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Summary of events:
In the previous episode Episode VI | Part 1 majority voted: Silvea to be left in the Forest & Tally to be taken to camp
Read on to see how the community vote impacts the story on The Lucid Planet.
Plot Summary
Silvae stabbed and unconscious is left with two of Kipflix’s men in the Forest.
Fading in and out of consciousness Silvae tried to make sense of what was happening. He felt himself drifting through darkness - not sure if it was the wagon that he had been thrown into, or the beginning of the end of his life. It was pitch black both in and outside the wagon, the only light that permeated the slits of the wooden walls were those held by the mounted soldiers who were escorting the carriage. He could feel the presence of another person, which was likely Tally, crying in the corner.
There was a mist in the air that illuminated the soldiers’ torches. The flames flickered and danced in the darkness while wind rattled a steady drum on the carriage walls. Suddenly, the carriage lurched to a halt. The thud of the soldiers’ boots sloshed on the muddy ground and the clank of keys against the metal lock brought Silvae back into the present. The side door burst open, shooting torch light into the dark void that had been the cramped carriage interior. Silvae, strewn on the floor, Tally gagged and tied up towards the rear snapped to attention.
“Not again!” bellowed the soldier. “Come have a look at this one, he’s messed up our carriage with that stinking green muck of his. These filthy creatures….”
“Silence” replied Kipflix, “we have hours left to travel and you have work to do”.
The soldier, leaning into the carriage, attempted to pick up Silvae by his arms. His grip, hindered by the blood that slowly dripped down Silvae’s arm, failed to hold and he fell back onto the muddy ground. The other soldier, who had been patiently waiting, half happy to not have been asked to carry the bleeding prisoner himself, burst into laughter.
“If it’s so funny, why don’t you help him?” gruffed Kipflix.
The second soldier, both frustrated yet fearful, complied and dismounted to help his comrade. Both soldiers now tried to remove Silvae from the wagon. With heavy breathing, the two struggled to get a grip on the limp yet heavy body of the herbalist.
“Sire, the ground is too muddy for us to move him. We’ll need more hands if we want to get him clear of the carriage.”
“Very well” said Kipflix, who motioned for two more men to dismount and help the others. It took four of them some concerted effort to remove the herbalist from the wagon as the wind increased its steady onslaught. Dragging rather than carrying him, the men positioned Silvae at the back of the carriage and propped him up against a muddy wheel.
As Kipflix looked around at his soldiers, he felt somewhat relieved that they had no concept of who Silvae was in relation to himself. Their disgust at Silvae should rightly be directed at him, but he had done well to hide his Heaveann roots. For now, their hatred was a useful tool, and Kipflix would seek to use this to end this chapter of his life for good.
Walking over to Silvae’s limp body, Kipflix bent down to get a better look at the Herbalist. Scanning Silvae’s facial features, Kipflix tried to recall if this man in front of him bore any resemblance to the soldier he fought with so long ago. He was older now of course, but that wasn’t what surprised Kipflix most. It was that any semblance of anger seemed to have lifted from the Herbalists face. He was calm, not just in this moment, but in a way that seemed to transcend what was naturally possible. He had shifted into something other than his past self, and Kipflix pondered what might have allowed for such a transition…
“Begging your pardon sire, but might we make for camp? The wind is picking up again and it’s really getting quite dark” interjected one of Kipflix’s men. “We can leave the Herbalist here, no one will find him on these roads”.
“No” replied Kipflix. “No leaving him on any roads. We can’t risk leaving any trace of what happened here. Get your shovels, we’re burying him”. Kipflix looked around for a spot quickly to appear assertive, “… over there” He pointed towards a dense group of trees about 100 meters off the path.
“But he’s still alive, Sire.” Questioned the soldier. “What if…”
“Do you think I care?” snapped Kipflix. “Just let nature do its work. Grab his legs and move him over there immediately. Dig fast, and deep, or I’ll be burying you next to him.” Kipflix turned and walked back over to his Sergeant and the other lingering soldier, “We’ll make for camp, the others will stay here and finish off this mess. Bring the wagon up once they move the body”, and with that he mounted his horse and rode off into the darkness.
The two soldiers reluctantly walked over to the side of the carriage and retrieved a small shovel from the supply chest. The shovel, short in length and quite flimsy, was for shoveling horse manure, and would take considerable time to dig a grave. “Just our luck” gruffed the soldier who was holding the shovel. “This will take us all night, and I bet they don’t even save us any supper”. The other soldier, equally frustrated, shrugged with indignation and stepped back from the carriage to clear its path.
“Shut up” barked the Sergeant, “you’ve got your orders now get it done. I’ll not be the one to be responsible for our Master’s rage if you don’t do it properly, so get it done and get it done right”. And with that he kicked the horses into motion and the carriage began to lurch forward. Silvae, unconscious and propped up against the back wheel, fell into the mud as the wagon pulled forward and set off down the road towards Kipflix’s camp. He lay there motionless, surrounded by mud and filth.
The two soldiers watched longingly as the carriage pulled away and into the night. It squelched and wove its way through the muddied track until out of sight, leaving the soldiers standing over Silvae’s near lifeless body. The air had gone completely still, and the soldiers stood silently, both looking in the direction that the carriage had just left. Suddenly a crack of thunder echoed across the sky, and a heavy downpour began almost instantaneously.
“More great luck!” cried the younger soldier, “we’re not out here for 2 minutes and it’s stinking raining”. Frustrated, he threw the shovel down into the mud. It splattered a filthy mist up into the air then sunk calmly into the wet ground. The older soldier, still looking down the road, snapped his neck around at the noise. “Cut it out you idiot! We need that!” Walking over to the shovel he kicked the mud aside and pulled it out of the wet ground. “Here, you’re on digging duty for that!” he barked, shaking the shovel in the direction of the young soldier. The younger soldier, ignoring what the elder had just said, walked over to Silvae and gave him a hard kick in the side. “Wake up you bastard! It’s not time to die just yet”, Silvae’s half conscious face gave no response. “You know, it would help if this bastard could walk” huffed the young soldier, “next time let’s kill them after we’ve got them to dig the grave for us”. The older soldier, still standing with the shovel in his hand, shifted his way through the mud over to Silvae. “Come on, best we get moving this one now before we’re soaked through. You grab his legs and I’ll grab his arms. I’ll be stuffed if we’re dragging him all the way over there” motioning to the spot Kipflix had selected. “Let’s dump him behind those rocks.”
The two soldiers, struggling in the mud and rain, dragged Silvae clumsily towards the spot the older soldier had pointed out. Silvae, vaguely conscious of the fact he was moving, let out a faint cry for help but could not find the words. “Shut it” barked the young soldier, who butted him with his knee. Silvae, drained almost completely of energy, lapsed back into unconsciousness while the soldiers continued to drag his exhausted body. After about 10 minutes of continued stops, starts, and the occasional fall into the mud, the soldiers reached the edge of the rocky outcrop that the older soldier had motioned to. Muddy and fatigued, the older soldier dropped Silvae’s legs heavily on the ground and slumped on a nearby rock. The younger soldier, now left holding Silvae’s arms, followed suit and dropped the herbalist whose body made an audible “thud” as it splashed into the soft ground below. The older soldier, intent on taking full advantage of his new mud free surroundings, reached into his pouch and rummaged around for his pipe. Finding some half soaked tobacco, he began to pack it with vigor, looking forward to the sweet taste of tobacco as respite from the increasing intensity of the rain.
“I’m beat” sighed the younger of the two, who joined his colleague sitting down on the rocks. The older of the two, fumbling with some flints to spark his pipe, let out a sigh of relief when his tobacco took the flame. “You know, it could be worse,” he replied. “Think of it. We’re here in the rain, but we’re not getting yelled at or ordered around are we? They’re thinking we’re gonna be out here all night, only we’re gonna be finished up soon enough to make for a stop at them villages at the edge of the woods. I’m supposing we even might be able to get an ale if we wake the innkeeper.”
Perking up on hearing the news, the younger soldier gave Silvae a quick kick to the side. “Sounds grand, but we’ve still got to bury this bastard”. Realizing that he was not yet at the tavern drinking Ale, the older soldier snapped out of his short-lived daydream - “right, right” he replied. “Let’s get some light around here. Go put a torch out in the mud there, and I’ll put mine here amongst these loose rocks” motioning to the edge of the outcrop. He looked at the ground and gave it quick once over with his foot. It felt sandy, much better ground for digging than the muddy sludge they had just trudged through. “Quick here, get me that shovel” bellowed the old soldier, “I’ve got a good place to start the digging”. The younger soldier, walking back from where he had just staked the torch in the ground, looked over at his companion. “Changed your tune, haven't you?” he replied, tossing the shovel over. The older soldier caught the shovel in one hand and plunged it into the ground kicking his heel into the back of it. The soft sand gave way immediately and soon he was making good progress on digging the beginnings of the shallow grave for Silvae.
The younger soldier, content to wait it out now that he had been relieved of digging duty, rummaged around his pouch looking for his own pipe. Finding it, he lifted it up to eye level and inspected it. It was soaked through and caked in mud from where he had fallen before. Patting it gently on his tunic he tried to wipe away the sticky mud from the pipe’s interior but could not clear it enough to adequately pack tobacco. Frustrated, he looked about for a solution but everything he found was also caked in sticky black mud.
Suddenly he remembered that there was a small stream about 75 yards from the path on which they had just dragged Silvae. He had only just caught a glimpse of it on the way over but he figured he could find his way back if he took the torch he had just staked into the ground. Walking back to the outcrop and down to the side of the hillock he approached the torch giving it a tug and freeing it from the muddy ground. Not wanting to be opted back into digging duty he continued to quietly move his way down the left hand side of the outcrop so as to stay out of view of the older soldier until he was a good distance away. Reaching the bottom, he oriented himself and set off in the general direction of where he remembered seeing the stream.
The older soldier, focused entirely on digging did not notice the young soldier slip out of view. He was content now, happily shifting the soft sand back and forth in the type of rhythmic harmony one can only find through manual labor. Despite the heavy rain and increasing drum of the wind the old soldier began to hum a tune. He was reminded of his days as a boy on the farm, and all the digging he did there during the harvest season. After several more minutes of digging and reminiscing the soldier felt sufficiently satisfied and decided to take a break. Laying the shovel at the foot of the shallow grave, he arched back and clumsily stepped over the side of the grave wall. Sitting on a nearby rock he reached into his pouch for his pipe. It was at this moment the old soldier realized that he was alone.
“Hey Gribble” yelled the old soldier, “where’d you get to you useless skamelar”. Not getting any response the old soldier jumped up onto the highest point of the hillock and started to scan his surroundings. Despite his outward demeanor the old soldier was starting to feel quite anxious at this new predicament. He was used to the Forest, but being out here alone in the rain and wind for a night was not something he looked forward to. That and having to return home alone to Kipflix…. the thought made him shudder…
The wind was really picking up now and he was having trouble seeing through the now sideways torrent of the rain. He cupped his hand over his eyes and squinted in the direction in which they had just walked. Looking out over the hillock he thought that he could make out the faint glow of a torch light some 200 yards from his current position. It was foggy but he was certain that what he was looking at was a light despite the increase in both the wind and rain obscuring his vision. Struggling to now stand firmly on the rocks as he was battered by the sideways onslaught of wind and water, he called out as loudly as possible. “Gribble! Gribble! What the hell are you doing out THERE!!!” Suddenly, out of nowhere, everything went quiet and the yelling of the old soldier echoed out across the muddy plains below. The wind, rain, and mist had vanished, and the old soldier was left standing in an eerie stillness of complete black. Looking about, and feeling a general unease, the old soldier slumped back down behind the rock he was standing on. He grabbed the nearby torch in one hand and drew his sword. “Gribble” he yelped in the direction of the torchlight but it too suddenly disappeared from view. The old soldier, now more than a little scared, shifted himself up off the rock and got ready to make a run for the road. Suddenly, a rasping echo boomed out across the valley below, bouncing off the rocks, and shattered all presence of calmness that the absence of the weather had brought on.
“RHYTHMIC CHANTING”
The soldier began to shake, and dropped both sword and torch and clasped his ears to escape the horrible chanting.
“RHYTHMIC CHANTING”
The old soldier, with nowhere to go, rolled over on one side into the fresh grave he had dug. He lay there paralyzed with fear until as suddenly it had started the chanting stopped. The frightened soldier, unable to move, lay still and covered his eyes. He had been in many battles over the years but the feeling of dread and fear that overcame him right now was unlike anything he had experienced before. Lying there, as still as could be, he caught the soft squelch of boots on mud. He heard the rhythmic walking increase in pace and knew that whoever or whatever was outside was getting closer.
“Giml, Sade, Pit…. Giml, Sade, Pit….” a voice whispered out. The words cut fiercely toward the soldier and the squelching of the boots intensified. Frightened beyond belief the old soldier curled deeper into a ball and thrust himself firmly against the grave walls. He was too afraid to run but also stricken by a morbid curiosity to see who or what was chanting at him. Spreading his fingers slowly apart he snuck a glance at the figure above. What he saw shocked him - it was unlike anything he had seen before. It was a man, or at least took on the form of one, and he guessed at least 6 or 7 feet. Clad in all black plate mail armor with a teardrop mask, the figure's cape bellowed over the grave-site and swallowed up the soldier's view of the night sky. The figure wasn’t looking at him, but he felt its presence notice him. It was an eerie sensation, but one interrupted swiftly by the sudden repetition of the chanting before - “Giml, Sade, Pit, Giml, Sade, Pit”. Strangely, the words didn’t seem to come from the creature's mouth but rather permeated the earth around the soldier who again had gone back to covering his face as last hope of extraditing himself from the situation.
At this point the soldier heard a sudden squelch of mud and opened his eyes. The figure, now standing over him, had turned his face down at the grave. The lifeless teardrop mask stared motionless at the soldier below, who at this point catatonic with fear lay completely still. The figure, reaching into a sheath, removed a sword and raised it high into the air. The soldier, lying still, a veteran of several battles felt a deep calm descend over him - death was inevitable. Then the methodical stabbing commenced, at least 10 swift strokes of the blade that cut cleanly each time through the soldier's tunic. It wasn’t rage, or fear, or frenzy, it was a calculated ritual dispatch that drove these blows. With his last conscious thought the soldier noticed a peculiarity. The figure's hand, adorned with 2 rings, bore the sign of Alep. “Alep'' he cried with his last breath before fading into the ether. The night went dark, the sacrifice ended, the soldier gone.
“Giml, Sade, Pit…. Giml, Sade, Pit….” “Giml, Sade, Pit…. Giml, Sade, Pit….” “Giml, Sade, Pit…. Giml, Sade, Pit….”
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Summary of events:
In the previous episode Episode VI | Part 1 majority voted: Silvea to be left in the Forest & Tally to be taken to camp
Read on to see how the community vote impacts the story on The Lucid Planet.
Plot Summary
Silvae stabbed and unconscious is left with two of Kipflix’s men in the Forest.
Fading in and out of consciousness Silvae tried to make sense of what was happening. He felt himself drifting through darkness - not sure if it was the wagon that he had been thrown into, or the beginning of the end of his life. It was pitch black both in and outside the wagon, the only light that permeated the slits of the wooden walls were those held by the mounted soldiers who were escorting the carriage. He could feel the presence of another person, which was likely Tally, crying in the corner.
There was a mist in the air that illuminated the soldiers’ torches. The flames flickered and danced in the darkness while wind rattled a steady drum on the carriage walls. Suddenly, the carriage lurched to a halt. The thud of the soldiers’ boots sloshed on the muddy ground and the clank of keys against the metal lock brought Silvae back into the present. The side door burst open, shooting torch light into the dark void that had been the cramped carriage interior. Silvae, strewn on the floor, Tally gagged and tied up towards the rear snapped to attention.
“Not again!” bellowed the soldier. “Come have a look at this one, he’s messed up our carriage with that stinking green muck of his. These filthy creatures….”
“Silence” replied Kipflix, “we have hours left to travel and you have work to do”.
The soldier, leaning into the carriage, attempted to pick up Silvae by his arms. His grip, hindered by the blood that slowly dripped down Silvae’s arm, failed to hold and he fell back onto the muddy ground. The other soldier, who had been patiently waiting, half happy to not have been asked to carry the bleeding prisoner himself, burst into laughter.
“If it’s so funny, why don’t you help him?” gruffed Kipflix.
The second soldier, both frustrated yet fearful, complied and dismounted to help his comrade. Both soldiers now tried to remove Silvae from the wagon. With heavy breathing, the two struggled to get a grip on the limp yet heavy body of the herbalist.
“Sire, the ground is too muddy for us to move him. We’ll need more hands if we want to get him clear of the carriage.”
“Very well” said Kipflix, who motioned for two more men to dismount and help the others. It took four of them some concerted effort to remove the herbalist from the wagon as the wind increased its steady onslaught. Dragging rather than carrying him, the men positioned Silvae at the back of the carriage and propped him up against a muddy wheel.
As Kipflix looked around at his soldiers, he felt somewhat relieved that they had no concept of who Silvae was in relation to himself. Their disgust at Silvae should rightly be directed at him, but he had done well to hide his Heaveann roots. For now, their hatred was a useful tool, and Kipflix would seek to use this to end this chapter of his life for good.
Walking over to Silvae’s limp body, Kipflix bent down to get a better look at the Herbalist. Scanning Silvae’s facial features, Kipflix tried to recall if this man in front of him bore any resemblance to the soldier he fought with so long ago. He was older now of course, but that wasn’t what surprised Kipflix most. It was that any semblance of anger seemed to have lifted from the Herbalists face. He was calm, not just in this moment, but in a way that seemed to transcend what was naturally possible. He had shifted into something other than his past self, and Kipflix pondered what might have allowed for such a transition…
“Begging your pardon sire, but might we make for camp? The wind is picking up again and it’s really getting quite dark” interjected one of Kipflix’s men. “We can leave the Herbalist here, no one will find him on these roads”.
“No” replied Kipflix. “No leaving him on any roads. We can’t risk leaving any trace of what happened here. Get your shovels, we’re burying him”. Kipflix looked around for a spot quickly to appear assertive, “… over there” He pointed towards a dense group of trees about 100 meters off the path.
“But he’s still alive, Sire.” Questioned the soldier. “What if…”
“Do you think I care?” snapped Kipflix. “Just let nature do its work. Grab his legs and move him over there immediately. Dig fast, and deep, or I’ll be burying you next to him.” Kipflix turned and walked back over to his Sergeant and the other lingering soldier, “We’ll make for camp, the others will stay here and finish off this mess. Bring the wagon up once they move the body”, and with that he mounted his horse and rode off into the darkness.
The two soldiers reluctantly walked over to the side of the carriage and retrieved a small shovel from the supply chest. The shovel, short in length and quite flimsy, was for shoveling horse manure, and would take considerable time to dig a grave. “Just our luck” gruffed the soldier who was holding the shovel. “This will take us all night, and I bet they don’t even save us any supper”. The other soldier, equally frustrated, shrugged with indignation and stepped back from the carriage to clear its path.
“Shut up” barked the Sergeant, “you’ve got your orders now get it done. I’ll not be the one to be responsible for our Master’s rage if you don’t do it properly, so get it done and get it done right”. And with that he kicked the horses into motion and the carriage began to lurch forward. Silvae, unconscious and propped up against the back wheel, fell into the mud as the wagon pulled forward and set off down the road towards Kipflix’s camp. He lay there motionless, surrounded by mud and filth.
The two soldiers watched longingly as the carriage pulled away and into the night. It squelched and wove its way through the muddied track until out of sight, leaving the soldiers standing over Silvae’s near lifeless body. The air had gone completely still, and the soldiers stood silently, both looking in the direction that the carriage had just left. Suddenly a crack of thunder echoed across the sky, and a heavy downpour began almost instantaneously.
“More great luck!” cried the younger soldier, “we’re not out here for 2 minutes and it’s stinking raining”. Frustrated, he threw the shovel down into the mud. It splattered a filthy mist up into the air then sunk calmly into the wet ground. The older soldier, still looking down the road, snapped his neck around at the noise. “Cut it out you idiot! We need that!” Walking over to the shovel he kicked the mud aside and pulled it out of the wet ground. “Here, you’re on digging duty for that!” he barked, shaking the shovel in the direction of the young soldier. The younger soldier, ignoring what the elder had just said, walked over to Silvae and gave him a hard kick in the side. “Wake up you bastard! It’s not time to die just yet”, Silvae’s half conscious face gave no response. “You know, it would help if this bastard could walk” huffed the young soldier, “next time let’s kill them after we’ve got them to dig the grave for us”. The older soldier, still standing with the shovel in his hand, shifted his way through the mud over to Silvae. “Come on, best we get moving this one now before we’re soaked through. You grab his legs and I’ll grab his arms. I’ll be stuffed if we’re dragging him all the way over there” motioning to the spot Kipflix had selected. “Let’s dump him behind those rocks.”
The two soldiers, struggling in the mud and rain, dragged Silvae clumsily towards the spot the older soldier had pointed out. Silvae, vaguely conscious of the fact he was moving, let out a faint cry for help but could not find the words. “Shut it” barked the young soldier, who butted him with his knee. Silvae, drained almost completely of energy, lapsed back into unconsciousness while the soldiers continued to drag his exhausted body. After about 10 minutes of continued stops, starts, and the occasional fall into the mud, the soldiers reached the edge of the rocky outcrop that the older soldier had motioned to. Muddy and fatigued, the older soldier dropped Silvae’s legs heavily on the ground and slumped on a nearby rock. The younger soldier, now left holding Silvae’s arms, followed suit and dropped the herbalist whose body made an audible “thud” as it splashed into the soft ground below. The older soldier, intent on taking full advantage of his new mud free surroundings, reached into his pouch and rummaged around for his pipe. Finding some half soaked tobacco, he began to pack it with vigor, looking forward to the sweet taste of tobacco as respite from the increasing intensity of the rain.
“I’m beat” sighed the younger of the two, who joined his colleague sitting down on the rocks. The older of the two, fumbling with some flints to spark his pipe, let out a sigh of relief when his tobacco took the flame. “You know, it could be worse,” he replied. “Think of it. We’re here in the rain, but we’re not getting yelled at or ordered around are we? They’re thinking we’re gonna be out here all night, only we’re gonna be finished up soon enough to make for a stop at them villages at the edge of the woods. I’m supposing we even might be able to get an ale if we wake the innkeeper.”
Perking up on hearing the news, the younger soldier gave Silvae a quick kick to the side. “Sounds grand, but we’ve still got to bury this bastard”. Realizing that he was not yet at the tavern drinking Ale, the older soldier snapped out of his short-lived daydream - “right, right” he replied. “Let’s get some light around here. Go put a torch out in the mud there, and I’ll put mine here amongst these loose rocks” motioning to the edge of the outcrop. He looked at the ground and gave it quick once over with his foot. It felt sandy, much better ground for digging than the muddy sludge they had just trudged through. “Quick here, get me that shovel” bellowed the old soldier, “I’ve got a good place to start the digging”. The younger soldier, walking back from where he had just staked the torch in the ground, looked over at his companion. “Changed your tune, haven't you?” he replied, tossing the shovel over. The older soldier caught the shovel in one hand and plunged it into the ground kicking his heel into the back of it. The soft sand gave way immediately and soon he was making good progress on digging the beginnings of the shallow grave for Silvae.
The younger soldier, content to wait it out now that he had been relieved of digging duty, rummaged around his pouch looking for his own pipe. Finding it, he lifted it up to eye level and inspected it. It was soaked through and caked in mud from where he had fallen before. Patting it gently on his tunic he tried to wipe away the sticky mud from the pipe’s interior but could not clear it enough to adequately pack tobacco. Frustrated, he looked about for a solution but everything he found was also caked in sticky black mud.
Suddenly he remembered that there was a small stream about 75 yards from the path on which they had just dragged Silvae. He had only just caught a glimpse of it on the way over but he figured he could find his way back if he took the torch he had just staked into the ground. Walking back to the outcrop and down to the side of the hillock he approached the torch giving it a tug and freeing it from the muddy ground. Not wanting to be opted back into digging duty he continued to quietly move his way down the left hand side of the outcrop so as to stay out of view of the older soldier until he was a good distance away. Reaching the bottom, he oriented himself and set off in the general direction of where he remembered seeing the stream.
The older soldier, focused entirely on digging did not notice the young soldier slip out of view. He was content now, happily shifting the soft sand back and forth in the type of rhythmic harmony one can only find through manual labor. Despite the heavy rain and increasing drum of the wind the old soldier began to hum a tune. He was reminded of his days as a boy on the farm, and all the digging he did there during the harvest season. After several more minutes of digging and reminiscing the soldier felt sufficiently satisfied and decided to take a break. Laying the shovel at the foot of the shallow grave, he arched back and clumsily stepped over the side of the grave wall. Sitting on a nearby rock he reached into his pouch for his pipe. It was at this moment the old soldier realized that he was alone.
“Hey Gribble” yelled the old soldier, “where’d you get to you useless skamelar”. Not getting any response the old soldier jumped up onto the highest point of the hillock and started to scan his surroundings. Despite his outward demeanor the old soldier was starting to feel quite anxious at this new predicament. He was used to the Forest, but being out here alone in the rain and wind for a night was not something he looked forward to. That and having to return home alone to Kipflix…. the thought made him shudder…
The wind was really picking up now and he was having trouble seeing through the now sideways torrent of the rain. He cupped his hand over his eyes and squinted in the direction in which they had just walked. Looking out over the hillock he thought that he could make out the faint glow of a torch light some 200 yards from his current position. It was foggy but he was certain that what he was looking at was a light despite the increase in both the wind and rain obscuring his vision. Struggling to now stand firmly on the rocks as he was battered by the sideways onslaught of wind and water, he called out as loudly as possible. “Gribble! Gribble! What the hell are you doing out THERE!!!” Suddenly, out of nowhere, everything went quiet and the yelling of the old soldier echoed out across the muddy plains below. The wind, rain, and mist had vanished, and the old soldier was left standing in an eerie stillness of complete black. Looking about, and feeling a general unease, the old soldier slumped back down behind the rock he was standing on. He grabbed the nearby torch in one hand and drew his sword. “Gribble” he yelped in the direction of the torchlight but it too suddenly disappeared from view. The old soldier, now more than a little scared, shifted himself up off the rock and got ready to make a run for the road. Suddenly, a rasping echo boomed out across the valley below, bouncing off the rocks, and shattered all presence of calmness that the absence of the weather had brought on.
“RHYTHMIC CHANTING”
The soldier began to shake, and dropped both sword and torch and clasped his ears to escape the horrible chanting.
“RHYTHMIC CHANTING”
The old soldier, with nowhere to go, rolled over on one side into the fresh grave he had dug. He lay there paralyzed with fear until as suddenly it had started the chanting stopped. The frightened soldier, unable to move, lay still and covered his eyes. He had been in many battles over the years but the feeling of dread and fear that overcame him right now was unlike anything he had experienced before. Lying there, as still as could be, he caught the soft squelch of boots on mud. He heard the rhythmic walking increase in pace and knew that whoever or whatever was outside was getting closer.
“Giml, Sade, Pit…. Giml, Sade, Pit….” a voice whispered out. The words cut fiercely toward the soldier and the squelching of the boots intensified. Frightened beyond belief the old soldier curled deeper into a ball and thrust himself firmly against the grave walls. He was too afraid to run but also stricken by a morbid curiosity to see who or what was chanting at him. Spreading his fingers slowly apart he snuck a glance at the figure above. What he saw shocked him - it was unlike anything he had seen before. It was a man, or at least took on the form of one, and he guessed at least 6 or 7 feet. Clad in all black plate mail armor with a teardrop mask, the figure's cape bellowed over the grave-site and swallowed up the soldier's view of the night sky. The figure wasn’t looking at him, but he felt its presence notice him. It was an eerie sensation, but one interrupted swiftly by the sudden repetition of the chanting before - “Giml, Sade, Pit, Giml, Sade, Pit”. Strangely, the words didn’t seem to come from the creature's mouth but rather permeated the earth around the soldier who again had gone back to covering his face as last hope of extraditing himself from the situation.
At this point the soldier heard a sudden squelch of mud and opened his eyes. The figure, now standing over him, had turned his face down at the grave. The lifeless teardrop mask stared motionless at the soldier below, who at this point catatonic with fear lay completely still. The figure, reaching into a sheath, removed a sword and raised it high into the air. The soldier, lying still, a veteran of several battles felt a deep calm descend over him - death was inevitable. Then the methodical stabbing commenced, at least 10 swift strokes of the blade that cut cleanly each time through the soldier's tunic. It wasn’t rage, or fear, or frenzy, it was a calculated ritual dispatch that drove these blows. With his last conscious thought the soldier noticed a peculiarity. The figure's hand, adorned with 2 rings, bore the sign of Alep. “Alep'' he cried with his last breath before fading into the ether. The night went dark, the sacrifice ended, the soldier gone.
“Giml, Sade, Pit…. Giml, Sade, Pit….” “Giml, Sade, Pit…. Giml, Sade, Pit….” “Giml, Sade, Pit…. Giml, Sade, Pit….”
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