Unknown Date, Granite 718.The Monastery of Wanecloister was a silent place, located high in the hills and unwelcoming at best to many. It was barely inhabited, now, after the elderly Mother had died of old age – now, it was all but abandoned beyond himself and a Human.
Perfect for one such as him.
Long before dawn, Lonelythrall the Hideous arose from a straw bed in an unlit cell. He crossed the room to the basin of ice-cold water in the corner, plunging his face into the freezing water without hesitation.
He felt nothing, of course. The infernal curse that creature had placed upon him had long robbed him of such feelings.
The water was still dripping from his scaled face as he moved to the small shrine beside his straw bed. Every morning he knelt before it in prayer, speaking the prayers to the God of Gods and His fellow deities that the Abbot had taught him. Every morning there was no answer, the Gods rightfully refusing to answer a sinner such as he.
“My flesh is corrupted. My mind, tainted. I am unworthy to stand in His light, or to receive His mercy.”
Taking a firm birch in hand, Lonelythrall drew in a breath.
“For my sins, I beg Your forgiveness.”
The gnarled wood cracked sharply against the useless wings on his back. He ignored the slick, dulled feeling of blood running down between his shoulderblades, drawing back for another blow.
“For my sins, I beg Your forgiveness!”
The birch struck home, adding one more gash to the many half-clotted ones already there.
“For my sins-!”
The birch stopped mid-descent.
There was something in the cell with him. Something behind him.
And to his front, and his sides. Within him, and without.
There were no words or sound; He did not speak in such a crude, vulgar manner. Yet He spoke nonetheless, comforting and commanding at once, and Lonelythrall knew what He commanded him to do.
Lonelythrall bowed his head in reverence, trembling in rapturous delight as he felt His blessings saturate his unworthy flesh. He was barely able to make his jaw work in the face of His magnificence, and the purity of His immaterial presence.
“As you will it, Mighty One, it shall be done.”
The presence withdrew.
Lonelythrall arose from his kneeling position with the air of a man possessed, shaking hands reaching to a tiny dent in the floor.
Beneath it lay the bronze relics of a life long gone by. Reminders of the impurity that tainted his flesh and bone; that which made him a monster in the eyes of God and Man alike. Now, they would be His instruments in the mortal lands.
A war hammer. A tarnished mail shirt. A helmet still stained with dried blood. Two dulled gauntlets.
Lonelythrall donned them each without hesitation. His commands burnt within his mind, willing him to ignore the memories they spurred within him, and he obeyed.
He knew exactly where the God of Gods demanded him to go, and he set off into the wilderness without a backwards glance.
Unknown Date, Slate 718.He has called me, and I must answer.
My first travel was westward, to a tower the rare visitors to our Monastery called ‘Mysterydressed’. Someone had evidently been there before me; several Goblin corpses lay upon the ground, bearing wounds that would kill a man thrice over. They were rotted and decayed, bone and sinews alike exposed – perhaps the result of unclean sorcery.
Other than a few wandering ravens and carrion-eaters, there was almost nothing to aid me in fulfilling His command. Much of the main tower was empty or ransacked, with books lying upon the floor and indents of footprints in the dust. Yet He smiled upon my unworthy form, and guided me to a small building upon the outside of the pit.
Within lay His gift to me: two bronze high boots and a well-crafted shield, burnished and unmarked by battle. I thanked His generosity as I put them on, setting off into the wilds once more in the moments after.
I will write more when I have the time. As of now, I hear something in the dis-A mad howl echoed from the treeline, and Lonelythrall had barely a second to drop his quill and draw his weapons before the beast was upon him.
A great weight slammed into his chest, hurling him backwards from the force and weight, before a carving knife raked across the bronze mail of his chest. Though the darkness of the night prevented him from getting a close look, he could smell its breath – hot and stinking, reeking of death and bug innards as it drew back for another blow.
He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his skull; a clumsy swing of his hammer missed, the creature taking full advantage of his distraction. A second blow hammered into his foot, while a fist rammed hard against his helmet.
Blood flooded his mouth, sudden and coppery, as the creature’s blow drove teeth into his tongue. There was no pain, but the strike left him staggering, almost choking on blood as it slid down his throat. He was being tossed about like a rag doll, beaten by some accursed abomination despite all that He had given him.
He was failing Him, and at that, Lonelythrall felt something give way.
“Perdition!” He thundered, letting His holy rage flood through him. “Blasphemy!”
His swings were growing wilder, more erratic; they missed by feet now, rather than the previous inches. The heart in his chest was pounding hard enough that it felt ready to tear loose as he fought for his life, dodging out the way of one blow only to take another to the chest.
He could dully feel bone chip as the blow reverberated through the box of his ribcage; it didn’t seem serious, but the sensation was enough to drive him to strike at the beast with his shield. It missed as the creature leapt away, snarling, and charged in again with its fists cocked back to strike. He shifted himself to take it, shield down and his teeth bared.
The knife was the first to hit, snapping apart halfway along its length as the copper broke upon the bronze. The creature’s fist, on the other hand, was still very much intact; its fingers scraped across the mail of his shoulder before sliding free.
More blows landed. A pair of punches, a kick, yet he felt nothing. Otherworldly clarity had suddenly come to him as the creature drew close – he could see every inch of its twisted, unholy form in detail, from the saliva drooling from its lips to the pulsing vein in its neck.
That feeling from the cell was back. It was within him and without him, behind him and in front of him, taking control of his frail limbs and filling him with His strength and prowess for a moment.
The world seemed to slow as he span upon his heel, letting the hammer slip through his grasp until it was as far from his hand as possible. The heavy, killing face of the bronze war hammer smashed hard into the beast’s face, driving the solid metal through solid bone and into the soft, vulnerable brain behind.
The monster collapsed, blood and bone shards fanning out from the shattered skull; Lonelythrall rolled out of the way as its carcass hit the floor. Despite his wounds, he was exultant – he had never felt so alive, so furious and energetic, and he was proving that he was worth something to Him.
Lonelythrall went on bent knee, placing his hammer upon the grass, and began to pray once again.
“In your name, God of Blood, I offer this unworthy creature’s skull to you, that its soul may serve you better than it did in life…”
Circa 6th Felsite 718.Many Humans may not worship Him as their creator and master, but their craftsmanship makes them useful. The iron helmet and high boots Embracebelt was so generous to ‘loan’ me certainly prove that. While it in no way matches that forbidden legend of Steel, the lost material the Dwarves were said to wield, it will be more than useful in my hunt.
He has led me to the lair of a Roc, one of those great sky-dwelling monsters that ravaged the world in Ages past. I see many loose copper arrows scattered about this place – He intends me to slay this Beast, and He has given me the tools to do so. I know not if this shall be my end, but if it is, I die with the knowledge that my death shall earn a scrap of His forgiveness.Lonelythrall crawled through the dirt surrounding the Roc’s lair like a worm. A single wrong move would be the death of him: the Roc would see him and seize him in its talons, hurling him to his death upon the ground or tearing him apart with its great, hooked beak. In his hands, he clutched ten copper arrows between thin fingers, his eyes fixed firmly upon the Roc’s every movements.
Once he was in range, he carefully placed all but one upon the ground. With this single arrow, he drew back an arm, and hurled it as hard as he could towards the Roc’s mighty form.
The first one struck; the beast screeched aloud in shock as the arrow tore though the muscle and bone of its leg. Its own weight did the rest, sending the overgrown turkey smashing face first into the dirt. His other arrows followed suit – each one struck the vast breast of the bird, each one resulting in a spray of blood and a sharp wheeze from the creature.
As the Roc staggered drunkenly, trying to regain its feet with one leg damaged beyond use, Lonelythrall leapt from concealment to strike.
His hammer smashed home against the beast’s neck and head before it could react, leaving the beast reeling, before another strike impacted its guts.
The creature vomited copiously, snarling in rage as the trauma forced its meal back up through its throat. He kept up the attack, dancing around its butcher-hook talons as they slashed down at him, occasionally raising the scratched metal of his shield to block a particularly violent or swift blow.
A lucky blow to the skull left it staggering drunkenly, stunned for a moment by the bronze hammer’s blow. Without hesitation, he began striking the skull repeatedly and as hard as he could – it felt like trying to dig through accursed Slade barehanded, each blow seeming to do nothing beyond bruising or twisting the neck.
It recovered for a moment, forcing him to dodge out the way of its flailing claws as it took to the sky; a downwards lunge toward his form was countered by him spinning out of the way, lashing out to strike at its frustratingly-thick skull with the hammer once again. It had been stunned once more, eyes unfocused, and he had felt the satisfying sensation of bone shifting under his blow. It was dying, inch by inch.
Lonelythrall leapt upon its blood-slicked form, exulting in the bloodthirst that now flowed through him.
“Blood for the God of Blood!” He howled like a rabid animal, letting the savagery instilled into him at the moment of his creation flow freely. “Skulls for His Throne!”
Before long, the Roc lay sprawled out in the open plain of its lair, twitching in pain on the ground as he straddled its massive neck and struck again and again, striking the beast’s stone-hard skull until it was nothing but a mass of splintered bone and shredded flesh, its brains spread across the dirt of the place it had once ruled. Even then he didn't stop, driving the hammer into its chest until it felt not unlike a bag of jelly, organs pulped or laid bare and its shattered ribs sprung open.
The red haze cleared.
Lonelythrall slid off the monster and sank to his knees. His hands were shaking, disgust and shame burning hot in his gut. He had given in to his bestial nature, embraced the curse that tainted him in all things’ eyes. Had he spent so long flagellating and meditating to try and control the monster in him, only to fail Him and give in to it?
His stomach heaved and he tore off his helm, emptying his stomach onto the stained grass. The beast was caged once again, locked behind iron-forged walls of discipline and faith, yet he had failed the monks that gave him everything and failed Him-
Cold wind blew across his scaled flesh. There was something in the Lair with him.
Lonelythrall’s body shook as His presence returned. He had not failed Him; it was His will that Lonelythrall should give in to his nature when facing a monster such as the Roc, for some beasts could only be slain by an even greater beast.
Sometimes, savagery was warranted, and he felt his doubts and horror fall away in accordance with His divine proclamation. The presence vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving no trace but His decree to be honoured.
Lonelythrall rose from the ground, already scanning the Lair for a branch. The Mighty One may have shown approval of his actions, but his penance to the Order was yet to be paid.
OOC: I cut out all the bits where he was training for purposes of length. That Night Troll in the beginning almost got me; if it weren’t for that lucky wild bash, I would’ve been done there and then.
Also, I found something really spoilery right near Boltspumpkin’s doorstep. Do you want to know about it now, or at the end of next post?
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Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 473498 times)