-- PREVIOUS ENTRY --
They creak and groan, a hoarse voice lost to the quietude of their adopted home. It wisps off from the height of that obsidian spire, wordless breath cast across the wind and cloud that so roil across the skies of Omon Obin, and yet onward. Where the elements across the volcanic mountaintop have ensorcelled that downtrodden figure to its place, they shudder again to some semblance of life beyond endless contemplation, beyond their constant inner-flagellation.
" 'Fore I'd even realized it. . ." Their head creaks to one side, they are alone.
"Turot, you have passed. And yet I. . ."The patina bronze head of the pick they bore held them aloft in place of long stunted legs, the crust driven from their eyes.
"How nearly a century has come and gone." They speak aloud as if to re-find their voice. One more glance is given the the Realm of Silver below.
"And how I have languished aught of nothing for the people I proclaim to love so dearly." The figure's time of solitude had wizened them, had salved old wounds, but perhaps too. . . Hardened their heart. A few small farewells are bidden to the stout kind whom curate those halls. Another shock of surprise as even their beards have greyed, and their eyes have suck since they were known to him, while their own view hadn't changed a day.
Since the days of our youth, we were taught one all consuming truth.
"Come on Jas. The hell ya dawdlin' fer? We got work to do. . ." Eman Sedastishas's harsh voice, and the jab of his armored elbow snapped the other soldier to, "Blighties ain't gonna take care of 'emselves." He add, scratching at his scraggly goatee, only to Jas' irritation of course. "Ohh don't be such a bother now Eman. It's best to let the man focus you know?" A jovial voice breaks the two up, the rotund spearman, Jol Nathobdubmith places a mittened hand upon his comrade's shoulder as they're utterly isolated in the empty streets of Armorstrife. All along the way doors and windows are boarded up, shutters creak only ever in slight to witness the trio's movements, and to send a prayer or two on their way as they head for the
marked homes.
One day, it will be us starring down the hearthsmans' speartips, and we'll beg for a swift demise.Jas Anthrad gripped his squared chin and spoke resoundingly, a halberd over one shoulder as they strode, "Indeed, heed from your betters Eman. Speak the words your father's father have passed down to us."
A grumbled sigh erupts from the other man, "We ain't come all the way out here from Waxfight on Lord Perad's whims jus' to recite somethin' we all know."
Jas is unmoved by Eman's appeal, the clinking of their high boots carrying the little squad onward, echoing through the quiet town. "Please. It will still my wavering heart."
With only a small protest, the gruff soldier began to speak a mechanical verse that had been driven into him since the days that he couldn't care for anything more than swinging a stick beside his old hound. "The Blight 'tis a curse, but its thralls be men. To say its victims're monsters is to say the same for we. Only a dignified, painless death will do, for there is no other cure. Beware the fangs, beware their speed, but most of all, beware the damage to thine own soul. . . There's yer damn words, now let's get a move on."
And so move they did. Clattering with a will from door to door, their weapons at the ready, a few short knocks, directions from the frightened locals, and further. They came upon it under the harsh midday sun, whilst the chill of winter ablated it some, a door strung with twin and scrap wood, an ashen cross hastily scrawled upon it. "None could mistake that sign, fellows." Jol chimed in, his spear at the ready.
"Aye, let's be done with it." Jas confirms. The band tears down the paltry defenses keeping the sounds of scratching, moaning, and their horrendous cries of agony.
Within. . . There were nothing of the unfortunate soul's family left, merely scraps of their clothing drenched and encrusted in old blood. The starved one, careens its head against the light brought in behind the three men, those eyes on the forefront bore only the sickness, only the accursed hunger driven into each being of blight, but there was indeed something deeper within. The smallest of lingering flames, sadly yet, one so small as even the driest tinder could not catch alight. Then at once, the cursed figure charges forth, wanting nothing more than to sink its teeth into fresh flesh. Armed to keep it at bay, Jol and Eman stand beside their leader. Jas moves with a flourish as the butcher draws close, in a single motion he severs the head its body, whereupon that flame is gracefully extinguished. "Woebegotten, rest in peace." Jas proclaims, resting his arm again upon a shoulder.
The gruff swordsman muses aloud without as much decorum as his peers, "Wow, guess ya really are focused today huh?" Neither make much of a response toward Eman. The pudgy spearman hefts the fallen thrall over his shoulders as they exit the forlorn home. Again, naught but the frigid air and the sun's warm kiss to greet them. "Still don't get why they gotta call our country-podunk arses out here, ain't Armorstrife got a whole militia they could field? Hell thinkin' on it, we shoulda brought Bethri, maybe Mori too. Least they're lively. . ." Eman wheezes, still scratching away at his beard.
"Now, now, let's just be glad we've a job at all." Replies Jol.
Jas responds with a certain wistful sigh, "Truth be told, all the aristocrats have been holed up inside the keep for the last few months. They're simply not willing to have their guards do the nasty work. A few country toughs like us though? Perfect for the job."
"Ya got a way with words to say all that 'stead of 'they just don't give a damn.'" Eman spouts.
The trio find a good open spot before a temple pit within the city, Jol softly heaves the body of the thrall down before it, "That makes one." He eases out before joining in on the prior conversation, "What they don't quite understand is that have us ruffians cursed by a bite or two means a whole load of trouble for them. So. . . I suppose our fellow Eman is quite right here."
"Heh. . . Use us nobodies as meat shields, figures."
Over the course of the day, the trio puts in their work, felling blighted thrall after blighted thrall, their armour and relative skill giving them the advantage over the supernaturally infected peasantry, little more than a few bruises. Yet. . . As the sun fell in the sky, the band bore witness to the market square slowly being populated by all those seeking a profit in these trying times. Even while a thrall hunt was ongoing. . . "They stupid or somethin'?" Eman says aloud.
"The love of money. . ." Jas responds, " 'Tis the root of all evil." Though he catches himself in his dogma at the very end, indeed life in Omon Obin was not the quiet and easy life like that of their forefathers, centuries ago. They say the Realm of Silver was once a bastion of peace, but now? No matter where you go you find some victim twisted into horrendous forms seeking the blood of their families and friends. Jas puts that contemplation out of his head as Jol shakes the pair of them to.
"Comrades, look, yonder!"
A flesh-craving citizen broke out from hastily adorned barricades, the scent of a meal was palpable on the air for it. An older merchant cries and raves for help amongst the others, but most are paralyzed or panicked yet worse. The trio from Waxfight sally forth with all the haste they could muster, but even so find themselves too late, a single bite, that's all it takes. A chunk of the merchant's shoulder is torn from their body and perhaps through that wound all the rotten essence of the Obin Blight is put forth. The colour is flushed from their skin, the eyes sink near hollow, and the mouth begins to slaver all the yet more. Jas bites his tongue, his brows furrow, the rage is clear on his countenance. The three of them cut down the two thralls in moments.
Jas tears off his bronze helm and sinks to his knees before the merchant, leaning on his haft for support. "Go back to your homes until you are given our word of clearance." He mutters aloud. "NOW!" A scurry of feet and the scooping up of their goods heralds the local peddlers away, leaving the trio again abandoned. "Damn. . ."
Eman kicks at Jas' side playfully, "Hey, come on, this ain't yer fault. Those guys shoulda known not to be out--"
"Is our lot in life not trial enough?" The golden haired band leader sighs, "Wherefore to deserve this fate, in one split-second, our hands are forced to put down the innocent."
"Innocent?" Eman grumbles. "The hell kinda blood-drinking monster's innocent?"
Jas shoots up from his spot at the swordsman's declaration. "Monster? You and I are closer kin to beasts than they! How many people have we put to the sword in Waxfight alone? Is your brain so small that you cannot even recall your younger siblings?!"
"You sonuva'." Eman grasps the nape of Jas' mail. "Wanna make that one more?" He adds before the fat spearman pulls them apart.
"Let's not act like children now, fellows. If this 'tis a curse put upon us from Gopet the Putrid Cyst, wouldn't you say you're playing rather quite well into his hands, eh?" Jol diffuses yet another spat between the two, "Now, let's get these two off with the rest, shall we?"
The flames crackle, the dreadful scent of immolating hair and flesh and bile alike wists through Armorstrife, but the three men turn not their noses down from it, for the curse is burned away along with it. All the while, cinders, motes of smoldering orange are lifted up into the heavens by the wind. "May these souls find peace again." Says Jas Anthrad.
'And may our own taint be forgiven. . .'They remain there for a time, until every last thrall they could search out amongst the city was turned to ash, ready to be used for marking the dead in the future. . . All told, fifteen flames were burnt out. After a time, the three men began the day's journey west back to Waxfight.
It wasn't long before Jas' somber thoughts and Eman's abrasiveness melted away again thanks to the comradarie they shared, or perhaps it escaped amidst the bonfire through the night. Yet something wasn't quite right as they strode through the idyllic little hamlet of their births. Doors were left wide open, pens unattended, little details that their distracted minds couldn't quite put together until they came before the doors, a single crimson streak upon the wood. Each of them drew their arms, but their spirits were not so steeled to the sight before them.
The Brass Coalition, their comrades, even Lord Perad who so graciously cared for his men, all of them had fallen to the blight in the trio's short absence. Without a shred of self-preservation amongst them, all the weight of granting their friends and family a dignified death pushed them forward into a bloody struggle. One that would leave the band with countless scars.
Scars that ran deeper than the flesh.
The exhausted trio discarded their battered armour, their arms, they langoured in the field before the mead-hall, yet another great flame to stay their tired hearts, yet more acrid scents, yet more souls laid to rest. They remained there, unmoving, watching the great inferno take the only earthly connections they each bore up to the cloud swept sky. As ever, Eman was the first to speak, yet no pithy quips came from him then, rather he asked simply, "What's left for us now?". Neither Jas, nor even Jol could find the words to reply. Each of them fell into sleep as the flame died down.
When at last, as the frigid wind picked up, chilling them to their bones with no fire to warm them, Jas is the first to open his tired eyes, though he does not believe he's left a dream. For before the group a figure was, suspended caught in the air by balancing upon the haft of an old pickaxe, two might arms suspended a torn and broken body. Two almost vestigial legs hanging aloft. Stranger yet still, eyes that seemed to pierce the malaise of night. "You fight well." The strange man speaks through a voice befitting an elder.
"W-Who are you?" The golden haired Jas manages to speak through his grogginess, raising to a knee with one hand upon the halberd at his side.
"There'll be no need for that boy. Before thee 'tis naught more than a simple traveler." The pallid figure croaks as the other two companions begin to stir from their rest. "Thou needen'st fear the blighted flesh. Only the bite will do thee in." He gestures with a nod toward the ashes.
"Yes, we know." Jas mouths, releasing his grip upon the weapon. "We're simply giving their souls a proper send off. . . Begone traveler, this town has nothing left to offer you. Leave us to our mourning." Despite his words, Jas receives no more than a chuckle, or perhaps a 'harumph', electing him to speak yet more, "You think our plight humorous? You think it a jest that tonight we were forced to slay our kin, our beloveds? Begone! Go crawl back to the shadows where ilk of your like are born from."
"No. . . 'Tis a burden I have shared well in. It is humorous rather the twists in this path that Osmos has laid out for me." The balancing one can't help but seem tone-deaf to their plight. Eman and Jol shake the sleep from themselves, bearing weary guises, though allowing their more eloquent comrade do the talking.
"We care not for your twisting path, traveler. For ours is at an end." Jas brings himself not to share a gaze with the other, something about those eyes demand his focus.
"Oh? Thine path is at an end? Thou tire of tainting thine hands? Mayhaps I should oblige those desires!" Those trunk like arms bulge and grasp tight the pickaxe, in a single motion a mighty swipe mid-air casts the warm ashes across the field to the three fellows, and is then once again back to standing the figure up right before they'd even fallen.
"You ain't foolin' us ya cripple! We'll gut ya if ya come any closer, got that?!" Eman blurts out, standing with his silver sword at one side. Yet, Jas is stunned. Within him, deep within, an instinctual dread surrounds the broken body of the man across from them.
The strange traveler continues, "Thou art willing to send off their souls in ceremony and yet at the same time will spit upon their ashes. Here I thought that perhaps I saw a savior of Omon Obin within thee, but now I realize I am mistaken."
Jol at last replies, "What would you have us do odd-fellow? Can't you see our plight?"
They crane themself back around from leaving, despite the words from Jol, their marbled eyes are affixed upon Jas, "Survive. Bear the weight of these sins within thee, let them temper thy resolve, go out across the Realm and do what thou hast always done. Dost thou not seek revenge against those that put this blight upon thee?"
The winter air grows still, a dusting of powdery snow beginning to fall from the night sky. "No." Says Jas, "No, I seek not revenge. I wish only to some day see peaceable days for the Realm of Silver. Tomorrow we will set out renewed and cleanse the tarnished sheen of our great nation until the day we too succumb, at that time my comrades will be there for me." Moments after, both Eman and Jol lend their hearty agreement to that fact. Leaving the stranger now in silence.
"I see. . ." He says with a light chuckle, "No, it's that I've underestimated thee. You may call me Galka, if you would have me."
Hey guys, I just noticed that we have now surpassed the original Museum’s turn count.
81 turns so far and 177 in game years, and the game is astonishingly still pretty stable!
And here's to many more! There's still so much meat on the bones here, even after the death of most all megabeasts. So many stories we could tell, so many new ways to use the tools at our disposal to create new and interesting interactions. There's truly nothing like The Museum. Anywhere.
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Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 409926 times)