17th Galena
Quiet contemplation of Necrothreat. Something I never thought to be able to have-not without the sight of zombie scum distorting the picture. But there I was, standing at a window with the bracing wind gusting through the engraved corridors, my beard and hair being tugged and pulled at in the icy gusts. The sun glinted on the river, a gleaming line of silver which shone as if burnished. The clouds, low in the sky, seemed to be brooding over the earth in their own thoughts, sometimes grey with worry, and others light, fluffy and free. The trees like beacons flame with autumnal colours, and strewn upon the grass-cloaked earth they toss their flaming leaves like so many burning sparks. The ponds and pools stare at the clouds, and small animals have a free run on the land. But so do they. Always present, always waiting. Amongst their rotten company I see the green faces of goblins, their shapes distorted by the Fell powers of Ur’s Generals, and their allegiances no longer lying with the living.
I feel no guilt in leading them to this; their death protects Necrothreat, for unlike the zombies they were intelligent in their own crude way, and it was only a matter of time before their foul forge began churning out siege weapons. No, they served us more amongst the dead. But what crushed me, nearly driving me to despair, is what happened to those fleeing from their own ruin. We were the last. We were all. Word from new arrivals had shown us that all forts had fallen, apart from the pitiful smoking wreck of a once great Mountainhome. The dead take over the halls of the living and tear them down, gradually, brick by brick. Once great bridges which spanned rivers as if merely leaping gracefully from bank to bank, glowing golden as the sun strikes their filigree hand rails, are strewn in the waters, the light in them dimmed, as if a cloud were intruding on their lustre. The walls which enclosed entire fortress lands are breached, those pieces remaining standing broken, like so many crumbling teeth not yet aware that they are doomed to fall. Ruin, all is ruin. Except Necrothreat. And here we must hold. That is why the migrants are so important; they are the remnant of a remnant, mere shadows of our former glory, but coming in one shape we may gain our might again and be shadows no more. We need the migrants but few get through.
They came earlier today, a pitiful straggling line of morose, down turned faces. The dirt was engrained into their skin, so much so that no soap or water would wash it out. Lank locks of filthy hair hung about them like curtains, and even their beards were untrimmed, un-braided and in disrepair. Truly, our civilization is crumbling for us to appear as this; no ale, no good hearted joking and jests. No laughter rose from the thin line. It said something that they came here. That they came to Necrothreat, the last bulwark of the Forumites, meant that they had embraced their deaths. I grunted. So it must be, for if we are to live we must have no fear of dying.
24th Sandstone
I stood upon the highest level of Necrothreat, that place where the walls of stone engraved with our glories and woes had petered out and become soft, sodden walls of mud. An earthy smell hung over everything, and water dripped in endless drops from the ceiling. There, through an expertly fashioned window in the hill, I had a view of the migrants. They walked drearily towards the gates, heads down, eyes on the ground. They never even noticed the waves of zombies around them, and nor did the zombies seem to notice them. Then a single wail ululated in the still morning air and the corpses shook off the stupor of the dead, and looked about the land of the living. The dead charged, and hit them as a wave envelops a rock.
They stood firm, these dregs of society. Beaten, tortured by circumstance, punished merely for being born into a world the dead had set their eyes upon, they stood. Blood ran with the mud down their faces, and they had no weapons. Again and again one of their family, a friend or relative, would fall to the clutching hands of the dead, a thin wail torn from their mouths before they fell to embracing darkness, succumbing to the inevitability of their doom. All dead, now. All but one.
He watched as his brethren were cut down like wheat about him. To this day, I fancy that I heard him shout out as the last was cut down, and he was the only remaining migrant. What he said, I do not know, but I like to think that he cursed the dead, screamed his fury at them. A leatherworker, he had never known war before, but in this day and age all knew the dead. He knew he could not win. He knew he would die. And so he ran, a storm of undeath brewing behind him, dark shapes darting through the grass. Then gate was seen, microline and blue, in his path. As he crossed it slammed shut with finality, cutting off the screams of hate that followed him. He was safe. Atis the Leatherworker had made it to his new home.
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Topic: Necrothreat II - A Fort Cursed by the Gods! (Read 472340 times)