Post by Xander on Jun 24, 2015 17:21:43 GMT -5
Merick sat on the edge of his mattress, looking down at the empty vial which was clutched in his hand. Ten minutes of feverish searching had failed to uncover any more of Greta's sleeping draught. He could feel the sedative effects of his last dose beginning to fade; the thick, blanketing fog drawing back, leaving him exposed. They were appearing through the remnants of the haze, without his medicine he couldn't hold them back. A hazy panic made his heart stumble in his chest. He was still too weak, he couldn't face them - not tonight, not without Greta. He had to stay awake, if he fell asleep, They would find him.
Time crept over the horizon. The night was pressing in on the window of his chamber, malicious stars peering through the fragile panes, watching hungrily; willing his mind to falter; the dim candlelight to gutter. A new smog was rolling in over his mind now: a heavy bank of roiling black mist. He could feel the darkness creeping in from the edge of his vision, trying to force him down. He couldn't fight back. He shook his head weakly in an attempt to slough off the new murk which clawed at him. His head felt as though it was caught in a vice, the full weight of the night forcing him down further into the blackness. Thick tendrils of shadow were overtaking his vision. It was going to happen. The vial slipped from his slack fingers, and shattered on the stone floor.
They were back...
An ethereal veil, spanning the inky void of his mind, was all that screened them off. A feeble breeze from somewhere behind the shroud caused it to billow towards him gently. A murmur, as faint as the breeze, drifted towards his ears. Trembling, already aware of what was behind it, he began to inch towards the partition. He stopped before it to listen. They were all whispering. He strained to hear what... "Your fault." He froze. "Your fault!" Tremors of fear racked his entire body. "YOUR FAULT!"
The wind gusted noisily, the sheet flapping wildly. The low murmurs rose to sobbing and shrieks of terror. There were hands pressing against it, hundred of thousands of hands. They pressed their dead faces into the cloth, so that he could see every detail of their anguished howls of pain and terror.
As the screeching rose to a crescendo, a viscous, red liquid began to ooze down the sheet, boiling and spitting at him. As it crawled down the sheet, it ate at it, until the semi-transparent veil hung in tatters. The thick fluid pooled at his feet, a metallic tang rising to his nostrils. Behind the veil were legions of corpses.
They fell silent as the last scraps of cloth blew away. As one their faces turned. Hundred of thousands of dead eyes bored into him - the rows of bodies seemed to be infinite. They stood, staring at him and swaying together. The closest took a step forward, a tiny child clutching her doll. Her skin was blistered and ruined by hideous burns, her clothes blackened by flames. Merick tried to move back, but he was frozen in place. Fear and shame ran from his eyes in gushing rivers. The disfigured little girl took another tottering step forwards and stretched her hand out. Tears spilled from her milky, ruined eyes. Merick tried to beg forgiveness, to tell her he was sorry, that he had tried to save her; but his mouth wasn't moving. She spoke, her melted mouth twisting the words around horribly.
"Why... didn't... y...ou... save me."
The man behind her, a soldier, took a step forward. A black arrow jutted out from his neck, his blood still trickling down over the Galiecian coat of arms emblazoned on his hauberk. The girl took another step forward and raised her other arm, her hands clutching at nothing. The girl began to sob.
"Why... wo...n't yo...u help us?"
Others in the rows of corpses began to howl again.
"HELP US!"
"WHY WON'T HE SAVE US?"
Merick felt his legs shuddering beneath him. He fell to the ground. The girl began to walk steadily towards him, the hordes of bodies behind started to shamble after her, hands outstretched, faces sobbing and begging. Merick struggled to his feet and tried to run, only to be pulled back by hundreds of decaying hands grasping at his tunic.
"HELP US!"
"WHY COULDN'T YOU STOP THEM?"
"IT HURTS!"
He couldn't breathe, they pulled him further down into the blackness, their hands clamping his chest, throttling his neck, clutching his lips together. Endless tides of bodies surged over him. He was going to be crushed by them. The red liquid - thick, steaming blood - began to rise around him... His last vestige of air was forced out of his lungs by the weight of the innocent dead. They were suspended together in an ocean of blood, kicking and yelling soundlessly. He writhed and bucked to break free. He opened his mouth, and the sharp, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth and flooded his lungs. As pain lanced through his entire being, he screamed...
He was sitting bolt upright on his straw mattress, screaming so hard that his throat suddenly failed. His hair and clothes were plastered to him and he was trembling violently. He reached clumsily for the jug of water by his bedside, knocking it over with numb, quivering hands. His breath came in ragged, painful gasps. Rising from the bed, he staggered over to the window and threw it open. The midday sun beat down on Gashmere. The bright glare stung his eyes, but he dared not close them against it - They would be waiting for him in the darkness. Still shaking, he got dressed hastily. He stood and tried to compose his shattered thoughts. A vague shard of memory dug into the back of his mind. A man in green robes and a lizard-man... He had agreed to meet them in the tavern at sunbreak - at least four hours ago... He cursed hoarsely in Galieck, pounding his balled fist into the wooden walls of his small room so violently that crimson rivulets of blood spilled from his knuckles. He would have to run to find them; for all he knew, they'd run into the forest without him...
As he ran, a face materialised before him. It was his dead General, as he had been on the battlefield the day he'd died. Merick's jaw clenched as he remembered him, and the words he had uttered as he bled to death:
"All men who go to war die kid, anybody who comes back, well they came back cheated."
Time crept over the horizon. The night was pressing in on the window of his chamber, malicious stars peering through the fragile panes, watching hungrily; willing his mind to falter; the dim candlelight to gutter. A new smog was rolling in over his mind now: a heavy bank of roiling black mist. He could feel the darkness creeping in from the edge of his vision, trying to force him down. He couldn't fight back. He shook his head weakly in an attempt to slough off the new murk which clawed at him. His head felt as though it was caught in a vice, the full weight of the night forcing him down further into the blackness. Thick tendrils of shadow were overtaking his vision. It was going to happen. The vial slipped from his slack fingers, and shattered on the stone floor.
They were back...
An ethereal veil, spanning the inky void of his mind, was all that screened them off. A feeble breeze from somewhere behind the shroud caused it to billow towards him gently. A murmur, as faint as the breeze, drifted towards his ears. Trembling, already aware of what was behind it, he began to inch towards the partition. He stopped before it to listen. They were all whispering. He strained to hear what... "Your fault." He froze. "Your fault!" Tremors of fear racked his entire body. "YOUR FAULT!"
The wind gusted noisily, the sheet flapping wildly. The low murmurs rose to sobbing and shrieks of terror. There were hands pressing against it, hundred of thousands of hands. They pressed their dead faces into the cloth, so that he could see every detail of their anguished howls of pain and terror.
As the screeching rose to a crescendo, a viscous, red liquid began to ooze down the sheet, boiling and spitting at him. As it crawled down the sheet, it ate at it, until the semi-transparent veil hung in tatters. The thick fluid pooled at his feet, a metallic tang rising to his nostrils. Behind the veil were legions of corpses.
They fell silent as the last scraps of cloth blew away. As one their faces turned. Hundred of thousands of dead eyes bored into him - the rows of bodies seemed to be infinite. They stood, staring at him and swaying together. The closest took a step forward, a tiny child clutching her doll. Her skin was blistered and ruined by hideous burns, her clothes blackened by flames. Merick tried to move back, but he was frozen in place. Fear and shame ran from his eyes in gushing rivers. The disfigured little girl took another tottering step forwards and stretched her hand out. Tears spilled from her milky, ruined eyes. Merick tried to beg forgiveness, to tell her he was sorry, that he had tried to save her; but his mouth wasn't moving. She spoke, her melted mouth twisting the words around horribly.
"Why... didn't... y...ou... save me."
The man behind her, a soldier, took a step forward. A black arrow jutted out from his neck, his blood still trickling down over the Galiecian coat of arms emblazoned on his hauberk. The girl took another step forward and raised her other arm, her hands clutching at nothing. The girl began to sob.
"Why... wo...n't yo...u help us?"
Others in the rows of corpses began to howl again.
"HELP US!"
"WHY WON'T HE SAVE US?"
Merick felt his legs shuddering beneath him. He fell to the ground. The girl began to walk steadily towards him, the hordes of bodies behind started to shamble after her, hands outstretched, faces sobbing and begging. Merick struggled to his feet and tried to run, only to be pulled back by hundreds of decaying hands grasping at his tunic.
"HELP US!"
"WHY COULDN'T YOU STOP THEM?"
"IT HURTS!"
He couldn't breathe, they pulled him further down into the blackness, their hands clamping his chest, throttling his neck, clutching his lips together. Endless tides of bodies surged over him. He was going to be crushed by them. The red liquid - thick, steaming blood - began to rise around him... His last vestige of air was forced out of his lungs by the weight of the innocent dead. They were suspended together in an ocean of blood, kicking and yelling soundlessly. He writhed and bucked to break free. He opened his mouth, and the sharp, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth and flooded his lungs. As pain lanced through his entire being, he screamed...
He was sitting bolt upright on his straw mattress, screaming so hard that his throat suddenly failed. His hair and clothes were plastered to him and he was trembling violently. He reached clumsily for the jug of water by his bedside, knocking it over with numb, quivering hands. His breath came in ragged, painful gasps. Rising from the bed, he staggered over to the window and threw it open. The midday sun beat down on Gashmere. The bright glare stung his eyes, but he dared not close them against it - They would be waiting for him in the darkness. Still shaking, he got dressed hastily. He stood and tried to compose his shattered thoughts. A vague shard of memory dug into the back of his mind. A man in green robes and a lizard-man... He had agreed to meet them in the tavern at sunbreak - at least four hours ago... He cursed hoarsely in Galieck, pounding his balled fist into the wooden walls of his small room so violently that crimson rivulets of blood spilled from his knuckles. He would have to run to find them; for all he knew, they'd run into the forest without him...
As he ran, a face materialised before him. It was his dead General, as he had been on the battlefield the day he'd died. Merick's jaw clenched as he remembered him, and the words he had uttered as he bled to death:
"All men who go to war die kid, anybody who comes back, well they came back cheated."
