Tweet
Silvermane's reputation continued to grow among the Blackwood. He had destroyed Earth Elementals, cleaved the head from the Grimaxe Chieftain, he had even become well-renowned as the greatest fisherman the Blackwood had ever known. This pleased the silver-haired Berserker, who was wasting away the day at his infamous "Spot" upon the bridge, his bounty for the day from the pond being most generous. Several crayfish, Rainbows Trouts, and Catfish filled his wicker basket.
As the northerner sat, relaxing the day away, he heard two adventurers making conversation not far from him.
"They say the Demons of Argyle spread thicker still. Though we have sent in men to thin their numbers, we merely destroy the shells. The Fiends merely possess others. The entire village lay in ruin!" said one of the adventurers, a young woman.
"They say the flesh of the fiends repels all but weapons of cold iron. I could barely scratch them with my arrows" said another, an Elven lad with a longbow.
This, Silvermane decided, warranted investigation. Travelling to the Quartermaster, Sargeant Knoll, the Berserker requested a Greatsword of Cold Iron make to pierce the flesh of the demons. The aged sargeant reluctantly agreed, providing the man a blade of great size to accommodate his goliath hands. Venturing out into the direction of Argyle village the Northerner stopped at a local tavern, one which called itself "The Hell's Maw". Within this grim establishment sat several men, all of which with tattoos and sigils in a language that the Skaald did not understand. Symbols of horned beings, bathed in flame, that were unfamiliar to the Barbarian.
One of the men, Armand, greeted the Skaald as he sat down to enjoy a drink, refreshing himself from the long walk. He informed the Berserker that he and his clan were there to remove the Demon Threat. Though the Northerner raised his glass to the man for his noble deed, he could not help but feel there was something...sinister...about the black-garbed man.
As Silvermane and Armand sat for several minutes discussing the Demon Threat, Armand told the Skaald about the inhabitants of the village. Possessed peasants, Succubi, and other horrors that lurked within. The Northerner finished his drink with a satisfied belch, and hefted his mighty sword across his shoulders to deal with the demon threat. The aged Armand smiled a devious smile at him, raising his wine-glass to wish the Berserker good fortune in the hunt.
As Silvermane left the bar he could not help but feel that the tavern was well named. The scent of Brimstone and the encroaching feeling of Despair lingered about the establishment, seeming as though a great burden was lifted from Silvermane's shoulders as he left. Though he was no Paladin, Silvermane had witnessed many evils of the world. Acts of sadism, and malcontent. Though he did not know for certain, he could almost feel the pure evil that was emanating from that man and his followers. As though while within that bar the eyes of Hell itself was upon him, as if beckoning his wayward soul to follow.
The giant drank several magical droughts he had purchased. Droughts of Stoneskin, and Barskin, and Magical Aid to bolster his defenses and guide his sword-arm through the hordes of Demonspawn that dwelled within this once beautiful and lush village. As the Skaald entered the village gates the feeling of dread and anguish washed over him as though he were baptized within it. Walking forward slowly, his aged though keen eyes studying the horizon for foes, he felt a mighty peck across his ankles. Casting his eyes downward, that is when he saw it..
A chicken. It's feathers as ashen as volcanic soot. It's eyes glowing red with hatred and malice. It's beak curved like the slanted blade of a scimitar. What was once a tiny, insignificant little bird that the Skaald would have feathered for his breakfast was now clawing at the Northerner with all of it's fury!!
"By the Axe of Tempus!!" shouted the Berserker as the beast's talons dug into his armor, though not enough to harm him. "The beast seeks revenge for all of it's kin I have devoured!!" He raised his shield against the fury of the feathered fowl. As he guarded against the vicious onslaught, however, Silvermane realized the truth.
Armand explained that Manes lack the strength to possess more powerful or mindful hosts, and thus they were often forced to inhabit the shells of cats, dogs, or other lower life. In this case, it would seem the Mane had inhabited the body of this lowly chicken. At this grim realization the Northerner frowned, looking down upon the phantasmal poultry with a sad face.
"Forgive me..." said the Goliath, as he brought his mighty sword down upon the bird's head, a mercy killing to deliver it from the monster that lurked within. But as his sword struck down the rooster the sound of it's dying caw echoed within the tattered village, and that is when they came en masse. Scores of them. Men. Women. Children. Their faces twisted with unspeakable evil, their eyes glowing crimson with the full fury of the Abyss that had latched upon their souls and had begun to corrupt and devour the poor villagers from within.
A feeling the Northerner had never felt washed over him in that moment. Feelings of anger. Feelings of sadness. He felt pity for the villagers, whose body and soul had been violated by this unspeakable evil. And within his heart, where he had stored all of his rage, it began to beat rapidly. This was not right. This was not fair. These people, they did nothing to deserve this. These people, who had wanted merely to live out their days in peace, did not deserve the foul fate that had been thrust upon them by whatever foul Abyssal power which saw fit to lay dominion to this tiny corner of the world.
As the possessed villagers charged their way towards the Gargantuan a steam of tears rolled down his face, collecting within his scraggly beard. His lips trembled, and his grip upon his mighty sword relinquished slightly. But the Northerner knew that there was nothing that could be done for these people. Their bodies were too far gone. But there was one salvation for them. Only one.
...he would have to put them down, in the hopes that their spirits would find their way to their rightful resting place. In the hopes that once their mortal shells were broken the fiends within would relinquish their grasp upon them. And with a tearful eye, and a heavy heart, the Berserker did just that.
He carved through them one after another. Though possessed by demons, these were no warriors in life. They were peasants. Farmers. Blacksmiths. Weavers and hunters. Men and women that the Skaald would have respected, even loved. But he could not think about that now. He could not carry thoughts of regret, or sorrow. The Battle was all that mattered now.
The frenzied mob of peasants practically threw themselves upon his blade, clawing and gashing at his flesh as he continued to cut them down, each one of their faces leaving an eternal and gashing wound upon the Barbarian's psyche. Each one he cut down took from him a small piece of his soul. As the fight waged on he thought, in the back of his mind, if after this hellish nightmare was over if he would have any of his own soul left at all.
As the fight waged on the Berserker found himself inside of one of their homes. A simple home. A farmer's home. Pots and pans covered the floor and counter carrying with them the crusted remains of meat and vegetables, the maggots having long-since infesting them just as the demons infested the villagers themselves. As he made his way into the bedroom he saw them...an entire family. A mother and father, sister and brother. He could tell by gazing upon them that they were related. As he entered this profane dark reflection of what was once a beautiful home the family turned their abyssal gaze upon him, their eyes piss-yellow with demonic taint. As the mother and sister charged the Barbarian he closed his eyes, merely holding his sword out, which found their hearts.
As the once normal family lie broken and bloody at his feet the Skaald began shaking from the horrible atrocity he had just committed. He had heard of followers of Garagos doing this: Cutting down entire families in their blood-lust. He KNEW they were demons. He KNEW they were not the noble and peaceful people they once were, that they had been claimed by foul Abyssal creatures...but it hurt him all the same. The Berserker fell to his knees, his lips stammering and his hands shaking.
"I'm....I'm setting them free....I'm...setting them free...I'm saving their souls.." the Northerner kept repeating to himself, the trauma of the experience no doubt getting to him. He was right. He WAS helping them. He WAS setting them free. But it didn't matter. The Barbarian would forever bear the wounds upon his heart of the things he had to do this day.
And as he kneeled there, gazing across the broken corpses of this simple family he heard a voice from the darkness. The voice echoed within the room with a magical resonance. But the voice was not one of malice. The voice was a sweet sounding voice. The voice of a beautiful woman. As the Skaald stared into the corner...she approached.
Her form was one of perfection. Her caramel skin as smooth as silk, and her raven hair as black as the night sky. She wore very little, her tight dress accentuating her lithe and curvaceous body. From her back sprang a pair of Bat-like wings that she enveloped around her as though she were wearing a cloak. Her eyes were pupil-less, and tinted as though they were pools of gold. Her lips were soft and full, and tinted of the reddest crimson. An alluring smile danced across her face revealing a sharpened set of canines amid pearly-white teeth.
(( Continued below. ))
As the northerner sat, relaxing the day away, he heard two adventurers making conversation not far from him.
"They say the Demons of Argyle spread thicker still. Though we have sent in men to thin their numbers, we merely destroy the shells. The Fiends merely possess others. The entire village lay in ruin!" said one of the adventurers, a young woman.
"They say the flesh of the fiends repels all but weapons of cold iron. I could barely scratch them with my arrows" said another, an Elven lad with a longbow.
This, Silvermane decided, warranted investigation. Travelling to the Quartermaster, Sargeant Knoll, the Berserker requested a Greatsword of Cold Iron make to pierce the flesh of the demons. The aged sargeant reluctantly agreed, providing the man a blade of great size to accommodate his goliath hands. Venturing out into the direction of Argyle village the Northerner stopped at a local tavern, one which called itself "The Hell's Maw". Within this grim establishment sat several men, all of which with tattoos and sigils in a language that the Skaald did not understand. Symbols of horned beings, bathed in flame, that were unfamiliar to the Barbarian.
One of the men, Armand, greeted the Skaald as he sat down to enjoy a drink, refreshing himself from the long walk. He informed the Berserker that he and his clan were there to remove the Demon Threat. Though the Northerner raised his glass to the man for his noble deed, he could not help but feel there was something...sinister...about the black-garbed man.
As Silvermane and Armand sat for several minutes discussing the Demon Threat, Armand told the Skaald about the inhabitants of the village. Possessed peasants, Succubi, and other horrors that lurked within. The Northerner finished his drink with a satisfied belch, and hefted his mighty sword across his shoulders to deal with the demon threat. The aged Armand smiled a devious smile at him, raising his wine-glass to wish the Berserker good fortune in the hunt.
As Silvermane left the bar he could not help but feel that the tavern was well named. The scent of Brimstone and the encroaching feeling of Despair lingered about the establishment, seeming as though a great burden was lifted from Silvermane's shoulders as he left. Though he was no Paladin, Silvermane had witnessed many evils of the world. Acts of sadism, and malcontent. Though he did not know for certain, he could almost feel the pure evil that was emanating from that man and his followers. As though while within that bar the eyes of Hell itself was upon him, as if beckoning his wayward soul to follow.
The giant drank several magical droughts he had purchased. Droughts of Stoneskin, and Barskin, and Magical Aid to bolster his defenses and guide his sword-arm through the hordes of Demonspawn that dwelled within this once beautiful and lush village. As the Skaald entered the village gates the feeling of dread and anguish washed over him as though he were baptized within it. Walking forward slowly, his aged though keen eyes studying the horizon for foes, he felt a mighty peck across his ankles. Casting his eyes downward, that is when he saw it..
A chicken. It's feathers as ashen as volcanic soot. It's eyes glowing red with hatred and malice. It's beak curved like the slanted blade of a scimitar. What was once a tiny, insignificant little bird that the Skaald would have feathered for his breakfast was now clawing at the Northerner with all of it's fury!!
"By the Axe of Tempus!!" shouted the Berserker as the beast's talons dug into his armor, though not enough to harm him. "The beast seeks revenge for all of it's kin I have devoured!!" He raised his shield against the fury of the feathered fowl. As he guarded against the vicious onslaught, however, Silvermane realized the truth.
Armand explained that Manes lack the strength to possess more powerful or mindful hosts, and thus they were often forced to inhabit the shells of cats, dogs, or other lower life. In this case, it would seem the Mane had inhabited the body of this lowly chicken. At this grim realization the Northerner frowned, looking down upon the phantasmal poultry with a sad face.
"Forgive me..." said the Goliath, as he brought his mighty sword down upon the bird's head, a mercy killing to deliver it from the monster that lurked within. But as his sword struck down the rooster the sound of it's dying caw echoed within the tattered village, and that is when they came en masse. Scores of them. Men. Women. Children. Their faces twisted with unspeakable evil, their eyes glowing crimson with the full fury of the Abyss that had latched upon their souls and had begun to corrupt and devour the poor villagers from within.
A feeling the Northerner had never felt washed over him in that moment. Feelings of anger. Feelings of sadness. He felt pity for the villagers, whose body and soul had been violated by this unspeakable evil. And within his heart, where he had stored all of his rage, it began to beat rapidly. This was not right. This was not fair. These people, they did nothing to deserve this. These people, who had wanted merely to live out their days in peace, did not deserve the foul fate that had been thrust upon them by whatever foul Abyssal power which saw fit to lay dominion to this tiny corner of the world.
As the possessed villagers charged their way towards the Gargantuan a steam of tears rolled down his face, collecting within his scraggly beard. His lips trembled, and his grip upon his mighty sword relinquished slightly. But the Northerner knew that there was nothing that could be done for these people. Their bodies were too far gone. But there was one salvation for them. Only one.
...he would have to put them down, in the hopes that their spirits would find their way to their rightful resting place. In the hopes that once their mortal shells were broken the fiends within would relinquish their grasp upon them. And with a tearful eye, and a heavy heart, the Berserker did just that.
He carved through them one after another. Though possessed by demons, these were no warriors in life. They were peasants. Farmers. Blacksmiths. Weavers and hunters. Men and women that the Skaald would have respected, even loved. But he could not think about that now. He could not carry thoughts of regret, or sorrow. The Battle was all that mattered now.
The frenzied mob of peasants practically threw themselves upon his blade, clawing and gashing at his flesh as he continued to cut them down, each one of their faces leaving an eternal and gashing wound upon the Barbarian's psyche. Each one he cut down took from him a small piece of his soul. As the fight waged on he thought, in the back of his mind, if after this hellish nightmare was over if he would have any of his own soul left at all.
As the fight waged on the Berserker found himself inside of one of their homes. A simple home. A farmer's home. Pots and pans covered the floor and counter carrying with them the crusted remains of meat and vegetables, the maggots having long-since infesting them just as the demons infested the villagers themselves. As he made his way into the bedroom he saw them...an entire family. A mother and father, sister and brother. He could tell by gazing upon them that they were related. As he entered this profane dark reflection of what was once a beautiful home the family turned their abyssal gaze upon him, their eyes piss-yellow with demonic taint. As the mother and sister charged the Barbarian he closed his eyes, merely holding his sword out, which found their hearts.
As the once normal family lie broken and bloody at his feet the Skaald began shaking from the horrible atrocity he had just committed. He had heard of followers of Garagos doing this: Cutting down entire families in their blood-lust. He KNEW they were demons. He KNEW they were not the noble and peaceful people they once were, that they had been claimed by foul Abyssal creatures...but it hurt him all the same. The Berserker fell to his knees, his lips stammering and his hands shaking.
"I'm....I'm setting them free....I'm...setting them free...I'm saving their souls.." the Northerner kept repeating to himself, the trauma of the experience no doubt getting to him. He was right. He WAS helping them. He WAS setting them free. But it didn't matter. The Barbarian would forever bear the wounds upon his heart of the things he had to do this day.
And as he kneeled there, gazing across the broken corpses of this simple family he heard a voice from the darkness. The voice echoed within the room with a magical resonance. But the voice was not one of malice. The voice was a sweet sounding voice. The voice of a beautiful woman. As the Skaald stared into the corner...she approached.
Her form was one of perfection. Her caramel skin as smooth as silk, and her raven hair as black as the night sky. She wore very little, her tight dress accentuating her lithe and curvaceous body. From her back sprang a pair of Bat-like wings that she enveloped around her as though she were wearing a cloak. Her eyes were pupil-less, and tinted as though they were pools of gold. Her lips were soft and full, and tinted of the reddest crimson. An alluring smile danced across her face revealing a sharpened set of canines amid pearly-white teeth.
(( Continued below. ))
Comment