A World in Shambles [Archive]

Kroom

07-09-14, 12:34 AM

Night was prowling at the horizon, fangs bared in furious retreat before the inexorable dawn. Darkness was a predator here, a naked threat to any not in its cult. The evening howled with hateful menace, and shrieked in pained horror when the light burst forth to reveal the hideous things that hid under the beguiling black cloak. Like cockroaches, the things of night ran to find protection from the unmasked glory overhead, and the things of day stepped forth in relief.

Jak had been lucky last night, and had his rotation off from watch duty. Some other poor bastards had stayed awake with the ghouls and imps that festered in the darkness, while he had been blessed with a full night's sleep. It wouldn't be repeated any time soon. One of the others remarked on his luck over breakfast, and Jak spat into the fire.

'Luck.' Some luck, that. A night of dreams and nightmares and memories he never wanted to remember. Though, in a city of waking nightmares, was it so surprising to find that sleep brought no relief? After all, nightmares were born of sleep, not waking.

With a trencher loaded with bread and meat and, luxury of luxuries, a piece of fruit, Jak found a pile of rubble and made it his table. Slow chewing and a mostly-full skin of ale made the meal almost enjoyable, though the bread was stale, the meat dry, and the fruit far from fresh. He kept his hood up, glaring angrily towards the bright sky. No clouds today, and for no good reason Jak resented the fierce brightness. The air was suspiciously light and easy, more friendly than this city had been since they'd gotten here. There had been no incidents in the night, no reports of vanished sentries or missing patrols, and Jak seemed to be the only one in stone's throw without a good attitude.

Ironically, that was unnerving, and Jak shuddered in the saccharine sunlight.

Duggan, one of the mercenary captains, was already on his feet and shouting orders. It was time for another patrol, rooting out cowering nightmares. Hunting the beasties was a damnable paradox: during the day they were almost impossible to find, but hunting at night was for men who didn't want to see the next morning's light. A few brash idiots had gone out night-hunting when they first arrived a fortnight past, and the men who had survived were almost revered in the mercenary camp, called 'Blackwalkers.' Ordinary men simply didn't survive the night in Eluriand, not on their own.

The smith grimaced and hunkered, hoping he would go unnoticed and be allowed to finish his breakfast in peace. No such luck. Duggan spotted him and gave a look that brooked no dissent. Grumbling, Jak scarfed down a fistful of bread and meat and tucked the rest into the wide sash tied around his belt, then gathered his weapons and joined the growing crowd of sellswords. A grim bunch, they were, armed with all variety of weapons. Standing at the crowd's center was Duggan himself. He was short, thick, with balding hair like dirty copper and deceptively dull grey eyes. His kit was dirty, and his clothes were stained and threadbare. Yet all the mercenary free-spirits gathered around him listened quietly as he outlined the patrol's plan, like tame dogs. After all, he was a Blackwalker.

"Sweeping to the northwest corner today boys." Duggan's voice was robust, almost jocular. "I'd like to get you all back in one piece. No running off alone, not even to shit. You got that, boys?" He was answered with murmured nods. He grinned with gapped teeth. "Good! Kitted up and trotting by the time I'm done pissing." The mercenaries scattered, and Duggan limped towards a reeking alcove of rubble that had been designated as the latrine, with his battle-axe thumping at his leg.

The patrol, Jak included, was gathered and waiting when the captain returned. His mouth was open to give the marching order, but was interrupted by a horn-call and a sentry's shout.

"Got 'em coming in; horsemen!" The sentry was a weaselly man with a javelin, and he pointed nervously down the path. Duggan turned and barked orders. In twelve breaths the camp was lined with mercenary archers and slingers. They'd set up camp in what had once been a forum, occupying the massive floor of an old temple that was now more like a stone hill. Rubble and crude barricades lined the perimeter, and the main pathway led down in a winding maze of strewn masonry and debris. Jak had reflected repeatedly that the situation was surprisingly defensible, even against the creeps they were hunting.

The sentry hadn't lied: a column of horsemen and a pair of wagons were winding their way towards the mercenary camp. Jak was crouched in a crevice between two large chunks of what might have been a fallen pillar. His eyes shrank to slits, sighting down the shaft of an arrow that he aimed at one of the horses drawing the lead wagon - but it was the rider just before the wagon that caught his attention.

"What in the five hells..." he hissed. Memories of his dreams came flooding back. In a hot flash, Jak was enraged. If anything could convince him that the world was both cruel and conscious, this would be it. It had to be just like this, just to perfectly fuck with his head.

"Fffffuuuuck."