Fate - First Reply Sheathed in Stone

[Thronesplitter]

Time. Time had had a most strange effect upon the castle floor.

At first, it had been all chaos and frenetic energy. Blood had pooled deep into the grooves of ancient stonework, filling them like overflowing canals. The king had shuddered, his flesh twitched and spasmed around my sharp embrace. I remembered his final sigh, his last exhalation as he dropped to the floor in a heap, and traitorous hands relinquished my hilt. Had it been a sigh of immeasurable relief or deep disappointment? I could not recall. But I did recall the clatter of his crown as it fell, rolling away from the pool of blood, as if routing from its inevitable fate.

A murder most foul, yes - that is what they had called it. Necessary, but foul. But I could not remember why or how. It had all been so very long ago.

Now, the flesh had withered away, long since surrendered to the siege of maggots, flies and other cadaverous eaters. He was not to have the grace of burning, they had told me. So I had obeyed, and thus suffered the invasion of vermin to foul my steel. But I could not remember why I had followed these commands - or who had even issued them.

All I remembered is how eventually, the blood, the filth and the creatures dispersed before the long, slow march of eons, along with the carpets, the banners, the furniture and other beautiful colours, slowly draining before the continual rise and fall of the sun. I remembered when his flesh had left my vision, his clothes rendered to dust, how I could finally see the panels of the stone floor below him, where I split through it, shooting cracks through the rest of the fundament. My carrier had impaled me through those royal ribs with great force, sheathing most of my blade within the stonework.

I saw how dust and grit steadily gathered across the floor, drippling from the ceiling like faint, falling snow, forming a stagnant sea of age. I heard the scatter and patter of critters as they came and lived and died and slew one another. Strangely, I felt almost envious of their short, pitiable lives. A moment of excitement here, a few days of contentment there, and then Death pulled the rug on their tiny performances - at least the times that I saw it. Spiders and insects skittered about, their show an even more miniature form of entertainment.

But I could feel the writhing and slithering of something else beyond my confines. Something much greater and older - something entangled with these old castle ruins, like root and vine. Something that slumbered in the swampy moat, surrounded by foliage and forest that I could just barely glimpse beyond my confines, mostly because the walls themselves had begun to disentigrate, one cracking stone at a time.

This creature felt as old as myself, if not older. A distant neighbor encircling my territory, perhaps attracted to the occasional sputter and spark that still flew off my runes, when crushing solitude had me in its vice-grip. I felt that if I shone at night, then surely some hapless soul should see me in the woods. Perhaps hands would once again find my hilt, even if Time had long since snatched the smooth leather away from there.

All I needed was a way out. I asked for nothing else - and at this point, I hardly cared who might find me. As long as they could move, I would be satisfied.

 

[Hagan Mott]

Evil begets evil. Even time can't prevent that.

Like a siren on a rock in a stormy sea, the sword called out for its next unwitting victim.

And the universe finally answered its black pleas in the worst kind of way.

“He’s over here!” came the distant cry of a soldier in pursuit. The heavy galloping of horses echoed throughout the Falwood, and before long a haggard peasant came crashing through the brush on the most beautiful chestnut horse gold could buy.

His head was on a swivel as he frantically looked every which way, pushing the hood of his dirty green tunic up from over his eyes. Rays of piercing yellow sunshine split the forest canopy like spotlights, highlighting a decaying castle in the distance.

The rider whipped the reins of the horse and bolted past the crumbling ruins, taking a bet on the horse he stole over trying to hide. Perhaps he could’ve tried to hold his breath and hide in the moat under different circumstances, but there was no place to stash the horse and no time to think.

It wasn’t long before the rider’s pursuers came upon the castle themselves, a pack of barking dogs at their heels.

“He was here just a minute ago, I swear!” hollered the swordsman they called “Pinch”. It was short for Pincer, a nickname he’d been given on account of his left hand being shy three fingers. He was a veteran soldier, with scant hair and a gray five o’ clock shadow that made him look older than he was. He hopped down off of his horse, gesturing at the ancient pillars ahead. “Bet ye anything the bastard hid in those ruins!”

Another knight clopped up on an impressive white steed, twirling his black handlebar mustache. “Shall we keep riding while our dear friend Pinch checks the castle?” he asked, clearly eager to pursue.

“No,” came the gruff reply, a low, throaty guttural thing.

A third man rode forward on a gargantuan black stallion, the rest of the hunting party slowly joining him as their horses caught up. He was a tower of a man, with gauntleted fists like hams and a jaw as square as a brick house. He jumped down from his mount, one of his massive paws eagerly massaging the hilt of his giant greatsword.

“If he’s in the castle I’ll cut his hands off myself,” the keg-chested brute declared, trudging in the direction of the abandoned monument. The knight on the white horse took this as his cue and rode off, followed by Pinch shortly after.

In the background, the birds of Falwood fell strangely silent. Even the braying dogs quieted down to a whimper.

Sir Hagan Mott paid no mind.

He had a thirst for blood he was going to quench at all costs. This had been far better sport than a boarhunt.

Originally that’s what they’d been; the Viscount’s hunting party, scouring the Falwood for a pig to roast at their feast in honor of the Viscount’s visit. Hagan had quickly grown bored with it all though, and when word got to the party that someone had tried to steal one of the Viscount’s horses back in town, Sir Mott had been insistent that they let him retrieve the thief.

The clench-jawed musclehead showed no fear as he stomped up to the crumbling castle, drawing his greatsword and slashing at any vines impeding his course. A group of smaller but no less determined men followed behind him, leery of the sudden quiet but even leerier of their master’s temper.

It took finding a small rowboat in the fog of the moat for Hagan to realize that this whole scene felt unusually familiar.

As if he’d already dreamt it.

A green light, he remembered, a deep frown carved across his stone face. But Hagan shook the feeling off.

Mott had no fear of things he couldn’t understand; that’s typically because he tried to murder anything in that category. Still, that didn’t stop the two men who accompanied him across the murky water from their own nervous chatter. “I don’t think he had enough time to swim the moat with his horse, sir,” one of them reasoned, not realizing that Sir Mott would sooner piss on their opinions than hear them out.

“Wouldn’t we see tracks on the other side?” reasoned the other while he rowed, a humid mist simmering at his elbows. Mott pretended not to hear them though. It was too late now. Something was calling to him. Something more interesting than some ill-fated horse thief.

“I think I see somethin’ in the moat,” came a panicked whisper from one of Mott’s companions.

“Be careful,” Mott growled as they rowed ever closer to the mossy remains of the keep. “Look too hard and you could end up at the bottom.” Whether it was a poor attempt at humor or an annoyed threat, the soldiers remained silent until they reached the other side of the barrier. Mott walked in through the arched stone entrance of the empty holdfast, letting the shadows engulf him while his men pulled the rowboat ashore.

Yes, he frowned, his eyes searching the dark recesses of the stone tomb. It was a green light.