MacSalterson
TNPer
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Shattered Shields and Broken Bodies
The boy collapsed into the mud, causing clumps of cold dirt to splash up. The axe had swung straight through his shield, splitting and tearing the crude wood planks like they were paper, and dug into his shoulder with the sound of cracking bone and splitting flesh. There was no spray of crimson, just a dark arterial ooze, dripping down his piecemeal armor and mixing into the icy slurry he had just fallen to his knees in. The axe was ripped out of his body, though there was no pain - a combination of the cold of the air and the shock of being mortally wounded had seen to that, and the other warrior moved on, not caring to check if the boy was properly finished off. There was no need, realistically. What miracle could save someone whose arm had nearly been cleft from his body, whose bones had shattered under the sheer force of the blow? Besides, around them the battle, if one could call it that, still raged. There were more boys like him to slaughter. And so the boy’s shoulders slumped, he fell face first into the mud, and died.
The sun dipped below the horizon and brought with it three things. First, it brought an even more numbing chill, the pale warmth of the sun no longer there to light up the world. Second, it utter darkness. The moon was new and the stars were distant and baleful. Third, it brought the Lost Ones. Cursed caricatures of life, filled with hunger and hatred for what they no longer had, borne forward in wretched bodies of rotten sinew, ancient and sloughing skin, yellowed bones showing through in various places, and cracked claws that dug into the swampy morass of freezing water, earth, and gore. They stalked through the cold battlefield, inspecting corpses in unnatural silence, looking for any sign of life. Luckily, they had come long after the last of the fighting had finished, and were greeted only by silent carrion. One paused to inspect the now cold corpse of the boy, but finding no heartbeat, lifted its nightmarish visage to the night sky and let loose a primal scream, echoing off the surrounding trees. To the careful listener, this scream was almost human in nature, though wracked by emotions too primitive and intense to be one produced by a conscious mind.
Among the Lost Ones appeared a lone, slender figure. Something about it seemed to be darker than the pitch black night enveloping the forest, and even the Lost Ones seemed apprehensive, if not outright fearful of this being. It strode towards the body of the boy and crouched down, inspecting his corpse. A few words were spoken in some ancient tongue, rife with the taste of ritual and blood and magic. Then the boy shuddered. Every muscle in his body tensed and seized, and the boy drew a short blood-filled breath, followed by another, much longer breath, halting and unsure. The gaping axe-wound in his shoulder burned briefly, and then the pain disappeared as the wound stitched itself back together. His fists tightened around his sword and shield, knuckles white, and he pushed himself up onto his knees. He looked up, into the pale pools of the figure’s eyes, and the figure spoke in his tongue.
“Cleanse this place.”
And the boy nodded unconsciously, rose to his feet, and began his work.
The sun’s first rays pierced through the trees, illuminating the battle site once again. The corpses of those who fought were still strewn about in bloody repose, and around them laid the bent and shattered bodies of the Lost Ones, butchered like sheep despite their inhuman ferocity in unlife. In the midst of this tableau stood the boy, clutching his sword and rent shield. Thus ends the first chapter of the Unifier.
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