Hey reader. Just sharing an entrance post I made recently for another writing group fresh off some writer's block that felt good and I wanted to also save it here.
The forlorn scratching of wind over wind-swept stone dominated the soundscape as a gust momentarily overpowered the sounds of crackling flames. It settled back down almost immediately, and the charring journey of lignin to ashes being undergone by the anemic kindling in the sad and oversized—by several orders of magnitude—fire pit resumed its place in the auditory spotlight.
There was nary any illumination to see by, except the light of the fire itself as it cast two grotesque shadows upon the slightly brighter gray circle it illuminated out of the gloomy darkness. It was exactly noon. A bright and cheery sun shone upon the peak of the skies, framing a forget-me-not aquamarine sky that went unseen.
It wasn’t that the last two aware beings in the entire world lacked the sense of poetry to appreciate the wondrous midsummer skies. Indeed, one of them would have taken great pride in pointing out the gorgeous summer skies they performed their last labors together under. It would be a brutally stark cruel irony with which to lash out with.
This figure was a callous, inhuman monster who would only do so to torment his captor as the clock finally wound out on them both. The other was also an inhuman monster, but while this one would be more likely to curse you out and lambast you for the crime of existing in his personal space, at least he would do so whilst ensuring a safe magical evacuation out of your village square where you stood gawking like a newly minted squire.
In fact, he’d done just that some twenty years prior, when fate was sealed on this world. Neither could see the glorious skies under the perpetual cloud of ash which choked the life out of everything. He’d saved the day, but forgot to secure his ride beforehand. The cloud of ash didn’t just choke out the starlight but also the magic out of the world. In here, they were one and the same.
The two shadows flickered on in silence. One dwarfed the other handily; it wasn’t hard for a seven foot tall man to out-height a legless and armless torso. More macabre than the missing limbs was the smile plastered on the creature’s face, however.
“Remind me again,” the mutilated vampire lord started suddenly with a hint of toxic mirth under his slightly tired—in his opinion anyways, his companion thought it plenty overworked—undead voice, as if he’d been forced to run a marathon it would need to actually breathe for. “What exactly was your exit strategy?”
“Shut the fuck up,” growled the larger of the shadows.
“I mean, I did the whole monologue thing. I told you magic would stop working…”
“Shut the—”
“So there you were. Hero of the day, portal closing. And you just stood and watched it close.”
“I wasn’t going to let you take any cheap parting shots on the villagers,” replied the gruff man. His tone was tight, and his voice angry. This had nothing at all to do with his current mood, it simply was his disposition. No, a person well versed in Baron Guiscard’s moods could easily discern the sheepishness behind the angry exclamation.
He had thought the bloodsucker was bluffing, given that legendary magic was supposed to resist legendary magic. Well, Baron wasn’t wrong, he just didn’t consider his teacher’s words in full. He was better at lopping heads off with his fancy sword than using its amazing abilities in more abstract ways. His sword was fine, but the fabric it could affect was fucked.
“Then you just…” the undead creature stopped suddenly. A third sound rose in the air; the croaking sound of a cruel laughter being forced through a corpse’s parched throat. “Just stood there waving your sword like your dick was stuck in your hand…”
“Shut the fuck up,” Baron Guiscard muttered without much malice in return. Afterall, he’d ‘won’. No need to rub it in, he felt. He really hoped he’d die soon.
He didn’t. He eventually got up, gathered more of the dying kindling and fed the fire before taking a piss. Cruel that; no one told him his body would grow to be so good at hoarding water he’d still need to go through that motion despite increasingly—extremely so, even with the Baron’s own warped version of undead physiology—rarer feedings.
There was only one food source left in this word for the grizzled Krsnik after-all. But today was the day and they both knew it. Ragenard’s body might still retain its height, but the man’s erstwhile musculature was a grotesque joke by this advanced point.
“And then you started cursing—” a peal of laughter rang out as the vampire’s diatribe was interrupted by its own twisted mirth.
“Shut the—” hunger forced Baron’s hand.
The forlorn wind and the crackling of flames gave way to a new set of sounds. The vampire lord didn’t waste time begging for mercy; the creature recognized the irony of its position as the vampire hunter’s jaws severed his last and greatest joke from its immortal coil.
It gave Baron another five years. They were quiet, but quite sane. He’d gone longer alone, and also thinking he was going to die the whole time to boot. He thought to reflect one last time upon his long centuries and the score of worlds his…deerskin boots.
Baron Guiscard jumped out of his reverie in a preternatural burst of speed, tapping into the last of his reserves. Something was changing. He hadn’t noted when the last time his sense of smell had a contrast and thus could actually function. He didn’t pause to wonder why he could suddenly smell brine amidst decay and petrichor all of a sudden. He didn’t stop to ponder why his keen sense of hearing could suddenly hear waves.
He didn’t question the appearance of the mist as it overpowered the ash clouds, despite the stark difference in their color and richness in texture. Ragenard ‘Baron’ Guiscard was absolutely no stranger to eldritch, overbearing entities suddenly making their presence known.
Certainly, he might have become quite the fuck freaked out had he cast his preternaturally blessed amber…globes skyward and beheld the impossibility of the concept of hands reaching down upon the world though. The one in his neck of the woods tended to be less...hands on.
No, Baron instead was wholly focused on the fact that he could sense Fragarach again. As the ground around him started to disappear over gently overlapping waves, the surly—softie—hunter of evil…
That was Marissa’s voice.
Baron’s concentration slipped, and he slashed his way out of a dying world—rudely ignoring what would have likely been a far gentler landing—in too much of a hurry. His last vision as his sword fell somewhere between the gap in nothingspace was of a rapidly approaching snowbank.
A snowbank that was beneath him. The scent of blood and grave wax permeated the air in the unmistakable aroma of numerous bloodsuckers nearby. He was so so hungry. Instinct took over, but his wings wouldn’t work. He crashed into the snowbank in an angrily snarling ball of wrong. The monster that was expected didn’t materialize, but nonetheless, a hunger for the blood of the bloodless came to the Isles.
The forlorn scratching of wind over wind-swept stone dominated the soundscape as a gust momentarily overpowered the sounds of crackling flames. It settled back down almost immediately, and the charring journey of lignin to ashes being undergone by the anemic kindling in the sad and oversized—by several orders of magnitude—fire pit resumed its place in the auditory spotlight.
There was nary any illumination to see by, except the light of the fire itself as it cast two grotesque shadows upon the slightly brighter gray circle it illuminated out of the gloomy darkness. It was exactly noon. A bright and cheery sun shone upon the peak of the skies, framing a forget-me-not aquamarine sky that went unseen.
It wasn’t that the last two aware beings in the entire world lacked the sense of poetry to appreciate the wondrous midsummer skies. Indeed, one of them would have taken great pride in pointing out the gorgeous summer skies they performed their last labors together under. It would be a brutally stark cruel irony with which to lash out with.
This figure was a callous, inhuman monster who would only do so to torment his captor as the clock finally wound out on them both. The other was also an inhuman monster, but while this one would be more likely to curse you out and lambast you for the crime of existing in his personal space, at least he would do so whilst ensuring a safe magical evacuation out of your village square where you stood gawking like a newly minted squire.
In fact, he’d done just that some twenty years prior, when fate was sealed on this world. Neither could see the glorious skies under the perpetual cloud of ash which choked the life out of everything. He’d saved the day, but forgot to secure his ride beforehand. The cloud of ash didn’t just choke out the starlight but also the magic out of the world. In here, they were one and the same.
The two shadows flickered on in silence. One dwarfed the other handily; it wasn’t hard for a seven foot tall man to out-height a legless and armless torso. More macabre than the missing limbs was the smile plastered on the creature’s face, however.
“Remind me again,” the mutilated vampire lord started suddenly with a hint of toxic mirth under his slightly tired—in his opinion anyways, his companion thought it plenty overworked—undead voice, as if he’d been forced to run a marathon it would need to actually breathe for. “What exactly was your exit strategy?”
“Shut the fuck up,” growled the larger of the shadows.
“I mean, I did the whole monologue thing. I told you magic would stop working…”
“Shut the—”
“So there you were. Hero of the day, portal closing. And you just stood and watched it close.”
“I wasn’t going to let you take any cheap parting shots on the villagers,” replied the gruff man. His tone was tight, and his voice angry. This had nothing at all to do with his current mood, it simply was his disposition. No, a person well versed in Baron Guiscard’s moods could easily discern the sheepishness behind the angry exclamation.
He had thought the bloodsucker was bluffing, given that legendary magic was supposed to resist legendary magic. Well, Baron wasn’t wrong, he just didn’t consider his teacher’s words in full. He was better at lopping heads off with his fancy sword than using its amazing abilities in more abstract ways. His sword was fine, but the fabric it could affect was fucked.
“Then you just…” the undead creature stopped suddenly. A third sound rose in the air; the croaking sound of a cruel laughter being forced through a corpse’s parched throat. “Just stood there waving your sword like your dick was stuck in your hand…”
“Shut the fuck up,” Baron Guiscard muttered without much malice in return. Afterall, he’d ‘won’. No need to rub it in, he felt. He really hoped he’d die soon.
He didn’t. He eventually got up, gathered more of the dying kindling and fed the fire before taking a piss. Cruel that; no one told him his body would grow to be so good at hoarding water he’d still need to go through that motion despite increasingly—extremely so, even with the Baron’s own warped version of undead physiology—rarer feedings.
There was only one food source left in this word for the grizzled Krsnik after-all. But today was the day and they both knew it. Ragenard’s body might still retain its height, but the man’s erstwhile musculature was a grotesque joke by this advanced point.
“And then you started cursing—” a peal of laughter rang out as the vampire’s diatribe was interrupted by its own twisted mirth.
“Shut the—” hunger forced Baron’s hand.
The forlorn wind and the crackling of flames gave way to a new set of sounds. The vampire lord didn’t waste time begging for mercy; the creature recognized the irony of its position as the vampire hunter’s jaws severed his last and greatest joke from its immortal coil.
It gave Baron another five years. They were quiet, but quite sane. He’d gone longer alone, and also thinking he was going to die the whole time to boot. He thought to reflect one last time upon his long centuries and the score of worlds his…deerskin boots.
Baron Guiscard jumped out of his reverie in a preternatural burst of speed, tapping into the last of his reserves. Something was changing. He hadn’t noted when the last time his sense of smell had a contrast and thus could actually function. He didn’t pause to wonder why he could suddenly smell brine amidst decay and petrichor all of a sudden. He didn’t stop to ponder why his keen sense of hearing could suddenly hear waves.
He didn’t question the appearance of the mist as it overpowered the ash clouds, despite the stark difference in their color and richness in texture. Ragenard ‘Baron’ Guiscard was absolutely no stranger to eldritch, overbearing entities suddenly making their presence known.
Certainly, he might have become quite the fuck freaked out had he cast his preternaturally blessed amber…globes skyward and beheld the impossibility of the concept of hands reaching down upon the world though. The one in his neck of the woods tended to be less...hands on.
No, Baron instead was wholly focused on the fact that he could sense Fragarach again. As the ground around him started to disappear over gently overlapping waves, the surly—softie—hunter of evil…
That was Marissa’s voice.
Baron’s concentration slipped, and he slashed his way out of a dying world—rudely ignoring what would have likely been a far gentler landing—in too much of a hurry. His last vision as his sword fell somewhere between the gap in nothingspace was of a rapidly approaching snowbank.
A snowbank that was beneath him. The scent of blood and grave wax permeated the air in the unmistakable aroma of numerous bloodsuckers nearby. He was so so hungry. Instinct took over, but his wings wouldn’t work. He crashed into the snowbank in an angrily snarling ball of wrong. The monster that was expected didn’t materialize, but nonetheless, a hunger for the blood of the bloodless came to the Isles.