Post by Merik Derath on Jul 14, 2012 13:45:23 GMT -5
Senseless. It was all senseless...for no purpose other than prideful retaliation.
This place's only crime had been the failure of one resident's child. They did not expect us--how could they have? There were no defenses, save for one watchman.
The poisoned dart to his neck made short work of him. After this, the men under my command moved like wraiths into the village, through windows and foolishly unlocked doors. Absolute silence prevailed while absolute slaughter was committed, sons of The Four murdering their own kind.
And for what?
For the favor of a madman. We were not enlightened men of the cloth. We feared death. We did not crave the company of The Four, and were not hasty to join our ancestors.
So we butchered our own kind, to preserve our own miserable lives...to avoid the bite of cold steel in our necks.
It seemed but the blink of an eye, and my men hovered around me, their uniforms and weapons bloodied, their murderous lust sated. I marveled and trembled for a moment at how much their eyes resembled an ouzza's.
Devoid of emotion, I nodded to the group, as we moved away from the town. Soon, it would become an ouzza feeding ground...their demented senses able to detect the places where men and women had died poor deaths...their own sick lust having long since moved beyond blood, to the very life-energies of their prey. It seemed tormented souls of murdered innocents were as a delicacy to them.
None of these people would know the sensation of being seated at the Feet of The Goddesses. This villages' experiences, their knowledge, would be lost forever...diminishing the whole of humanity for its absence.
It was in this moment of sudden revelation that I first remember feeling...a warmth within me. It was small, centered on my xiphoid process, and radiating outward.
I suddenly felt as though my body were no longer mine to control. I was aware of my hands locking around the hilts of my small, curved slasher-blades; aware of my muscles tensing, spinning on the ball of my foot; aware of my quick movements...of my slashers meeting the throats of the seven men with me in rapid succession; aware of their bodies hitting the ground around me, and the moisture at my feet, the dirt turning to a vile mud from their blood.
There was no surprise nor anxiety in me after the task was completed. I simply dropped the weapons at my feet, and found myself moving towards the village, shucking my mask as I went. As I came into the village, I saw the figure of a woman in white collapsed in the center of the main cobblestone pathway. She was alive--her sobs sounded like a groth's roar in the deathly silence of the place.
I walked to her, unguarded and unprotected, forgetting my training, my footfalls loud on the walkway.
Her head jerked up, eyes full of tears as she saw me approach. When she did not recognize me, I saw her rise, her nightdress flapping in the wind as she charged at me.
I did not notice the dagger in her hand until it was buried at the core of the warm sensation, sliding easily up into my heart as a result of her unpracticed jab and smaller height, the blade leaning right. She was sobbing violently, tears soaking her cheeks, her teeth grinding against one another, every muscle in her body tensed as she held the blade there as if to push it entirely through me, ignoring my blood running onto her hands as she twisted.
I felt no pain. I stood there as she released the dagger, falling backwards. My hands went to the dagger, holding it in as I fell.
A supplication for my sins.
This place's only crime had been the failure of one resident's child. They did not expect us--how could they have? There were no defenses, save for one watchman.
The poisoned dart to his neck made short work of him. After this, the men under my command moved like wraiths into the village, through windows and foolishly unlocked doors. Absolute silence prevailed while absolute slaughter was committed, sons of The Four murdering their own kind.
And for what?
For the favor of a madman. We were not enlightened men of the cloth. We feared death. We did not crave the company of The Four, and were not hasty to join our ancestors.
So we butchered our own kind, to preserve our own miserable lives...to avoid the bite of cold steel in our necks.
It seemed but the blink of an eye, and my men hovered around me, their uniforms and weapons bloodied, their murderous lust sated. I marveled and trembled for a moment at how much their eyes resembled an ouzza's.
Devoid of emotion, I nodded to the group, as we moved away from the town. Soon, it would become an ouzza feeding ground...their demented senses able to detect the places where men and women had died poor deaths...their own sick lust having long since moved beyond blood, to the very life-energies of their prey. It seemed tormented souls of murdered innocents were as a delicacy to them.
None of these people would know the sensation of being seated at the Feet of The Goddesses. This villages' experiences, their knowledge, would be lost forever...diminishing the whole of humanity for its absence.
It was in this moment of sudden revelation that I first remember feeling...a warmth within me. It was small, centered on my xiphoid process, and radiating outward.
I suddenly felt as though my body were no longer mine to control. I was aware of my hands locking around the hilts of my small, curved slasher-blades; aware of my muscles tensing, spinning on the ball of my foot; aware of my quick movements...of my slashers meeting the throats of the seven men with me in rapid succession; aware of their bodies hitting the ground around me, and the moisture at my feet, the dirt turning to a vile mud from their blood.
There was no surprise nor anxiety in me after the task was completed. I simply dropped the weapons at my feet, and found myself moving towards the village, shucking my mask as I went. As I came into the village, I saw the figure of a woman in white collapsed in the center of the main cobblestone pathway. She was alive--her sobs sounded like a groth's roar in the deathly silence of the place.
I walked to her, unguarded and unprotected, forgetting my training, my footfalls loud on the walkway.
Her head jerked up, eyes full of tears as she saw me approach. When she did not recognize me, I saw her rise, her nightdress flapping in the wind as she charged at me.
I did not notice the dagger in her hand until it was buried at the core of the warm sensation, sliding easily up into my heart as a result of her unpracticed jab and smaller height, the blade leaning right. She was sobbing violently, tears soaking her cheeks, her teeth grinding against one another, every muscle in her body tensed as she held the blade there as if to push it entirely through me, ignoring my blood running onto her hands as she twisted.
I felt no pain. I stood there as she released the dagger, falling backwards. My hands went to the dagger, holding it in as I fell.
A supplication for my sins.