Blood upon Golden Waves

[KidKrinkles 2044]

 

 

 

 

 

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[!] The following is an narrative retelling from Victor's point-of-view: those who were present or told would have this information, those reading would not otherwise.

 

[!] This narrative retelling is available to be experienced, as a memory, while holding and focusing upon 'Air a Sibhail', a blade effected by 'Binding', per Palmreader.

 

Please do not metagame.

 

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There was a quiet in the fields of Garenbrig, save for the clank of plate and the clatter of ringmail emanating Victor’s form. The bowie-knight wandered from the steps of Formindon down into the quiet square: a gentle breeze tossing the fog emanated his form, carrying the acrid, rich smell of tobacco through the quaint town. Somewhere, the soft beat of a hammer as a farrier shaped horseshoes, the gentle crackle of fire and drifting of blacker smoke as bread was baked within brick-laden homes.

The serenity was broken by a grating voice; something hellish, that only grew louder as Victor stepped down from the stone steps and down, the dull thud of his sabaton upon stun muffled as it found paved dirt. The man’s eye trailed over to the commotion; and the sight. The fog that swirled along with him stilling, as if it might betray his arrival, were it to continue it’s dance around the man.

“... I wish for a piece of your soul. We can do it with the ease of a handshake; or, I can kill you, and catch it as it leaves your corpse.”

The words hung in the air as the bowie-knight passed the low wall and hedges, his hands extending out and pressing themselves upon the stone, splaying his fingers. He’d squint his eye, lifting one plated hand slowly towards his face, and coughing into it loudly: making himself present. A long-stare from the man who chewed his cigarette idly, the thin tube rolling in his mouth, adjusting; unimpressed.

“Do not interfere, Knight.” The voice called back, in a flash; an axe was leveled to the woman’s throat-- Hekate’s throat. “Else, I will slay her.”

Victor snorted derisively, a plume of smoke blooming from his nostrils and billowing out across the low hedge. Dark clouds rumbled, distantly, and as they crept across the skies canvas, so too did the land they stood upon darken; the golden waves of wheat brushing and rustling a simple tune as they swayed with the wind.

“Ah’d be hilt deep in yer’ guts before she ‘it te’ ground; and ah’d patch ‘er up quickly too.” The latter of which was certainly a lie; he only knew to apply pressure to wounds, truly. “Hekate.” His voice then did call out flatly, unpressured; as he did not have an axe pressed to his throat, eye shifting to the lass.

There was a quiver to the woman’s voice: something understandable given the horrific nature of the demon before her. 

Tall, with unnaturally thick and long limbs. Black fur sparingly appeared beneath the dark plate affixed to those limbs. Spindly digits wrapped around a wicked axe; which was perhaps the least terrifying aspect of the creature. Creeping antlers shot from an elongated skull with bent and gnarled teeth that found cruel points. Beady eyes within the cavernous recesses of the figure’s skull glowered out unblinking. A deerman. A cruel infernal spawn. A wendigo.

“Yes?” She answered. “... the… this… nice fellow is asking if they can devour part of my immortal Soul, sir.” There was a formality to the words; a respect of rank and file. Perhaps that adhesion to military stricture kept her from simply freaking out in the situation; her form rigid and hands to her sides, suppressing a tremble that would be well earned. Her head was facing dead on; unwavering.

“Aye, yes yes.” His hand did toss up; as he’d already acknowledged the predicament.

“Permission to not get butche--” Her voice quickly interrupted.

That beast once more spoke; “Do you accept the deal or not, woman? Otherwise, you can die where you stand, and I can take your soul all the quicker.” The menacing blade edged closer to her throat, pressing upon tender flesh.

Victor’s own hands did press down upon the stone, slowly, and with a gentle kick he’d bring himself up and onto the low-wall, his hands swirling in the air as to help center his own gravity, another soft rush of wind helping to carry the man forward.The man looked to his feet, as if ensuring his own form was steady and surefooted, as he’d trail his gaze back to the duo.

“Granted, t’ough’a would advise ye’ may wish te’ defend yer’self.” He’d offer, brushing his kilt with the backs of his hands, then the palms. “Pain’a death is nothin’ compared te’ consignment to te’ ‘ells; as’a warnin’.” His tone sagely, knowing.

“Move any closer, she will die and I will harvest her soul before you even get to me. Now; do you accept this deal-- yes or no. Final chance.” The fiends words did hang over the Brigsmen’s head as a guillotine, a tenseness come to boil.

“Jumpy,” Victor did mutter, a wrinkle of his nose, his hands coming up; flat palms forward. “Ye’ nervous’a some one-eyed lad?” His head tilting back, and to the side, that one-eye looking hard, down-nose to his quarry.

“... fine. Just do it.” The voice was resigned to its fate, their gaze breaking off from the creature, and a hand extending. In truth-- there was little option. Her head did sink down and her hand went forward: refusing to turn to face the knight.

 

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There was a click of his tongue, and his own gaze broke away for a moment, before he slid the helmet that hung at his belt up and onto his head. As the clap of their hands met, the man’s own fingers did lace a strap, and a sturdy fist clunked into the dome; steady and firmly upon his head. He’d blink through the visor, vision narrowed, and smoke did press through the holes he breathed through.

The man dropped down stiffly into the dirt; potatoes and root vegetables crushing under foot as he made his way forward steadily. There was a glow that formed, running down the infernal beast’s arm, and towards Hekate’s begrudging grip. “Not’a wise move.” 

Azurewrath’s presence was felt as it was announced. The malleus running down that beast’s arm flickered and waned, if only for a moment, as the smooth motion of drawing the perfect blade made no sound: a dull-red hue igniting across the equally dull-blue metal.

… it was at that moment as Victor closed in, a second demon had made its way from behind the nearby houses, towards the wendigo. The deer beast’s head did not turn, to acknowledge the steps. But it did respond in some low, hellish, guttural words that no mortal should be able to recite; like nails on a chalkboard.

This one was different from that of the wendigo: and perhaps truly no two demons are exactly the same. A bat-ish face with a large overbite; and marble-white eyes within sunken features. Large, pointed ears, with a thick mane of dark fur along the cranium and throat, down their chest. Hulking muscles; large spikes, two toes and six digits, with what appeared to be scars from old wounds and burns across their body varyingly. Perhaps not as haunting as the wendigo; but arguably more brutishly intimidating.

Their words exchange and Victor silently ponders their dichotomy; perhaps they were not friendly? It was hard to gauge tone from infernal tongues; hard to read faces that had been warped in the hells. 

His answer did come quickly: the bat-ish figure advancing upon the Knight, who planted his feet in the grit and grain of Garenbrig’s fields, and lifted up his blade. The creature twirled an axe, which sung a grim song through the air, as the two figures met upon the field.

 

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Kore ga… shi, ka?

これが……死、か

Quiet words uttered by the man, before he quickly closed the distance.

 

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Thunk, the sound of Azurewrath gracing the fiend’s shield; a clang as that blade was drawn back swiftly to turn the axe away from a blow for his hip. Words from Hekate went unregistered as the man focused upon his quarry.

Those opening blows were to be expected.

The man then shot his hip forward and turned hard, slamming his elbow into the shield. The hulking brute would budge only barely—not thrown off as well as he’d hoped. The creature had the strength of an Uruk, simply.

The axe, once turned, hooked to Victor’s sword as he drew back; bringing the man forward a bit. Planting his feet, his hand gripped forward to find leverage. He careened his head into the brute’s maw—a crack of teeth, and the branch-like snap of their flat, cartilaginous nose.

Their axe wound around and swung low, under, as space was made for Victor’s armpit. The man kept moving—but unable to dodge fully as he stepped back to space his next blow, he felt a crash into his forearm; a dent in the plate forming, pain shooting through ringmail and gambeson into flesh.

His eye darted to the Wendigo—who had finished their handshake.

His eyelid peeled as far as it could. One was manageable—a duel. But the two brutes? A whole different challenge.

 

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“You’re awfully quiet, Victor,” the Bat did mutter, in a strangely feminine voice. “No joke? No remark?” Their axe battered their shield, tauntingly.

Victor’s left hand, sore from the earlier strike, slowly reached up to draw Karispacus—his phoenix-laden blade of daemonsteel, bound to his blood and his line.

He tensed his grip, making sure to hold the blade as best he could, while he turned Azurewrath in his hand end-over-end; a flourish done with the unassailed arm.

He was quiet.

Don’t speak.
The words rang in his head—the voice of Konan-Thegn.
Words are wasted in battle.
Sound advice. Wisdom taken gravely serious from the Nornish hero.

And so he offered no reply.

Only the heavy thud, thud, thud of the Wendigo’s approach from the rear. His grip tensed once more—a countdown of footfalls as the beast grew closer... closer... closer—

 

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A sharp pivot of an armored heel dug into the dirt and sprayed loam forward; both arms whirling about in a flurry.

Karispacus came down low for the Wendigo’s leg as he dropped, a claw swinging for the vacant space where his head had just been.

Daemonsteel bit back at its master’s will. A mist of blood hissed out—but no scream came from the beast, even as it came to a halt and turned with the man.

The Bat’s axe came crashing down as thought—a staggering weight and ferocity behind it.

The thahnic blue once more caught and kissed the axe; a spray of azure and crimson sparks leapt outward at the blow. A deep numbness settled into the arm from the exertion.

Exposed, but blades still close, their heavy shield followed through—a rebuttal of that earlier blow—sending the heavy knight staggering back to a skidding halt.

 

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If there had been gauging strikes and tested waters—there were none now.

Blows exchanged back and forth swiftly. Martial prowess on display, as strikes were turned and avoided deftly, in a frantic flurry.

A savage tempo was set by the demons—coordinated, in sync—as pressure mounted.

The man had long, long ago made peace with death. And yet each blade moved with needle-focused desperation to pull through.

 

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A swipe for the knee was avoided—and a blade thrust in kind. A shallow kiss from Karispacus, matched to the sound of its wielder’s beleaguered, exhausted breaths.

Another step back—then the Wendigo’s claws lifted and slammed into the tilled soil, scattering root and earth into a cloud. The pitter-patter of sediment bounced off Victor’s armor.

Victor’s left hand whirled in an arc meant to make space—but the rhythm had continued too long. The steps of the dance were becoming predictable.

A hand reached out—and grabbed Victor’s plated wrist.

If I stop moving, I’m dead.

 

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In a bid to free himself, Victor swirled Azurewrath around in a lofty flourish—and chopped down upon that wrist, catching an unarmored section in a spray of sulphuric blood.

Azurewrath flashed with hunger—but no blow went unanswered.

The Bat whirled and rocked Victor’s back with an effortless swing. A loud crack rang out—the wind sucked from Victor’s lungs, a ringing in his ears.

Karispacus slackened from his hand and spiked into the field.

 

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Spent and wounded, his eye darted between the two figures. He moved to step past them, to gain footing, to find high ground.

But the barbed hook of the axe caught him mid-stride. It seized his cracked plate and halted him.

A desperate turn and flourish—the Bat’s wicked grin, mocking him.

Azurewrath lashed forward. The last line of defense. The last hope for offence, from a battered man.

 

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A feinted thrust for the bridge of that flat nose. The Bat flinched.

The red-glowed, blue-hued blade turned to catch the looming threat of the Wendigo's axe again, turning it wide. But before Victor could recover and press back—

A webbed hand gripped his elbow—and seized him.

 

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There was a spit of infernal tongue nearby. But out of sight.

A third.

The tinnitus in his head stilled. Eased. Relented.

A single eye, in a steel helmet. A man, in a battered cage—surrounded by alien fog, and scattered dirt, and infernal monstrosities.

The reality set in.

It was simply a tragedy to have to eye such a cruel and disgusting face on his way out.

 

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He saw the shadow of a blow.

His left hand rose to cover his neck, elbow jutting to catch the strike.

It hit him—bitterly. Blackness crept in from fingertip to wrist, cleaving his hand apart down the middle. The force sent spit from his mouth tiredly against the inside of his helmet and made his eye scramble.

Metallic rasping breaths hissed from the helmet. His legs buckled.

Black words clawed at his ears. His eye fluttered.

Consciousness slipped.

His knees gave way.

He dropped like a stone—then came the clang of steel to helm—

—and so, blackness swallowed him.

 

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… and the man woke, distantly and away from the fields of Garenbrig. Sore, torn, and tattered, as if from a bad dream that gripped his throat and sought to end him. Lying within the clinic: a hand print burned across his face, throbbing deeper than just the skin, and a stump where a mortal hand once weaved swords.

 

[Agy 756]

[!] Hekate...  Awoke within the bloodied and thrashed fields as an ever treacherous fatigue clung upon her pained flesh, a newfound emptiness deep within her very being becoming more pronounced and noticed with each second. Her right hand was... Burnt, the hand with which that most dreadful fiend forced her to give up a part of herself in what could only be described as a petty robbery by the otherworldly and unspeakable.

There was no sign of the Victor, nor the ever-courageous  golden-haired woman that run after him in the possibly vain and near suicidal hope to save him from the pair of abominations. 

 

This was her fault... And she could do nothing about it.

[Nitatskii 12]

 

[!] The demon, described as a ‘wendigo’, tall and bloody, stood in the forest. Beady eyes looking out to the field as Victor was dragged away. 

"That man was to die to my blade, I would have had his head, if it weren't for those meddling demons..." 

The demon muttered to himself, as he walked deeper into the forest, armor clanking against itself, cloven hooves crushing dead leaves into the forest floor. The demon turned around once more to look at the beaten knight as he was dragged off.

"I will kill you one day. One day you will die to my hand, and your head will hang on my belt." 

Those words hanging like a noose upon the Aryn-en-Eryn’s branches.

 

 

Edited March 28, 2025 by Nitatskii

[RatFromTheTrash 535]

 

Hues of blue met the Bat’s own, her lips twisted into a vexed frown.

Hidden hisses of words exchanged, cloaked by the thick forests of Garenbrig.

 

In the end, a secure arm wrapped around the beaten and battered Victor, the man hauled back to Númendil's clinic.

Then, her work began.

 

[DizzyGrey 1229]

The Bat looked down at her hand, flickers of malflame darting across the oddly patched fur. A low and rumbling laugh, warped by a poorly formed throat, thundered its way throughout the forest around her as she remembers Victor’s screams of pain.

 

Yes. Perhaps her plans for murder had been interrupted, and the other of her kind forced away from her prey because of it. And yet…

 

“Not making jokes now, are you?”