Sworded Tales

“Come on over, dear.  Humor an old woman,” the parched lips seem to audibly tear apart as the old hag waves a bony limb.  The creaking of the stained rocking chair on that disheveled porch is sharp.

“Come out of the hot sun.  I’ll bring us some lemonade.  Come on now.  Thaaat’s it.  Have a seat right over there,” foul breath dances past those few remaining rotten teeth, past the gnarled pointing finger and toward a small stool.

Several heartbeats later the aged screen door slams against the solid doorjamb.

“Here you are,” she delivers a coldness unlike the deepest winter, “Yessirree!  Indeed a hot one!”  A multitude of grunts and snaps accompany her descent into the swaying rocker.

“I see you came from the lake.  Mud on your shoes and all,” she pauses, hollow eyes scouring head to toe.  Falling trance-like, her words drone deeply on.

“Maybe I can help clear things up a bit here.  See, the lake can work funny things on ya’.  Some of the folk around here even say it’s…” she pauses, glancing over both shoulders, “…haunted.”

Enlightened by darkness. Feel the lost souls circling, circling, vultures of the spirit. Where is the one? The tracker of souls? When will he come?

Then the madness, the hysterical gibbering, can cease.

When the lost, forgotten and trapped are neutralized. Please, oh please, Christ please! Stop the screams!

Hurry my savior! Put the dead to rest. Just shut them up. Shut them the fuck up! Please dear God, JUST MAKE IT STOP!!

The crack of the whip was still bouncing around the rotten barn walls as the blood trickled down the fresh slash of flesh. Carl saw the flash. He knew he didn’t have long. A minute? Maybe. He stumbled blindly toward the large double doors of the mausoleum. Continue reading

Have you ever seen the fire dance?
Dance and spin, singing, looking right at you?
Tomorrow you’ll see.  See the consumer.
The MASS consumer.
You can’t breathe.  The flames won’t let you.
They will let your lungs explode, boil the flesh from your bones.
Nothing quite like the smell of fresh cooked meat…especially when it’s real fatty.
 

Calypso walks into the darkening lines.
Sierra scorched, the party-goers laugh and cry.
A thought, why are there wasps on my cake?
Perhaps the rotting meat draws them.
Maybe the maggots, the buzzing of flies, or the blood.
The bodies swim to and from in the seas of red slip.
The tides that will roll in merely a few days hence.

The web begins, being woven.
The minds reach and touch and feel joining at the crossroads and leaping away, ahead, aside, to the next.
The pattern holds little beauty, or flow, but the strength, in the heaviest of mind junctures, has no opposition which can hope to sever.
The center, the heart, the weaver’s home, is often a black void.
A nothingness that threatens to consume the entire weaving.
The minds must sacrifice, must push in to fill the emptiness, a struggle, a battle against the unmaker.
Is the weave strong enough?
Can there be a pattern when all starts in darkness?
The wills must be strong.
They must unite, strengthen the weak and hold on to the wild.
Do not pretend.  It won’t last.
You won’t last.
Reach for us, and follow into the dark heart.

A restless night spent in wayward seclusion did little to comfort the Halfling as he finished his cold breakfast and again followed the trail south into the morning mists.  The telltale outcropping of cliffs materialized out of the morning haze, blotting out the horizon with an ominous murk.  Gerard hunkered in amidst a relatively concealed band of deadfalls and patiently waited for the sun to creep into the higher reaches of the day, hopefully burning the obscuring moisture away in due time.

As Gerard’s perception increased with the clearing of the day, his heart lurched when he saw how close he had positioned himself to the final resting place of the young Halfling woman who only days earlier had entrusted her safety to Gerard.  He was spared the direct sighting of her blackened corpse, as scavengers had apparently pulled the body into some nearby cover to dine in relative peace, but his trained Ranger’s eyes could read the signs of her passing as easily as if he had witnessed the entire turn of events. Continue reading

The sight, the knowing is enough to drive anyone indoors.
Where the safety and solitude of cold porcelain encircle all comers.

Crashing fire.
Raining dark stones of flame.
Children running for the battlements.
The evil smiling down upon the chaos.
Feeding on the fear, the terror.
Every dying scream, music to the scaled ears of the invaders.
The walls won’t hold much longer.
The city glows with fire.
Our hero is lost.
The dark horizon holds no ray of light.
The morning will fall on a graveyard of ruins.
And a storm rolls down from the north.
Perhaps, at least, a blast of freshness before eternal sleep.

When forces gather and the times of power near,
When the hearts pound faster in anticipation of the final beat,
Souls collide, often by the choosing of others.
Your kindred one may yet await, patiently.
What will you do, if you meet across the field of battle?

The dynast walks among us.
He treads softly to learn our ways, to fuel his wiles.
True power is gained not through the might of the fist,
But through the scope of the mind.
So many of the elite grasp at straws when without their supports.
A true leader is one who is like us, who knows us,
With whom we are comfortable and can talk and disagree with.
Fear, awe, control, tools of the dark lords, the lost souls.
Will you know if you meet the one who is among us?
Yes.  You will know.

Diversity is the key.
How many battles can you fight, and fight well?
The specialists, the idealists, yes, they serve their purpose, when used as a tool.
But the diverse, the adept and those who can adapt,
That is where it comes from,
That is where it will go,
The dark horizons await.
Don’t get swallowed.

The cavern sprawled out before him, an unending vastness.  Squinted eyes pierced into the dark folds of rock, seeking those that would shorten his journey.  The breath, low, strong deep draws, billowed outward, hanging in the thick air for a stale eternity before drifting up toward the rimy ceiling some immeasurable distance above.

The head turned slightly and the ears twitched, attempting to pick up the slightest vibration.  A foul breath billowed from the passage behind him, wrapping around his lithe figure, almost embracing him.  One small, purposeful step forward and black fire began to leap between the fingers of his right hand.  The flesh there, already scorched black, the nails gone centuries ago, felt none of this.  It was reflex, an instinctual response to the approach of a nemesis…someone who would dare keep him from his goal.

Demonmauler

Demons walked the days, and no one could see them but Gabriel Trask.  His years preaching the word blended together, but he carried on as his mind continued to decay.  He was cast out for his beliefs, shunned by those he sought to protect, and still he walked on.

Infernal forces were massing.  The City thrummed with their blood, and the air reeked of ash and sulfur.  In the desperate days before mankind drowned in hellfire, Gabriel Trask’s prayers were answered.

God offered the artifact to him, shining with the purity of the heavens.  Gabriel reached for the weapon but hesitated, questioning his faith to the calling.  The hand of God waited patiently, and a voice echoed with infinite serenity.

“Demonmauler must once more rise against the coming darkness,” God uttered with perfect conviction, offering the weapon to him, “You have been chosen.” Continue reading

You’d say I was lying unless you actually saw the little green pig-fucker for yourself.  I swear to you, that is the toughest son of a bitch I have ever laid teeth on.  And I don’t care to do it again thank you very much.

I don’t know what it was about him.  He just stood there taking our best shots and hardly even flinching.  To tell you the truth, I think he might have been trying not to laugh.  Jackass.  That sounds like we’re a pretty sorry bunch, but let me tell you, I have seen my teammates fuck some people up on more than one occasion.  And come on, you know me.  For ME to say someone is a tough nugget?  Now that should be proof enough. Continue reading