The Pilgrim

Prologue:

Stories are like bones, they remain even after their subject has rotted away, they jutt out in memory and utterance, they sit bleaching in the hot sun and by their presence we remember. Of course, the stories my people like to recount tend to be for more immediate things, the unusually generous harvest from the gift, the kinsman that got back from the front with only the unseen scars, the nights where screams didn’t echo out from the badlands.

Those are the stories of my world, but the preachers like to remind us that there was a time when things were different. They tell these tales on especially bright days, at dawn sermons when the littl’uns need distraction, the old world is a dangerous topic afterall, nostalgia for something better can drive you mad or get you killed. But dangerous or not, the old world’s bones linger in our memory.

The tale goes something like this, long ago, when the world was a newborn blossom in the immortals garden, The Immortal sent his angels to Sorras tasked with establishing a realm that would please its eternal sight. These first beings cultivated a realm of verdant beauty, high plains of green and gold, rivers and lakes of crystalline hue and vast cities of ivory and gilt. But a realm needs to be peopled and so the Nephilim were created.

The Nephilim were half of this world and half of the immortals, for only something tied to Sorras could ever truly inhabit it. in time the Nephilim intermingled and generation after generation passed, eventually the divine was diluted and the mortal came to the fore. And so a new race, mankind, was born and with its Nephilim protectors to guide it, we prospered for millennia.

We were the envy of the known world, a glittering realm without want or strife, our harvests and crafts sought after and traded in cities across the face of Sorras. Our kings were the children of the immortal, long lived and wise, names such as Methusaleh, Tanuk and Zurah echoing in glory across the span of eternity. We were a people blessed upon high and our covenant with the immortal was unbroken.

We were a people of peace, we lived in harmony with the Sindrasiil and the men of the 13 realms and though we struck down with fierce anger those who threatened our lands, war was never worshipped. But all good things eventually fade, a cancerous rot at the edge of the world beginning to spread, Salroth the fallen angel, the hated enemy of the immortal, he gazed out at his father’s creation and sought to usurp it.

They spilled out of the shadowlands, infernal armies that burned across the ancient north, thus came the apocalypse. The realms of the Arkians and the empire burned and the flames soon licked at our borders. King Juhuram and the 900 led our people into battle, the sons of god and their children against the slavering maw of hell itself. We fought them with the ferocity of lions, decades of heroism and sacrifice. Alas all falls to dust in the end.

Our lands burned, weakened by the long war we begged our neighbours for aid, no answer came. Doomed we resigned ourselves to one final stand, at the battle of the rock we resolved to spit in the eyes of the enemy. Then came the fall, as the last Nephilim was slain the Immortal lashed out in rage at the demons who had so maimed his creation, legions of angelic might sweeping across the battlefield.

Juhuram and the 900 were borne away, taken up to the heavens to be at their fathers side, the remaining mortals were left alone in a broken world. The gilded realms were gone, immolated in their death pyres. Our cities were broken shells of blackened masonry, fields and plains sundered to ash and our sky clogged with smoke. But our suffering was still to grow, Salroth was weakened but far from dead, in a final act of spite Salroth cursed our lands with corruption and decay.

Only the lands surrounding the rock remained immune, these places were too suffused with the Immortal’s divine presence. Everything outside of this remnant was doomed to become an unending expanse of Ashland or the bitter frosts of the northern tundra. The survivors of the apocalypse established a ring of cities around the rock, in time we came to know the remaining plains and farmland as “the gift” and we swore to defend the remains of our forefathers realm.

New Covenant was born, the fortress cities of Tyros, Enoch, Gethsemna and Darkhaven all following. We swore a new covenant, to defend what remained. The old world was dead, we had survived the apocalypse and the death of our makers but at terrible cost. Three centuries have passed and we still hold the line.

The Badlands

280 years after the fall



“Juhuram’s blood!” Silas cursed from between gritted teeth

He wiped the sweat from his brow and regarded the scene before him, the badlands stretched out endlessly in every direction. Nothing but soot black dust and jagged, firecracked rock met his gaze, Silas beheld a fallen world long since rendered to ash. Only the distant light of the rock stood out in the unending blackness and at the moment its promise of safety seemed almost mocking, they were still a day’s journey from Darkhaven.

“Dead…dead…all dead” a low, rhythmic woman’s voice repeated in a despairing cadence

Arabella had seen too much, they all had, the slaughter at fort Wilbur had been the stuff of nightmares. The proud outpost had endured for three years, three years of building and shared hardship, the ghouls had snuffed all that out in less then an hour. Such was the progress of the reconquest, it was a war that made martyrs daily, Fort Wilbur was nothing more then a drop in a greater ocean of blood.

“Ara is going to talk herself hoarse, we need to find shelter, isn’t right for a pregnant lady to be out here” a female voice spoke, cutting through the rumination

Silas’s sister in law, Kaye, was a woman who had always had a tireless quality about her, she just got on with the task without complaint. Even she now looked run down, her shirt and breeches caked with the same dust and grim as the rest of them. She regarded him with an expectant look, wanting to know what Silas’s was planning, he frowned and sighed.

“Darkhaven is a days journey, we need to keep moving, we wont survive long out here” he said in a voice that came sounded more grim then he had intended it to

There was terrible irony in Darkhaven being their hope, they had left the crowded fortress city years before, settlers with their debts paid under the royal edict. Year after year people like Silas made the choice to try their luck in the badlands, most never came home, but he and his wife had taken the chance, Fort Wilbur had seemed like it could outlast the horrors of life beyond the ring. How wrong they had all been.

“Do you think anyone else survived?” Kaye replied her tone uncertain

“No, we were just lucky”

Silas’s training as a stone mason had seen him responsible for the maintenance of the town hall, his wife helped with the painting, Kaye with the heavy lifting and Hubert with the carpentry. The whole family had thus been present in the hall when the attack began and been the only survivors to be ushered down the escape tunnel before the settlement fell.

“Let’s hope our luck keeps holding, foods almost gone and water won’t last long”

There hadn’t exactly been time to gather ample supplies, just whatever was pressed into their hands before they were shoved down the tunnel and the doors were barricaded behind them. The militia had fought to the last, bought them vital time, but the meagre provisions they had been gifted wouldn’t last long, not with four hungry souls to feed, five if the unborn was counted.

“Then we better keep movi…..

a rumbling sound filled the air and it was preceded by a reeking odour that half reminded Silas of an abattoir and half of a corpse pit, it entirely made him want to retch. A great cloud of dust obscured the hill behind them, the sound of scuttling and snarls becoming more audible as the rumbling grew louder and closer. Silas resisted the urge to soil himself as he caught sight of the commotions cause, his jaw when slack with fear and a single terrified word fell from it.

“Ghouls….”

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As the dust began to fade the concealed horror on the hill began to materialize, a mass of slavering maws, yellowed fangs and claws and all stretched over withered frames of diseased flesh. These were ghouls, the degenerate remnant of the hordes that had brought about the death of the old world. When Salroth had departed they had been left leaderless and in time had fallen from even the low position of thralls, becoming the feral scavengers that now swarmed the hill.

This was of little comfort to Silas and his family, they didn’t even have weapons to make a stand with. They stood in transfixed horror as the horde above began to let out guttural howls, something between a drowning man and a rabid animal. There was no resistance to be had now, if they ran they would be torn to pieces and if they stood they would be torn to pieces. The militia’s last stand had been for naught, they would die in vain.

Silas attempted to mouth a prayer to the 900, the immortal and any higher power that might have been listening, but the words would not come. He stood eyes fixed upon the approaching tide of scabrous death and knew he was looking upon his end. He did the only thing he could, he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, he hoped the end would be swift.

A sound like thunder shattered his paralysis, stranger still there was a stink in the air, like rotten eggs…. Brimstone. A figure stood between the refugees and the horde, tall, wearing the wide brimmed hat of a pilgrim and dressed from head to toe in clothing as black as the ashlands. He hefted a strange weapon, a slender thing of wood and iron, Silas had heard tales of firelocks but never seen one before.

With each new pull of the trigger a bolt of red-hot death shrieked toward the ghouls, heads detonated in showers of superheated gore and abominations fell clutching at gaping holes and severed limbs. The Pilgrim raked the oncoming line with fire, felling dozens, still the monsters came and Silas cringed half expecting to see the newcomer swarmed and ripped to shreds. If the pilgrim was concerned, he did not show any signs.

Drawing a slender rapier from its scabbard the Pilgrim advanced, with his other hand he reached within his cloak and hurled free several black canisters that slammed into the ghouls and detonated, shards of iron and hellfire tearing burning gaps in the hordes ranks. The Pilgrim broke into a run, charging the beasts, throwing off his cloak as he lay into the horrors with vicious slashes.

The beasts attempted to overwhelm the Pilgrim, but found him too fast to catch, pirouettes and sidesteps preventing any purchase on their would be kill. Soon the horde was in disarray, the majority now lying in butchered heaps, the remaining creatures thought better of it and fled, their easy meal replaced by a massacre.

“Juhuram and the immortal be praised, thank you kind sir!” Silas stammered his voice gushing with reverence for his saviour

The Pilgrim was presently cleaning his blade with a dirty rag, he returned the weapon to its scabbard and replaced his cloak upon his shoulders. He stared down at Silas, though perhaps Silas only thought he stared, the mans face was shrouded by his wide brimmed hat. Wordlessly the man strode down the hill and past Silas and his dumbfounded companions, slowing only briefly to point toward the horizon as if to say “This way if you wish to live”

Silas didn’t need to be told twice, he scooped Arabella up and wife in arms, he and the family followed the pilgrim, sure enough the man led them to the high walls of Darkhaven. The ancient bastion against the encroaching badlands glared down at them like the maw of some great beast, Silas had never liked Darkhaven but on that day he settled there once more and never wandered beyond her walls again. The stranger had said nothing, he had simply walked through the gates and vanished into the crowds.