azwraith,
I. Sacrifice
Gathered friends, we are here today to commemorate the lives of those who have fallen before us; soldiers, warriors, countrymen – family.
In life, they have served us endlessly, fighting for our country, our homes, and our people. They have fought with all of their might, with all of their courage, so that we, the defenseless many, need not do so. In the end, they gave up their own lives, ensuring that our fellow countrymen keep theirs.
In death, may they watch over and guide us, as fellow servants of the Maker of All. May their deeds be remembered, so that they may live in history as the greatest heroes our people had. When the end times come, may they have the peace that they deserve, bought with hardship and tribulation, as their just reward.
The house of the dead shall welcome them – their stories shall be told.
II. Honor
The brigands were known throughout the land. They were feared for their ruthless attacks – pillaging and burning, relying on their near legion-like numbers. When they set their sights on any settlement – whether it is a town, a hamlet, or a city – none of it shall remain standing. Neither the strength of its walls nor the courage of its people shall stop them from burning to ashes.
They leave only a handful of survivors, left alive to spread the word – to share their stories and tell tales of madmen and sadists, torturers and executioners, petty thieves and thugs, garnering themselves a reputation that in itself strikes fear and worry in the many hearts of civilization.
Fear did half of their work. The rest were easy pickings.
The smell of ashes and brimstone tickle the farmhand’s nose. He looks up, wondering if this means Ol’ Jerry is finally back from the fisheries down south – the guy looks like a chimney whenever he smokes. A pillar of smoke stands proud over the horizon, looking like a quill plume writing out ashy stories in the dirt. Far in front of it – just about near the fence, he realizes – runs a small, ragged figure, carrying what appears to be a torch as if its life depended on it.
Hold on, what?
He can only watch as the figure clambered over the fence, and continued to sprint forward, right before he heard it scream:
“They’re coming! They’re co . . . ming . . .” With these words, the figure collapses, and the farmhand rushes forwards, in the hopes of helping him up. Instead, as he grew nearer, he notices that the figure wasn’t some other thing carrying a torch.
It was a man, set on fire and forced to run. He looks up again, watching the pillar of smoke. It seems to be awfully closer now.
III. Duty
The mausoleum was the house of the dead.
Everyone who died would sooner or later have their bodies end up here – merchants, craftsmen, peasants, nobles, soldiers. It doesn’t matter who or what you were in life – Death welcomes all in his humble abode. But sometimes, there are things that even Death cannot hold back.
Inside, something woke up. More accurately, some things.
In front of the mausoleum, a small group of civilians were rounded up by the brigands. Around them, more and more were either being brought forth, or being beaten to death. Some begged for mercy, tearfully proclaiming that they have done nothing wrong. Some tried to fight back, only to be held down and slowly, painfully tortured until their consciousness left them. The rest were silent, with their eyes looking so empty as they gazed into nothingness, left shocked and in despair.
In the distance, the city burned, while the barbarians celebrated, gloating about another easy raid going down in history, and doing even more unspeakable acts to the cowed survivors.
For a while, this particular group was fine with mere gloating.
“What d’ye think, lads? Do we need more slaves for ourselves? Should we sell ‘em off? Do we offer ‘em as tribute to the boss?”
“What about feeding ‘em to the dogs? I’ve heard they’ve been getting hungrier and hungrier lately –“
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The sounds of pounding came from behind the mausoleum doors.
“ . . . what was that?” asked one of the invaders.
“Prob’ly a trick,” replied another, right before the stone portal collapsed.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The ancient doors flew forward, shattering as they fell, fragmenting into dust, blinding the nearby brigands. As they scrambled about with their lack of vision, figures strode forward from behind the shattered doorway.
They were skeletal, almost desiccated corpses, bits and pieces of rotten flesh hanging from their frames as the ancient burial armor they were entombed with gave a dull shine in the sunlight. Spectral flesh flickered in and out of the daylight, showing to the world what these corpses once looked like, and how time has slowly been unkind to them.
They took notice of the brigands mucking around their home. They noticed how the people are screaming as they were chased and cut down for sport. They noticed how their precious city – everything they lived and died for – was put to the torch.
They also noticed the group of bandits in front of them.
“Back to work, boys. Show ‘em what we’re made of.”
The little boy was terrified. Said terror was enough fuel to keep him running for his life. He ran and ran, behind districts and between alleys, hiding from the enemy when he needed to.
“Mom, where are you?”
They got separated when the bakery blew up. There was panic everywhere, even more so when the bad people arrived. He doesn’t know why, or how – all that matters to him now is to get help, and fast.
Or he would be, if he wasn’t busy bumping into people.
“OW!”
“My apologies. Let me help you up.”
The child can only stare upwards in fear, then in awe.
The flickering specter stared back.
“Well? Is this how you greet your father?”
The boy held his gaze for a few more seconds. And then, he gave the figure’s leg a tight hug.
“Heh, I miss you too, kid. Now, run along – your mother’s at the temple, just a few blocks behind me.”
At this, the boy ran again. He found help.
As dusk fell, a brigand ran for his life. He ran and ran while the city around him burned. At the edge of his vision, he can see the city’s people standing up and fight. In the distance, he can hear cries of anger and vengeance as his allies were slowly but surely pushed out of the city walls. Some didn’t even make it before the angry mob got them.
But none of that now. First, he needs to hide, and quick, before those things get him too.
Soon enough, the sounds of screaming faded in the distance, reduced to a muted droning in the back of his mind. Good enough for now. Maybe he could actually rest.
Panting, he took stock of his surroundings. Then again, stopping by an alley filled with his fellow bandits’ corpses was not such a good idea. Not that he had a choice, however – any place to hide was good as any, as long as he can rest for a bit before regrouping with the other parties near the hole in the Trade District. First, get his bearings, then try to avoid any attention – easier said than done, but he’ll have to work with that for now.
Or at least he would have, except the air around him suddenly grew colder.
“Going somewhere?”
Oh no.
Behind him, he heard a loud *snap* before a sharp thud. With growing trepidation, he slowly turned around.
There it stood, flickering in the pale light. It stood tall and proud, ectoplasmic flesh taut against a skeletal frame of what was once a living man’s. A dim light came from the bowels of where its eyes would have been, staring deep into the brigand’s own. In its hand was the head of one of his comrades – blank eyes wide yet unseeing, face contorted into a scream that no one can hear.
At its feet were what remained of the poor man.
Rooted in fear, the bandit can do nothing as the undead being slowly stalked towards him.
“I guess not.”
The revenant stood atop what was left of the city’s gates, watching the backs of the retreating figures. At his side stood others like him – remnants of times gone by, old soldiers who never got the hang of moving on.
His brethren’s work isn’t done yet, he figured. It wouldn’t be, at least until their beloved city is truly, finally safe. But for now, they still have a job to do.
Their home will be beset by danger of all sorts – from mortal men to otherworldly demons to the rage of spiteful gods.
That’s for the future. For now, it is time for them to go back to rest.
It doesn’t matter, he decided, crumbling in the wind. No matter what happens, we’ll be back. Not until the Father calls us home, we’ll be back.
As far as purposes go, this doesn’t seem so bad.
Literary: Back to Work
I. Sacrifice
Gathered friends, we are here today to commemorate the lives of those who have fallen before us; soldiers, warriors, countrymen – family.
In life, they have served us endlessly, fighting for our country, our homes, and our people. They have fought with all of their might, with all of their courage, so that we, the defenseless many, need not do so. In the end, they gave up their own lives, ensuring that our fellow countrymen keep theirs.
In death, may they watch over and guide us, as fellow servants of the Maker of All. May their deeds be remembered, so that they may live in history as the greatest heroes our people had. When the end times come, may they have the peace that they deserve, bought with hardship and tribulation, as their just reward.
The house of the dead shall welcome them – their stories shall be told.
II. Honor
The brigands were known throughout the land. They were feared for their ruthless attacks – pillaging and burning, relying on their near legion-like numbers. When they set their sights on any settlement – whether it is a town, a hamlet, or a city – none of it shall remain standing. Neither the strength of its walls nor the courage of its people shall stop them from burning to ashes.
They leave only a handful of survivors, left alive to spread the word – to share their stories and tell tales of madmen and sadists, torturers and executioners, petty thieves and thugs, garnering themselves a reputation that in itself strikes fear and worry in the many hearts of civilization.
Fear did half of their work. The rest were easy pickings.
The smell of ashes and brimstone tickle the farmhand’s nose. He looks up, wondering if this means Ol’ Jerry is finally back from the fisheries down south – the guy looks like a chimney whenever he smokes. A pillar of smoke stands proud over the horizon, looking like a quill plume writing out ashy stories in the dirt. Far in front of it – just about near the fence, he realizes – runs a small, ragged figure, carrying what appears to be a torch as if its life depended on it.
Hold on, what?
He can only watch as the figure clambered over the fence, and continued to sprint forward, right before he heard it scream:
“They’re coming! They’re co . . . ming . . .” With these words, the figure collapses, and the farmhand rushes forwards, in the hopes of helping him up. Instead, as he grew nearer, he notices that the figure wasn’t some other thing carrying a torch.
It was a man, set on fire and forced to run. He looks up again, watching the pillar of smoke. It seems to be awfully closer now.
III. Duty
The mausoleum was the house of the dead.
Everyone who died would sooner or later have their bodies end up here – merchants, craftsmen, peasants, nobles, soldiers. It doesn’t matter who or what you were in life – Death welcomes all in his humble abode. But sometimes, there are things that even Death cannot hold back.
Inside, something woke up. More accurately, some things.
In front of the mausoleum, a small group of civilians were rounded up by the brigands. Around them, more and more were either being brought forth, or being beaten to death. Some begged for mercy, tearfully proclaiming that they have done nothing wrong. Some tried to fight back, only to be held down and slowly, painfully tortured until their consciousness left them. The rest were silent, with their eyes looking so empty as they gazed into nothingness, left shocked and in despair.
In the distance, the city burned, while the barbarians celebrated, gloating about another easy raid going down in history, and doing even more unspeakable acts to the cowed survivors.
For a while, this particular group was fine with mere gloating.
“What d’ye think, lads? Do we need more slaves for ourselves? Should we sell ‘em off? Do we offer ‘em as tribute to the boss?”
“What about feeding ‘em to the dogs? I’ve heard they’ve been getting hungrier and hungrier lately –“
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The sounds of pounding came from behind the mausoleum doors.
“ . . . what was that?” asked one of the invaders.
“Prob’ly a trick,” replied another, right before the stone portal collapsed.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The ancient doors flew forward, shattering as they fell, fragmenting into dust, blinding the nearby brigands. As they scrambled about with their lack of vision, figures strode forward from behind the shattered doorway.
They were skeletal, almost desiccated corpses, bits and pieces of rotten flesh hanging from their frames as the ancient burial armor they were entombed with gave a dull shine in the sunlight. Spectral flesh flickered in and out of the daylight, showing to the world what these corpses once looked like, and how time has slowly been unkind to them.
They took notice of the brigands mucking around their home. They noticed how the people are screaming as they were chased and cut down for sport. They noticed how their precious city – everything they lived and died for – was put to the torch.
They also noticed the group of bandits in front of them.
“Back to work, boys. Show ‘em what we’re made of.”
The little boy was terrified. Said terror was enough fuel to keep him running for his life. He ran and ran, behind districts and between alleys, hiding from the enemy when he needed to.
“Mom, where are you?”
They got separated when the bakery blew up. There was panic everywhere, even more so when the bad people arrived. He doesn’t know why, or how – all that matters to him now is to get help, and fast.
Or he would be, if he wasn’t busy bumping into people.
“OW!”
“My apologies. Let me help you up.”
The child can only stare upwards in fear, then in awe.
The flickering specter stared back.
“Well? Is this how you greet your father?”
The boy held his gaze for a few more seconds. And then, he gave the figure’s leg a tight hug.
“Heh, I miss you too, kid. Now, run along – your mother’s at the temple, just a few blocks behind me.”
At this, the boy ran again. He found help.
As dusk fell, a brigand ran for his life. He ran and ran while the city around him burned. At the edge of his vision, he can see the city’s people standing up and fight. In the distance, he can hear cries of anger and vengeance as his allies were slowly but surely pushed out of the city walls. Some didn’t even make it before the angry mob got them.
But none of that now. First, he needs to hide, and quick, before those things get him too.
Soon enough, the sounds of screaming faded in the distance, reduced to a muted droning in the back of his mind. Good enough for now. Maybe he could actually rest.
Panting, he took stock of his surroundings. Then again, stopping by an alley filled with his fellow bandits’ corpses was not such a good idea. Not that he had a choice, however – any place to hide was good as any, as long as he can rest for a bit before regrouping with the other parties near the hole in the Trade District. First, get his bearings, then try to avoid any attention – easier said than done, but he’ll have to work with that for now.
Or at least he would have, except the air around him suddenly grew colder.
“Going somewhere?”
Oh no.
Behind him, he heard a loud *snap* before a sharp thud. With growing trepidation, he slowly turned around.
There it stood, flickering in the pale light. It stood tall and proud, ectoplasmic flesh taut against a skeletal frame of what was once a living man’s. A dim light came from the bowels of where its eyes would have been, staring deep into the brigand’s own. In its hand was the head of one of his comrades – blank eyes wide yet unseeing, face contorted into a scream that no one can hear.
At its feet were what remained of the poor man.
Rooted in fear, the bandit can do nothing as the undead being slowly stalked towards him.
“I guess not.”
The revenant stood atop what was left of the city’s gates, watching the backs of the retreating figures. At his side stood others like him – remnants of times gone by, old soldiers who never got the hang of moving on.
His brethren’s work isn’t done yet, he figured. It wouldn’t be, at least until their beloved city is truly, finally safe. But for now, they still have a job to do.
Their home will be beset by danger of all sorts – from mortal men to otherworldly demons to the rage of spiteful gods.
That’s for the future. For now, it is time for them to go back to rest.
It doesn’t matter, he decided, crumbling in the wind. No matter what happens, we’ll be back. Not until the Father calls us home, we’ll be back.
As far as purposes go, this doesn’t seem so bad.
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