The #Broken_Dagger Forum

WARNING! This is a Sequence Complete: Kylerryth thread. There may be any and all of the following involved: physical, mental/psychological, emotional, and/or landscape/widespread violence; mutilation; threats; nightmares; sundry illnesses; and general strangeness.



There was no sound in the house but weeping.



In a time of diabolical demons and weird weather, Myrken Wood prospered.

With the advent of winter, an early winter, and a break in the sudden snows -- nature, always a fickle mistress, had settled moodily on overcast skies and placid rain the last few days, and the sun had yet to make even a guest appearance -- the merchants and farmfolk were coming to Myrken in droves, their ox-driven carts and laden wayns rumbling and rattling on the cobbledstoned streets, their cries and curses audible over the general din. While they hated being rained on, merchants hated empty coffers and full wagons even more; and the farmers, while soured by the weather's dreary turn, trudged onward, whether on foot or on horseback or leading pack mules, occasionally stopping to chat or trade with the merchants, sometimes digging in their worn pockets or coin purses to buy a new cooking pot, a trinket for a son or daughter, sewing needles, boots that had seen better days but were in better shape than the pair they wore or had back at the farm. These and more changed hands, and among the glitter and splash of rain was the glint and jingle of coin. This was a time of ripe picking for the merchants and the peddlers: the smallfolk were holed up in their homes with aught to do but wag their tongues -- oh, a sock might need darning; a bed's frame might need reinforcement; the fire might need to be kept -- but when the merchant wagon's guttering lanterns came a-swaying into view, their light made somewhat vague by the persistent fog on the windows of each and every building, the people came, and they came in surprising numbers. Too, the shopkeepers kept vigil: the visiting farmers were potential customers, after all, and their coin was as good as any other -- provided they had the correct amount of coin, of course, or wits sharp enough to haggle with men whose love of business came not from money but from the game, the thrill of profit and loss, the nail-biting anguish and goosebump-spawning pleasure of risk, the exchange of words and information that could make or break a man; it was these facets of the game that true entrepreneurs scrutinized during their examination of the diamond of business, and those that didn't grasp the game's concept, much less enjoy any or all of its glory and appreciate its vanity, were obviously not cut out to participate in the endeavors of their betters.

Tension, too, prospered.

At night the streets belonged to the footpads, the cutpurses, the alley children whose hungry eyes glistened; at night the solitary man or woman was wary, even afraid, their steps short and quick, and those traveling in pairs had at least a cudgel or a dagger between them; at night the lamps illumined dutifully, yet queer shadows tricked the eyes, and sounds one might normally disregard transfixed the heart with a twenty-foot lance of fear; at night the crow called for flesh, the bell tolled for whomever, and the cold fat moon howled for blood to warm its pockmarked face. The sun's pale glow did little enough during the day, but it was enough -- at night, however, it was winter for true, the wind bitter and biting, the ground damp and hard, sometimes frozen. Some whispered that fell creatures wandered the cobblestones, disappearing whenever you so much as glanced; others, more fearful yet, spoke not of creatures but of men, men with furtive eyes and shining blades, men wanting for hearth and home, men whose faces were sometimes recognized but often forgotten. Women huddled in doorways, wrapped against the cold, waiting for their children to return at sunset, dusk at the latest; men stood before their homes, their shops, their carts full of various wares, and eyed all who passed with no small measure of suspicion, often while ostentatiously brandishing a cleaver, a large knife, a quarterstaff, and more -- one man even bore a scythe. At night fear lined every face like sweet silken sable on a fine cloak; at night the winter owl hooted, the mice trembled; at night the moon dribbled silvery saliva onto the earth's darkened face, and the stars, ever distant, always twinkling in amusement, simply watched, as was their pleasure.

Men and women alike spoke in hushed tones of evil in the black of vesper:

A girl of twelve found in an alley stripped, raped, and strangled;

an elderly man crucified to the backside of a building;

a mother decapitated, her corpse further defiled, and her infant son's head dashed against the cobblestones;

and more, and more, and more. The list grew with every passing night; the crimes grew more horrible just so.

Some spoke not of creatures but of men, unemployed men, the sort of men that poverty converted into victims of circumstance; the sort of men whose barren purses and rumbling bellies inspired them to undertake alternative methods of acquisition; the sort of men who did not allow petty, frivolous things such as morals and ethics to put their conscience to the question. The sort of men to whom conspiracy and treason meant aught.

The sort of men that, not so long ago, had wandered these very streets on patrol and protected Myrken's citizens as best as they could from the terrors that distended in the darkness.

Fear and wonder ruled the night in Myrken Wood, and every morning was like a purification: the sun took up its brush and painted the skies in shades of blood and gold, coloring the world with sacrifice, and a new day, a clean day, began.

But the night always returned, and with it came the fallen, the desperate, the iniquitous.

And then it started raining.



His screams were what woke the neighbors. Screams that reverberated grief, outrage, and blood.



The rain began unobtrusively. It was little more than a light mist, barely enough to stir the instinct to seek cover; the men ignored it, women took down their airing clothes, and children laughed gaily, frolicking in the haze -- often to the detriment of their mothers' sanity, as fog appeared not long after the rain. It was difficult to discern a small child from a fleeting shadow-shape, and in these wayward and wicked times one could never be certain of anything: a tendril of fog could be a tendril in truth, wispy, deadly; a shadow could spawn countless horrors, each worse than the last, each driven by a thirst for the blood of the innocent; the sky could open like a deep wound that rained fire, and mankind would reap as it had sown. Absurd; irrational; mad, even -- these and more were called out at those who gossiped about nightmares made flesh, yet no one spoke quieting words when those thoughts were voiced. If anything, the creases in their brows lengthened and deepened; their eyes tightened, involuntarily glanced at their surroundings; their bodies tensed, as if preparing to absorb the impact of some unseen blow. Day and night, fear and wonder -- in the mirror of the universe they were separate yet the same, polar opposites attracted to each other by the inexplicable magnetism of the worlds beyond the veil.

Too, the wind came into Myrken Wood calmly at first, soaring over its Wall and then the town's surrounding wall, weaving through streets and alleys, wriggling into open windows and cracked doors; but it seemed mere moments had passed ere the chill breeze transformed into a freezing gale that drove the rain before it, rain that in turn transformed into sleet, making the ground treacherous at best. There were more than a few reports of slips and falls that resulted in bumps, bruises, and broken bones -- and, in one case, death: a young boy lost his footing and cracked open his skull on a curb, much to the horror of his mother, who had been cherishing a moment's respite beneath a shop's awning. The bitter cold was worsened by the bitterer wind, and both were worsened further by the frozen rain that not only splashed on clothes and then immediately iced again but sliced through raiment and skin like a frore blade algid enough to glaciate marrow, to benumb the rushing heart. The Rememdium's business would flourish, much to the simultaneous joy and chagrin of its owner, the talented Doctor David D'rael, and the lives of Myrken townsfolk would continue as they tended to: normal, leaning toward humdrum even -- until the next catastrophe struck, of course.

When the guards arrived to investigate the disturbance, they banged on the door to a house registered to a man by the name of Qarl Quinlin. Qarl, who lived with his wife and two daughters -- their son had moved to Thessilane to join the Duke's army -- greeted them at the door wearing clothes that, at one point in their existence, had not been completely drenched in lifeblood and covered in scraps of flesh and cruor, and the scarlet brushstrokes criss-crossing his face had runny paths carved through them from continuous weeping. "I did not kill them," Qarl said in a raw voice, clutching to his chest the blood-dripping, gore-spattered cleaver that had reft life from the people that no longer resembled people but a pile of massacred, mangled, mutilated meat that looked as though it had been rolled in -- and, in some places, chewed upon, possibly eaten. Qarl's eyes were wide and red-rimmed, shining with the bizarre, twitchy light of fear, and he watched as one of the four Straka guardsmen vomited everything he had eaten in the past month; made a token effort of resistance when the other three seized him and pried the cleaver from his grip; and sobbed like a man broken when they all but dragged him through the freezing rain to the gaol's black cells.



The rain and wind moved on, however, and the tenebrous winter storm clouds packed their bags, as well. After a few days, the pervading gray gloom realized it was an unwanted guest, and it, too, drifted out of town, fading into and fusing with the horizon; and the sun made an appearance (finally!), though a weak, wan thing it was, offering more light than warmth, like a sort of Helios who was more flash and pomp than actual talent or delivery. It was a point of solace for the residents of Myrken Wood, nevertheless, and many took it as a sign: there could be hope after all. We just have to look -- and if we don't immediately find it, we keep looking.

That was the view of the optimistic folk, anyway. The dominant, pessimistic view stated that it could only get worse from here; that former Straka guardsmen robbing, raping, and all but enjoying a Roman holiday revealed the measure of their overall integrity, not just the vile corruption of those bitterly discharged due to behavior or unavailable funds; that the weather was nature's rebellion against mankind's crimes -- no, sins, for these were godly men, women and children, and the sole solution was to pray, to repent, and to hope the world's end would come when they were with their families; that the Myrken Council's stolid quietude, too, was a sign, and promised a future uncertain -- when gods and the most wretched of men -- those being politicians, a type of creature more loathsome than the ever-elusive cockroach -- abandoned them, the decimation of everything ever known was nigh.

This was before the second sun materalized, however.



"Goodman Quinlin --"

"I did not kill them!"

"-- you are charged with the premeditated murder of your wife, one Loenni Quinlin, age three-and-thirty, and your two daughters, Saera and Daera, ages nine and two-and-ten, respectively; you are also charged with crimes against nature and --"

"Oh, gods! Her face! Her face!"

"-- cannibalism. If found guilty -- which you assuredly will be, you repulsive sack of **** -- you will be hung unto death. Your trial begins as soon as the Council can be assembled to judge you."

"I saw her ... my dreams! I saw her in my dreams! Her face, gods! Beautiful as virgin snow; terrible as tragedy. And then -- gods be good, her eyes, her ears, her mouth, they bled. No! Great gouts of blood, they were, and from her female parts and her behind, too! So much blood. So much! It slicked her body from toes to crown, and she shone like a beacon of death and dismay in an unnatural light. You must listen to me! She is coming! She was born years ago; she lives among us! She is one of us!"

"May the gods illumine your path to Hell, Goodman Quinlin, and may the devil himself poke your arse."

"She asked me to do it, ser! I could not resist that voice, her voice. Her face; her voice! They were glorious and vile, wondrous and horrible! Gods as my witness, I did not realize what she meant as 'freedom' until it was too late. Gods, help me! Mercy! Mercy! Merrrrrrrrrcyyyyyyy..."

The iron-barred, heavy oak door that isolated the black cells from the rest of the world shut with the sound of a sealed fate.



The Second Sun, they called it; the Red Sun, too, or the Red Star. It had at first seemed naught more than a pinpoint of light in the sky, visible during day and night, immobile, distant -- and in some inexplicable manner, malignant. Hands were dry-washed when eyes found that unwavering, burning twinkle in the wizard's cloak of the vast void; voices stilled, and thoughts darkened. Certain feelings sharpened while others grew dull and removed, and, over time, the mindset of the smallfolk turned from hopeful/hopeless to upset/angry; and, over time again, that too mutated, this time into furor/rage. Fights broke out in the streets, typically between one to three citizens, but in one instance a brawl nearly spurred a full-fledged riot. Straka arrived just in the nick of time: a vendor's cart had been turned over, and his wares were being hurled through nearby windows when the guardsmen, having carefully surrounded the mob, moved in and arrested the majority of the offenders, deciding that the worst of the lot would be dealt with immediately while the minor infractions could be handled at a later time. There were also people who had been trampled or otherwise hurt, and these folk were carried or guided to the Rememdium. Again, D'rael's business thrived.

Then the Red Sun pulled a reverse red shift, swelling, brightening, and what that light truly was became obvious: the pommel of the gigantic sword, half of its massive blade transfixed in the earth just outside of Myrkentown, was glowing, its light the color of a grand guignol, the hue of the mark of Cain, the shade of assassination; and the light throbbed with malevolence, a scarlet heart pumping a silent song of war.

The townsfolk stared at it, a blend of bewilderment and subdued terror coursing through them, stared at what they now referred to as the Red Eye or the Red Heart, and they wondered what horror would next be unleashed upon them.



Qarl Quinlin watched the ceiling -- or what he thought was the ceiling; it might be the wall; such things were impossible to discern when there was no light -- was he losing his mind? He'd heard tales of men imprisoned thus, morbid and awful stories that ended in tragedy or madness, sometimes suicide -- and waited.

"I'll sleep soon," he whispered. His throat was parched; the guards had brought him no water nor food since he was unceremoniously dumped into this cell, and his voice was a dusky whisper.

"I'll sleep soon, my darling, and I'll dream. Of you. Of you, your voice, and the blood that's not yours pouring from your body." He coughed. "I'll dream of freedom -- my freedom, and yours. I'll dream of my wife and children, whom I should mourn but cannot anymore; they are free, after all, and the flesh no longer confines them. I'll dream of the light, which I already miss. I'll dream of beatings from the guards. I'll dream of my trial."

He was dozing. Sleep overtook him within the space of a few heartbeats, but not before he could breathe his last words for the night.

"I'll dream of death and dismay."