And so our story begins…
The night was clear; there was not a single cloud in the brooding midnight sky. All along the great walls of a Illistair, braziers threw out a flickering orange glow. This gave the wall a certain halo and illuminated the stones below, showcasing the frankenstein of architecture -- a mirror of its varied past. Atop the burly bastion, Silhouettes paced back and forth, their legs hidden behind the parapets.
Tink!
Something smashed into the wall. Heads peeked over the lip of stone.
Tink! … TINK!... TINKTINKTINKTINKTINK!
Shooting up the wall was a flood of crawlers, their stiff legs punching into the side of the wall and ripping large stones out as they clambered upwards. The orange of the braziers cast over their slimy bodies and reflected off their almost metallic spearheaded feet.
Bells began to chime, soldiers began to yell, and strings began to twang. Arrows whizzed through the air, some slamming into the mucus bodies of the crawlers, while others bounced off their legs. Stones and filth alike toppled from the side of the wall, but after the fourth volley, suddenly blood poured as well.
Two mighty legs curled over the edge of the parapet, suddenly shooting outward and punching through a cuirassed soldier before flinging him over the wall -- a curdling scream on his dying breath. Soldier’s leveled their spears, but soon a myriad of the crawlers swarmed over the lip of the wall -- and then there was a crumbling noise and the wall began to shake…
Elsewhere in Illistair…
“You’re very lucky you know,” The young nurse put on a sympathetic smile, her hands deep in a bowl of murky water, “Not many people take a hit to the ribs so well -- if the hoof had cracked it, it could have been a slow death.”
A wide eyed man with shaggy black hair and a stubbled face stared at her. He was naked from the waist up, a patchwork of white bandages over his chest and side. He was laying on a thin mattress of cloth and hay that itself was laid in the corner of a small room, an empty blood stained bed pushed up against the opposite wall with the nurse in between.
“I’m not sure if that makes me feel much better,” He said dryly, his eyes falling down to look at his bandaged side, “Now- now we are sure it’s not cracked?”
“Trust me, you would know,” The nurse flicked her hands dry over the bowl, old bandages floating atop the water.
“How?” He asked, leaning up on his elbows - -a wince of pain wringing his mouth and causing him to squint.
“For one the pain would be unbearable!” The nurse said with what the man could almost pin as joyful enthusiasm.
“It hurts, a lot,” The man quickly said.
“Unbearable?” She finally turned to look at him and he shook his head slowly, “Well there.”
“...How else?”
“Mr. Jarren,” The nurse chastised, “Don’t you think you may be a bit too distrusting of my diagnosis?”
Jarren looked away and the nurse continued, “This is Wisserbury, after all -- we are the best of the best… now please, try and relax. You need it.”
“I suppose you’re righ-”
Thump... Thump....
Jarren cocked his head, “What’s that?”
“Mr. Jarren…” The nurse turned fully to him, a scowl on her face. Before she could continue her scolding, a great crack deafened the scene, stones erupting from where the wall used to be. By the grace of god, gods, or luck, Jarren managed to spring (painfully) from his bed just in time to avoid a large chunk of building from collapsing onto him. His eyes widened with terror, grey dust filling the entire room alongside globs of silent monstrosities.
The grunts scampered quickly towards him, a great pool of blood seeping out from under a segment of broken wall and splattering over their legs. Jarren swallowed a gulp of air and dust, quickly turning away from the beasts. He sprinted full speed out of the room and into a long corridor. On either side people were darting from their rooms, wild with terror and all funneling into a singular direction. Something itched at Jarren’s skull and he turned around, sprinting in the opposite direction of the masses, his side flaring with pain.
The grunts began to pour out of where his room was, along with a handful of other rooms on his side of the corridor, but as he sprinted away and snuck a glance back -- they were chasing the panicked crowd going down the other end of the corridor, arms flailing at the stragglers and beating them to death with sickly thumps. Jarren’s head snapped back to his fore, and just in time.
Quickly, Jarren ducked under the swing of a lone grunt, the fist slamming through the open door it caught instead. Without missing a beat, Jarren kept running -- giving thanks to Teid for his luck. The hall whipped by him, and he no longer dared look to see what could be chasing him as he ran. He turned left, right, ran straight through a ward of the dying and sick -- turned left into an empty hallway, sprinted down it -- the ground shook.
Ducking again, he slid under a falling wooden beam and his side roared with pain. He cut off a squeaking yelp and pushed back to his feet -- right. Straight ahead he ran, the moonlight of the outside playing on the dust that now filled the hallway. Another slam and he gritted his teeth, the exit so close. Slam! Sweat began to form and he pumped his legs as fast as they would go, the pain ricocheting all over his body now-- SLAM!
Jarren leaped with all the force he could muster, the open night air washing over his body right before it was hit with a blast of rubble from behind. The impact forced Jarren forward through the air, eventually slamming into the debris and filth covered ground with a skin scraping roll. Dazed, he looked behind him.
Half of the Wisserbury hospital laid in a pile of crumbled stone and broken wood, a heart seizing gap in the Illistair wall next to it. A cold shiver fought his heated pain as his eyes were sucked into the emptiness that was between the two sides of the broken wall -- the emptiness moved, he blinked. His eyes quickly adjusted and there he saw in the distance, the largest giant he ever laid eyes on. It was at least seven men high and was engulfed in a swarm of grunts and crawlers, it’s massive arms colliding into the remains of the monastery. Its minions were making quick work of displaced soldiers and survivors alike in the most brutal fashion, the pops of bone and metal crackling over the crumbling battlefield. A powerful breeze blasted by Jarren and stole his attention away from the army of destruction, his eyes making out the culprit as it passed him -- a horse.
It was heading right for the army of filth, and atop sat a man dressed in chainmail with a fancy great helmet atop his head, a fine looking steel blade held high in one hand, and a well battered shield in the other.
“Idiot…” Jarren coughed to himself, slowly getting back up to his feet, legs shaky. He turned away from the onslaught, eyes scanning for his freedom. He cringed. There at the opposite of the fight a mass of soldiers were beginning to form, arrows notched and siege engines rolling up.
“Not that way,” He wiped the corner of his mouth free of gathering dust and spun back to the army of filth, the sight of the hero on the horse all but consumed by the lingering dust clouds. He furrowed his brow, dark brown eyes finally landing on the gap in the walls -- specifically the rightmost side as it was rather clear, with most of the filth coming around the corner of the leftern hip. His ears twitched -- the ropes of the engines were being pulled. His brow dropped and as best as he could, he began to sprint again.
The dust scratched at his eyes as he ran, tears welling. His heartbeat was in his throat and anxiety conquered his stomach -- he lost track of where he was. An arrow whizzed from behind him and he gulped. His fingers crossed, praying he was heading towards the clearing in the gap and not the-
He slammed full force into a grunt, the ooze slapping across his bare chest. He hissed, the gloop stinging his skin ever so slightly. The beast turned, bringing an arm with it. Jarren closed his eyes -- but the blow never came. A sudden shlink! erupted through the air, and Jarren opened an eye to peek.
The horseman sped off, his blade dripping with filth. Jarren looked down, he was standing in a puddle of filth. Saying a second prayer to Teid, Jarren continued his run but this time he found himself heading in the same direction as the horseman -- something wasn’t right.
Before he could turn around, a mighty ball of stone came crashing from the sky. As it landed near him with an amazing clap of sound, the dust was pushed aside, revealing a large puddle of filth and crushed crawlers. Another stone fell, then another. Jarren could feel his pulse in his teeth, his adrenaline boiling. A glint caught his eye, nearly causing him to trip over a clump of corpses.
He turned slightly, the glint signaled again. He squinted through the dust and dirt, it was metal. A curiosity overtook his sickened stomach and he sprinted over. As he approached his heart froze; there ahead of him the horse stood, wild eyed and frightened, it’s reigns pulled down to the ground by the metal clad knight that once rode it, a large pool of blood seeping from the helmet, several massive dents pulverizing it inwards.
Jarren swallowed hard and necessity overtook his compassion. He quickly scooped up the knight’s sword, and snagged his shield. Looking hard at the horse, he suddenly swung a leg over it. He kicked the knight’s hand from the reign and with his knees pressed against the saddle, he kicked the horses flanks -- and just in time.
A stone fell from the sky, smashing into the corpse of the knight and burying in into the debris and piles of bodies below. The rubble bounced off of Jarren’s back and spurred the horse faster -- CRACK!
A terrible leg that possessed the width of a bundle of pillars slammed into the ground next to him, causing the horse to buck. Jarren held tight, his eyes wide with horror as he looked up. The giant stood directly above him. Arrows littered the monster’s body, but still it attacked -- lifting a leg.
CRACK!!
Another near miss, Jarren barely holding onto the horse.
WHAM! A wet crash sounded as one of the stone projectiles of the defenders hit the beast squarely into the chest. It stumbled.
WHAM! Another hit; it fell to one knee. It lurched and then collapsed, nearly toppling over onto Jarren. The man held his horse still, he himself frozen with fear as the great monstrosity began to bubble and ooze next to him. He raised his stolen sword, either out of reflex or fright. Time slipped, the great big body began to melt and the dust began to settle. The sounds of the battle slowly quieted down, but still Jarren stayed still -- until…
“There he is!” A shout called out and Jarren turned in his saddle towards the voice. A line of soldiers, many maimed and battered, stared at him, most with large smiles of relief. Looking across, the soldiers saw Jarren sit on the horse of the hero, a giant melting right behind him and his sword raised high.
A cheer suddenly erupted from the soldiers as they began to chant, “Ratcher! Ratcher! Ratcher!”
Completely shaken, Jarren raised his sword, the cheer grew louder and so did the pain in his side.
Kendles
“I would wager that they would rather slit their own throats before going with you,” Derick folded his hands together, a ring and pinky finger missing on his right hand. The man was in his early thirties, with predatory eyes the color of steel and cleanly cropped light brown hair. He sat on a throne of glorified wood, nails and knuckle-bones. His clothes were ratty and old, but not as shabby as the crooked hut he sat in. The man in front of him was completely bald, at least ten years older, and draped in an unusually nice black cloak. He wore a sneer that never seemed to leave his face, only deepening at Derick’s suggestion.
“Some have tried, but that’s a simple matter of a mallet to the hands now isn’t it?” His eyes narrowed, “Don’t concern yourself with the packages once they are out of sight, keep your eyes on the payment.”
“Anything for good old Kendles,” Derick opened his arms.
“So it’s a deal then?” The man smiled a yellow toothed smile and Derick returned it with one of his own.
“Not quite,” His words made the cloaked man wince, yet still sneer. Derick cocked a head, “You said this deal has been going on for quite some time, yeah?”
“The Friends of Foy participated,” The man jabbed a finger into his palm.
“Wolf?”
“He didn’t know, he didn’t need to.”
“Well if they did then I’m sure that means I should,” Derick gave a dumb look and the man greedily nodded, the sarcasm escaping him.
“Yes-- you’re the--”
“I know who and what I am,” Derick stood up, his height beating the cloaked man’s by an inch, “And that’s why I have to decline, find your elderly and beaten somewhere else.”
“But-”
“No buts,” Derick folded his arms behind his back, “Despite what you may have heard, the Filth Eaters do not deal in human lives, not at that price at least, not on my watch.”
“The Friends-”
“Then ask them,” Derick waved a hand, “If you can even find them anymore,” He laughed almost menacingly, his eyes turning to daggers, “I’m not to be insulted by such a price ever again or I’ll take both your ears and feed them to your-- I’m sorry are you married?”
“No,” The man grit his teeth, yet somehow was still sneering.
Derick stared for a while, “Who would’ve guessed.”
“An eighth more.” The man suddenly offered. Derick pointed one finger at him then slowly swerved it so it pointed at the ceiling.
“A quarter.”
Derick raised his hand further and the man growled, his sneer finally gone, “A half more.”
“There it is,” Derick flashed a charming yellow smile, “It’s a deal.”
“Good.” The other man seemed too ashamed to sneer any longer and Derick flicked his wrist.
“It’s getting late, Mr. Keeley.”
The sneer was back. Keeley looked as if he wanted to say something but instead pulled his cloak close to his body and stormed out of the room. Derick rolled his eyes and slumped back into his throne, a bored expression taking his face.
Boots silently crept across a dirty plot of land. Ragged shacks littered it in no real order, and the sound of both coughing and snoring filled the birdless sky. The owner of the boots were two large men, their footsteps eerily silent compared to their size. As they walked by a dark alley between two different rows of shacks a sudden laugh caused them to stop. They turned to the sound, a scabby man laughing into his own naked lap, his body bruised and beaten. Next to him a now bloated body laid, it’s face a hue of blue. A swollen tongue stuck out of the decaying fat cheeks. The men shared a look and continued, this was nothing unusual.
The pair passed shack filled with laboured grunts and moans, a dirt covered child squatting outside, fingers drawing in the mud, a big frown on his face. The kid’s gaze caught one of the men, the booted man giving the child a twisted face, forcing the kid to scramble away. The jokester turned to his partner, but received nothing but a stonewalled frown. The jokester rolled his eyes and flared his nostrils.
Slowly the two walked away from the cluster of shacks, finding one that was quite alone, far from the stench of the rest. Trees loomed over it, and the flicker of fire peeked through its thin wooden walls and a puff of smoke exited a latched hole in the roof. Without much ceremony the two thugs walked up to the front and only door, a thin piece of wood and slammed their foot right into it.
With a loud crack, the door jumped off its simple hinges and plowed into the one room shack, slamming into a kneeling woman and knocking her right into the open fire. She started to scream as her clothes jumped with flames, a young girl screeching in the corner while an older man scrambled to his feet. One of the thugs pointed at the young girl before roughly kicking the woman out of the fire, bringing a second boot with a resounding crack against her skull, her scream stopping, but her chest still rising and falling.
The old man tackled into the thug, but his frail body barely caused the tall man to flinch. With a strong hook, the thug slammed a fist into the man’s stomach, curling him over to the floor. The girl was still screeching madly, then with a snapping sound, the other thug brought his boot to her small body. The screaming stopped.
The thug by the unconscious woman and coughing old man turned to the other, who gave him a shrug. The little girl was slumped over, a drizzle of scarlet and saliva dripping out of the corner of her mouth. The first thug hissed a breath.
“Nevermind that, grab the woman, I’ll get the geezer.”
