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It had been two turns of the light since the Turncloak had slain the madman in the valley, leaving him cleaved asunder for what manner of scavengers to forage from. The bodies here —and there had been many— would lie dormant for several minutes at the most before they would crumble back into salted dirt, as if they were being consumed alive by the land.
Funny. the Turncloak thought to himself, for this world would consume you mentally and physically should it be given the chance. The madman was gone by the time he had turned his head back. The body was no doubt disturbed, but for the life of him, he did not know what by. There were sparse, light-footed tracks that would sometimes appear far behind him on long journeys, perhaps they belonged to another human who was not so foolish as the last madman; the quietest moments on his endless journey would also be accompanied by the distant and soft jingling of bells. No sane creature here would willingly carry a bell with it, so the Turncloak concluded that he was being stalked by an Empty Human, or something far worse.
He did not let this worry him, for the Empty were weak with their madness and if one of the creatures dwelling here had made him their prey, there was naught that he could do to postpone the inevitable. So he continued on.
The Turncloak had estimated two days, but it could have been ten. Perhaps twenty? There was no way to tell in the perpetuity. Hunger pangs had begun to grow from the deep of his belly, he could not remember his last meal, it was prior to the last time he had died, he knew such for sure. Six deaths he had counted, measured each time by the agony they had caused: twice through hunger, thrice through fatal falls, and once —though the details were puzzled at best— he could only remember bulbous, glowing crimson eyes in the dead of darkness, a flash of leathery skin, and his very body ripped apart in mere seconds. The pain had been utterly inconceivable, as though every time his body was cleaved and shredded by some unseen, fell talons, salt were rubbed in the wounds. It was as though the beast had existed merely to cause a pain more excruciating then any other.
He still had the scars from that death. He was still naive and young to the land. He was not who he was now, that past iteration of himself may have remembered more about his past. What he would have given to know now what he used to…
Why he had settled on the ‘Turncloak Blade’ is a fact almost lost to him. Perhaps it was due to the one persisting memory of casting off a cloak, renouncing his King, giving himself to another. Or was that memory twisted too? His last bastion of identity befouled by time?
His trail of thought had come to an end. Bells again. Footsteps again. Strange creature. Empty creature. No different to what he may be. Soon.
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The Mountain still loomed in the distance. It had come no closer yet the Turncloak had walked for days upon apparent days. Perhaps the land did this for a reason? To provide false hope in the form of a beacon of salvation. Truly this was some Hell indeed. There had to be a faster way; he knew it, he knew it. His hunger pangs had grown stronger and his armour had grown heavier. Maybe he should rest? He felt as though his mind were slipping away once more. It was repeating, repeating in the silence. Irrational thoughts crossed his mind daily, and false memories fleeting in and out of view. He would sometimes spy an oasis in the distance, liquid water glistening in the twilight, verdant palms waving gently in some summery breeze. He broke into a haggard run to these mirages of small salvation, his hopes promptly shattered by the desolate cesspools of bone and acid that took their place. He would spend hours then cursing his own foolishness.
Bells again.
How were the bells surviving?
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The Valley stretched further still. It had no end. He knew it must have had no end. Twice in different lives had he tried to walk it’s clear span to the Mountain. Perhaps it was the curse. Perhaps he needed to free himself from the jagged canyon of death and despair. Maybe. Maybe.
Hungry.
Maybe he could consume the dirt. Maybe the next Empty beast who crossed his path would be his next meal.
Once he would have been repulsed at himself for such a thought, but the hunger prevailed. Thirst, too. His mouth was dry, drier than the land itself. His throat had closed up days ago, but even breathing had become an issue now.
Instinctively, he looked up to the sky to scan for rainclouds. There was nothing. Not even a sky. No blue, no black, no clouds, no stars. Only an inconceivable void, an impenetrable swirl of nothingness, coalescing in ribbons of corporeal fear and twisted rays of light, stretching from the static star across the darkness.
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Three more days. There was not one more left in him. His trail had become heavy, thick with stumbling blunder. His tracks were erratic, confused, maddeningly psychotic. The world had fallen out of focus, the sides of the valley no longer existed to him. There was the straight path, or there was none. Every move dragged hellish pain from his vacant stomach, every single one causing him to grunt and lurch with the pain of it. The air he could strain through his parched lips and throat was hot and dry, it brought him no comfort.
Is there no respite here? Not even the comfort of cool air upon your lips?
This land exists to agonise. Only warm when the comfort of the cold is needed…
His knees gave way. His armoured form thudded to the sand with a soft burst of dust that fluttered back to settle without further sound. He used his halberd to suspend the rest of his body, to prevent his entire form from crashing to the dirt.
The bells shook in the distance.
Why did the bells follow so? Was the madman’s scavenger following also?
He closed his eyes, perhaps for the last time. He wanted to kneel.
Just for a moment.
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Well, it's better than no reaction?