Out of Character:
“You who fear the darkness will forever live in darkness!”
~Final words of the sorcerer Yuri Tilaninov, before his execution.
*
It was late. The sun had vanished behind the rocky hills, quickly draining the warm color from the sky like a sponge. Silence smothered the night, broken only by the irregular crunching of rocks and soil beneath clumsy feet. Jonathan’s raggedly dressed form half walked and half stumbled through the darkening forest. His tattered brown cloak swayed with each step while his tangled mop of filthy brown hair stuck to his head in a matted mess.
Under the veil of darkness, the landscape took on an unwholesome, almost nightmarish visage. Summer had reached its peak, yet the forest looked as though it had been ravaged by winter. The leafless skeletons of deciduous trees stretched upward like twisted, emaciated claws seeking to pluck the very stars from the heavens. They would find few to snatch, however, as most of the sparkling jewels were covered by a dark funeral veil of clouds. Even the mighty pines had an ominous look to them, towering above their sickly cousins like vicious slave masters.
The stillness unsettled him as he nervously navigated the columns of gnarled trees. The cool air carried the subtle, natural aromas of pine and dead leaves, but he couldn’t shake his certainty that something wasn’t right. He couldn’t see any evidence of a threat; no sounds could be heard or movement detected. That was perhaps the source of his irrational distress. It seemed as though he wasn’t walking through a real, living forest, but rather a mausoleum dedicated to one. Nothing stirred. He could only hope that it remained so.
As the sun sank completely, Jonathan wished that he’d just waited for morning to check his traps. He wouldn’t have needed to worry about walking back home in the dark. But alas, his family was hungry and he didn’t want to risk a wild animal coming across one of his snares before morning and making off with his potential meal. The weary man held up his catch; a fine brown hare. His wife and two daughters would be pleased to see it when he returned to their cottage. And after wandering through the ominous forest for an hour, he would be happy to see them.
He would never see them again. He died silently with not so much as a breath as he slumped to the ground, an arrow in his throat. The night began its reign.
* * * * *
It had been a clean kill – swift, silent, and lethally effective. Yet, it felt so… unsatisfying. Sir Ciaphas Volg slouched in his saddle atop Actaeon. The massive charcoal-colored wolf padded quietly through the forest, dragging its master’s most recent kill by the head. The noble sighed and ran a hand through his surprisingly well-groomed blonde hair; one was never too busy to keep up appearances.
He’d treated the filthy peasant as an opponent rather than prey. He typically reserved the dealing of swift and efficient death for those worthy of being considered real foes. This pathetic victim had been just that: a victim – an insignificant wretch to be terrified and toyed with at his pleasure. Such a waste. At least the peon would serve a more noble cause in death than he did in life: that of feeding his master’s small clutch of beasts.
The cottage he’d come across an hour before had been a far more enjoyable expedition. A woman and two girls were there by themselves. Ciaphas had ridden up to the home in broad daylight, taking delight as the three of them screamed and ran for the door at the sight of his weapons and murderous eyes. He let his wolf take down one of the girls and have its fun with her for a while. The noble listened to the remaining two hear the third’s screams of terror and pain while he pretended to struggle for an entrance into their ramshackle cottage. That part has just been for fun, of course, as breaking in for real proved as simple as breathing. He’d enjoyed it; it almost made up for how boring his fourth kill of the day had been. Almost.
He left their brutalized remains pinned to the dead trees with iron spikes as a warning to trespassers. This forest and everything in it belonged to his master.
He smiled in spite of himself. To think, instead of stalking the wilderness like a reaper of death, the twenty-five year-old noble could have remained home, waiting for his father to hurry up and die so that he could claim the estate. Besides, if things went as his master planned, Ciaphas could carve out his own slice of the new order. The schemes of carving out a new domain in the eastern edges of Salvar seemed far-fetched at first, but they grew on him. There was something about that chef, their leader and his master, that drew him in. What can I say? Megalomania sells.
A chorus of familiar reptilian snarls shook the noble from his reverie. He had reached his destination, and the small pack of ferocious horse-sized Ashkore lizards, as well as an assortment of other beasts, smelled the fresh blood of his victim.
Their current base of operations couldn't exactly be called impressive. Though it had once been a mighty castle atop the rugged hill, time had reduced the senescent structure to little more than a pile of ruins. It provided a dark, gothic atmosphere but offered little real protection save for the partially intact keep in the center. That was where their leader could be found. That was the command post of Elijah Belov – known as the butcher of souls, the caterer of the abyss, and many other titles, some more flattering than others.
Hopping off his mount and letting the feral canine fight it out with the reptiles over what little meat the peasant provided, Ciaphas started toward the keep. It didn't take long at all before three of the large scaly beasts pounced on the kill, their draconic jaws rending flesh and crushing bone. Spiked tails batted against leathery green flanks as they scuffled over the tiny morsel.
The crumbling castle swarmed with activity like a beehive. Hundreds of warriors and from hundreds of leagues in every direction scurried back and forth, patrolling or doing other duties. There were also a large number of unfamiliar faces; the new recruits, no doubt, though few of these appeared to be warriors.
The ancient fortress had become a decaying, bloated corpse compared to whatever its former glory had been. Now, the crumbling grey walls were the color of dead flesh and large patches of green moss covered the masonry as rot covers a cadaver. Even the sturdy keep was little more than a small box of stone and mortar. He sincerely hoped that Belov included some serious repairs in his master plan. Perhaps that was the purpose of the new arrivals.
Ciaphas stepped through what used to be the front gate and made his way to the far right corner, to the only fully intact room in the entire broken castle. It wasn’t much, probably once a servant’s chamber. It seemed ironic that the man he, someone of noble blood, took orders from used such a place as his center of command. Many a great man had humble beginnings, he supposed.
Two massive winged figures flanked the room’s wooden door. Sets of glowing yellow eyes illuminated their dark granite skin as they glared at the approaching noble with unhidden suspicion. Gargoyles. Those were new. The noble had to hand it to his culinary overlord; he knew how to manage scary architecture properly. Their demonic heads turned to follow him as he made his way to the command room, scrutinizing his every step. One moved mechanically to block his path while the other knocked twice on the door. It opened and he heard the chef’s familiar voice call out.
“He’s safe, let him in,” Elijah said. His voice possessed a ring of youthful vigor and clarity, as well as subtly powerful commanding edge. The two winged beasts stepped aside instantly, allowing Ciaphas through. “Was your patrol productive?”
A large wooden table strewn with maps, schematics, and empty plates and surrounded by a small handful of other faces dominated the center of the small chamber, making the room seem even more cramped. A large oil lamp hung from the ceiling. Belov sat at the far end, glancing up from one of the many pieces of tan parchment. Even with the tattered chef coat under his cloak, Elijah managed a noble, forceful appearance. His strong chin and piercing brown eyes gave him a compelling, indomitable aura of presence.
“Yes, I would say that it was,” the noble replied with a grin. He took his seat in the empty chair by the door and folded his black-gloved hands on the table. “I took… measures to prevent trespassing.”
“Lovely, how many did you kill this time?” This time, it wasn’t his master speaking. Ciaphas glanced to the far corner with his lips curled into a sneer. There he found his younger sister, Alexandria Volg, leaning back with a steaming tin mug in her hand. She glared disapprovingly at her older sibling. “There is psychological warfare, and then there is senseless brutality.”
Ciaphas rolled his eyes. He and his sister had the same blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin, and well-trimmed noble bearing. Aside from their genders, both were very similar in appearance. Their similarities ended there, however. Ciaphas prided himself on his cunning and merciless nature, not caring what the means were so long as the desired ends were achieved. His sister, though, was valorous and honorable to a fault and sickeningly noble – an improper demeanor for a woman, he thought.
“I only killed four, dear sister,” the older replied snidely. During the past few months, Ciaphas had grown very weary of his sister’s hostile impugnation. “One to feed the war beasts and three left as a warning.”
“Or as invitation to every mercenary, witch hunter, and local militiaman within twenty leagues of here to come and investigate,” Alexandria shot back harshly, narrowing her eyes.
“Then let them,” replied Ciaphas defiantly, raising his voice.
“That is quite enough.” Belov barely raised his voice, but his cold command halted the argument with stunning efficiency. “Alexandria, this is not a place for the faint of heart or squeamish. You know that.” The Volg sister sank back into her chair, her eyes smoldering at both of them. Ciaphas allowed his smug grin to return, though it was instantly scrubbed away.
“Nor is it time for your pointless stupidity, Ciaphas,” their commander continued, a trace of venom tainting his voice. “Until we’re fully prepared, we can not afford attracting unnecessary attention to ourselves.” As if on cue, the sound of flapping wings and an inhuman screech came from outside the chamber. The chef tilted his head, uncertainty filling his eyes for the first time. “The harpies are back early.”
The door opened unceremoniously without so much as a knock and a winged, obviously feminine figure stepped through with the graceful steps of a dancer. She was the Matron of the harpy flock. Belov looked on as she approached the table and knelt down before him. From her mighty wings to her fangs and barbed talons, she was a deadly creature. Yet, at the same time, her dark-skinned figure possessed an undeniable feral beauty. She was an angel of death.
“We have information,” she hissed, her voiced possessing qualities both serpentine and birdlike. “My flock reported a large number of intruders approaching the edges of the forest.” Elijah raised an eyebrow.
“Who are they? How many?”
“Salvar has sent an entire war host, master. They crushed the uprising you sparked at Archen earlier today and have sent several detachments to scout our domain while they reorganize the remainder of their force.”
“They must still have at least three thousand fighting men,” he murmured with a cynical chuckle, clenching his fist tightly. “They arrived far more quickly than I anticipated… and they will have no trouble finding us.”
Submit Thread for Judgment