A Message Made Clear

[Xarkly 17299]

 

The Sleetfell Forests south of Markev

 

Farald panted as he sprinted through the forest. 

 

He had long since dropped his palise shield, painted in the gold and black of Haense, and abandoned his sword so that he could run faster. He only wished that he could pause to shed his breastplate and chainmail, but he had no such time. He dared not look, but he knew they were hot on his heels. One misstep would spell his doom, like it had done for Orik. He instantly regretted even thinking of his late comrade; a lump immediately formed in the soldier's throat, and he nearly lost his balance on a gnarled root of an old oak that snaked out treacherously from the ground. Farald stumbled several steps forward, plated boots sinking into the marshy foliage, before he staggered into another tree and hastily gripped the misshapen bark to regain his balance. Not a second later, an arrow thudded into the tree, just inches from his arm. Farald's eyes twitched wider as he watched the arrow simply dissipate into ethereal, black smoke that curled up and vanished in the chilling, southerly wind. His heart pounding in his mouth, Farald instinctively looked over his shoulder; the split second image of the dark-clad archer drawing his bow back was all Farald needed to start running again.

 

Leaping over roots and swatting rogue branches, Farald tried to focus on simply running, but the dense Sleetfell forest, with its thick canopies allowing only pale fractures of wintery light through chinks in the leaves and its forest floor rendered wet and swampy by the relentless rain, seemed to have no immediate end in sight. When Farald had first been sent south with Orik by their company commander, he was not sure that he had believed the rumours about ghostly warriors assaulting the King's company, but he had been proven wrong in a bloody fashion when one of those shadowy, smokey spears blossomed in Orik's throat.

 

"Orik ... no ..." he whispered hoarsely, and despite himself, his mind turned to grief. Suddenly, his boot sank into a patch of wet mud, and within seconds he was on the ground with a splash of thick rainwater. His armour clanged and heaved as it struck the forest floor, and Farald's breath immediately left him as the ground rushed up to meet him and dirtied water flooded his helmet. He gasped as he forced himself upright, but mud clouded his visor. Blinded and desperate for air, Farald's gloved fingers furiously fumbled with the straps his gorget. His throat was aching for breath by the time he finally wrenched his helmet off, and fresh air filled his lungs once again. His relief was short-lived, however: as his vision returned, he found a the point of sword resting on his neck. His blood turned to ice, and his heart began to pound like a wardrum, so hard that Farald almost felt a physical pain in his chest. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet the swordsman.

 

It was odd that the first thing Farald noticed was that the soldiers were not clad in all black, but dark grey. All clad in rustic armour that seemed to be made of a strange, dull brown metal that Farald had never beheld before, they seemed both very real, and very ghostly. The pale light shone on the surface of their brown breastplates, whereas their cloaks were like translucent, smokey veils that Farald could see right through. Behind the swordsman, more of the ghostly warriors seemed to be slowly approaching, each with a variety of weapons, from spears that scraped the branches to heavy mauls slung over shoulders. They ringed around Farald, and a leaden silence gripped the Sleetfells.

 

Farald grasped for words. He wanted to threaten them, to proclaim that he was a proud Haensetian man who did not fear death, to curse them for the murder of Orik, but the words would not come. "Pl ... Pl-Please ..." he instead stammered. His throat, his voice felt it was no longer his own.

 

The swordsman tilted his head, as if intrigued. Farald's heart thumped even stronger when the voice that came from the helmet was human. "Go home," he said gently. The accent was unlike anything Farald had ever heard.

 

"H-h-ho-home?" he breathed.

 

The swordsmen lowered his sword, but his slitted visor did not leave Farald. "Go home," he repeated, with equal softness. "Enjoy your final days."

 

"F-f-final d-days?!" Farald managed. He wanted to scream, he wanted to stand, he wanted to run, but his body would not obey him. Fear froze glued him to the ground.

 

The figure remained silent for a long moment, before he exhaled, as if sighing. "You invade our land, you trespass our home, and you steal our most treasured relic. For this, there is no forgiveness." The swordsman remained staring at Farald. When the Haensetian did not answer, the ghost hoisted his sword. 

 

"N-no, no, I'm going," Farald blurted. He muttered a silent prayer of thanks when his legs finally obeyed him, and he pushed to his feet. He cast a look the cohort of ghostly warriors, but they only stared back without uttering a word. Farald did not wait for a third warning; he turned, and began to sprint through the ankle-deep rainwater. After just a few steps, he tripped and landed face-first in the water. As he hastily climbed to his feet again, he expected the ghosts to react, but there came no sound. He almost wished they would burst out in mocking laughter, but no such laughter came. There was only silence. 

 

As Farald ran back to Markev, it was that silence that haunted him most of all.

 

[EndCallCaesar 484]

((Holy moly this is one helluv a good post, props man!))

[HurferDurfer1 2978]

Coltaine forms a desperate rearguard with a few of the men as the Kings company hurtles north away from that cursed Yatl Waste, muttering to himself he would slap together hastily prepared spells and fling them back at the groups of pursuers as quick as he could, illusory squads of soldiers running hither and yon in there wake to further distract and mislead the phantom beings hounding the King and his men. As the city walls hove into view the men let our weary cheer, stumbling the last few yards to the city gates, though as the men sought entry, the things that had hounded them all the way to Markev, pushed their attack. Desperate to protect the citizens, the entry to the city became a wild brawl, the pained cries of the Kings men rang out along side the muted yowl and thumps of errant sorcery, they would fight off those strange phantasm clad in archaic armor back into the  Wick Wood forest, it was clear they had stirred the ire of some force vast and terrible back at that keep in the south, they would need to study the notes they had acquired, figure out a plan on how to proceed.

[ThumperJack 927]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.