Zerrion - A Troubled Past, An Uncertain Future
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_The air is filled with the stench of death. Through the mist in the vale, banners of gold and green can be seen limp, burnt and ragged. Bodies of men lie scattered all over the ground, battered and mutilated with frozen faces contorted in agony. Black feathered arrows litter the area. The scene is still, quiet but for the occasional painful groan, as someones' life-blood seeps out onto the blackened, scorched earth. Crows start to land, and begin to pick at the corpses, squawking in delight. Only to take to the air in a flurry of feathers as a loud cheer can be heard from the surrounding woods….
"VICTORY! The field is ours! Death to those who oppose Al-Drak! Hurrah fer the flames of The Bone Sorcerer! To the spoils lads!"
A band of maybe two dozen men emerge from the trees, most carrying longbows, some clutching blood stained weapons, all wearing well-worn black and purple armour. A pair of glowing red eyes amongst the shadows of the trees, watches them leave.
The uniformed men search the bodies of the fallen, finishing off those who still draw breath with a dagger across the throat. The occasional yelp of delight can be heard as one of the men holds aloft a prize or a trinket.
The mist and smoke swirls as the men move about, and begins to disperse. One figure stands out amongst the crawling scavengers. Tattoed from head to foot. Silent. Standing. Staring. Staring down at the face of a dead boy_.
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_Each scream from the woman tore into his soul.
And the men laughed.
Each scream ripped open another part of his armour plated heart.
As the men leered.
Each scream made him step back towards the door in increasing horror at the scene he witnessed.
As the men cheered.
Her final blood curdling cry, he never heard. Too much had he seen, too much pain, too much death, too many atrocities.
All the injustice he had suffered as a youth were no longer in his thoughts. He had been wrong. There must be a better way.
He ran for the hills, tears streaking down his face, hands shaking, knowing he would be followed. He would need help, and he vowed to find it._
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The rumours abound,
The archer does seek,
But none can be found,
The outcome looks bleak;Only whispers he hears,
He is sleepless at night,
A knife in the back he fears,
But he knows he is right;It is only a matter of time,
The marksman knows this,
They will commit the crime,
Their daggers won't miss;Foul deeds will always find you,
Sin breeds sin and sticks like glue.
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_Guard duty. Most of the men hated it, finding it dull and monotonous. Zerrion however did not mind. It meant he got time to think, and time to smoke. Sat on the rickety old stool he leant back against the cold stone wall, legs crossed, drawing deeply from his pipe. The small, dimly lit room had little to look at. Only a small barred window to look out of, but it being late, it was too dark to see. Even in daylight, the view from the tower was bleak. Not much to entertain really, but the pay was good. Zerrion frowned. He wasn't sure about this new employer. The other men in Blood Company were dismissive of his concerns over the Sorcerer's sanity. The gruff old captain "Cutter" McGuire kept saying "Who cares eh lads? A creepy loon he may be, but he is a RICH creepy loon!".
His thoughts were disturbed, abruptly… A blast of hot air blew open the massive stone door that he was guarding. A stench of rotten eggs overwhelmed him, and a black smoke billowed forth from the casting room. A terrifying scream erupted from within, a shriek that sent shivers down his spine.
Clutching his sword he jumped inside, thinking he had failed in his duty, the Sorcerer is under attack! Coughing he plunged into the room, not noticing that the thick black smoke rolled out along the ground, refusing to rise as it should...
He stopped in his tracks. There in front of him, was Al-Drak, his black robes billowing about him, torn and ragged. But it was not the Bone Sorcerer that stopped him, it was the ghostly figure of a man, it's face twisted in a snarl, it's eye's glowing bright red, and staring straight at him. Fear gripped his heart, but he could not move, he could not run. The talons of terror clutched at him.
Al-Drak turned slowly, pleased with his new servant, but his pleasure quickly turned to fury as he saw Zerrion standing there, sword in hand, eyes wide.
"What are ye doing here! GET OUT! I told ye NOT to enter!"
With a flick of his wrist Al-Drak sends Zerrion flying backwards out of the room, tossed aside by a magical force like a rag doll.
The door slams shut.
His head feels wet.
The world goes black._
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A pair of intense red eyes stare at him, unblinking and with an unnatural force behind them. It is all he can see. There is no escape. They know where he is. Dark words are murmoured, words that hurt his ears, but he cannot move, cannot raise his arms to cover his ears. Fear courses through his veins, and he cries out in terror…
Sweat drips off his face, he wakes with a start, disturbing the other Gali in the sleeping hut with a ragged scream.
He grabs his sword and rushes out into the night shaking and muttering to himself. "Just a dream, it was just a dream, they are the other side o' the damn world, could nay 'ave followed me all this way. Why would they bother? Just a dream."
He calms down after a walk in the cool night air and returns to the hut and his bedroll, laughing with the other Gali about being scared of nightmares.
He would have convinced himself too, until the words....
"Zerrion, your ears, they're bleeding!"
