~Roleplaying Bump! Really overdue, huh?
~
Many years ago...The Villagers do not touch this place. It is a graveyard of ill repute.
But a child dares. He is a sad, thin boy. Few friends-an abusive father. He really only seeks solitude. And here we will find it, more than he could ever had wanted.
He will also find a weapon. It will take him many years to learn how to wield it.
In his heart, he only knows pain-and thus, it is all he knows to spread.
....
The Friar leaned into the blow, smiling grimly.
The wailing Skeletons empty skull was turned into powder by the blur of his mace-it continued to flail blindly for a moment, then it's possessing force fled-the bones clattered to the Earth. Already, though, more were clawing up from the ground. Their numbers seemed limitless-and they were, as long as yonder man lived.
He was a Necromancer-one of middling skill and little wisdom, but he had found something that elevated even his meager skills to terrible heights. He was, in truth, hardly in control of the weapon he wielded-it would consume him as readily as it would countless lives, if unchecked. He was a sad, misguided fool. And still he laughed.
Friar Greenmoore had come alone. There was no coalition of heroes here. Fate had not seen to gather them. His order was gone. His friends were holding their own battles. It was just him. His spells had been exhausted-his shield broken in four places-his armor literally rented from his body. Even his cross had been torn from his neck. He wielded his mace two handed, now. It was just him, now.
This was no time for rumination-merely staying ahead of the thicket of rusted blades, splintered clubs and grasping hands took all his concentration, all his strength. Every blow sapped a bit more of his endurance. He was not a young man anymore-the days where he could power through were gone. He had lived too long-and now moralities whispers slowed his reactions. Not fast enough. Eventually, he would falter-eventually, they would take him into their midst. Yonder village, hardly more than a few dozen farming families, would be the first-the penalty for his failure.
Despair sunk her claws into him-slowly, surely. He began to think...all his past victories, all his triumphs-what did they matter? If, here, now-he could not save them. What had any of it been worth? He had given everything to God and the cause of good. Where was God now? Had it all been...in vain?
...
There was a tremendous explosion-bones fell in a grim rain. For a moment, the battle paused-even the undead turned to this strange development. Greenmoore saw her first. His daughter. She came from the North.
"...Tala?"It was her. Long brunette hair-a short woman, but strong-her eyes, hidden by a pair of goggles. She was smiling. And wielding a very odd sort of crossbow. She was in every way the striking image of her mother. His hearts fire rekindled. Weariness fell from his bones. The Necromancers laughter died in his throat. The balance was shifted in a moment.
"Father." She said, conversationally. Then she raised her odd crossbow-it spun, firing explosively tipped bolts at the masses of reanimated bone and sinew. Each blast pushed the horde back, but those that remained closed in on them...
Greenmoore took a deep breath. Then he sprung back into action. He was not weary now-not an old man anymore. He could do anything. No one could stop him. Not while he had faith. They would not touch her. In this moment, he is not fighting for yonder village, or himself, or even God. He's only fighting for his daughter.
Together, they cut a path through the thicket of enemies, laughing and remembering their best years as they slay. They are glorious, not lessened if perhaps, no one was around to see it but they.
...
The Necromancers weapon was broken. He was broken. The Friar gave him last rites. He was hardly more than a boy.
His daughter stood apart. God had never been much her ally-for what she was. For what her mother had been. The had won. But the moment of victory was fleeting. Their smiles faltered.
"...this doesn't change anything." She says, brusquely-fiddling with her strange machine, not looking him in the eye.
"It was providence that brought me here, and no more. I know how you feel about me...Father."Friar Greenmoore knows what to say. But he holds back. It is not time. For Greenmoore is, but a man-and flawed. For all his goodness and strength...his is imperfect. He tells himself it is for her own good, but it is a lie-a bad one. Tala knows this. With it, a pain she does not want to face either.
"I too am prideful, as you are. I do not live for your approval." she says.
"But I hope one day you might accept me for who I am."There are no words for him. Greenmoore watches her ride off, regretting everything. Regretting nothing. He loves his daughter. Why can't he just say it?
For all his wisdom, he knows not why. Perhaps it is his final test. One he is failing.
He is an old man again-weakened, and heartbroken. He begins to limp back to the village, for his wounds are many, and the seriousness of them is now made apparent. He will live. Greenmoore will live. He has always lived. Even as his friends have gone, he has lingered-waiting not for death, though he knows it will come sooner or later.
But not today. Not today. Today he lives-and moves on, one tired step at a time...but he never slows.
...
The Sun rises over the shattered graveyard-a field of bones. A rumor of a barely contained disaster. The villagers will not touch this place for many years.
One day, a broken, lonely child will dare this place, taking the rumors as facts. The pieces of the weapon will still lay where they fell.
In his heart, he only knows pain.
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Topic: CvRTD: End Of The Line (Read 199096 times)