Hollowed Forest
[Fantasy]
Tall, fit, dark haired and fair skinned was one way to describe the character of Garson Crowne of Tolk. Even at the age of forty-six he was physically capable of most tasks, yet still preferred to live simply. He lived now, in the village of Myyrth that was dug deep into the forest known as Isgrail. It was a simple village, populated by a tall, giant people with gray tinted skin and immense strength, but a deep-seated love of peace and all things that grow. Garson loved that about the giants and he shared their love of nature and life, and thus they had taken calling him “Tolkien” or “life-bringer”.
However, this morning, as the giant children woke up and began to plan their days; the man woke up and set off to packing. He strolled around his home that lay in the centre of the village. He looked around at the window pans, smiling, smelling the flowers and other plants that he had grown. He loved their beauty, their simplicity; he loved that they didn't have a care in the world besides surviving. He took a breath and then kneeled down, digging into a chest besides his rough looking bed. He pulled from it folded leather armor, scratches and scuffs on it as if it had seen many years of battle and war. He placed it on his bed, looking over it before pulling out a leather scabbard along with three tiny cloth pouches and a dagger. He placed all of these on the bed as well.
Standing now, he pulled from the chest leather paddings for his leg legs, and placed them on his well-fitting tan trousers. He pulled the leather armor over his loose white shirt, and strapped himself in after much effort. He put the dagger into a custom made scabbard built into the armor that lay on the lower left side of his torso, so that it was visible when looking at him from straight ahead. He tied the pouches to his right side, and taking the scabbard, unsheathed a sword that looked as if it had seen its share of combat. He smiled at it, looking at his distorted visage atop its metal blade. He sheathed it once more and securely fastened the scabbard to his left side.
After all was said and done, he smiled and looked at his reflection in a large mirror behind the main door of his house. 'Just like back in the day...' he smiled and muttered, modeling for himself in the mirror, rubbing his graying, stubbly beard. After a while of doing so he went back to the chest and pulled out a knapsack, throwing it on the bed. He walked towards the kitchen area, which was to the right of the house as opposed to the left where the bed was. Looking through the cupboards of his kitchen he found an assortment of tiny jars and pouches filled with dried out herbs and other such plants. He took them, stuffing them into the knapsack along with his blanket and pillow from atop his bed before tightening the thing so that nothing would fall out. He grabbed his light tan cloak and threw it on. He then proceeded to secure the knapsack onto his being, grabbed a long, oak staff that one would have presumed to be his walking stick, and set out into the world.
He smiled, and his giant neighbors waved, smiling at his approach as he walked northwards, towards the largest and oldest settlement of the giants. He took note of the fact that the giant village followed along a road that was long and shaped like a cross, with the newer, lesser giants at the bottom and the most important at the top. It was a curious thing to him and he always thought it over when he walked along the dirt road. He heard the giants talk and the children play, with the merry sound of “Hello Tolkien” filling the air and buzzing against his ear. He enjoyed being loved and he loved each and every giant back. Yet one he had more affection for than all the others combined. He was said to be the oldest and wisest of the giant people, having lived for nearly three hundred and forty five years according to some. It was said that Farin had in fact founded the village of Myyrth, but this was little more than myth as no one, not even Farin himself, could remember exactly.
But now as Garson walked up to Farins' house, the wrinkled, grayish giant wheezing and cackling with life and happiness. He rose from his wicker chair that sat on the porch of his house, and walked towards Garson. The human man was around six feet tall, yet the giant was around ten feet tall, wearing a brownish cloak and barefoot, shaking the earth as he walked. Garson was happy to see him as well, the giant picking him up with ease and hugging him tenderly. A look of happiness was on the giants face, yet still you could hear the sadness in his voice. “So my friend, you've decided, I take it?” He placed the man down, who dusted himself and looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Yes, I'm afraid I have Farin.”
“But why?” The giant said, with pleading eyes now. “Ah, don't answer that...It's no business of mine. But oh my friend I will miss you.” He smiled and nodded, then, as if he had been hit by a mental brick, he sprung up. “Ah, I have just the parting gift...you'll love it...Yarin! YARIN!” He bellowed like thunder and Garson had to cover his ears or risk going deaf. “Ah, sorry, but that damned nephew of mine is nowhere to be seen. Probably off fraternizing with the women again. He'll end up like his father, I tell you. He'll end up just like ol' Darin, and that is to say, dead.”
A giant that was short for his size, with a greenish tint to his skin and light blondish hair stumbled from around the left corner. This was Yarin, the son of Darin, who was the brother of Farin. He was most certainly a giant of ill-repute. “What?” The ghastly thing uttered to its respectable uncle “I was...handling a very pressing matter.”
Farin looked at the boy-giant, and snarled. “Nonsense” he began shoving the youth towards his uncles’ gigantic home “I will have none of your lies in front of Tolkien. Now go and find my friends parting gift.” He shoved him once more and the youth disappeared into the house, the sound of stomping and clattering echoing out. Farins eyes went wide, shaking his head and sighing. “That boy won't come to any good, I tell you. By the time you come back, I swear he'll be the death of me.”
“When I get back?” Garson put his hands up and stopped him. He certainly wasn't attempting to put his friend down, and Farin took no offense, and the two shared a silent stare before breaking down into a friendly chuckle, but still something in Garson told him he wasn't going to come back in a long, long time. “Hrmm, but nonetheless, what is this gift?”
Farin chuckled and smiled widely. “Its elfwood leaves...I found them, four of them! Just sitting there one day in the meadow. I collected them and thought you'd like them if you ever did decide to go off.” Garson was pleasantly surprised and smiled, even going into hug his comrade. Elfwood, specifically its leaves, was a flowering plant known for its immense medicinal properties. It was a rare plant and when made into a tea it was said to bring grown men to tears at its delicacy and elegant tasted. Yarin came out just then, holding a silk, grass-green pouch that must have only been the size of a pebble to them, yet perfect size to Garson. He threw it to Farin, who snarled at the youth, and then the giant leader kneeled down and gave it to Garson. “I have the utmost confidence that you will use it wisely.”
Garson took the pouch then stored it in his knapsack. He hugged Farin once more, embracing him tenderly and smiling wide. Garson returned it as best he could and once the two were disconnected, Garson backed away and bowed. “Thank you, Farin of Myyrth...By the time, I get back, I reckon you'll still be breathing and going strong. I wish you luck.”
“And I wish you the same, Garson of Tolk...hopefully you will come back.” Farin bowed as well, and with that, no more words needed to be said. Garson headed southwards and turned to his left, heading west and deeper into the forest. The giants waved him as he departed, the man waving back, saddened that he had to leave his friends, the beings that he had spent nearly twenty years with, living and learning amongst them. It was heartbreaking, but still the man managed to press on, going further and further into the lush, dark green forest before finally the entirety of the village was lost behind him and the dirt road was nothing more than thickets of the dried out and fallen leaves.
As he walked through the forest, and came to an oak. It was a white oak, the tallest and oldest tree in the forest, the giants thought. And indeed it stood tall above all the rest. He came up to it, looking over it, touching it gently, connecting with it and the forest before coming to a mark in the tree. It was a mark in the shape of a circle with a smaller circle in the centre. It was nearly twenty years ago, but still he remembered passing this tree as a youth in the pouring rain, marking the tree so as not to lose his way. He took a deep breath and took out the dagger, marking next to his previous symbol, leaving only a large, unassuming and rather crude T before continuing on his way.
He continued on this way, heading west, distorting his path only slightly north along with west. He felt the life in the forest, taking note of the tiny squirrels and other rodents as they scurried around the forest floor. He listened to the trees as they whistled and bellowed, speaking to each other, sharing the secrets that only immense time can create. It was like any other nature walk for him, and as he walked along, pushing things out of the way with his large oak staff, the doubt grew in his heart, for doubt always grows in the hearts of man. Hours had passed before he settled to stop, the sun going down, painting the sky carmine red, a beautiful sight to most, but an upsetting, disturbing one to Garson. He setup camp in a clearing, placing down his knapsack and taking out his pillow and blanket, setting on the forest floor, folding his clock next to his pillow. He made a fire just as quickly, staying silent all the while, ignoring the red sky as best as possible as the moon and stars slowly began to appear.
Yet as the fire flickered and he nibbled on the apple he had found only a few metres away, the doubt inside of him grew like a parasite. He nibbled and munched on the light green, slightly golden coloured fruit and stared into the fire. He saw a battlefield in that fire, a battlefield covered in arrows and swords, bodies and blood. He saw it and felt it; he felt the cold of lifelessness, the fear of war and the pain of seeing death so close. It stuck with him and the carmine field and sky disturbed him. The images of war were jolted from his mind’s eye only after the hissing of a snake caught his attention. He looked around and found the serpent, hesitating, wondering if he should kill it. He looked at it with a serious look, as if it was something more than a snake, as if it was all his guilt and sin rolled into one bronze coloured serpent. He looked at it evilly, and then took it in his hand and the thought of simply chucking it in the fire crossed his mind more than once, but something held him back. Something stopped him as he took the creature and placed it quite ways away.
“What am I to do?” He said it aloud, staring into the fire once more, uncertain. 'I'm wondering out into the wilderness for nothing...I'm leaving my home and my friends for...for a pipe dream. Why? Why am I doing this? What is there out in the world for me?' He thought to himself, chewing over it, thinking it over. He was uncertain, he was doubtful of his choice. He didn't even know where he was going and that certainly is never a good thing when adventuring. He shook away from the fire once the battle called to him once more. He rubbed his face and stubbly beard, resolving to lie down and sleep, to find his way tomorrow. He did just that, laying on his side and letting his dreams – the dreams of the battlefield, with its arrows and swords and carmine sky – overtake him. Yet he could not escape the guilt or the sin, even in that dream.
Across the fields of green forest and colourful flowers, in the city marooned city of Zzorn atop the hill, where the children play in the gutters, the women sell themselves for bread and the men toil endlessly in the factories, creating cheap, durable products for the few that can afford them. Zzorn is a bastion of industry and it’s drab, lifeless colour and dying population are most certainly a testament to this. Yet high above the rest, in a pristine brick palace, with artsy hedges and a marble fountain, with well to do looking lords and ladies walking about, lives a family of warriors, the Draegmons as they were called. They were a fierce clan of Nordic looking folk, with each man having fair hair and skin and piercing blue eyes. The women were all just right in size and their hair ranged from a dark crisp red colour to a near white blonde. A beautiful people, known for their abilities in war and politics, they were also a dying breed of man.
The current king, Daniel Draegmon the fourth, was a cynical, callous, strict yet wise man. He was not known for his love nor his kindness, but for the sting of his words and the steel of his blade. He was just as likely to order the execution of a murderer as he was to carry out the execution himself. War, battle, hardship, they had all made him strong and superior to most. Only a fool would deny that his character was a like a mountain compared to other, lesser men. Yet locked deep away in his chamber near the very top of the brick and marble palace, there was such a weaker man. He was Daniel Issac Draegmon the fifth, the first son of his father and his father’s third wife. He sat there in his study, his desk covered in scrolls and parchments and other such notes. He locked himself away in that world of his, that world of gears, cogs, steam and soot.
Unlike his father, Issac as he was usually called was not exactly a wise or cold man at heart. At heart he was an inventor, a thinker, an artisan. Yet fate had something different in mind. Through twenty or so years of strict training Issac was molded into the arrogant, cold, lesser man he was today. He did not feel for others or even his own people, yet he did not share the practicality or wisdom of his father. He was not an authoritative leader, as his father was. He did not punish for a just cause, or act on well-drawn out thoughts. He was impulsive. He acted harsh and monstrous because that is what he thought was right, that was how he was taught, that was his character due to circumstance and harsh, nearly spirit-crushing regimen instituted by his father and supported by his mother.
For now the young man found sanctuary in his notes, taking a break and tires of the day. Tomorrow he would train, and train, and train, and then go inside and be forced to study before writing and training and training and writing before given his free time once the sun had gone down. It had been exactly like this for years and he wondered when he would be let off the leash. ‘But of course that won’t happen…old bastard…’ He thought it to himself, gripping the pencil in his hand so tightly so as to crack it.
He took a deep breath, looked out at the night sky and snarled. He hated the night. Too unknown, too unaccounted for. Things happen at night, bad things, things you can’t stop. It was the Gods only real sort of protection against man, was what he always thought to himself. ‘But soon that will end’ he found himself thinking ‘very soon, in fact.’
He had little to know idea of what the current time was, and so he stood, yawning, stretching, moaning like a satisfied cat and looked at his bed. He plopped onto it, looking at the ceiling, frowning as a glint of light and rays caught his eye. Oh how he hated his machines now as they kept him up all night, keeping him away from the only love he was permitted to have: sleep.
The sun was slowly coming up, the sky being washed in a sea of colours and vectoring shapes. Warmth hit the cold, formerly dead rock and brought all its creatures back to life. The fire is dead and the birds are chirping now, their songs ringing in his ears, waking the man. He rises from his slumber slowly and shakes his head forcefully, trying to shake life back into his old, creaking bones. It takes a while, and he sits atop his blanket, smiling, half-forgetting the dreams and thoughts he had, the doubt. Once all is said and done he repacks his blanket and pillow into the knapsack, puts on his cloak and grabs his walking stick. Once the knapsack is secured onto him, he takes in a breath and heads off, ready to return to adventuring.
His mind is still getting into gear, some thoughts and memories coming back to him from the past night, but for now the doubt and guilt are gone, buried away. He spots an apple tree after a few moments of walking, leaping and taking one, the bones of his legs creaking a bit at the sudden pressure. He shakes the slight discomfort away and begins to walk. A road is nearby and he sees it, using his oak staff to move small bushes and other such things away, out of his path, and with the grace of a dancer he emerges from the forest and onto the dusty, dirt path that he had seen only once before in his youth. He took a breath and looked to the left, towards the cities, towards the machines, towards the people with no souls left and then he looked up, northwards, so to speak, towards wilderness, nature and according to the sign, a town called Oakshire. Now he had never been or heard of Oakshire, but he believed that a place – at least, with a name like that – must’ve been some form of good compared to the city-states of the machines and industry, a region he hated more than most. As he often said “a man loses his soul when he stops to connect with his roots.” And even as they may be the ramblings of an aging man, at least they were partially true…to Garson, at least.
So, he set off on that dusty road, heading north, heading to Oakshire, a town he had never seen or heard of and could very well be a bandit trap. But of course, as optimistic as ever, he set off with a smile on his face, a bite of his apple and a tune, a soft, upbeat, adventure tune that he whistled after every few bites of his apple. He reckoned it wouldn’t take long to get to Oakshire, especially considering it was only very early morning and it had only taken him thirty minutes at tops to get ready, read the sign and head off. The sky was slowly but surely taking on its usual light blue colour and the aging man closed his eyes every so often and took in a deep breath, connecting with the woods, letting the smell of nature linger around him.
As he walked, he kicked a rock, keeping his eye on it and letting it clatter against the road as he kicked it every time it was in distance. It reminded him of the giant children, of how he would take them into these forests as they grew and entertain them. He was a very good friend and he saw more than one of those children grow into fine adults. He wasn’t certain if they remembered him, but the very memory served to push him on, even as the doubt began to grow, subtly, slowly, like a fungus. And then a tune came to him, a lovely tune, a tune he had not heard since fighting in the wars, since moving the bodies of dead comrades and enemies. He blacked out as the beat engulfed his mind.
Arrows, bodies, broken spears and mangled swords; the battlefield had come to him. He stood there, like he had always done during the wars and battles. Not a look of fear, nor a look of panic. Not a look of remorse or even focus. It was a look of enjoyment, entertainment, excitement and twisted, sadistic lust for more pain. As he stood there he began to grin wide, the hue of the scene a bastardly red colour, the colour of blood, of anger. He could hear groaning around him, the faint sound of formerly living, breathing people, but when the bloodlust over took him he simply ignored it. He took a few steps forward, and looked around, waiting, eager for battle.
There was a hushed fry, a whisper, like the sound of weeping in the distance, muffled by fair. Garson’s expression changed now from one of excitement of battle to curiosity. A titanic, lumbering beast began to emerge from the distance, light grey in colour and slow, dragging its weight along the ground. It was the size of nearly two or three giants, to Garson and he was awe struck, the beast throwing him out of his bloodlust that threatened to boil up at the sight of an enemy, finally. Behind the titanic beast were large ropes chained around the neck of the beast. They put quite the strain on him, and made the animal complacent and sluggish. On its face it had three horns popping out of its forehead, the first two large, one of them light, nearly translucent, so that a lesser man would be in denial to its existence. The second was also nearly invisible, yet a black tendril wrapped around it. Yet the third and tiniest horn was tucked above them, nearly at the top of the head. It looked as if it would shrivel up and fall off at any time, yet even so it was normal looking, and easy to accept as horn as opposed to the others.
Garson was puzzled to the meaning of this beast and shook his head at its existence. Yet looking atop the beast he came to his second image, which was that of a man encased in a metal suit. Hundreds upon thousands of tiny steel needles seem to stick out of his back, his shaking body a testament that he felt it. Yet still pain was added to him, and a large stake was suddenly shoved through his torso by a shapeless body, the one that whispered the cries masked by fire. However the man now contorted and twisted I pain, groaning and yelling, screaming even, pleading for help. It pained Garson to hear it and he dropped to his knees, only to finally look around and realize that this was his entire fault. That he had caused this beasts’ burden and this man pain. That he had started the fire that masked those cries….he was the problem. He was the bad guy. He buried his face into the open, dirty, splintered palms of his hands.
Slowly but surely, he began to pry them open, looking around to see reality, the real world once again. He was pained by the hallucination, shocked and concerned even. To have such a nervous breakdown over a song was something that he had never experienced before. He was breathing deeply and in sweats, and he lumbered over towards a tree on the side of the road, sitting down and regaining himself. ‘It wasn’t real’ he thought to himself, wide eyed, staring, wondering if his old age was getting to him. He took in a few quick, deep breaths and exhaled. “No, no. That wasn’t real.” He looked up and closed his eyes, “I’m not going insane yet…no, not yet.”
He sat there for a few moments, regaining the rest of his strength before standing up and continuing on the road, his concern over that…hallucination getting to him. He was doubtful that this was the right choice, to just up and leave all of a sudden due to a fear that was entirely rational to most men of his age. He couldn’t turn back now, could he? No, his pride didn’t allow it and he couldn’t stomach the idea of simply stopping and settling down. He resolved to keep travelling, but to where was simply unknown to him altogether.
An hour or so passed and he still found himself on the road, albeit a rockier and less well kept road, no doubt signaling neglect and low traffic. He was about a day away from Myyrth and he most certainly wasn’t going back now. He was still doubtful and frightened of his mental state and of where he was actually going, but he was going nonetheless, so that at the very least he could one day return back to Farin and say with pride that he had gone on some grand adventure. The forest was getting darker and thicker, the bushes growing large, intricate vines with pricks on them. This forest was dangerous and unkempt. He heard no scurrying animals or singing birds here, like in the old wood. He only experienced silence and the occasional crack of something moving…following him from the woods. Yes, after a while he could in fact pick up on a slight hissing, snarling noise as he travelled along the road next to the forest.
Naturally, he began to hold the oak staff in his left hand instead of his right and placed his right hand onto his sword hilt, just in case. Directly north of him, a large, wooden wall began to slowly appear and his mind clicked after staring at it for a while; it was Oakshire, at last! He quickened his pace just a little bit, yet whatever was in those woods didn’t like it and took offence, snarling louder, and growling now, the hissing deep and menacing. In front of the walls he could see four men and squinting he could see they were guards. “Hey!” He yelled to them, flapping and waving his arms, running now towards the gate as whatever it was stalking him was just on the verge of attacking. They spotted him and one called for the gates to be opened, the other three raising their arrows as Garson ran. He only looked into the woods once, two bright red eyes staring back at him, yellowing, rotting teeth greeting him and a putrid smell, like the stench of rotting skin and flesh, filling the air.
It was…otherworldly, and as Garson finally closed in on the gate which was just open enough for him to squeeze through, he stopped to the bewilderment of the guards and turned. They called out to him, declaring him a fool or an idiot, but he blocked them out and slowly began to back up towards the gate and into the town. He just wanted one glimpse of the thing…
“Kill it!” He heard a yell behind him, a volley of four or five arrows flying out as a large beast leapt from the forest, a look of beastly hatred and aggression locked away behind those two stunning red pearls that it had for eyes. The aging man flinched and three or so of the arrows actually hit, howls of pain erupting from the creature. In the brief time it held its grown and stared at the amassing number of guards and Garson, the traveler got a good glimpse of the thing. He could see it was large and well built, around six feet from what he could tell as it was on the ground with wiry, oddly grown out hair. It stank of rancid flesh, and patches of oozing, mange-infected skin were scattered around its body. It had a smaller, second pair of arms under the large, main pair and like the teeth, the claws of this beast all looked razor sharp.
The thing began to scamper off into the forest after a deeper howl rang out, and the guards yanked Garson into the city, shutting the gates quickly afterwards. “You’re lucky we were there” one said, there were guards on each side of him, yet he couldn’t count how many, but there must’ve been at least four and they were leading him through the town, “are you stupid? Or do you just got a death wish?” One of them suddenly said to him, a stern look on his face.
That prompted some confusion from Garson. “What?” He looked puzzled, “I’m just a traveler, I-“
“-Eh, well, that’s all well-n-good. But travelers got a way of, eh…dying on that road. It’s the Brask. Filthy creatures have been terrorizing this town since…eh, farse it.” He grunted, stopping himself short. The town wasn’t as large as a city, Garson noted, but it was certainly something compared to Myyrth. “I got no business telling you anything. The steward will know what to do with yea’ however.”
Garson stayed quiet and nodded. He didn’t want to cause any sort of trouble here and besides stopping to find his way, he had also come for supplies and the rest only a bed could give, but still he wanted to look into that creature. Something was going on if a guard couldn’t tell a simple traveler something like what type of animal just tried to attack him. The older man however took note of the guards younger age, yet also looked around at the rather crummy looking state of the town. It was falling apart, slowly, but surely and it looked as if the forest had already begun to retake parts of this wooden community. He saw a little Nrymen child, fair skinned and outwardly beautiful, yet the sight of the thing playing with a human child turned his stomach. He saw that dogs roamed the street, itching and scratching, suffering from the same skin condition as the beast. Things were off here. Very off and he couldn’t wait to meet this “steward” as the young guards started to slow their pace as they came to a large, unassuming, square building.
-Stuff was here, had to cut for length-
Garson had been sitting at this dirty wooden table for quite a while now, waiting for this “steward” the guards had brought him too. As far as he could tell, as he sat on his knees, his supplies in the far corner of the room, was that this man was named Lindle and that he had de-facto control over this small town. With a name like Lindle, Garson could hardly imagine the man in an appealing light. Quite rude indeed for a host to leave a guest – even an uninvited guest, such as Garson – waiting for such a time, yet finally the man emerged into the room. He wasn’t that tall, around five-seven, five-six and he was skinny too. He had beady eyes and a quickly receding hairline of brown curls. He had no real expression on his face besides a look of calm and he wore armour, like a soldier, a sword to his right side and a long cape hanging from his shoulders, artificially dyed purple. He smiled, as if he were king and walked towards Garson, sticking out his right, clenched fist into Garson’s face.
Looking at it, and quite confused, Garson raised an eyebrow, and then looked up at the steward as if he were mad. “Don’t they teach you manners from where you are from, traveler?” The scrawny man said it with a kingly dignity he did not possess, an air of pompous vanity surrounding him. Garson shook his head and chuckled. “Don’t they teach boys to drink their milk from where you are from, steward?” The steward only sneered and sat down; folding his legs like a princely guru in front of the still softly chuckling traveler. “Regardless” he went on, stroking his stubbly beard as he did, eyeing and inspecting this steward, “what can I do for you? What was that beast?”
A look of surprise came over the steward’s face and the scrawny man rubbed his chin. “You’re not a Watcher from the east? One of the nine sons of ancient king Agmron?” He was now in deeper shock as Garson nodded ‘no’ and a look of great concern came into the man’s eyes. “Well…I have no use for an elderly traveler than. Get your supplies and go…I need heroes, fighters, not greybeards.” He sneered once more and stood to his feet, taking in a deep breath as he turned towards the door.
“Wait a moment. What do you mean? What was that beast?” Garson stood as well and looked around at the floor and then back up at him, the scrawny man actually a bit shorter then he thought, yet still a strong air of self-importance around him. “I can help.”
Turning around now, Lindle started up, “perhaps you can, traveler. And it would only cost me a death of a stranger if you failed…” he paused and smiled anxiously, as if waiting for a reply; he never got one and thus continued. “Have you ever heard of Borishk of Oakshire? The old king that fought in the war against heaven, all those years ago; a very famous story, I reckon.” Garson nodded ‘no’, to the chagrin of his host. “How can you not have? Oakshire is a very important kingdom in this region and Borishk is a legend!” The little man shrieked out, nearly losing himself. Apparently his arrogance and narcissism also stretched into a delusion that this shanty town was an important landmark on the map. The old traveler only chuckled at his foolishness. “Huh…regardless, Borishk was a great king in this city’s history. He fought against Dargmos; the demon of the Wind…Fought it for three days and nights before finally he fell. In the end, Dargmos was only partially wounded and used the dead body of Borishk to create a creature…a horrible beast, like the one that you saw. We called it a Brask – freak man – and we burnt down the sections of the city that’s population had been turned into them by Dargmos. The entire city would have been lost if not for the Watchers…and of course my bloodline.”
He smiled at his ancestors triumph and had nearly forgotten about Garson’s ignorance on the subject. It wasn’t that Garson was stupid; it was just that he had never once heard a thing about Oakshire in all of his troubles and it was never listed on the maps. It was basically a ghost town, for all anyone knew. But getting back to the current situation at hand, he looked up and spoke, “so what have you been doing to combat the situation? Obviously these…Brask are still around…And those walls and guards won’t hold forever, I imagine.”
“Well” started Lindle “I had tried to send word to the Watchers for their assistance, but obviously they aren’t here now. We sent an expedition into the woods to go and find the beasts and kill them…They never returned…” he chuckled, “forty-five young men never again saw sunlight…” he mumbled under his breath. Remembering he had a guest though, he looked up and gave a weak smile. “Still! We have…optimism that eventually the beasts will die out.”
Garson looked down, thinking of something to do. He could lead an expedition in, and investigate, but that would put men at risk and he doubted that Lindle would be up for it. It was an adventure, after all and he still had no larger plan for this travel of his. Perhaps this would lead the way, he thought. He sighed and took in a breath, “I will go into the forest alone…see what’s happening; investigate, you know.”
“Surely you’ll be killed.” Lindle perked up, sounding at least a tad bit concerned, “I’ll send in two others with you, at least…Andras and Hran.” He said that last bit with surprisingly little concern in his voice. He nodded his head in the direction of the door, and waited for Garson to gather his supplies, which he did rather quickly before following the man out the door and into a large, ugly looking hall with tinier halls on the left and the right of him. Garson knew much of the Watchers of the east, yet had he seldom been called one. He knew them as an order of knights, all descendants of the nine sons of the ancient warrior king Agmron, a man who was said to be able to crush mountains just by the sound of his voice. His nine sons came together and formed a holy order during the war against heaven thousands of years ago, watching the eastern regions and protecting them from attacks from the Gods and their hordes of demons. After the war was over they took to simply watching and protecting the eastern forests from foreign and local threats, slowly declining in prestige as they were bound to the Draegmon family; a wretched clan he knew if only by notoriety.
In his ramblings however, Garson had lost himself and by the time he had snapped back into reality, two young men stood in front of him, clothed in leather armour with a bastard sword on their left side. They saluted him and bowed, staying silent and respectful in front of the steward, yet the scrawny pompous man only reprimanded them. “This is no Watcher you foolish boys” he shrieked “just a man…a dead man. He said his name is Garson and you’ll be going with him into the woods to solve our little…problem.” And then turning to Garson, he nodded, smiled slightly and said to him “they’re your problem now, traveler. Good luck.” With that he walked off, out of sight and mind, for the moment.
There was a moment of silence between the two boys and Garson, no one really wanting to say anything seeing as they were expected to all die on this mission. But finally the old man got annoyed with it and spoke up, shaking their hands, “So, which one of you is Andras and which is Hran? Are you brothers?” They nodded together, in an odd unison.
The first one spoke, five twelve with short curly light brown hair, “I’m Hran, sir.” He looked like a serious boy; the type to discuss politics and philosophy with the older men. He had cold, brown eyes and a look on his face that told the story of neglect, hardship and guilt. Andras walked spoke up next, the same height as his brother with the same type of short, curly hair except for his was auburn instead of the light brown of his brothers. “I, good sir, am Andras, the eldest of our duo.” This boy was much more noble, still with a serious look on his face yet hidden under a charming, optimistic smile…obviously fake, but good enough to fool most, Garson realized. These were his soldiers, for the day; just like the wars. Nodding, he led them out, heading towards the woods and thinking up his path simply on a guess.
-Stuff was here, had to cut for length-
The sun had nearly gone by down, the camp set up as Garson, Andras and Hran sat round the fire. It had been a silent trip through the forest, with little to no small talk really taking place as they had travelled through the forest. Garson had noted how empty and lifeless the place seemed, with the trees and other plants looking dark and twisted, as if to be corrupted by some invasive force. It was unsettling to be there for the old man and by now he had wished to lighten the mood amongst the three of them as they waited for day break to begin once more for the heart of the forest and the Brask, as Garson had planned earlier. “Hungry, either of you?” Without waiting for a reply or looking up he dug into his bag that had been set beside a tree behind him, taking out two bright red apples. He threw them to the boys, taking out a rather flat and dry looking piece of bread for himself, which he nibbled on as the two boys ate.
“Why so quiet?” He began to ask, opening his mouth to ask yet another question before being cut off rather rudely by Hran, “well you see sir. We’re happy to be going out of Oakshire and away from that bastard Lindle. But we didn’t want to come here to the forest.” Andras proceeded with the sentiment, “dangerous things live here. We’ve never left the town and we can hardly swing a sword. And no offences to you at all but you look rather…uh, old and unassuming.” Garson chuckled at their fear, and after putting his bread away, he shuffled towards the fire, sat down on the clearing of dirt and folded his legs. “Like you said, this must be better than being commanded about by the likes of Lindle. And if you need to be taught how to fight, I can teach you. I’m more than a pretty face and an aging traveler.”
The two boys chuckled along with him, but still they were unsure and increasingly uneasy. Garson could see this and wanting to help he began to sing, gently at first but with a slowly rising intensity.
Where kings are noble and queens just
Where heroes have fame and villains are slain
Where each oak grows tall and snow never falls
Is where the White Empire lies.
Where boys are sent to become great men
Where women sing songs written in pen
Where the pious never turn to horrid sin
Is where the White Empire lies.
He continued to sing this song for a couple more verses, his voice not in the least unpleasant but certainly not on a professional calibre. The two boys clapped when he had concluded, at least partially put at ease by the tune. Andras was a bit over taken by the land in which the song described and after some thought and silence spoke up and posed his question. “Are you from the White Empire? Is it really like that?” He was a young boy, and he would have no need to go there in his life, Garson thought, but still he would indulge him. “I am indeed from the empire. But no…it’s not like that at all.” He smiled to reassure him, “that song is the only one I know how to sing. I’m sorry if I can’t give you anymore entertainment.” Andras nodded, at least somewhat satisfied with his answer, but still the boy was curious for more and spoke up again, “who taught it to you? It must be pretty important if you remember it even now.”
Garson smiled now at that question and thought it over, hesitating. Hran had gotten at least partially interested now, and looked over at the two as his brother waited for the answer. Yet in the mind of Garson images flashed of that vision, that vision of the beast and the man in the armour. He closed his eyes tight to flood his mind with darkness, so as to cast the images away and after a while it worked. Opening again he could see that the two were both mildly concerned about his well-being, seeing that he had been in some form of pain. “I…uh, I think we should sleep now” he said with a heavy breath, rubbing his chin, “Yes indeed. It’d be best if we all got some rest for tomorrow.” He took out his pillow and blanket from his knapsack, placed it on the clearing and put his cloak next to his pillow, then lay down and closed his eyes. “Good night.” Two more ‘good nights’ followed afterwards and the man found himself drifting off into a carmine dream.
“Sir...!” Faint, and distant.
“Sir…! Garson!” It continued, stirring in the air around him.
“GARSON!” It jolted him awake this time and the man stood to his feet. Andras and Hran had been calling him, swords in hand. They were both terrified, shaking and shivering in the cold of the night. Garson took the hint and grabbed his own sword, placing the scabbard to the side. He stayed quiet and alert, the adrenaline already pumping through him. Surrounding the camp he could see…eyes, bright and red, low growling emanating from the shadows. He could smell them, the horrible stench of rancid, decaying flesh and skin peeling away, thick in the air. There were dozens upon dozens of eyes – around thirty, maybe even forty pairs in all. It was frightening for the two boys and even Garson began to lose his ease as he began to realize the odds and chances of survival. He mumbled something to the two, but it was intangible and hardly English, something along the lines of giant speak, perhaps.
With a howl, a beast stepped out of the shadows. It was tall, and had wiry dark grey hair. It looked fierce and smelt like dried blood and a rotting corpse. It had dark red eyes and the patches of mangy skin dropped and peeled from its body. Unlike other Brask, it wore a dingy breastplate, dented and horribly scuffed. It also wielded a bent and raggedly looking sword. It breathed heavily and stared down all three men, and with another howl, began to battle, the Brask leaping and charging from the shadows.
The beasts were strong, and this was apparent. Garson slashed about and still they didn’t drop, trying to keep them away, as their main weapon was primarily their claws and jaws. He cursed at them, and slashed at the ankles and legs of one of them, disabling it and running it through with his blade. It took a lot out of him, especially since the entire time he had to weave and dodge other monsters, while keeping an eye out for the boys who did a good job at avoiding death, at the very least.
Another one charged the man and he rolled under it quickly, slashing behind its knees and bringing it down before stabbing it through the neck, killing it. It gave him a rush he had not felt in ages and he smiled victoriously. He took three more down with the swing of his blade and the iron-clad Brask then stepped forward, staring down at Garson, breathing heavily. It roared in his face and then slashed downward, the man leaping out of the way just in time, yet in this moment the iron-clad monster seized him, his entire head fitting in the monsters palm. Andras and Hran turned, screamed and yelled for Garson, only to be tackled to the ground, and dragged into the forest by the Brask. Garson’s’ muffled screams could be heard as the monster began to squeeze, nearly to the point of death before stopping just short. It howled again, louder this time and what seemed like a laugh passed through its decaying, razor sharp teeth. It dragged the unconscious body it held through the forest, following its pack.
Though the ruffling and trip through the forest was rather loud, it was the howling and growling that awoke the trio of adventurers. They had been tied to the branch of a tree, dangling like fishes left to die. They were in the centre of that forest, the largest and most pronounced tree taller and larger than any such castle Garson had ever seen. Yet something was off about it – it was rather contorted and twisted and beat up looking, as if it had been scratched and neglected, even abused by the Brask. Even so he could see that the creatures would never do such a thing. He realized that they were indeed in a village, with makeshift buildings and other structures made of dried dirt and wood, dozens upon dozens of Brask all around, howling, and snarling at the trio as they hung on the branch. The iron-clad leader was there, and his troop, noticeably bigger and taller than the rest, denoting some sort of soldier class. He, the leader, lifted his arms up high and hollered around, showing his victory and status before jumping towards his catch and looking at them, staring into their eyes. The boys had grown ever more terrified by now and stayed silent, Garson more perplexed than frightened. He had seen and been in far worse things than capture by the enemy.
Sniffing around and then grabbing Garson’s chin, inspecting it, the iron-clad leader looked over them like a new shipment of fruit, before giving a toothy grin. His skin condition wasn’t as bad as the rest, but Garson surely noted that some of the beasts were nearly naked, with large amounts of rancid, exposed skin seeping from their bodies. He shook away in disgust, the man did. But then a surprising thing happened as the leader threw his face away and backed up; it spoke. It had a deep voice, and it sounded rough and guttural, like most feral things would probably do. “Sharp walkers come into the forest…” it said, sharp walkers being a reference to the guards and swords, perhaps? “They come and burn down tree. They shout and stomp through, disturbing home. They kill Brask, make Brask sick, make Brask hurt. Sharp walkers bad!”
“Sharp walkers bad!” Erupted an agreeing chores of the monsters, the trio all startled by their sheer numbers.
“Why do the sharp walkers come now? Is it to burn the Brask? To make Brask sick again? What?!” It sneered and commanded an answer, leaning in close to Garson’s face. The man kept his cool, as best he could in fact, so as not to scare the boys even further. He took a breath, then said “we…I, only come to solve a problem.” He faked a smile and beast moved away, at least partially satisfied.
“Problem?” It started, “problem is sharp walkers. Sharp walkers bad, kill the Brask!” They all roared and agreed, making quite the ruckus in the forest. “What is there to solve?”
“You’re killing the people of Oakshire!” Andras yelled out suddenly, to the surprise of everyone present. “Yo…you killed our parents. You burned down the stock house…you’re ugly monsters!” He was becoming angry and annoyed more and more, making a rather disgusted face at them and their disease. The leader snarled at him, “Brask did no such thing. Small sharp walker kills other sharp walkers. Blames the Brask. Sends in little ones....old ones…they all go to dust.”
Garson interjected now, and spoke up loudly, “small sharp walker…Lindle? Lindle is sending children and…and adult people into these woods to die? Why?!” It was quite the conclusion. “It’s not out of the question” Hran said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the man wa-“
“No! No!” Andras yelled, kicking, screaming, “These stupid animals are lying. Lindle wouldn’t. He’d never kill and betray the people of Oakshire.” The leader of the Brask roared to shut him up. “Stupid sharp walkers. Always leaking water and making noise. Weak like little Brask.” The sun was coming up now, and Andras hung in silence, angry, sad, scared and confused on the inside. He was praying to whatever god he thought might help, hoping, pleading for them to save him. Hran and Garson had taken to conversing with the Beast, learning of the “little sharp walkers” deeds – they learned of his sending children and elders into the forest to die, of his burning of certain parts of town and the forest, of his plan to kill all the Brask with infection. It was troubling to Garson because Lindle was obviously a monster to the Brask, yet these people of the forest were so…feral.
“Let us go, creature” Garson spoke calmly and smoothly, trying not to upset such a delicate situation. The creature only snarled and roared at him, shaking its head. ‘MANGIN’ was scratched on the breastplate it wore, Garson could see that know. Mangin was a common name in the east, and he was certain this creature used to be human. Or at the very least was smart enough to steal and wear a breastplate. “Mangin” he started, regardless of theories, “let us go!” He spoke loudly now, with a seriousness in his eyes. The creature only growled louder, trying to shut him up with volume and ferocity. But Garson could see that when dealing with such primitive beings he would have to use an alternative to the usual violence and sword swinging. The boys were both quiet, Hran with his cold dead eyes glued to the old warrior and Andras looking off into the distance, emptiness in his eyes. The boy was estranged at the thought of Lindle betraying the village, even if he did dislike the man.
But forgetting the boys for just a moment Garson turned back to Mangin, and stared into the beasts face. “Fine then” he started, “you leave me no choice.” He frowned up and shouted ‘Asura’, red fire blazing from his nostrils and mouth, engulfing Mangin and a few other Brask, the iron-clad beast, howling and stumbling out unscathed, the others burned and the on looking savages thrown into frenzy at the display of “magic”. Magic was uncommon in this part of the world and Garson was no wizard. He was quite surprised he even remembered that word after so long. The boys were amazed, Andras’ only for a few moments before he stumbled back into emptiness. “Now…” Garson hesitated at the astounded creatures, some of them even cowering in fear at the man who was two, three, even four feet shorter than he was. “Let us go.”
Mangin hesitated, then looked around, and finally agreed, lowering his head in shame as he slashed the ropes and bindings holding the trio to the tree. They fell like rocks to the ground, and after the echo of the ‘thud’ had dissipated, the three felt their wrists and Garson stared up at Mangin. “Aged sharp walker controls the sun.” It howled towards the sky, now light out from the previous day and the other Brask soon joined their leader. Garson looked pleased, but knew he would have to tread a fine path if he – and the boys – wanted to get out of their alive and intact. He tried to keep his outward appearance neutral, so as not to set off the animals. “If aged sun spitter truly controls the sky and sun, then sun spitter is god.” Garson had an upset feeling in his stomach as Mangin proceeded to describe him as a ‘sun spitter’ and ‘god’. Such titles usually ended badly, and turning his head to the boys behind him, he nodded, and alerted them of his intent through that one action.
“Demonstrate power for us, sun god!” The Brask yelled and shouted and howled like animals, wild beasts of the forests, the horrible smell clogging up the air. Garson chuckled, and then backed up slightly, closer to the bottom of the tree where his pack had been placed. It was heavy for sure but he could still run with it His sword and staff were elsewhere though, lost in this big, black forest, lost until some wayward soul found them. “You want to see my power then?” He asked, peering slightly to the west, eyeing up the exit – ‘it’s clear!’ he exclaimed to himself. He smiled wider, then patted the boys on the shoulder, and shouted ‘Asura!’ as red flame and heat emanated from his mouth, engulfing the near entirety of the clearing as the beasts shrieked and growled, Garson grabbing his pack and bolting after the boys, who had already disappeared into the forest. By the time they had gotten a good few yards away, Mangin and a horde of his minions burst out of the flames and began to give chase, the three adventures sprinting through that contorted and twisted mess of thickets and branches.
“Hurry” yelled Garson to the boys. “Move into the thicker bushes. They shouldn’t be able to move through there as easily as us.” And he was right, as they moved into the thicker brush the Brask had to slow down. It was exciting as they ducked and weaved inside those bushes, thorns and prickly plants everywhere. The Brask howled behind them, still coming, yet slower and slower as the size of the thorns increased. Sooner or later even the trio – or at least Garson did – or risk being impaled or slashed by the ever growing thorns. Andras and Hran continued to run, sprinting through, hardly caring or even paying attention. They moved swiftly and carefully, like nimble creatures. Garson was happy this short bout of danger allowed them to feel at least partial freedom from that godforsaken town and it’s pompously delusional leader.
But the old man’s fears came to be realized as a yelp, and then a thud was heard about in the same distance as the two boys. Garson sprinted over to the scene of Andras standing over Hran, tears streaking down both of their eyes, a large slash running on the side of Hran’s torso. “I told you to be careful!” Garson yelled it out to Hran, also somewhat moved as he realized what had to be done. He by this time had forgotten all about the elfwood in his knapsack, throwing the thing over his back now instead of carrying it. He rubbed his eyes, and looked down at the two boys, sobbing together as the sound of the Brask grew closer still and the blood oozing from Hran’s wound seeped everywhere. Garson took in a deep breath, staring down at the Brask’s direction. He then shook his head slowly, and moved towards Andras who was babbling incoherently, small globs of snot running down his nose. The man put a hand on the boys shoulders and tried to pull him up, the distressed lad thrashing and fighting back, wanting to stay with his brother. Yet of course that wasn’t to be, even as Hran yelled and screamed with the last bit of his energy, clawing at the ground and reaching towards Andras and Garson, the old man still pulling away until the first glimpse of the enclosing Brask finally pushed Andras out of his frenzy. He yelled his brother’s name and then at the final urging of Garson continued to run what seemed to be northwest.
They kept running until the forest was far behind them, and they were on the road once more. It was an old and dusty road, nothing but a sign post pointing north with ‘Zzorn” horribly scribbled on the front. They had grown so tired and hungry that the hardly even bothered to setup an actual camp, simply collapsing on the side of the road once the moon had overtaken the sky. Andras cried, and buried his face into his hands as Garson only watched silently. It was the only thing either of them could do now.
Chapter Done