The Wretched, Chapter 1- A Dream of Loss

  • The Blight: the greatest threat we have ever faced. We do not know what caused it, we do not know why it is here, we only know to run. Tamriel might fall to his knees and bellow in pain as this disease cuts our throat, or he might flee, and live. He might slit his fellow man's throat, to steal his hunk of bread. He might burn down a village, to make sure the disease does not spread. He might even, butcher a crew of men for their armour. But he will survive, and the righteous man shall have his throat slit, or his face darkened by the Blight. In this time, they're are no such things as honour and courage. There's only the will to live- The Wolf

    The sorrowing sun set wearily on a tired  boy on the gentle riverside. His feet dipped in the shallow water and his dirty, brown hair hung limp from his head as he silently wondered. Such a young Colovian should not have to think about such things, for his mind was on the plague he could not understand, the fearsome force that made his parent’s usually cheerful faces pale with worry. Even his stern, loving father could be shocked into silence at the horrifying tales of the Blight that were almost a daily occurrence. Yet the boy with the liquid green eyes could not understand why this was such a tiresome worry, and had left his fretful family to their panicking as he slipped away into the woods.

    Clumps of dirt flowed by his feet as he drank in the sickly sunset above his family’s small cattle farm, barely providing for them but a place his family had held with pride for generations. A Hositely would never give up, his father had told him many times, and yet the tough Hositelys seemed on the brink of despair. His scruffy head slowly dipped backwards, as he fell into a deep sea that swallowed him up and he entered a dream he could not understand.

    He was alone. Alone in a once great, once mighty city that’s bustle had been stolen. Punched from it by an unseen hand. All life had its strings cut, like a mere puppet who disappointed the puppet master.  Market stalls were rotting and dusty and empty of their usual jolly merchants. Great houses were devoid of life and their doors were rusted shut. The gnarled trees in the centre of the square were a dying, sickly colour and the well a putrid green. Grubby beggars gasped, hoarse and speechless, as quiet as their black faced partners. Pigs roamed the streets, nosing then crunching down on garbage. A grim omen of how far this town had sank was a hunched over figure, dragging a cart. Then Vaermina dipped her dilapidated hands into the dream and stirred up a scene that would never leave him, but not before the figure’s cry was heard.

    “Bring out your Dead!”

    The laughing winds churned around him flinging him to a far island. Thousands of emotionless voices chanted in a strange, guttural language that chilled him to the very bone. He could see all around him, strange worm-like creatures that cast swirling spell after swirling spell into a gargantuan altar. The altar began to glow with a nauseating green glow that washed over the ball, filling his head with drowsiness and dullness. A voice, full of guile and trickery, chilled the air, and it spoke of disease and suffering to be brought upon enemies in return for the offerings. The boy was shocked as he caught sight of the broken bodies of the slug toads at the bottom of the cliff, each one of them clearly an unwilling sacrifice. A great being, hidden by shadow, teleported to the monstrous altar. He turned to the boy slowly and then the boy caught a glimpse of an untended fireplace engulf a house in fire in the heartless beast’s eyes.

    He woke up to the panicking sight of smoke coming from a ramshackle house, covered in a coat of fire. His eyes widened and he desperately rushed towards the home he had loved for so long, his mind echoing a single plea. He tripped over tree branches and was entangled in thorns. He fell into potholes and ran into trunks. His insides tightened as he saw the lifeless corpses of his father’s cherished cattle, he let loose a tear at the sight of poor Katrass. He rushed towards the door and saw the limp bodies of his parents outside the house, with glassy eyes and blubbery face. With black faces screwed up in pain, he knew his loved parents were gone. Calvius, his silent brother, toddled towards him, tears streaming down his face. Calvius was all that was left, he felt an angony tearing him up from the inside, but he opened his arms to his only family and then felt his hand glow with a golden spell.

    Sunrise brought a convoy of horsemen, circling the ruins of a house that had been tarnished by the Blight. “Lohrkan take those merciless dark elves!” cried a seething Nord, a bear of a man who had laid the blame of the Blight of Tamriel squarely on the hated ‘Grey Skins’, like many of the Nordic population. Their solution was mass murder, and Dunmer were now a rare sight on the streets of Cyrodil and Skyrim. Of course, the fact that the Dunmer wouldn’t create a disease that killed them by the thousands had occurred to everyone except the most mule headed, who saw a chance to get back at their ancient adversaries. The leader of the convoy, a capable Colvian named Calcitus, suddenly turned in his saddle, “No more of your moaning Arolf! Stay quiet, or I’ll leave you for the Wretches. They’ll enjoy capturing one of their greatest enemies, but I can surely say you won’t!” Unsurprisingly, Arolf’s face became a pale shade of white and he did not make a whisper of sound. The Wretches were crews of marauding bandits, desperate for resources and willing to burn, butcher and pillage to receive them. The current state of the army, Colovia even, was dreadful and the Wretches were a force to be reckoned with in this half dead continent.  This small part of Colovia was not ravaged by the greedy Wretches, and they would surely be arriving soon to take their share of the fortune even if they had to wrench it from the cold, dead hands of their previous owners. They would such dry this land, then move on to the next, unfortunate dwelling.

     To Calcitus’ surprise, he saw a small boy and his brother kneeling by a limp body, desperately casting heal other. Calcitus’ heart was torn and the sight, and a tear dropped from his eye, a first for the tough as leather commander. His mind feled back to a terrible scene, where he took the place of the boy.His parents, falling backwards, as a dirty Wretch slit their throats. He would always remember the killer's face and the pain of losing his family in two swipes of a sword. He readied his mount to ride over, then felt an invisible chain holding him back. “Almost definitely infected.” Said one of his troops, morosely looking at the crying orphans. She looked at him and shook her head, feeling exactly how he did. “Already dead, they don’t stand a chance.”

    The convoy was tuck to the spot for a second, then turned to ride back to the camp, each one of them shocked to silence. The Wretches eyed the soldiers and their fine armour from over the hill. The Wolf silently signaled his troops, attack from all sides. A column of Wretches streamed from the side of the road, then surrounded the meager force, chopping, killing and maiming. The soldiers quickly fell into a circle, and the battle suddenly slowed, the Wretches not so eager to fight this experienced foe. But as an arrow pierced a fearsome troops armor, and plunged into his chest, the bandits surged forward once again. Arolf looked as his companions and shook his head, and broke the circle. His eyes glinted in the sunlight and his charge took many of the desperate pillagers. He stopped thinking, and the Wolf ground his teeth in irritation as the man cut down his droops with the strength of a mother bear. The Wolf sprung, his blade slitting the courageous Nord's legs. The Nord stumbled and the Wretches leaped at the  warrior, swarming him under.  Encouraged, a spear of warriors broke the circle and poured in, slaughtering the soldiers from behind. Calcitus turned,his eyes full of recognition and boiling rage, and The Wolf smiled as he advanced, swinging a lethal sword. Calcitus never returned to his precious camp.

Comments

4 Comments
  • Tenebrous
    Tenebrous   ·  June 7, 2016
    Nice! I like it, and as Sotek said, I can't wait for part two. I did notice a single typo (The sorrowing sun set wearily on a 'tried' boy on the gentle riverside. Probably should be 'tired'), but apart from that it was very well-written, IMO. All I can sa...  more
  • Sotek
    Sotek   ·  June 5, 2016
    You doen a nice job with this Lurbuk.

    Looking forwards to the second part.
  • Malign
    Malign   ·  June 5, 2016
    The image at the top is not owned by me

  • Malign
    Malign   ·  June 5, 2016
    Credit to Lissette for helping me in the workshop