[RP] "Oh, mother! Mother!" screams the wolf.

[Callistus 989]

 

 

 

 

Spoiler

Music 

She who would birth wolves

The air collided stoutly where the young Aeldinic child had wandered. Bedrich, an orphant child whose only relations were lost to war, razed through the ravaged paths of Arcas on his way to the empire; its famed capital, Helena. The whistling wind was fierce, how it battered at him, yet it truly was a wonder how the sickly little thing could even stand on firm ground. Countless pilgrims crossed him, none tender enough to lend the stray child a helping hand; or even ask if he was of need. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t concern him. He was in no need of any. Soon, the monumental city was not far beyond sight; its gates were left wide open, eating up and spitting out hundreds of city men, of those who were loyal to the Imperium. He could not help but smile, the little thing, but he knew not, of how he would come to regret such an act before too long. Upon entrance, he was met with the sight of clattering crowds, the boisterous blather of chattering men and bickering drunkards. Yet, in an abrupt, hurried moment, all had gone eerily silent; struck thereupon by the daunting command of a young noble clad in luxury;

“Quiet!”

A certain man yelled, instilling fear in the hearts of those who’d dare speak in defiance. The prying little jackal grew curious, and soon made over in a stride, tumbling past plastered crowds to earn but a briskly glance. The voice, he uncovered, was that of the very King’s. Amid the congregation of people, a small, besieged lady stood aquiet, nervous and in panic. She’d beg and plead, only to be met with stiff rejection.

“Please, let my child live!”

She asks, one last time. But they persevered in rebuttal. “Witch!” and “Beast-fucker!” were the words uttered by sullen townsfolk, but why, the childling could not yet apprehend. Back in Aeldin, he would recall, stories and folktale of misfits draped in slain beast-skin were widespread. Unsightly mutants and horrid beasts that would wander the dead of night in search of a younger flesh, with fangs so sharp and claws not unlike those of wild bears. Stories on how they came to were various, the bulk of which were utter fallacies, but one of them stood out most to the fable pretentious child; bastard-born halved men in wolven skin, conceived by the accursed union of a maiden and wolf. Their creation grows to be an abominable thing, unsuited to give birth; senile, tearing through the mother’s womb and ripping her to shreds and tatters early upon parturition. Beastly things that would indeed, with great precision and rigour, cut through men as would a master butcher. It is then that the kid realized, the manner of sin which he had come just in time to witness. Why, the birth of a most hideous monstrosity; the potential time, in which carnage would’ve begun to plague the war-driven city and usher in its final demise. The spread of the vulfen curse, and the end of their petty monarchs’ war.

That, was when the small child of Morce grasped the extent of this city’s damnation, and for which he would begin to leave in a frightful hustle, promising never again to step foot into the Imperial Capital.

 

“Moorleiche, moorleiche. . blasted witches, cursed hags!”

[Jentos 9425]

One strange man gasps. He stared around him, waken by some accursed word; a hymn of old; incantation broken; his name spoken. His lips, charred and broken slowly parted, to echo forth words of old, a prayer of redemption. But the divine do not relent. And the man screamed, he shuddered and broke. Taken by one spiral of flame, his limbs tearing and breaking. Sins are not forgotten. But his name was. For by all means, hexers do not die in their beds. He did not belong in the realm of the living, and he never would return. He had uttered blasphemy; the name of God.

 

Madness, the lot of it, why, even logic had stopped making sense.

[osumanduas 1442]

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

 

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