A Savage Tale

Brides of Darkness

Inhuman bellowing could be heard within the fortress.

Aryn had to move quickly.

He scooped up his beloved, moving hurriedly the way he had come. He looked down at her again briefly.

Bload soaked her tattered garments, some dried, some fresh. Her long, chestnut hair was fllthy and matted in places. Bruises and cuts marked her body everywhere. Deep slashes had been inflicted on her, scabbed over but likely to be fouled by filth. She was breathing, but every so often, she would let out a ragged gasp and her face would contort with pain.

Aryn could do nothing to help her here. And if he didn't get both of them to safety, it wouldn't matter.

Luckily, no new foe emerged to challenge him. He passed through the fortress entrance, giving only a quick backward glance to make sure there was no pursuit. He suspected some sort of alarm would be raised soon. The bodies of the guards he had dispatched would be discovered eventually. These inhuman horrors had worn armor and wielded weapons like men, but he put the sword to them again and again after they fell to make sure he had finished the job. Their lifeless eyes watched with indifference now as he stepped over their crumpled forms.

Aryn struggled to clamber past the jumbled rocks that lined the approach, taking care with his precious cargo. Soon, his arms and back grew weary and he could not continue much further without stopping. He soon found a spot that would be concealed below a rocky overhang and slid beneath it. If his luck held, no Fliers would spy him here.

Aryn placed Rimina, his wife of five years who had been stolen from him but liberated on this day, onto a smoother portion of rock. Her eyes fluttered open briefly. He could not tell if she even registered his presence.

He began inspecting her body for wounds. He could find none, despite the presence of blood.

Rimina reached out then and touched his face.

"Should.. have left me," she managed weakly. Aryn saw tears streaming her face, tears of sadness and pain.

"It's okay," he assured her. "I freed you. I won't let anything happen to you again. Never again. I'm so sorry. So sorry I wasn't there.."

He held her hand tightly in both of his and kissed it.

"They.. took me.."

"Yes. I freed you."

"No. They TOOK me! They had me!"

Rimina stared at him, wild-eyed. Aryn stared back at her, not comprehending, or perhaps not wanting to.

Rimina screamed then, startling Aryn. Her back arched with sudden pain and then she began to convulse. Her head smacked against the stone and he rushed to cradle it.

"Nononopleaseno," he stammered. His eyes stung with sudden tears.

Her abdomen bulged. Something stretched the skin, as if pushing against it from the inside. A white mark appeared, then a trickle of blood. Not knowing what to do, he pressed against her stomach. He instantly felt something solid moving within, actively resisting the pressure he applied.

More blood ran, pooling over her belly. Aryn cried out in anguish, powerless to help her.

A small, clawed finger emerged from a seam as blood sprayed Aryn's face. A small hand emerged, then another could be glimpsed trying to widen the breach. Aryn froze, not knowing if he should extricate whatever this was from her. He was sure that would kill her.

He wrestled wildly with the two arms that struggled to break free. They were small arms, not unlike those of an infant, yet far more developed and muscular. He thought them merely stained from his wife's blood, but then realized they had a crismon hue of their own. The small fingers ended in vicious claws that tore apart his beloved like the talons of some fierce raptor.

Aryn could do nothing. He sat back, watching in horror as this demonic mockery of a child emerged from her. A hairless head emerged, lined with sharp ridges on its brow and pate. Similar bony protrusions jutted from its arms and back. Some distant part of Aryn's mind noted absently that this must aid the nascent creature in freeing itself from the womb. Of course it did. Whatever this abomination was that had put inside of her, it had evolved to come into this world with no care for the woman that birthed it.

And so it did come forth, his wife's entrails along with it. These it gnashed within a fanged mouth, one last meal from its host before it took its leave of her.

Aryn's hands were slick with his wife's blood and he began fumbling for his sword as horror and despair gave way to rage. He struggled to stand, even as this foul spawn dragged itself from his wife's quivering carcass. As the unholy creature freed itself at last, so too did Aryn free his blade from its scabbard.

Aryn's weapon struck only stone as the creature leaped away from him. The warrior nearly lost his footing as he stumbled to recover. The newly born creature was nimble despite its recent appearance in this world. This was no harmless babe that needed care.

When Aryn looked about to see where the creature had gone to, he saw it crouched, glaring at him with yellow eyes. Its fangs were bared, almost in a mocking smile. Aryn launched himself at again, but again, the creature was too quick. He slashed at it, but it quickly clambered away. It looked at him, defiant, yet there was almost a look of rejection in its eyes. It was as if it somehow expected to be welcomed into this world and could not fathom why this should not be so.

Aryn chased after the creature, but it swiftly dove toward an outcropping and precarious jumble of rocks. Aryn was too large to pursue it further. Attempting to do so would have plunged him to his death on the rocks below. He almost welcomed this. It would have been a fitting end after his failure.

Aryn could hear only a low gibbering noise and disturbance if loose stone as the creature made haste away from him and vanished from sight.

Aryn looked about. He saw the savaged body of his wife, blood pooled all about her. Her lifeless eyes met his, a look of accusation on her face, as if to say:

"Why weren't you there? This is your fault. You vowed to love and protect me. You let this happen."

Aryn weeped. "Nooo.."

Aryn's hand gripped his sword tightly. He gripped it so tightly, his hand and arm began to throb with pain.

He looked up at the sky, long past worrying about concealment from his enemies. Dark shapes swirled within thick, oppressive clouds. The Fliers no doubt. He cared not. Let them take him. Either his blade would find their blackened hearts or they would rip his from his body.

Aryn cried out to the heavens then. It was a wail of anguish that echoed through his rocky environs. It was the sound of grief and fury, but also a vow.

When the scream ended from his lips, Aryn held his sword in hand and walked back toward Zamok-Temnin, that accursed fortress of black basalt that had existed as a blight upon the land for nearly seven centuries. He would avenge his wife. His life had little meaning now. If he could give it to send these demons back to the stinking pits from whence they came, he would.

* * * * *

Aryn approached the outer courtyard. He had no mind for stealth now. The bodies of the guards lay here still. Atop one was a Flier, its dark leathery wings folded back, its reptilian snout nudging a still form.

Inspecting my handiwork, he thought. They will be upon me instantly.

But no, he was mistaken. The creature was ripping ragged bits of flesh from the corpse.

They feast upon their own. Of course they do.

The winged beast was engrossed in its meal. It only registered his presence as he was nearly upon it.

The creature snarled, eyes narrowing.

It was too late. Aryn gripped his sword with both hands and drove the tip deep into the creature's chest. He drove the weapon into it with such force, the beast barely unfurled one wing before its gasping death rattle resounded through the courtyard.

Aryn twisted the blade, then pulled it out. The creature fell onto the corpse beneath it, covering it like a death shroud. Aryn wiped black blood upon the beast's leathery hide, then strode past the raised portcullis and the darkened halls beyond.

Aryn met no resistance at first. He had slain whatever had come at him earlier. He saw their bodies strewn about, undisturbed. He now recognized something in the faces of these man-things. The bony brows, the fanged mouths, the red-tinged skin - this was now familiar to him. He knew what they were now.

Aryn penetrated deeper into the fortress, ascending dark stone steps. A scant number of torches dimly lit his way. Greasy, acrid smoke stained the walls around the sconces. These were not lit with nere wood and pitch. No, these burned with the fat cut from human captives. This he knew. They burned not to give light, but as grim decoration.

At last, Aryn reached a large open chamber. More torches were lit. Braziers filled with smoldering coals could be seen as well, the bones and ashes of vanquished adversaries and tortured victims tossed upon them.

Once fine appointments and grand tapestries lay about in ruin, covered in filth. Dark furs and hides were also strewn about. The stretched skins of humans adorned the walls, some ancient, some newly acquired. The final looks of anguish could still be seen upon their former owners, and open mouths screamed silently for eternity as empty holes for eyes stared unblinking.

A large throne occupied one end of the room. Around it were a number of women laying on the floor, barely clothed. They were seemingly unaware of anything around them. They writhed rhythmically. Low moans escaped them as they experienced some form of tortured ecstasy.

A figure clad entirely in black armor was seated upon the throne. The armor was dull, unpolished. Grime and the ichor of fallen foes clung to it. Within an ornate helm, twin orbs of ruby flame observed the entrance of the intruder. A giant battleaxe rested by the throne. It too was black, with a black haft and forged from the blackest iron. Yet its metal was polished. The light in the chamber danced upon its surface, or perhaps something within the metal glowed like burning embers.

Aryn approached, brandishing his sword.

"You come to take my throne," a guttural voice boomed. It was not a question but a statement. The voice filled the audience chamber, as if it came not from the seated figure but the very walls of the fortress itself.

"I come to topple it," Aryn answered, "and to plunge my blade into your black heart."

The figure laughed then. It was a hollow, grating sound. It was not laughter meant to mock, but the laughter of one who knew some great secret about to be challenged by a fool.

"You may try," the ebony-mailed warrior continued, "and should you fail, the walls will welcome you."

The figure rose now, standing to its full height. It hefted the axe, ready to meet the challenge.

Aryn charged in, yelling. The creature moved swiftly, the axe blade bearing down on Aryn's neck.

Aryn dove swiftly to the right, and the battleaxe clattered on stone. A woman seemed startled from her stupor, and the creature kicked her out of its path. It wheeled on Aryn, but he had maneuvered to attack. His blade sliced at the dark knight's midsection, but it struck the armor with no effect.

The knight laughed; it was the coarse sound of knives upon stone.

"You seek to right your grievance for what was done to one such as this?"

The knight picked up one of the women by the hair and raised her into the air. She grasped futilely, trying to free her filthy blonde mane from the inhuman grip. Aryn gasped.

The creature released its grip on the woman, but only to toss her into the air. The battleaxe came down swiftly, severing her in half. A cloud of gore filled the air. The pieces of her hit the floor and spilled their contents.

Aryn yelled once more. He lunged at the knight, and this time, his weapon struck true. The blade found a brittle point in the armor, breaching it. It slid further in. Aryn was surprised not to find the resistance of flesh and sinew. It was like the blade passed through empty air within the armor, until finally it reached something of substance. It pierced something soft, and black blood started to issue forth from the rent armor.

Almost immediately, the form of the armored figure collapsed. Yet even as Aryn withdrew his sword, he could hear laughter. Slowly, it faded.

Aryn inspected the figure. The glowing eyes within the helmet burned no more.

Aryn studied the creature for a long time, then crouched near it. Slowly, he removed the helmet. He expected to see a creature not unlike the others he had encountered, a creature born of unholy union. Perhaps he would see the leering visage of a demon not unlike the faces depicted on horrible statues he had seen.

Aryn instead saw his own face.

"The throne is yours," a voice said.

The remaining captives moved toward him. Some of the women advanced on him like crouching panthers. Others pulled at his legs. Some stood and fawned on him, caressing him seductively. They felt at him, attempting to knead his manhood, whispering into his ears.

"Take us, we are yours," they spoke in chorus. "WE are your wives now. There are many more to be had. You will be given a mighty army to command. A glorious empire shall be yours to rule. All that you seek shall be yours."

The womens' eyes glinted in the flickering light. But their eyes were black, soulless. Only the light of the room and Aryn's own reflection could be seen within them.

"Take it!"

"Take us!"

They bared fangs now. Their features grew twisted and seemed to waver. Their movements became frantic and disjointed as their frenzy intensified.

Aryn began pushing them away.

"NO! By the gods of my forebears, I tell you no!"

Aryn began slicing and hacking away at the vile seductresses. Screams filled the air, as did arms and heads. One head rolled to the floor, still hissing at him, pleading and promising.

Everything became a blur as he kept slicing away at the creatures. How long Aryn kept at this, he couldn't tell. Eventually, he was completely covered in gore. The floor had become a carpet of ichor and quivering body parts. Then he proceeded to dump the contents of the braziers everywhere. Anything that could burn, did so. He left the room as acrid smoke filled his lungs and his eyes stung with tears.

* * * * *

When Aryn finally returned to the courtyard, he saw the same site of carnage as before. He spied movement again, on top of another corpse. He approached carefully, sword raised.

Straddling the corpse was a demonic child, ripping it apart with its claws and teeth. Perhaps it was the very same one that had emerged from his wife.

This is it then, he thought. One last deed and it will be finished. Then, I can join her.

He advanced on the inhuman spawn, sword poised to strike.

The creature noticed him then. It looked up at him, a morsel of dead flesh jutting from its lips.

It had not the eyes of a demon. Its features were not entirely human, but not unlike a human child's now. Its skin seemed to lack the reddish cast it had before. Even more disturbing to Aryn was that he could now see some resemblance to his dead wife in the tiny features of this child-like being.

The sword trembled in his hand.

The creature studied him, still chewing. It looked at him with almost playful curiosity.

In the eyes of this creature, which now had the greenish hue of his fair Rimina's eyes, he saw a look of acceptance. He saw the look of approval she would often give him. The expression he now saw on its face was one his wife would often show to him when he made her laugh, usually while telling her some story where he struggled to put the details in the proper order. It was the look of unconditional love a wife and husband may give to one another, or that shared between a child and a father.

Aryn lowered the sword. Slowly, he sheathed it. He bent down on his knees, slowly extended his arm, and offered his hand.

He hated himself. Every fiber of his being told him he should end the life of this abomination. Surely the death of his wife demanded it. And yet he saw in this creature some part of her, something remaining that he might yet save. Could this be some trick? Could it be one last act of sorcery to bewitch a man and steal his revenge? Was this the seed of doubt, planted by evil?

The creature slowed its chewing. It cocked its head to one side inquisitively, in the manner of a dog that had just heard a familiar word spoken by its master. It sniffed the air and crept forward cautiously.

Then.. it bit him.

* * * * *

Four years passed. In that time, Aryn was able to capture and cage the creature. He taught it to trust him and began to instill in it human behaviors and beliefs. It began to behave in the manner of normal human children. It learned to speak and would one day call Aryn "father."

Twelve years hence, Rimaryn Bloodborne, Rimaryn the Demonstalker would survive his adoptive father and begin to make his mark upon this savage world. He would one day end the dark legacy of the Knight Obsidian once and for all and live to see the stones of Zamok-Temnin cast into the sea. His deeds became legend, and generations of his heirs would scarcely believe that the blood of demons ran in their veins.

The runecasters and oracles speak of a time when the demon-blooded will be needed again. When men build fortresses that touch the sky, the Dark Lords will return and tempt men to fall to depravity once more. It is then that the blood of those who are kin to things from the pits will annoint their weapons and a crusade against all things not of this world will be fought; a war for the souls of all must be waged.

But that is a tale for another age.