EDIT: Complete change of the story. Lesson learnt: it never looks as good the morning after.
" ...it was after a vicious farewell ambush from the
Northmen that my companions and I finally broke free of the black
mountain passes of Wolgast. The screams of the dying echoed in my
ears, and our raw eyes barely rested for fear of another attack... or the black nightmares that punctuated our fitful slumberings.
The
frigid winds iced our veins as we made our westerly descent, doing
little to lift the already grave mood that hung over us. Of the twenty
that had begun the venture, a mere six remained. I counted two dear
friends amongst the dead, whose bodies will never even receive the
honour of a proper burial.
Still in shock from our recent losses, none of us even thought to discuss where we were headed. There was nothing to stop us completing our task; to trade with the other thriving settlements rumoured to be living in or around the mountains of northeastern Wolgast. The men I travelled with had families depending on our success; a brutal winter had left their small settlement nearly crippled.
But our minds must've wandered in happier pastures, or relived brutal memories again and again, as our pale husks continued the march to nowhere. The cold and the hunger and the monotony were an excellent cure for the desire to consciously inhabit the present. Experience suggested nothing lived in these wastes save for cruel Northmen and bloodthirsty wolves.
Several days' travel later, we collected enough wood from the withered trees that dotted
the bleak hills to make a meagre fire. The insufferable cold was taking its toll. That
night, as we huddled together, the chattering of teeth and shaking of
weary, freezing muscles took the place of the terse words we occasionally traded.
It was just as sleep, or the skeletal chill, was
about to take me, that I spied a large figure approaching our hilltop
fire. Berating myself for being careless enough to allow this announcement our whereabouts, my clumsy hand groped for a blade.
An imposing greenskin stepped into the fire.
He was hooded, dressed in thick red furs. The shadows thrown by the
firelight gave his grin a nightmarish appearance. Coupled with the
bloodstained blade he was wielding, I nearly believed it was some demon come to claim our weary souls before he abruptly spoke in a thick, gruff voice:
"Goblin 'unt'n."
With
this declaration, he bared his teeth again, sheathing his blade. After waking my comrades, the next half
an hour consisted of him explaining to us, in his broken speech, and armed with
a variety of hand gestures, that he was both friendly and that our
presence was requested by someone else, presumably the leader of his
clan.
Our numb, dumb lips had barely conversed before it was
mutually agreed that no matter the outcome, dying in warm surroundings was preferable
to being claimed by the chill.
Fruitless attempts at sleep interrupted, we laboured
after the greenskin for hours, resting frequently as he herded us up the paths winding around a solitary mountain on the plains.
Upon arriving at the wooden-walled fort perched on a cliffside, our guide shouted out, and the gate was raised by unseen hands. Only the moonlight glistened on the buildings; there were no torches or flames to be seen, the streets entirely deserted. It was impossible to gauge the size of the town in the dark. Multiple passageways seemed to run into the oppressive black interior of the mountain itself.
Our guide pressed us for speed, and we mustered our strength to struggle on. My mind dulled by exhaustion, I barely had time to prepare myself when I saw a glow coming from around the next corner. I was utterly dazzled when I stepped out of the shadows into the pool of blazing light.
As my vision recovered, I took in the huge bonfire in the centre of a large, semi-circular earth pit, with several tiers filled with orcs sitting, standing, chanting, raving and fighting on them. It seemed like a year's worth of torches and lanterns were blazing on every side. Looking eastwards, there would've been a magnificent view of the surrounding land had sunlight graced it, and far off to the east, the jagged peaks of the very mountains we fled from only a few days ago were ominous silhouettes against the stars.
The guide enthusiastically gestured for us to proceed down the clay steps. Almost immediately, two well-armoured orcs emerged on either side of us, beating and shoving a path through the crowd. Pausing briefly, I raised my bent back to gain a glimpse of our destination. A single figure stood patiently at the centre of the chaos, the bonfire at his back leaving him in shadow. A solitary stone slab, painted dark red with old blood, lay at his feet.
As realisation finally dawned, my tired heart sank further still. I was too exhausted to even question my own stupidity.
We had retained our weapons, but taking a sluggish glance at the other five survivors, I mused it was highly unlikely that we could even strike one orc down before we collapsed of exhaustion. Escape was out of the question. Tannach, the man behind me, must've caught the look of dread in my eyes, for his thin lips drew an even grimmer line on his gaunt face, in an expression of tired resignation. We stumbled on.
Each step took a monumental effort. Pangs of hunger
and nausea riddled my stomach, while the bones in my aching back
jostled to find their most uncomfortable positions. I remembered
thinking, in the delirium brought on by overtiredness, 'At least I can
lie down when I die.'
Upon stepping into the central plateau, the shadowy figure there raised
his arm. In an instant, the raucous horde of orcs fell silent, leaving
the howling wind without accompaniment.
I initially believed he must be some warlock or wizard, using fel magics
fuelled by sacrifices to control these creatures. As we were shoved
closer to him by unfriendly hands, I realised that he was actually
another orc. Though he was neither as tall nor as broad as the one who
had found us, or many of the other orcs we had since seen, he was both
more terrifying and magnificent.
He stood straight backed, hands clasped behind him. He wore finery that
would not have been out of place at a court; a luxurious suit of blue
cloth with gold and white trim, splattered with blood in places.
However, his eyes were by far his most memorable feature.
There was no demonic taint or odd colouration that made them
particularly unusual. Instead, it was his utterly piercing gaze, the one
that lanced through my brain and instilled pure, primal terror in my
heart, that lodged in my mind. The eyes in his head were not just eyes;
they were a gateway to a tumultuos realm governed by fanaticism,
insanity, bloodlust, hate and vengeance... He exposed his very soul
through his eyes, and his soul was the foulest thing I have witnessed to
this day.
He regarded each of us individually, an expression of smug delight
playing on his scarred features. Despite the wind, his voice resounded
like the sealing of a tomb. "Brothers and sisters..." he began. The orcs
roared. "The time has come. Did I not speak of a grand ceremony to
honour the Bloodborne Scourge? Before the caged slaves are released, and
the beards of the dwarves are wreathed in flames, let us decide how
best to... entertain these humans who have joined us."
The shockwave of noise signalled the approval of the congregation. We
were shoved into a line facing him, and he began his inspection from the
left. I was the last on the right.
He dealt us our 'sentences' one by one; Lanev and Tenev, two brothers,
were forced to fight to the death. They refused unswervingly. Their
hands were tied to blades, an orc held each of their arms and others,
their hands , forcing them to act out a deadly playfight. They were far
too tired to resist. Uproarious laughter came from the assembly at every
clumsy strike that drew blood. The other four of us could not meet each
other's eyes.
I will not detail the fates of the other three men. Each death was more
sadistic and twisted than the last. Regardless of whether they cried and
shook, met their end with dignity, or fought tooth and claw against it,
all will be honoured, if only by my memory.
Eons seemed to pass before it was my time to die. The leader of the pack
stood in front of me, his eyes wild, blood coating his arms and chest. I
lifted my lolling head, to meet his gaze as best I could.
Meeting his stare was like being struck with a blow. The sheer intensity
of his glare was the skin-shrivelling heat of the desert sun at noon.
But, at my wit's end, it could no longer move me to terror.
Instead,
surrounded by these primitives, these disgusting, inhuman wretches who
revelled in cruelty and hate, I let the weak anger boil inside my chest.
My own weakness, and the grief I felt for those who had died at the
hands of these cretins, and the injustice of the uncaring world fuelled
the molten surge of rage that gripped my heart. I drew strength from it.
I
carefully drew a small blade from within my cloak. The cold metal felt
reassuringly heavy in my hand. All the while, I continued to watch those
terrible eyes. As I drew the blade, he raised his arm, and I expected
the world to fade as my lifeblood drained out on the floor. In my final
attempt to regain some honour before my death, I twisted to the left and
jammed my knife into the neck of the orc behind me.
I held it
there, my rage causing me to twist the blade and pummel his chest with
my free hand, announcing my fury to the world in a primal, triumphant
scream.
The orc shortly collapsed to the floor, choking and
gurgling. Then, silence. No arrows pierced me, no axes hacked my flesh,
no swords slashed it. Nothing moved. Confused, I turned around to see
their leader wearing an exultant grin on his face.
"It is as it
was! The Scourge has sent us his spirit through this human! Now, all,
take your blades! Raise your fists! Spill blood, and have your blood
spilled! None shall live come the dawn!" he exclaimed ecstatically.
I
expected to see them charge off to some village in reckless haste,
eager to pillage the innocent. But, to my astonishment, they drew their
blades and began hacking, clawing, stabbing each other with hands and
swords and teeth. Ones who had previously been laughing and joking,
sharing drinks, dancing were now engaged in mortal combat. The sight was
disturbing enough, but their infernal laughter while they decimated
each other was truly chilling.
It was then that I felt a brief pressure on the back of my skull, and the ground rose up to meet me.
The
pain behind my eyes eventually woke me. I cast about in my groggy
state, hoping that the dark memories that rushed into my consciousness
were part of a nightmare. I was lying in a bed, and the warmth from the
room suggested I was indoors. The sight of the leader orc leaning over
me was enough to assure me that it was a nightmare I had lived.
He grinned wolfishly at seeing my eyes open. I rubbed my face, briefly shocked to feel it was spattered in coagulated blood.
"Why?" was all I could croak through my hands.
"The
blood was demanded." he sighed, rather matter-of-factly. "And, I tired
of this settlement. We had all but destroyed the surrounding villages,
and these mountain orcs were far too stupid to be of any use against the
well-trained armies we occasionally encountered. A shame, really. But
there are always more willing to fight. Always more willing to die."
I was surprised by his conversational tone. "Not.. me?" I asked again.
He laughed. "No. You ensured your own survival some time ago. I knew you were coming. I could feel it. So I... helped you."
"..how?"
"You remember the Northmen who attacked you, and killed many of your party?"
I nodded, their faces returning to my mind in an instant.
"Think
back, now. Remember how irritated you became with some of the locals
travelling with you? Their incessant whining, their crude jokes. And the
dwarf and human, your friends. How dull their company became. Their
constant retelling of the same stories, their voracious appetites. How
you watched them eat more and more food from the dwindling stocks while
you took it upon yourself to eat barely anything."
"Well," he
continued, "I saw fertile ground in your mind, and planted a small seed.
When the Northmen attacked, the flower blossomed for the first time."
"What
do you mean?" I snapped, sitting up in my bed. A black dread was
seeping into my stomach as my mind awakened, taking heed of his words.
"Are you really so stupid?" he inquired playfully. "It was not just the Northmen whose blades were bloodied that night."
My
mind swam. I stared at a wall as my vision shifted, dark memories
slowly surfacing. The dark. The cold. The warmth of blood on my hands.
The screams. The howls. I was the howl. I howled. Howling. Vision red.
Blood. Blood. Blood. Sleep.
"The flowers will blossom again," a voice said, before I passed once more into my fitful sleep."
The
hooded one finished reading the small book, closing its weathered pages
with a resounding snap. It glanced around the small room of the small
house, a house empty of all but the faint voice of the wind blowing
through cracks in walls and windowpanes. It strode outside, sniffing the
sweet summer air. A soft wind rustled the leaves of the trees at the
edge of the small forest, right by the two humps in the earth.
Book
in hand, it walked over to investigate them. Two crude, erected stones
indicated they were graves, though the engravings had long since blown
away. It remained still for a while, before curiously flicking through
the journal again.
"Beloved Daria and Elys. There is nobody. I
cannot speak with anybody. Dead friends always talking talk never
listen. Why? why? Why?
Curse makes you wrong I can't stop the
bloodlust it is always there whispering. I am sorry so sorry sorry sorry
sorry. No rest cannot sleep try to end it for myself and it stops you
cannot. Must try to make right North back North to the ghosts of dead
friends and my bloody hands. Blood blood blood. Mogdish it whispers the
one who planted the seed. He will die to end this."
The
hooded one nodded to itself. A fitting end. Though his khan Mogdish was
unpredictable and dangerous, the hooded one admitted, he had a fine
sense of theatrics. It had been a long journey from the bloody north,
but one which the khan had insisted was of the highest priority. No
doubt he would be pleased to read through the thoughts of a Marked One,
though it was unlikely he would find anything surprising in its pages.
"Bury him here," it shouted through the trees.
Edited by Mogdish - 25 Feb 2012 at 15:35