Curse

Government Flu · Apr 30, 2007, 09:31 AM // 09:31

Chapter One

Perhaps in the grander scope of things, being banished from the Order was a positive point in history. I was too tired of the Paladins and grew weary of staining my armor in metaphorical light, bathing the public in heroism and giving a hollow mimicry to my leader’s empty promises of a better tomorrow. This isn’t the end of my story, nor is it the beginning. Like most people, I was born somewhere in the middle of it all.

* * *

The charred fields of Old Ascalon crunched in a defeated, muted manner as the three of us gathered together underneath the ashy shade of a few scattered trees, the branches reaching up towards the sky in cancerous pride. We were all heavily armored, and the sweat poured from us in long, unending drips. Large crystals hummed in rhythmic agony, as though trying to free themselves from deep within the earth. Their cries were a constant annoyance to the men and women who lived in the devastated remains of the kingdom of Ascalon, and many had gone mad over the years, the constant humming, the humming of the trees, the birds, the ground, it all engulfed the senses and now nothing but the incessant...

“Alright, there’s another problem on the outskirts of the Sanitarium.” The voice of the group leader boomed. He was a tall, proud man—the founder of the Redemptor’s Order. Every drunken night at the pub he would remark on that fact. The order had grown to other provinces in Ascalon; there were smaller cells that could independently operate outside of central leadership, and as his belly grew larger with ale, he would go into agonizing details, dribble down little drops of historical information. If there was one thing this man was famous for, it was his legendary combination of brute strength, alcoholism, and tales as tall as his body.

“I sure hope this’s got sumthin ta do with the Charr.” This reply came from the dullard of this motley crew, the idiot I referred to as Graz the Thick. He was brilliant in swordplay, could riposte in the blink of an eye, block every attack as well with his sword as a trained knight could with his shield, find a weak point in a man covered head to toe with heavy steel armor and could stab away a bothersome fly from his nose without killing himself. (This last boast was never seen and perhaps never tested before.)

The leader gave a long sigh. “Graz, those days are over. It’s been five years and not even a single Charr cub has reared its mangy head to the surface. We’ve got new foes to contend with. How many times do I have to remind you?”

Graz slumped his shoulders in that all too typical way and shuffled his feet. He had been a veteran of the campaign led by King Adelbern to take back the capital city of Rin after Rurik had taken his fair share of the citizenry and army on a suicidal trek to the Shiverpeaks. Suffice to say, Graz held his own and had a small home adorned with shaman’s pipes, hides, skulls, and crude artifacts from the many hunts he went on. When the war finally came to a close and the hunts thinned out to nothing, he became destitute, meaningless. He had joined the Order in its beginning stages but was never content. Rebels and short-lived uprisings couldn’t quell the long lost thrill of a savage Charr warrior.

“I dun like ta fight those necromancers. They dun fight fair, you know?” Graz said. The leader nodded.

“I know, I know. But their days are numbered. They’re getting more desperate ever since we cleared out their central sect in the ruins of Fort Ranik. You mark my words, we’ll win this crusade and even the Shiverpeaks will be singing our victories here.” He said, on the verge of spilling tears of joy and breaking into song, droning on and on about absurd aspirations and perhaps doing a tap dance to finish off. He was a narcissistic anomaly. One of his own words could send him quivering. Self righteous and self motivated, ready to drag everyone along for the ride.

I interrupted him because I wasn’t in the mood for another lengthy speech. Morale was already dreadfully high, and I didn’t want us to be overflowing. “If I may offer some advice, Lord Balthin, we should get moving. Those corpses won’t stay still for long.” I offered up a smile.

“What, you think this is a hike? Captain, I’d expect you to be more prudent in your words. I’ll have high spirits, but I won’t have your snide expressions! I know your kind well. They’re the first to die in battle.”

Despite this heated threat, I continued to smile, shifting the sword on my back and looking towards the orange sky, boulders and crags of rock slicing into that never ending serenity. On one of these days, when the dry lightning wasn’t ravaging the air, a thin specter, just the slightest coating of the original Ascalon shone through. Only in memory though...only in memory.

Graz shoved my shoulder. “Come on Vade, let’s go.” He followed suit behind Balthin, who already had his sword and shield drawn, as though expecting necromancers to rain from the sky. The only things that fell were tiny droplets of rain. Harbingers of greater calamity, one always looked for cover when the slow pitter patters began. Yet we of the Redemptor Order always faced the storm. I brought up the rear and eyed the ashen scenery.

This was life. This was home.

And it was becoming unbelievably boring.

storm of daeth · Apr 30, 2007, 10:08 PM // 22:08

That's really good keep this going unlike most of the stories in this forum that just die.

Poison Ivy · May 01, 2007, 07:42 AM // 07:42

Thanks, went well with my snack.

Government Flu · May 04, 2007, 10:05 AM // 10:05

Thanks very much for reading and replying on the first chapter, guys. I appreciate it.

Chapter two up next.

Government Flu · May 04, 2007, 10:06 AM // 10:06

The cellar was dank and filled with bones. This was used as a small playground for death magic enthusiasts ready to experiment with animating minions, but at the moment it was being used to enjoy a fine bottle of wine. The two necromancers passed the alcohol around and smirked into the darkness. It was a cozy little underground sanctuary, hidden from sight by a ruined alleyway and years of thick dust. A bone or two occasionally stirred when one of the necromancers took a swig or stretched. They continued passing the bottle until it was almost done with.

“What kind of wine is this anyway?” The necromancer closest to the door asked. He was leaning against the frame, constantly irritated by the aged wood scratching past his thin robes. The buzz was nice, but even the smallest discomfort broke through the veil.

“Yes, I knew sharing a bottle of my finest wine with you was the right choice. I’m so glad it’s too dark to see you. Otherwise I might have been disgusted by how you swigged that bottle.” His friend said. He was in a prone position, careful not to disturb too many bones—the sound sometimes carried much farther than intended if the street outside wasn’t too busy.

The necromancer beside the exit scoffed. “I enjoyed it just fine.” He passed the bottle back to its owner and gave a sigh. “So, what kind of wine?”

“It’s Ascalonian Chardonnay.”

“Hmm.” The necromancer shrugged, still being pestered by the wooden splinters.

“That’s all you can say? Hmm?” Bothered, he set the bottle down, feeling the ground first to make sure no bones obscured the spot.

“What?” There was a tone of annoyance in his voice to match his friend’s.

“This bottle you just gulped down? One of the rarest wines in all of Ascalon. In the entire world.” He said, his anger rising.

His friend dismissed it. “Devas, wine is wine. Something to whet your thirst with. What are you getting so damn upset about? This was your idea you know. You wanted to celebr—“

Devas interrupted. “Look, look. I know you’re not a connoisseur. That’s fine. But have some respect for this bottle! Tell me, how many barrels of this do you think they make a year? How many? How many Terin, huh?”

Terin sighed. “I honestly don’t care. And I’m really regretting doing this with you. If I wanted a confrontation I would have assaulted a town guard. At least that has some excitement in it.”

Devas sighed forcibly. “Zero. Zero per year. These bottles are a dying breed. Very, very few of them left in the world. The grapes used to make this particular chardonnay were kept in one place. Now the entire site is just a giant crystal. That region was a peculiar mix of elements...it was a cavern but half of it was open to the sky so somehow, a tiny patch of grass took hold, and then they irrigated—“

“I don’t care. Let’s just go. I’ve a bad taste in my mouth.” Terin admitted. Before they had a chance to leave, there was a forceful knock on the cellar door. Someone had found their way to the secret entrance. Usually it was just the typical vagabond or stray child playing in the debris, but the sound of that particular fist didn’t seem like a minor threat. The two necromancers eyed each other in the darkness of the basement as the dust swirled about them. Another pound at the door. Spiders skittered away and rats squealed off into the bones for safety. Then, silence.

The necromancers didn’t so much as breathe for what seemed to be a decade. Then a voice boomed outside, shattering the serenity.

“Open up! In the name of Ascalon!”

Terin couldn’t keep his liquor in well. His head swam with half formed thoughts that he knew were ill advised and wouldn’t help the situation in the least. He took to muting himself further, as though the darkness would hide him even when the door was kicked open. Then he realized that the door would be kicked right on top of him, but if he moved he would verify without a doubt that the cellar was occupied. Devas was more cool-headed in times like these and since his friend had hogged most of the chard, his thoughts were much sharper. The voice boomed out again.

“Open the door or we’ll open it for you! Do not defy the King’s Army! Open up, now!”

“Help! Help us! We’re trapped inside!” Devas called out. He used his cry for help to conceal the clatter of the bottle as he groped around for an appropriate hiding place. He found a pile of rags to his right and stuffed the chardonnay inside.

“Right! Clear the way, and then stay still!” The soldier replied. He whispered to his partner to conceal his intentions, but the claustrophobic alleyway could reveal the lowest sound as it rebounded across the stone walls. “Draw your sword Raon. Keep alert; make sure to watch their hands, not their eyes.”

Roan whispered back, both unaware how well their voices carried. “You think they’re those necromancers we heard about?”

The soldier didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he raised his leg and smashed his boot into the frail wooden door, which cracked like lightning upon impact. The frame wobbled in place and sagged like a tired old hag. Another powerful kick and the door gave way, splintering at the center and leaving a fresh cloud of powder in its wake, which slowly rose to the air; reminiscent to a spirit leaving its haunting grounds. It took time for the two guards to adjust their eyes to the shadowy basement. As the sun’s rays poured into the opening, they saw two figures. They looked scared and shivered as though the mild morning air was chilling them to the bone.

Bones. Raon and his companion gasped. The entire cellar was filled with dirty rags, bones ranging from human skulls to femurs, the walls stained with dried blood. Rats were running and chattering all over the place, desperately trying to avoid the sunlight and sulking into the few nooks and shadowed corners left. The soldier with the booming voice approached the two huddled figures. He couldn’t see their faces well. The robes they wore were stained and tattered, their skin pale and sickly looking. At first glance, they appeared to be peasants that had been captured and held here for days, dehydrated and starving.

“What the devil happened to you two? Who did this?”

The two continued to shiver, so the soldier got in closer and grabbed one of their collars. He pulled the man’s face close to him. “What happened? Were you taken by necromancers?” The man’s eyes were wide and searing with fear.

“No...no...worse...” Devas said.

Roan had his sword drawn and got into the entrance of the cellar, to get a better view of the situation. He kept a close watch on the second man, making sure he made no sudden movements. Perspiration began to trickle down his neck. He had a bad feeling about this.

“Who was it!” The booming soldier demanded. The man mumbled something unintelligible and shook his head. “Pull yourself together, you’re safe now, just tell me what you know and we’ll set things right.”

“Not necromancers...soldiers.” Devas replied.

“What?”

“They found us here and we had to take their lives.” Devas gave a wicked grin as he stabbed the soldier in the stomach with a dagger, twisting it once when the blade was firmly inside, the hilt resting squarely at the center. The soldier gave a small gasp of pain and that’s when Terin leapt up and slashed his throat. A thin spray of blood spurted up into the air, a gruesome morning dew for Raon to behold.

“Your turn now fickle ‘lil brute!” Terin slurred. A combination of good wine and adrenaline was pumping through his veins, so he was becoming more boisterous by the second. Raon dropped his sword and stumbled up the stairs, cutting his hands on the jagged pieces of wood. He wasn’t about to fight two crazed necromancers or thieves or whoever the hell they were. Not after seeing what they did to his partner.

“Go ahead, run! Run!” Devas called out. He dashed past the ruined door and outstretched his hand, bringing forth a focus point for a string of rancid thoughts. Flashes of plague ridden vermin, old maids vomiting blood, a disemboweled man screaming in agony holding his own intestines as they spilled out, and these images rushed out of Devas’s hand in the form of a dark purple skull, elongated and gaping. It shot off into the alleyway and opened wide as it circled around the man and entered his chest. Raon moaned in terror, not sure what happened to him but feeling a sudden pain in his abdomen. This all happened in the span of five seconds as the soldier turned the corner, running to tell his superiors.

Devas glared at the empty alleyway as Terin stepped next to him. “What did you do to him?”

Devas turned around to face his comrade. “The human gallbladder stores bile to break down the foods we eat...suppose the liver suddenly began to overproduce this fluid? Why, all that extra bile traveling to the stomach...I’d imagine it’d be very painful. And yet, the liver keeps producing it...more and more, accelerated by a helping hand. Soon, all that bile fills the stomach, makes its way to the throat, and overflows.”

“Thanks for the health lesson. And if he just vomits away?” Terin asked.

“Won’t do any good if the large intestine explodes. I give him about another two minutes to live. Both of which will be immensely excruciating.” Devas said, reveling in that gruesome estimation.

“You’ve got to teach me that spell.” Terin said.

“All in due time. But now, let’s go back inside...we’ve got a bottle of chardonnay to finish. Mustn’t let some random guards spoil our fun.” Devas said. He started back into the cellar.

Terin suddenly didn’t feel up to task. “You know, why don’t you finish that bottle? All this talk about stomach fluids makes me want to throw up.”

“That’s fine, as long as you don’t cough up an organ.”

Both of the necromancers laughed, unhindered by having had their hideout smashed open and revealed. The city held countless of these little niches, not to mention underground passages and catacombs left untouched by the King’s army for years. They would live another day.

Raon would not. With less than a minute to go, he stumbled upon a Redemptor on patrol.