwhelming the periphery of ones vision. The things were shrouded in madness, but what was determinable was roughly six feet in height, rolling waves of fuzzy black making their shape seem ever changing and beyond Darrow's limited mental capacity to understand.
What they were doing to the guards on the wall, however, was obvious. Screams of horror and pain, limbs torn and chests opened these beasts tore through flesh and steel with the same ease, their whirling masses tearing stone from pillars and shattering minds. Vaguely Darrow could hear someone shouting orders, but it sounded distant and lacked the conviction it needed to truly rally any defense.
Soon the creatures were in the courtyard, and soon Darrow found himself hefting his spear and thrusting with trained precision at a formless shape, as he thrust something batted his edge aside, a sharp metallic ring awakening Darrow's mind and allowing him to function once more. Shorting his grip on the haft and using the unparalleled point adjustment of the spear he short thrust at the form, as it hacked downward with a shapeless blade Darrow suddenly brought his lead hand up as if curling a barbell, the rear hand dragging along, the shaft of the weapon now at chin level he thrust rapidly, in short strokes that changed angle widely from 'ankle' if the beast had any, to 'head'. Blade met flesh, and the shapeless horror wailed, its scream of horror jarring Darrow. His senses lost he stumbled ineffectively, thrusting weakly from his guard. As he over extended on a thrust the shapeless form coiled its upper half around his lead arm. The steel bracers, the mail underneath, even the long sleeved gambeson all vanished with such force Darrow barely registered what happened. From just below the elbow of his left arm, left handed Darrow's lead, his arm was gone, taken by the shapeless horror.
Darrow heard a scream, so blood curdling and pained he could never believe it was his own. Collapsing to his knees, Darrow stared blankly at his left arm, holding the stump with his right hand and trying to move fingers that no longer existed. Blood poured from the horrific wound, the clear marks of teeth along what remained of the flesh below the elbow, the jagged wound likely a fatal one.
In his shell shocked horror, Darrow never saw the shapes descend on him. Never saw the fabric of reality tear asunder, only blackness and anguish. The creatures dragged him, and others through the portal in reality.
arrow The Grasslands of Empraye - Sigil
Darrow awoke roughly, bolting up right and haphazardly feeling for his spear with his left hand. His left arm moved with some effort, like a heavy weight was at the end of it. He quickly awoke fully, eyes darting to his left hand in horror as he realized he could not feel his fingers. Where was once his left arm sat a hunk of black rock, so dark it seemed to absorb the light around it. It was shaped like an arm, vaguely proportionate to his own frame, the hand curled into a permanent grip as if holding the shaft of a spear. A slot for such a weapon in the hand, with strange spines seemingly for grip on the inside. The arm was heavy, many times heavier than an arm of flesh and blood, it would not be unreasonable to say it weighed forty pounds.
As Darrow gazed upon his alarm simply rose, the thoughts flooding back to him in horrific wave after wave. Without control and without thought Darrow screamed, to no one and for no one, he simply wailed in horror. Everyone he knew was dead, everything he knew dead. His arm was gone, replaced by some horrific chunk of blackness not so dissimilar to the creatures themselves, but more defined and readily understandable.
His scream of horror nearly broke into another when he finally gazed around himself. Thrust into the skyline, a massive structure beyond his comprehension rose into a sky so bizarre his mind nearly shattered anew. This was not Tantra, this wasn't even a foreign land. That sky existed no where in his world, that horrible sky. The stench came next, of horrible rot, decay, of the dead. It was not a smell Darrow was used to, a simple guard in a peaceful nation he had never actually used his spear in malice. The smell of the dead was overpowering, and it nearly made him retch.
His mind racing, Darrow stumbled to his feet uneasily. The heavy stone arm weighed his left side, and with some effort he hauled it up and laid it against his stomach, cupping the underside with his right arm and using his entire body to try and hold it up. His spear was no where to be found, and he found he was still wearing his armor and short cloak, and most reassuring the arming sword at his right hip.
With a heavy inhale of breath he shuffled toward the city that touched the horrific sky, hoping for answers.
