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 Posted: Tue Dec 19, 2006 6:02 pm
I will be posting parts of stories (mostly rough drafts) here for all of you to enjoy. Each will be labled so you know which correspond with eachother if they end up fractured. I hope that those of you that read them will share their opinions with me about how I could make them better, what they liked and what they did not like. I am always open to critique but not slandering. Thankyou for your time and I hope you all enjoy these tales that I will share in this land of words that tease the sight of our imagination.
Index
-Un Named Story: Prologue-
-Un Named Story: Chapter 1-
-Short Story Prologue: Veil of Night-
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Posted: Tue Dec 19, 2006 6:03 pm
[Un Named Story: Prologue] It started as it usually did for this dream...... A bird’s eye view of a sea of black and crimson flowing across the landscape into the horizon. An even thump thump of armored feet colliding with the packed ground in near parade ground sync to the steady beat of war drums. Armored columns of black clad soldiers, each face concealed behind featureless war masks moving forward with a steady flow and an air of grim purpose. To any who may have watched this it would have inspired an equal portion of awe and dread as these waves of faceless warriors clad in midnight and stained in blood passed with the rumbling thunder of thousands of foot falls echoing into the fading light of the setting sun.
Banners and pikes were raised to armored shoulders, pennants cracking sharply in the evening breeze, each bearing the crimson triangle array of the countries standard with each legions symbol emblazoned over the central triangle in the array.
Five he could pick out right away the rest blurred in the vision of memory and fantasy. The Black Hand Legion, the black hand print contrasting to the red of the triangle; simple yet absolute. The Blood Fury Legion, its bloodied sword mirroring its blood stained leader: Keirstaad. The Song of Ishandruir, the silver image of the great mountain that served as the legions home serving too as their rallying banner. The Beckoning End, the fanged skull, a black rose clasped between its teeth, so much like the beautiful and death brining commander Ashara. The Wrath of Lokhranis, a black vortex the symbol of its patron God to reminding those that fell against them of what awaited upon the passing of one life to the other.
His view skimmed along the sea of soldiers to the heads of the columns where the mounted commanders rode regally upon their kaz'rin'sha dragon mounts and before moving into the horizon where a wall of mountains rose to greet the advancing legions. From there time seemed to slip forward in a blur of color as the men and women marched forward before it slowed to normal speed when the legions came to a halt before a mighty city blocking a mountain pass that seemed to become narrower and narrower to a point where the city was wedged between the two chains as if it were a stopper in a bottle of wine. This was the legions’ target, the bastion of the enemy that they hoped to have caught unawares and trapped.
Then his view seemed to gravitate to a single mounted being clad head to toe in black armor that consisted of sliding plates, an ornate pair of pauldrons, gauntlets and boots set over them, small black scrolls glowing with crimson runes attached to the pauldrons fluttering in the gentle breeze.
The figure twisted from side to side to as if checking those around him, the plates of his armor sliding easily with his movements as if part of his body instead of a shell encompassing it. The armor and the markings on the armor spoke for themselves to those with knowledge of the Black Legion. This was a Warden, an enforcer of the country’s will, one versed in magic and melee. But the swords at its side seemed to take up all of his view. Ornamental yet sturdy enough to do combat again and again, those were his blades. Oh how his consciousness enjoyed tormenting him during his only escape from the pain he faced awake, showing him what he once was and had before he had been taken, beaten, broken…
War horns sounded twice and the masses moved into motion. The front of the columns holding fast as the middle of the legions moved to either side then forwards to extend the lines as the back moved forwards to fill the positions left empty by the middle. Massive armored forms of Bashkar moved to the very front to plant their interlocking tower shields into the ground as pikes were slid through the small slots left open as archers moved forward behind the shield wall with every eleventh and twelfth slot for a Bashkar was left empty as columns began to form up in the gaps to prepare for advance. Pockets of Void Callers began to chant together and conjure the magical energies that flowed throughout the area into parasol shaped barriers over the primary formations. Commanders broke ranks and galloped off to their assigned areas and barked orders, forming up men quicker and correcting flaws in formations as quickly as they could while engineers began to move the heavy siege weaponry forward behind the formations, tilting them upwards and eyeballing the trajectories of their projectiles.
In a matter of minutes a marching formation was quickly unfolding into a prepared assault line, odd barriers popping up as flickers of torchlight rushed along the distant cities walls. The last few drizzles of warriors and siege engines moved forwards and the last barriers began to flicker into life when great balls of flame arced up over the cities walls to carve blazing trails through the darkened sky before impacting with great roars of flame upon the barriers, a cry rising from the unprepared Warpweavers holding the barriers intact.
Once more the war horns sounded and the siege engines located behind the barriers let loose volleys of flaming bolts to arc like comets through the sky before the majority fell short and the lucky few impacted upon the now active barriers that the city boasted.
Engineers shouted to one another as they attempted to adjust the siege engines as the command "Hold!" echoed through the formations. Another blast of the war horns rent the night air and once more the siege engines let loose their deadly rain to shoot through the sky, more impacting upon the barriers around the city as the engineers shouted and toggled the finer adjustments to their machines as other reloaded.
Back to himself his vision flew as the rest of the formations and warriors went through their orders as they had played through in his mind so many times. More flaming bolts arced in both directions across the sky as he watch through his own eyes, yet unable to move his own body all he could do is let the events unfold...
The next thing he knew his body was drawing the swords Ash'relar and Zem'sakul and waving them above his head while uttering a rallying cry. "Vash thek omveron! Kas renil shir nos Xyan'ver!" let fly from his lips as he urged his mount forward and he felt the ancient words swell in him. 'Slay the enemies! Bring forth the glory of Xyan'ver!' had rallied many behind him when he was a Warden but it did him little now as his memory spurred him onward with the column behind him expanding out in a line behind the charging commanders.
As the first wave advanced the many gates and porticuli opened and let forth steams of grey clad soldiers in their ungainly plate armor, the luckier in mithrill crafted by the common elves or better suited dwarven armor. But these were merely expendable mercenaries employed to defend the city.
His legs were strapped to the saddle of his mount and gripping its sides as he felt the corded muscles bunch and spring with each stride, propelling him forward towards the oncoming enemies. The lines crashed and as he galloped by a soldier he took the man's head off with a cleave of his sword. His arms weaved in intricate patters, parrying, attacking, disengaging as he plowed through the lines.
The thunder of foot falls and a feral roar drew his attention as a twenty foot giant clad head to toe in plate mail that could have crushed several scores men under its weight and often had. Keirstaad, massive chieftain of the Bashkar plowed through enemy ranks like a spearhead, his spikked citadel shield a battering ram that smashed its way through the ranks, his feet crushing those unlucky enough to fall under them. Like giant armored chicks following their larger mother his smaller Bashkar followers followed behind him, four hefting a massive battering ram as they charged after the pathway their chieftain carved towards the closing portculli.
Turning back to his tasks he felt this dream body move in the flow the had been pounded into him so well it was instinct in battle as he had carved his way through this campaign, taking life as he passed, blood splattering his black armor. But as his dream body moved he could have mentally counted down the seconds before that moment of disaster.
Right on time the ballistae’s bolt broadsided his mount sending him and his trusted steed tumbling, the bowling reptile screeching as the last vestiges of life began to trickle from its wound, the bolt having broken off in the tumble.
When he came to a stop it was a wonder he was not dead, several ribs, an arm broken and his legs still strapped to his saddle beneath his mount. If it had not been a dream he would have screamed in agony as he felt the dream body do so, in reality the scars of the wounds aching in sympathy. As darkness washed over him once more he felt a shudder as the dream began to end and he could truly sleep once more, he didn’t care to relive what happened afterwards, he had to face it when he woke.
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Posted: Tue Dec 19, 2006 6:05 pm
Un Name Story: Chapter 1 Drath felt himself rising up from sleep. It was that pleasant feeling that one had when you were straddling the border of alertness and unconsciousness that made you want to stay as you were and just float there in warmth away from the trivialities and trials of the waking world. The feeling of being submerged beneath a lake, the light playing in through the water warped and accompanied by muffled sounds seeping into it from where others stirred beyond the border of waking. Then he felt as if he were rising upwards as things became more and more distinct before he finally emerged into his dank cell.
He was greeted by the steady dripping sound of the water that snaked its way through the cracks in his little eight by eight kingdom to settle in dirty pools in the depressions that dotted the dungeons lower level where he and the rest of the “highly dangerous” types were housed.
The laughing and cursing of the early morning guards followed by the whip cracks and more raurus laughter was as it had been all seven odd years of his imprisonment and more than once he had fallen under the lash they now used on some other poor soul to entertain the morning watch.
Drath directed his gaze to one of the larger pools of water as he did every so often and gazed at his reflection; the gaunt, almost starved look, golden tanned skin paled from all the time under the earth, the once vibrant silver of his hair dulled by grime and plastered to his head, sharp cut features marred by the scars of torture and beatings, his nose slightly crooked from the three times it had been broken, and then there were his eyes…. The right one a molten red the left an arctic blue, but where once they shone bright with pride now they were tired and defeated, sunken back into his face to complete the look of a tortured, defeated prisoner.
A clatter from behind him drew him back from his reverie and redirected his gaze to the other side of the bars that separated him from the rest of the world.
Two of the guards were grunting and swearing as they shoved a struggling man into the cell across from Drath’s. He was big and burley, his muscles bulging as he strained against them. His square face was smashed in many places and the stubble of a beard hid the endings of several scars. Longs tasseled brown hair matted with sweat was plastered to his head.
“Ye damned pigs! All high an mighty! Thinks ya can do as ye please without getting punished!” he bellowed. “I’ll be out o’ here soon enough! Just ye wait ‘n see! An’ when I am you’ll…” His rant was cut short by a swift knee to the groin by one of the guards before they shoved the man through the entry and shut the bars.
“Yea, we’ll see about that ya poor b*****d. This whole block is slated for execution in a week; it’s why they went through all the trouble o’ movin ya down here. I’d love ta see ya weasel your way out o’ this one.” One of the guards said with a laugh before they both moved off down the hall trading jokes about how the “poor” prisoners’ faces would look when they were swinging from the gallows.
-X- -X- -X-
Drath sat in his corner, still mulling over what he had heard. So he was going to die, that had brought a conflict of emotions upon him. On one had this torturous un-life that he was living trapped beneath the earth would end and he would finally be free. But on the other, what if there was still something in life for him? He still had his little sister and father alive for all he knew, there had not been a day that he had not thought of them at least fleetingly, the thought that they were still alive was perhaps the smallest beacon of hope in an otherwise darkened world. But when he thought about it, it was nothing for he could never see them again, already dead to them and his kin, another faceless corpse upon the field of casualties.
Executing him made sense though, in a perverse way. The first few years of his capture he had been under torture almost daily, but after a few years of tightlipped defiance they eventually let up untill they only threw him in every now and then as entertainment, the token Prisoner of War. Either way he was another mask placed amongst the war memorial at Lokhranis Citadel, his name carved in runes and his rank emblazoned on the forehead. It did not really matter to him any more, he was near dead and now he would be dead.
-X- -X- -X-
“Hey you! In the cell across from me, with the pointy ears.” Once again Drath was pulled from his thoughts back into the real world. His mind was his last bastion of privacy and the repeated calling of the real world in this place annoyed him to no ends but there was little he could do about it. Looking in the direction of the calling he saw the man who had been placed in the cell across from him crouching next to the bars, a hand over his mouth as if it would muffle the sound from the guards hearing.
“Yes…” he managed to croak out. He hadn’t used his voice in ages and the rasping made it obvious.
“How long an’ what’r ye in here for?” the man asked.
“S..seven years, but as for why, does it really matter? We’ll all be dead soon enough.” Drath said.
“Ah don’t be so down, I was jus’ askin. Besides I’ll be out o’ here soon enough, the day they’re gonna execute us to be exact in the middle o’ when they take us out for the walk, I’ll be waltzin through the city, but I’ll need yer help if that gonna happen, I can nay do it alone. If ye’ll help me I’ll help ye.” A grin growing on his face as if the thought of freedom would assure that anyone would agree.
“Yes I am aware they will march us through the city, chained to each other to be pelted by rotten food. No need to remind me of one of the many sick human traditions…” scoffed Drath.
“Hey hey hey! I did’n say that, alls I’m askin ya ta do is help me get free and I’ll help you get free.” The man said, suddenly on the defensive.
“And so you will leave all the other prisoners to die then?” Drath continued taking on the offensive his voice rising. He had amassed quite a pool of aggression over his imprisonment and unfortunately for the man across the way he was the first potential outlet for it, it was not as if he had held any regard for the other prisoners, he was simply using them as an excuse for an argument. In truth he did not care about the others imprisoned down here with them, the mass majority deserved it for the crimes committed against their own kin
“Whoa whoa! Shhhh! Don’t let them guards hear ya mate, I don’t want my surprise ruined for em. Jus’ think it over will ya?” the man hissed, his face suddenly pale as he glanced over in the guards direction. “Listen, I’ll ask ya again later, just calm down. An don’t tell those damned guards!”
-X- -X- -X-
A week had passed, the day had come, Drath sat on his cot waiting for the guards to come and round him up. He had waited all night and had endured the guards prodding fun at how on the prisoners last night on this world he was praying to some heathen god, but if only they knew what he was doing, if only humans like them had appreciation for his meditating, attempting to receive an inner peace that would bear him through when the noose tightened around his neck and the last vestiges of life he had drained from his body before his soul passed on. To him a god was not something that dictated your life, it was something that was an aspect of life, something that held sway in different things and actions, if one killed meaninglessly you were closer to the god of Death than to perhaps the god of Knowledge.
The rattling of bars down at the end of the line of cells followed by a “Git yer arse out here ya animal, its time ta go swingin.” Marked the final countdown to when ever man or woman in this block would be publicly executed.
Drath could hear them moving down the line, the cell doors being opened, the resigned shuffles of feet and the clink as bracers and chains were attached to wrists and ankles before being clipped to a longer chain.
Soon after the guards came to his cell and opened the door. Drath didn’t resist, he simply got up and put out his hands to be cuffed. “There’s a good boy, seven good years we’ve been together and ya know what comin and aint gonna resist it eh? Well dun worry ye’r lil pointy eared elfy head, ya wont have to come back here after this.” one of the guards said as he closed the heavy iron cuffs over Drath’s wrists and locked them to the chain of prisoners.
Next came the man from the cell across his, his resistance accompanied by declarations of “I’ll be out o’ here today ya pigs! Just ye see! I’ll be out o’ here!” more than making up with the willingness of Drath.
After some six odd minutes of struggling they managed to cuff and chain him before moving off. When they were a reasonable distance away the man turned to Drath once more. “So ye thought about what I had ta say? An sorry for the theatrics gots ta keep me reputation so they dun get suspicious.” he said, a wide grin on his face revealing missing and blackened teeth. Drath simply nodded and the man smiled and turned back. “By the way,” he said, “me names McDougle.”
-X- -X- -X-
The prisoners were led up a winding stair their clanking restraints accompanied by the occasional ‘thunk’ of a guards staff to goad the stragglers forward. It did not take long for them to reach the surface, the first of the prisoners passing through the obscenely bright square of white light that lead to the surface.
At first the sunlight stung Drath’s eyes, seven long years under ground did not help with the transition either and he was not given the time to adjust as the guards moved the line of prisoners forward. He stumbled the first few steps, unable to see where he was going, and fell before being tugged back to his feet by what he could only guess was a guard. After that he tried to put one foot in front of the other as best he could.
He felt the first impact of rotten produce before he saw it, before he saw anything else. The outcries from in front and behind him told him that the bombardment from the citizens had begun in full. It had always been a mystery to him why the humans did this. Was it because they reproached the criminals or was it some other fragment of the human culture that he would never under stand? He did not have any more time to contemplate this as something wet that smelled as if it had passed its prime nearly six months ago splattered onto his side to be followed by an ever quickening stream of waste. He and the rest of the prisoners seemed to travel through a tunnel of abuse as they wound their way through the city. It seemed forever under the barrage of refuse and the odd insult or rock.
The farther they went the more and more he began to see again, the world first resolving as distant shapes before finally resolving into a clear outline of a cluttered city, buildings rising up in cramped patterns and in ugly design. He could see before him crowds of people, almost all of them in the rags and clothing of the lower class, an odd chain mailed form of a city guard in the crowd. Almost all of them worse expressions of disgust and held bags of refuse ready to throw, the remaining few averting their gaze or with looks of open pity. He would have felt the tiniest bit of concealment from the pity expressed by the few if the majority had not been hefting rotten produce, their eyes scanning the stream of prisoners, searching for targets like hawks searching for prey.
-X- -X- -X-
At last they passed through the gate, stinking, angered and wet from the bombardment of waste. Already masses of citizens crowded around the erected gallows, all fifteen positions fitted with fresh ropes, black hooded executioners standing by to secure the walking corpses to the lines that would ensure the last vestiges of life they contained were slowly and painfully drained from them during the roarus cheers of the citizens during the occurrence of the morbid event.
Drath and the rest of the prisoners were led to the front of the gallows to a volley of cheers. As the cheers subsided a short round man clad in all the silky fineries of the upper class stepped from the crowd to stand before the arrayed prisoners.
“Ahem! Ahem!” he coughed, trying to make himself heard above the roar of the crowd.
“It is my honor, as lord of our beloved city, to present to you these criminals for execution!” the crowd erupted into cheers once more. “The prisoners arrayed before you have been charged with heinous crimes ranging from murder to conspiring with the dark forces to destabilize our beloved country. And so-“ his well preformed speech was cut short by a chorus of “boo”s from the already fired up crowd and the arc of two tomatoes. In I wise course of action the lord retreated to a safe distance, motioning to the guards as he did so to begin the event.
-X- -X- -X-
The execution had started, one by one guards came, unlocked the cuffs connecting the fated prisoners to the chain, and leading them up the steps to the gallows where black hooded executioners tightened the nooses around their neck before the process was repeated.
Drath watched them go, looks of resignation, terror, contempt plastered on each of their faces as they were led up and roped, left to stare out at the crowd of their persecutors, awaiting the pull of a lever that would send them plummeting the foot and a half they needed before they began to die, their last images of life a sea of jeering faces.
The man two places before him was led away when McDougle turned and grinned at him before turning back to face forward. The guard and the prisoner were halfway up the gallows stairs when it happened; a well aimed rock arced out of the crowd to impact perfectly upon the top of one of the guard’s helms, a low resounding gong like noise preceding the thump as the guard collapsed to the ground. A harsh cry from the guard’s partner brought the rest to alert. Wary eyes scanned the crowd looking for signs of suspicious activity while a small group broke away from the chain of prisoners to sift through the crowd, slowly to disappear into the crowd like meat into a beast.
Once more McDougle turned to Drath and smiled. “Just a lil more mate, we’ll be out o’ this.” he said before turning intently to the crowd as if searching for a familiar face. Drath cocked his eye brow at this. What was this man talking about? All he had done was kept his mouth shut and now he was talking of breaking out together as if they were conspirators. Drath’s tired and defeated brain, he could not think of how he intended to escape with the guards about and an angry crowd blocking the only logical escape: the out bound roads.
It was as the next two guards came towards McDougle that things truly began to unfold in full swing. One moment McDougle had been unclipped from the chain the next dozens of rocks arced from the crowd to pelt down upon the guards as two hooded and robed figures rushed from the sea of people towards the two men struggling with McDougle who had started thrashing the moment he saw the two split from the crowd.
Oblivious to their surroundings as they attempted to force McDougle to the gallows the guards were quickly closed upon, one figure drawing a dagger the other a mace. A stab and a clubbing latter the two guards lay on the ground their keys removed from their belts as one figure fiddled through them, trying each one in the braces attached to McDougle.
Finally one clicked and the bracers fell to the ground. One of the men grabbed McDougle and began to move him away but he dug his heels in.
“Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa! I need ta break him out too, he helped me.” he hissed, hitching his thumb over his shoulder back in Drath’s direction. With a shake of his head and a sigh the man holding the keys moved to Drath’s side and slipped one in, turning it around twice till a click sounded an the bracers released their iron grip upon him like a hound releasing its bite at the call of its master. The hooded man shook his head and turned to follow after his companion who had already begun hurrying McDougle into the screaming crowd.
-X- -X- -X-
Drath was oblivious to the screams as the crowd dispersed as the guards sifted through it, none too gently, to find the multiple assailants. He was oblivious to the fact that two dead guards lay at his feet and the chain of prisoners was being led away by what remained of the prison guard not sifting through a mire of panicked beasts. Drath simply stared at his freed hands as if his mind were unable to comprehend the fact that, after seven years, he was free of his bindings.
Immune to the cry of a guard at the sight of a freed prisoner, two dead guards at his feet, Drath stood there, dumbstruck. His mind had hit a dead end without the capability to back up and about face. It retained that stance until the ‘twang’ of a bow string and the ‘whoosh-thunk’ of an arrow taking flight past his shoulder an embedding itself in the ground.
His mind felt numb but his eyes widened as more arrows began to cross to his position. Primal instincts kicked in, the fear of death, the need to survive, seemed to grip his body, forcing his dumbstruck consciousness to turn his body around and place one foot in front of the other, forcing him to run, anywhere, just away from here and the arrows. Cries went up and guards gave chase to the fleeing Drath, stringing arrows to bow as they went and releasing them.
A bolt pierced his shoulder, the warm silver ichor of his blood seeping out around the wound and sending pain radiating out from it like a web of fire. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, prompting him forward, dulling the pain and fear and creating a tunnel vision. It seemed to be forever and nothing all at once for Drath, he could not think, he could barely recognize his body moving, a flare of pain was emanating from his shoulder.
But then another burst of pain from his chest as the tip of the arrow punctured his already scarred flesh. And then another and another burst to life as two more punched through him. Even with adrenaline and the force of fear his body began to slow, the adrenaline induced haze that had masked the pain pierced by the gathering numbers of beacons ignited from pain.
Blindly Drath stumbled, his ragged cloth stained with his blood, tiny gouts leaving their caverns carved into his flesh with every movement his frantic instincts forced them to execute. The tunnel of his vision seemed to blur further as the pain set in more, its burn overpowering and sweeping aside any dampening he may have had, bursting into his body with the brilliance of a thousand suns, threatening to over power him and blind him with their white hot brilliance.
He stumbled then, a simple misstep as the ground beneath him dropped away a few inches to dip into road. The already blurred world around Drath seemed to slip and churn, elongating and twist as he began to fall, another arrow zipping over his head as gravity grasped him and drew him tight to the bosom of earth.
A couple more arrows flew over head before a cheer of success as the pursuit saw their prey fall to the ground.
Drath lay there, his life’s blood slowly oozing out from the wounds, arrows sticking out of him like odd quills. He heard more than saw them approach, his vision hazy from the pain with little black dots dancing across it in a nauseating sensation. An armored boot cracked into his ribcage, sending him skidding a few feet with a pitiful groan. The guards chuckled and moved on, all save one.
This one knelt down next to Drath and sat him up on the side of the road, looking into his eyes, the eyelids flickering over them like guttering flames. The guard just shook his head, he was young, very young, Drath realized detachedly, as if from a distance as an observer to the end of some perverse drama about his current predicament.
“Poor b*****d.” the young guardsman said before standing once more and moving off. And so sat a haze eyed Drath, the pain a fog upon his eyes as he began to bleed out, the slow but steady flow of his ichor staining his clothes dark silver. Slowly but surely his mismatched eyes began to loose their already faded luster, darkness began to creep upon his vision as his body began to slow, preparing for the last ticks of his internal clock to go before chiming one last time.
-X- -X- -X-
It seemed like an eternity within an instant that he sat there, a timeless moment in which he could not muster the ability to move on. He could not tell how long it had been since the guards had left him there to die, he could not care either. His mind was barely functioning, the things around him, even the pain of his wounds, barely registering at all.
It was like darkness had begun to advance across his eyes, blotting out things not directly in front of him and threatening to block even those as it proceeded with its invasion, a precursor to the cold feeling that numbed one before they fell into slumber and then death.
But there was something new in his surroundings, a distant clop clop clop of something on the packed ground. Barely functioning eyes rotated towards the sound unconsciously. Blurred shapes turned a bend in the road, a line of horse drawn carts, globes of lantern light swinging from their sides. By this time Drath’s vision had been nearly obliterated, cold had set in from blood loss, turning his tanned skin a pale yellowish color.
Faint voices whispered from the carts as finally the darkness closed around Drath, tossing him upon the boat of unconsciousness awaiting the moment to ship him off to the land of the dead.
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Posted: Fri Feb 02, 2007 8:33 pm
It was night when they came, the soldiers. The screaming, the screaming. It still echoes in my head at night as I lie there, trying to shut it out. Mommy, Daddy, Ger’on, screaming. They took Ger’on and Daddy. They took them away and the screaming grew quieter, it was only Mommy left.
I couldn’t scream, Mommy said I couldn’t scream or they would take me too. That’s why she put by in the cupboard, I was still small enough to go in there. Even if I had wanted to I couldn’t have, I was too scared. The soldiers, they scare me. They have those evil masks, and their voices are always angry.
The next day mommy took me to the town square. I was looking at the castle when I saw them. The guards were there again. They had a lot of people up on a wood platform with ropes around their necks. A guard started talking to the crowd to make them look at him. Mommy turned my head away, she hurt my neck, she wouldn’t let me look. I heard more screaming, lots of screaming and crying. I managed to look back and I saw the people hanging below the platform. I saw Daddy and Ger’on. The look… the looks on their faces. They were so ugly, twisted and sad.
I want the looks on their faces out of my head, why are they always looking at me? They are always looking at me when I close my eyes and then the screaming starts again. I wish it would go away, it’s been so long…
I wanted to cry but I couldn’t, I was too scared. Always scared. Why am I always scared? There was more noise now, louder. The castle started to collapse and people screamed more. People ran. Mommy picked me up and ran. All I can remember is looking at the sky, the faded blue of the sky. That was the last day any of us ever saw the sky…
[1E224Y/o Mourning Rivers, First Harvest. Final Day Before ‘Darkening’]
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Posted: Sat Mar 03, 2007 1:13 pm
If I were to tell you this story it would not begin with a ‘Long, long ago…’ nor with a ‘When your father’s father…’ for it has not even been two decades since the time I will tell you of. Many have tried to push those dark times to the back of their minds for the wounds of that the Betrayer did to our world are still manifest in the daemons that still stalk the country side and the destruction that we still attempt to heal.
The prologue to our tale begins many ages back when Irkathos remained true to the teachings of Arcanum, serving mankind and steering clear of Fel Powers. He held no sway in the world, he simply was and would be Irkathos, Mage. I will skip the trivialities that lead to it but one, a person that gives into temptation for power falls, and Irkathos, a mage of mediocre power, could not counter these effects.
He was infused with Fel Powers, his own power amplified exponentially, but he remained a silent servant of the Darker Powers. Being a man of the blade and not the book I would not know why he grew so powerful, if it was because of some dormant darkness amplified or simply because those creatures powers that cannot enter our realm without the way being made clear for them had been deprived of servants with the great purges I will leave to the scholars to decide. All I know is that his influence was a plague that crept swiftly and unnoticed. In a single night he gathered his forces and disappeared, the gaping wounds left by the exodus of his followers astonishing destabilizing the countries for many weeks.
But then the true tale I tell begins;
Irkathos and his followers had simply disappeared off the map, retreating to the Wraith Whisper Swamps to the west. Time passed and the disappearance was put to the back of our minds as time wore on and our lives continued. In ignorance we did not look to find what the disappearing masses were doing until they marched upon our countries, misguided fools led by a leader that answered to powers that would use us to satisfy their needs.
Their first wave, initially fanatics, bent on a corrupting religion were easily repelled by the military forces defending the borders and cities. But this was only the first wave in many. I remember looking down at my son slumbering, imagining the wonders set for him when this happened, not imagining that in five years I would be assigned to defend him in battle when he ascended to magehood. The battles escalated as more and more skilled troops began to pour from the swamps accompanied by monstrosities of magic and flesh and beasts infused with Fel Energies.
Days dragged into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. Eight and a half had passed, and a seemingly endless tide of enemies poured into our lands, all bearing the ‘word’ of the One True Prophet. No commanders could imagine the new horrors that were unleashed from the imagination of a demented mind that began to stalk our people. Fear was the most constant emotion that we experienced. We were tired of war, tired of dieing at the hands of crazed mobs that fell upon us like waves upon a coast.
In an act of desperation a half mad General prepared an unsanctioned plan to oust Irkathos and strike him down. Hundreds of scouts were deployed into the swamps, each sent to track the strongholds of those curse spawned beings that called themselves our kin. A week, two weeks, three weeks passed. Not a scout returned. More were deployed, three returned but were of no use, each raving mad at the insanities the shifting mires and fog had opened up to reveal.
A third and final expedition was deployed. This time one and a half scouts returned, one dead, his torso locked in a rigormortis death grip to the back of the other, his face twisted in fear. The other barely coherent enough to pass on the markers to a fortress before passing out from fatigue.
That was all the General needed. Grand General Helios Mas’morrir. He rallied any soldiers brave or insane enough to follow him, my son lining up amongst them. The Armies of Helios we called ourselves, our banner the rising sun that we prayed would dissipate the shrouds of fog that shielded our enemies from sight.
Into the marshes we marched, my son beside me despite my misgivings. The swamps were treacherous, sifting bogs, quicksand, and the Shadow Stalkers prowling our flanks, pouncing and rending before disappearing into the fog that spawned them. One sixth of our allies fell on that march, but we drove ourselves on until we came to a spire in the swamps.
Our siege weapons had been lost far back, carried beneath the mire by their own weight. But even without them the tower seemed alone, unguarded and abandoned. Many thought it a trap, others simply believing the scout had found the wrong area.
Despite the appearance of the tower, siege ranks were formed before we marched in mass to the tower, shields borne and blades drawn. Not a single thing stirred during the advance, the clank of steel and slosh of water the only sound echoing in the miasma. As they approached the tower the first ranks broke and screamed, falling back as the following ranks rushed forwards. But it was no enemy that had driven back our men. It was the scouts.
All that had failed to return, pinned to the wall of the tower by spines of metal as dark as night and cold as a lich’s heart, a message of blood and entrails splayed over their heads. But that was not the most horrific of the pieces at our gaze. Each man looked as if he had been turned inside out and rearranged, reams of skin dangling off their bodies, the revealed muscles of their faces bunched as if preformed while they still lived.
“To all those that would oppose Irkathos, One True Prophet of the True Gods, travel North so that ye may see the face of truth and die upon it’s word.” It read.
Before we turned North the tower was set ablaze and we all watched in silent disgust as it crackled and collapsed until all lay beneath the mire.
Helios drove us like pack animals, many believing him insane with some private vendetta against Irkathos, but we all followed. No hardship we endured under the pace of marching was comparable to the horrors we had seen come across our kin.
The time in the swamps seemed to be blended into a single day, but we all knew it was longer despite the ever present dull gray light that filtered in. It could have been weeks we were there, each one of us covered in grime and blood, jumping at shadows and whisps, each time expecting a stalker to emerge and rend us in its maw before bounding off.
At long last though, we came across them, low buildings that began to grow gradually, small patties of lichen and fungi bearing mounds in front. People tended them, frail and gaunt, not even noticing our marching formations unless they disrupted the piles that bore their crops. We moved forwards, weapons drawn until we came to a great arch that lead down what might have been a submerged road.
Upon our path stood a robed figure, hunched and lopsided. “Welcome Ignorant Ones, to my master’s grand city. He bids you welcome and hopes that whatever gods you cling to in blindness exist long enough to sheppard your souls from the oblivion to come. You shall see the tru-“
He was silenced by an arrow from a leading archer, two more following after from different locations as if all three had had the same thought in mere fractions of a second between each other.
But then the mire exploded as warriors draped in sopping rags and bearing rusted weapons emerged like flying fish from the waters, horrors and Fel Beasts filtering through the veils of shadow and fog to fall upon our ordered formations.
To me the beginning and middle of the battle is a blur, my sword flying, blood plastering my armor so thickly that it slowed the movements of the plates around my joints. My son was a whirlwind of energies striking in all directions, he and his mage fellows cutting swathes through waves of enemies.
We fought foot by bloody foot through a mire of death, blood falling around us in ponds, staining the waters and ground red. Coagulated blobs bobbed at the surface next to the bodies of the fallen, already writhing with maggots and carrion feeders as every second more dropped into the sludge to join them.
I cannot tell you how long it took us to batter our way there, or if we were truly fighting in any direction at all. We simply came across the fortress, its twisted spires melting out of the miasma. This could only be our target, and as tired as we were we felt a surge pulse through our ranks that the goal, the destruction of the damned, was so close.
I was not one of the many that opened the way to the final battle, but I was there for the final events of our tale. This is no doubt what you all have longed to hear, the triumph of good over evil, the destruction of the threat to peace. I do not know if you will be unsatisfied with these events, but I tell them to you now;
There he stood, Irkathos the Betrayer of Kin, Dark Prophet of the Damned. We stood in his grand hall, a great balcony overlooking the bloodshed below between the brave men and women and the monstrosities engineered by a demented mind. My son and I stood under the arches at the back of the battalion of men that had filtered into the hall.
“Welcome! Welcome!” Irkathos cried as if he were bringing friends into his home. “Your travels have been harsh my friends. But know this peace will come at last when the Powers that Be are made manifest in this world once more and a haven of purity is at last restored!”
A murmur echoed through the crowd and a chorus of rejection to his words and insults were thrown like stones upon him. Weapons clattered as they were brought to bear and the front ranks advanced.
“Oh my friends.” Irkathos sobbed, his piteous words falling upon the deaf ears of hardened veterans and witnesses to his ‘purity’. “I had hoped that I would be able to show you the light, that this bloodshed may stop and purity brought to this world. I cannot bear this pain.”
The front half seemed to implode on itself as those in the back were flattened to the ground. My vision swam as I saw the robed figure approaching, black liquid falling from beneath the cowl like tears, the ground hissing wherever they landed and tiny cackles as miniature demons sprouted from his corrupted tears.
He walked straight past those floored, onto the balcony. He raised his hands to the heavens as if beseeching help from them. Nausea swept over me as the sky darkened and crimson drops began to rain down, each one tasting of iron. Pillars of darkness fell with them to be followed by screams as their magics touched those below, felling them in waves of pain. Monsters rose from murk to strike at those that had not died.
Irkathos moved back to his throne and looked upon those still struggling to stand from the effects of his spell. “My friends, please, listen to my words. Allow yourself to see the truth! I beg of you!” he pleaded.
“IRKATHOS!” roared a response from the towering form of Helios, just emerged from the stairs, resplendent in golden plate armor and silver chain. A mane of ebon hair poured from his dragon molded helm, a silver blade in one hand. Elite guard splayed around him like falcons of silver.
The Betrayer rose at this, his arms wide in welcome. “Helios! It has been too long! Oh I have waited for the day that would bring you back to me! I knew you would not break my heart once more! My trusted friend, please, convince your men of their wrongs and all will be forgiven.” He sang in a singsong voice.
“Will you stand with me again old friend?” he called, tentative steps forward pattering across the floor. He was stopped by the point of Helios’ blade.
I cannot tell you the whispered words passed between the two, the screams as nearly all of the Elite Guard were sucked into the ceiling by darkness wiped out any comprehension I could have gleaned from it.
A blur of motion flew between Helios and Irkathos. Helios’ blade striking and Irkathos seemingly deflecting with his hands. Many of us were on our feet by then, but we dared not interfere with the epic battle between the Sun and the Night that was portrayed before us.
A second, an eternity, it was all held within those timeless moments between Helios and Irkathos. Those that had stood once more were flattened by the release of a spell, Irkathos form shooting across the room to smash into his onyx throne. A beam of light formed by the lunging form of Helios carried him across the room, his lance of silver before him sinking into the darkened heart of Irkathos and through the back of the onyx throne. A gurgling cough and splatter was what I heard as my vision cleared and I clambered to my feet once again.
“No… No!” moaned Irkathos. “Don’t do this Helios. You swore to me you would be at my side forever and you betrayed me not once but twice!”
“I did what I must to allow purity to persevere.”
“I will not let you leave me again Helios! Not again!” Irkathos moaned as the reached out shakily towards General Helios, flesh peeling off with hisses as his body, long sustained by dark energies, began to die. Hands grasped the neck of the General.
“You will be with me always! You will keep your promise! I will not let you leave me again Helios!” Irkathos cried. A crackling sound echoed through the chamber as Irkathos and Helios solidified into stone, the same onyx as the shattered throne Irkathos sat upon.
I helped my son to his feet, helping him over to the balcony. The monsters that had been summoned by the Dark Prophet began to loose physical form, decaying at amazing rates, howls and curses in languages that made our ears hurt pierced the mire before all fell silent. A bloodied swamp lay before us, the water, the ground, the very air tangged of blood, every inch permeated it and became it. The Blood Mire it was named.
A rumble sounded through the fortress, cracks began to appear. The balcony became detached by a crack that split it from its mother room. My son, myself and those that had joined us from the disturbing sight of or dead commander and the great evil he had come to vanquish.
We fell into the water and emerged stained with blood. Men from the rooms began to jump rather than fare through the stair wells once more as the fortress began to crumble. Deserters and detachments filed towards the fortress from the fog, coming to see what has caused the noise. We sloshed through the waters as quickly as we could as rubble began to fall down. In minutes all that remained of the fortress was a single spire supporting the throne and the petrified Irkathos and Helios.
A collective sigh was released by the handful of survivors. But their trials had not ended. Wails began to echo through the area around the rubble. The cries of children. You could see them surfacing from the puddles of blood, pale skinned and eyes as crimson as the blood that spawned them.
The roars and howls of our enemies, the gurgles of the horrors and the slurred speech of those that proclaimed their warped devotion as they drowned in their own black blood paled in comparison to the primal shiver that ran through us all at that sound. Those piteous wails of children, filled with fear and pain seemed to freeze the very souls of those that heard them. I, as were all my comrades seemed petrified in the pulsing wail of these Blood Spawned children.
We began to break from our petrifying fear and revulsion caused by those sounds. We horded to our commanders, many still too frightened to think clearly on what to do. Was this happening a threat? What did it mean? What were we to do? The repeating crossbows of these questions fired at our commanders.
It did not take too much to force the remaining commanders convened to discuss the situation. My son and I stood back as the wailing of the children continued, the shouts of the commanders heard over the cries.
“They are spawned from the dark magics of Irkathos! They must be destroyed!” cried one
“They are children! You would have us kill infants? This is madness on par with that of our enemy” cried another.
“You cannot deny their source and they cannot deny their existence!” bellowed a third.
The remaining ones were drowned by the wails of more and more began to rise from the blood of the fallen.
In the end we were ordered to gather the children. Just touching one and hefting their pudgy forms to a growing pile of writhing children sent shivers through my spine. The look of disgust on the faces of many, for the many reasons could not be disguised. At last I grew tired and went back to my son who sat on a slime covered rock. We stood in silence, watching the others pile the Blood Spawn in a pile.
At our feet a crimson bubble grew and popped, a young boy floating in the water. My son darted, a crane catching fish, and scooped the child up. He pressed his fingers to the boys mouth. At first I thought he had comforted the boy, but then I saw the mouth moving and no sound emerging. He had been silenced with magic. The boy was stuffed into my son’s cloak and my mouth opened in protest.
“It is no use father, I will not give him up to them. Liana and I will care for him, besides, one more child will not hinder us too much.”
I was silent at that. My son rose and began to trudge away. “I will see you back at home father.” He called over his shoulder before disappearing into the fog. I stayed to watch. Out of respect for the fallen, for the living, and the poor untested children that were minutes later set afire by magic. In all that time only three others slunk away from these scenes. I do not know how many bore hidden children or how many survive to this day. I simply hope those born of blood never bear the curse their creator hefted.
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