[Creative Writing Submission] The Death of Franz

[Markisstreaming 521]

The Death of Franz

A short novel about insanity

        It’s been ten - or twelve decades since the incident. I do not recall exactly, for I’ve spent my days ever since locked in a room somewhere deep within the Haeseni north, in a facility for the insane. This is the retelling of a series of events by a senile old man, perhaps influenced by the decades spent in this wretched place.

       It all started with a pact. A salesman, a good friend of mine, by the name of Dionysus, was pitching me his latest business scheme. He was a known drunkard, always full of some cheap ale, the cheapest he could get at the nearest tavern. His favorite, however, I very clearly remember was Carrion Black. He was, by no measure, a handsome man. An ugly beard, unkept, his hair in a constant state of chaos, he was truly an unlikable man. We were sitting in Karosgrad - no, outside it, a small cottage was just recently built there, and we visited it just a week after its opening. As usual, Dio was in debt to another noble, it must’ve been a Barclay at the time, so I was paying that night.
       ‘I’m telling you Franz, this is the best idea I’ve had in my life!’
       ‘Surely, Dio, surely. Go on.’ I replied with a tired sigh.
       ‘We hire a necromancer-’

       ‘You are out of your mind again, was it drugs or alcohol this time?’

       ‘No no, hear me out. Please, hear me out Franz. We hire a necromancer - I don’t know how yet, but we hire a necromancer - and you know that bastard Ren?’
       ‘Yes, go on.’
       ‘Well, we take his kind - orphans I mean - and we give them to this necromancer. For the price of a few good ales and perhaps a nice meal, he shall kill the young men, and raise them as his servants! And thus, they shall be our servants as well.’
       ‘The entrance to all major cities is blessed, you know damn well an undead of the sorts cannot pass through that. And regardless, how would we even get a necromancer? Leave a letter out with some cookies and milk? “Dear NecroSanta, please let us hire you for our business scheme, we swear we’re not the Church trying to burn you”. Yeah, that’ll surely work.’ I laughed at him, lighting a cigar while I took a seat.

       ‘Ah, you never want anything fun.’ He replied with a tired grunt.
       ‘Perhaps not, perhaps it is only the fact that you think burning at the pyre is fun, or trial for treason and heresy is somehow fun-’
       A cold wind blew past, shutting the door with an awfully loud noise, and ushering in the freezing northern air. I was interrupted, and while this was a regular thing in Haense, especially during the times of the Infernal invasion, this time something strange followed. No dark prince of the High Hells, nor terrible monster of undeath came, but a simple man. Ginger hair adorned his head, he didn’t look a day over twenty-two. Lute in hand, Lorraine cross around his neck, a Brotherhood uniform under his coat, though an Armsman of the Brotherhood at the time, he looked out of place in the cottage. You see, this cottage was not for the noble fighter, nor the esteemed bard; and for that matter, it wasn’t even a cottage, it was a simple tavern. A tavern where drunkards, like Dio and myself at the time, could consume as much as they wished, and deal with the debt the next day. Except we never did, the Barclay that ran it always forgot.
       In a thick accent, unexpected from a noble looking one like him, he ordered a Carrion, sat at the back of the bar, and simply strummed his lute. I’ve seen this lad around before, I noted, he was an esteemed bard of the Brotherhood. Truly a strange fact he appeared in that tavern that exact night, it is something not even God could explain. Dionysus, being the idiot he always was, went up to him. The two began to converse, though this was unintelligible to me, both distance, tone, and the Carrion in my system made it unusually hard to discern their dialogue. Though at once, a blue flash of light appeared around the lute, the young fellow, whom I later learned bore the name Tiboren, got up, and in a sort of trance, as it were, made my dear friend follow him.

       I took little note of this at the time, though perhaps I could’ve done nothing at the time regardless, I paid for the Carrion, and rented myself a room. The next morning, I awoke to the tavern utterly empty, ransacked. My belongings, few, but valuable, were intact. It seemed my door wasn’t even opened, nor even an attempt made. Dionysus was nowhere to be found either, all that was left in the tavern was a note:

       ‘To thou, friend of Dionysus the Fool, I warn thee.’ Underneath this, in rotten blood, was written ‘Thine God will not save thine friend, nor Thou. If Thou dost wish to survive, meet me by the River Petra. Bring no-one, lest Thine friend perish.’ And a signature: ‘The Apprentice.’
       It was, in retrospect, entirely foolish of me, and these next events I recite with regret. I grabbed my coat, and set out, with nothing but a Lorraine cross and a prayer book in my pocket, for the River Petra.
       The River Petra, being the widest in the realm, was renowned for its many exotic fish and bringing from the lands of Anthos the remnants of a civilisation long past. It is rumored that once the High Pontiff, while on pilgrimage, ventured to the River, and there the Angel Aeriel came to him, and gifted him the Sword of Horen. The River is known for some of the most vile acts of mankind as well. It seems to have a spirit of its own, for it flows no matter the blockage. No beaver can block it, nor man, and many tried, and many shall try, but all will fail, for the River Petra stands undefeated. Due to this, kingdoms cannot control the traffic on it, and as such, it has become the favorite of many pirates, they patrol the River and are known to have committed the worst crimes of all. Any who sail on the River without a proper flag, and are spotted, are declared Kill on Sight, and no trial is held for them, nor a priest called. Rumor has it that one pirate, some Adunian coward’s crew, once kidnapped the Princess of Haense and were going to sacrifice her, however the Haeseni fleet pursued, and they simply threw her overboard. It is a dangerous river, and no sane man ventures there alone and without announcing his departure.
       But I did just that, and ventured to the River, where I found a small hut. Or- no, I found a path. The path led to the hut. Regardless, I entered it, and before me stood the ginger bard, Tiboren, hands stained with crimson, and a face full of pride. It was dark then, but I could still look around, the moon was bright that night. All around me, on the walls, Lorraine crosses of crimson. And there, in the middle, behind the ever-silent, and perchance, completely mad Tiboren, chained to the wall was Dionysus. His two hands outcast to the side, on his head a thorny crown, it reminded me of the Holy Scriptures…
       ‘Thou hath arrived, I see.’ The mad bard spoke, the room brightening in a blue glow.
       I had no words, it was utterly terrifying. I still do not know why I even went there, Dionysus was no greater friend of mine than the Devil. I suppose The Petra had something to do with it.

       ‘Is it not beautiful?’ The crazed man asked, only then did I notice where he stood. In the midst of a bloody pentagram, runes of Life and Death, of Immortality and Mortality, of realms unfathomable.
       Dionysus was dead. His blood spilt on the floor, his heart pierced by some vile dagger, he died in a way fitting for his low lifestyle.
       ‘ANSWER ME!’ Tiboren cried, enraged at my shock and silence.

       ‘You monster!’ I cried in response, disbelief in my tone.

       ‘Thou art a bigger fool than Thine friend.’ And Tiboren, raising a golden dagger high above his head, then swiftly launched it into his own chest, and pierced his own heart. All the while, I stand in disbelief at the scene, unknowing of what shall come next.

       The murderer and heretic, the man bearing the name Tiboren, hit the ground. His crimson blood spilling onto the floor, the pentagram filled, and the runes bound him. Chains grabbing at his every limb, restraining him from underneath, then a golden fire alighting around the edge of the ritual circle, the blaspheming beast was pulled underneath the ground.
       A booming voice sounded out then, from the circle ‘Bear witness, Franz-’ How it knew my name I know not, and dare not question ‘- for now thee shall see and feel death.’
       Frozen with fear, I stood before the altar, from which a hand reached out. On its palm a crimson eye, it touched my head. I fell to the ground in a trance, my vision blurred with a prophecy. I see before me a barren wasteland, covered in ice, and in the distance, just over the horizon, a blackened tower. Atop it a drake, puffing clouds of plague and malady into the air. By a gust of wind inexplicable, I am taken to the top of that tower. I try to scream, my mouth sewn shut, I am made a silent observer. The drake talks to me. I cannot recount what he said, but it is irrelevant. I mustn’t burden you, my dear reader, with it, for the Drake bestowed upon me the knowledge of the world, of other worlds, of the elements, and all that is created, and all that will be destroyed.
       And then I am taken to my house, Crown Ave XII in Karosgrad, where it stands burning. People walk past it, uncaring, and my weeps are unheard.
       Then I am taken to Amathine, where the Wyrm dug itself out of the ground, and ended our Realm.
       Then to the Marble Islands travel I, then the Vale, then the North. Everywhere all I see is destruction, and I weep for the world, but my cries are not heard, and the destruction is ignored. Then I am, at last, taken to the Temple among the Clouds. There the Monks greet me, though when I attempt to speak, they hear me not, and when I move, their eyes are still gazing at where I was, and I realize they weren’t talking to me.
       Barrowton burning, Norland in ashes, Haense taken by the Infernal, the Three Great Elven kingdoms all rummaged by the Wyrm, I am made to watch as the world turns to ash. There, in this state of disbelief and grief I am left for a thousand decades, or perchance more, and I awaken here.
       The room is small, six feet by twelve. A small bed, perhaps not even a bed, simply a wooden frame packed with whatever they could find. A desk, where I sit now, writing supplies, and paper all around me. I question not why I am here, nor when I came, nor when I can leave, I feel a strange sense of contempt with this. A single candle lights my room, nothing more. Food I have no idea how I get, but I seem not to starve. It is peaceful.
       Perhaps I’m in Heaven, I think. Hell, maybe. I don’t know. But it is peaceful, and that’s all that matters.
 

The text from here on out is rushed, written in a hurry and with some kind of dark crimson. Perhaps it was ink mixed with blood, or it was simply the mixing of black and red ink. 

 

       I had a dream. I dreamt for the first time in a week. It was the Drake. He visited me. He is beckoning me forth. He says he has more to show.
       It is peaceful here, I don’t want to leave.
       No, I’m not leaving. No. Never. I am perfectly content here. I will not leave.

 

Some pages of senseless drawings and scribblings later, another page

 

       He is calling. The dreams have gotten more intense. I can see out of the window now. Something stands there. It is calling. It wants me to come. I cannot go yet.

A rough illustration of what stood in the distance was to be found on the next page. A dark figure, seemingly male, holding its right hand with two fingers up next to his head,  the other hand pointed at Franz.

 

       He’s closer. I think I shall leave now. It is peaceful here. I liked it here. A cabin in the cold north… I liked it here. It was peaceful. I liked it. I liked it.
       My dear reader, I will leave you now. I bid you farewell, and I leave you with a good word of advice. If the Apprentice calls, do not follow.
The light draws near, He’s beckoning me closer. It was nice here.

 

On the table, you find the book open at the last page. Four words were written.
‘It is peaceful here.’ Franz is nowhere. In the distance, a figure beckons you closer. A feeling of calm washes over you. Follow it. It is peaceful here.

Spoiler

Heyo!

Thank you for reading this, this is my submission to the Creative Writing section of the Krugsmas games. I hope you enjoyed the fictional recounting of events by a senile old man mixing up locations, continents, and dates.

THIS IS NOT CANNON BTW FRANZ IS STILL ALIVE AND WELL AND DOING NECRO STUFF IN A BASEMENT SOMEWHERE!