Fragments of the Soul

By: Cypra Posted on: October 11, 2005

A heavy scraping sound echoed through the halls of Slith's old domicile. The Prince had been gone for countless centuries, and the tower had fallen into disrepair, looted by trespassers and residents alike. Anything of value had been taken ages ago by one of the undead Lords or their slaves. No place in the Underworld seemed more deserted, more alone, than here.

The scraping sound stopped within the bedchambers, and there was a quiet 'thud', as its source, a being who was little more than an emaciated corpse, absentmindedly dropped a bone it had been carrying within its talons. Dust swirled into the air, sent in flurries from the disturbance, the tiny specks shimmering with a queer light, reflecting a reddish glow that bled through a single window, unhindered by the remains of black curtains. The creature made note of none of this. Its mind had rotted away with time, and it had been left with only the most base of desires. To survive, to feed.

Hours past, the dust settled, and still the beast stood there, perfectly still. It rested on one foot, the other twisted, bone protruding through the swollen flesh. A few dirty feathers drifted to the ground, falling away from tattered wings on the creature's back. Shriveled eyes stared blankly into space. Then, without purpose or meaning, it lurched slowly around, dragging it's mangled foot behind it as it left the room.

Something had disturbed the stifling silence of the tower. The sound of a muffled voice drifted through the walls, inaudible to mortal ears, but easily picked up by the thing's sensitive hearing. It moved slowly towards the source, drawn by something deep inside it. Perhaps it was hunger, perhaps it was an unending hatred for the living, or perhaps it was a fragment of old cravings: to hear the sounds of voices, sounds it had not heard for so long.

The creature stumbled down the stairway with jerking steps, ever dragging its foot behind. Each turn brought the voice closer, until it stood at the base of the stairway, until it could see the source. A young atavian, dressed in scalemail, knelt upon the cold stone at the centre of a large antechamber. He was huddled over a limp form, holding the body in his arms, murmuring soothing words, rocking back and forth. The creature could smell blood, almost overwhelming in its intensity.

"You can't leave me here alone, I need you… Who will teach me, who will be my mentor, now?" His wings wrapped the form in his arms, and he sobbed quietly. "I'll get us home, you'll see…" He had not yet noticed the creature.

Blood pooled about the limp body in his arms, and the limbs hung like a ragdoll's, shattered and bent at odd angles. The face, mostly obscured by the atavian's wings, stared sightlessly at the ceiling, the mouth gaping wide open and the head lolling to one side. A long silence passed, save for the man's quiet sobbing, and the creature made no move to approach, simply gazing vacantly at the scene.

Another dragging step, and the scraping noise echoed through the chamber. The man looked up, his eyes bleary and his face streaked with tears. He stared at the beast for a moment, then jumped up, the body falling from his arms. The atavian looked down as the unbreathing form hit the floor, releasing a startled cry. The scraping grew closer, and the creature groaned, drawn to the heat, to the blood.

The man pulled a whip from his a strap at his side, flicking a dirk into his other hand from a concealed sheathe in his sleeve. He stood in front of the bloodied form lying still on the floor, his eyes narrowing and his lips pressed together tightly.

"Just a zombie… Fine, I'll put you out of your misery."

His tears had ceased, and he lashed out fast, his dirk ripping deep into the rotting arm of the creature. Desiccated flesh clung to the blade, and the wound split wide, revealing the yellow bone beneath. The thing didn't even notice, its focus held by the thudding of the man's heart. A sound that stirred something within it's rotted body, hatred or hunger, it was hard to say. Perhaps the thing did not differentiate between the two.

Thin bones creaked as the creature stretched out one ruined wing, it's arm lifting at the same time to swing hard at the atavian. A loud 'smack' resounded through the hall as the arm connected with the man's face, sending him careening back onto the body he had been cradling so recently.

The atavian attempted to push himself up with one hand, only to slip in the blood oozing over the floor. He realised where he was, lying over his broken comrade, and he let loose a scream, scrambling desperately to stand. By the time he had risen to his feet, the thing hovered behind him, and he backed unwittingly into its embrace.

Decay filled his nostrils as the thing wrapped its arms around him, squeezing tightly, and he struggled to breath. He flipped his dirk in his hand, stabbing backwards violently, drawing the blade up until it hit bone. The creature loosened its grip for only a second, but it was enough time for him to slip out of its grasp and turn on his heel, facing the thing with a grim determination. This was more trouble than he thought it would be.

The creature moaned and lifted a swollen arm towards him, and something shone from its finger in the dim crimson light of the room. It was a ring, nothing impressive, but the atavian stopped, mesmerised by the jewellry.

He knew the ring clearly. It was gold, and an opal in the shape of a wing was just evident. Only one person other than himself had ever had such a ring. The man stared, his eyes widening and his dirk clattering to the floor.

"Allius?"

The pause should have been fatal. Bereft of his weapon and stunned by a horrid realisation, he should have fallen within moments. But the thing dropped its arm. Its shriveled eyes gazed blankly from a face riddled with festering wounds that would never heal. A raspy sigh echoes from torn lungs.

Somewhere deep within the thing that had been Allius, a memory stirred. It may have been an echo of a time that had long past, or perhaps even such simple undead still cling to pieces of their soul. But the thought moved through its vision like ripples over a stagnant pool.

The sun shone down upon the busy streets of Shallam. Outside a simple home, two young atavians met blades, practicing the art of combat in the humid air.

"You're out of practice, Cillus!" Allius grunted as his blades whistled through the air, not quite touching the serpent.

"Says you!" Cillus lashed out with his whip, wrapping it around Allius' wrist, causing the paladin to struggle to maintain a hold on his blade.

The two were brothers, raised as Arcadian nobility. They had chosen to leave, curious about the world outside their home. When they saw the Jewel, they knew they could call it home. So much diversity in this new landbound place. Shallam shone to them as a beacon in the night, the pinnacle of righteousness.

The brothers sparred until dusk, never quite doing any real damage. Then they wished each other well.

"Tomorrow I head to the Underworld. There are foul things there. Several of us are going to bring peace to the souls of the undead. It will be dangerous, but anything worth it is. Will you come brother?" Allius looked at Cillus hopefully.

Cillus shook his head. "I am too weak yet. You should be careful, brother. You are needed here, and your death would be a greater loss than even the peace of those poor souls is worth."

"Oh, no worries!" Allius laughed, "We are a strong group. There is little danger. And you know me, I know how to keep myself out of trouble."

Cillus smiled and embraced his elder brother tightly. "I will see you when you return then. I have no doubt you will have the most exciting stories for me." The two said their goodbyes and departed into the heavy night air.

Allius gained little sleep that night, nervous and excited, filled with the reckless disregard for his own mortality so common to youth.

The thing slumped a moment, its mind drifting into a haze again before another flash of recognition hit it. A vague dream of another life.

Things had gotten entirely out of hand. They hadn't been expecting Mhaldorians to be stalking within the depths of the undead realm. The onslaught came as a surprise, just as they were facing one of the feared Deathknights, intent upon bringing the poor soul its final peace. Lady Ariannith screamed out a call for retreat, and chaos erupted around them. Some scattered even as others fell, and Allius was surrounded by the dying, his mind swimming with fear. A massive Baalzadeen, its eyes burning with daemonic hatred, tore the soul from the priest next to him, the old man's eyes staring blankly before he fell to the ground. Allius would not run, he would defend the others.

The Deathknight cut a swath through his comrades, leaving them helpless against the foul blades of the Mhaldorians. The atavian turned his attention to the towering figure, covered in rotting armour, choosing to end its assault once and for all.

Allius thrust hard between the battered metal plates of the Deathknight's armour, his blade piercing through tattered flesh and digging into bone. He pulled back, intent upon another strike, only to find his sword lodged tightly into the knight's collarbone, refusing to budge. He looked up, and the world seemed to slow, a massive broadsword was descending upon him, dropping down like the blade of a guillotine.

Pain tore through his being as the blade carved through his shoulder, so intense was his agony that he could not even scream. Blood poured onto the floor in an endless torrent, and he watched helplessly, the scene blurring before him. The dismal world around him began to fade away, and he felt himself falling into a sea of oblivion.

"What will Cillus think of me now…"

The thing that had been Allius stared at Cillus. Stared at the brother it had once cared so much for. Cillus stared back, transfixed, a mixture of horror and sadness marring his beautiful face.

The moment passed: Allius was not Allius, that person was no more. The creature raised a twisted arm, and sent it crashing down silently, no longer hesitating in its task.

Cillus looked up, frozen to the spot. The arm smashed down upon him, unnaturally strong, caving his skull, sending blood and brain matter flying in its wake. No more thoughts, no more reminiscing. No more anything. Cillus stumbled back, his body's last effort, and crumpled to the stone floor.

The creature stood there for a moment, staring blankly. It was hungry, but it made no move to sate itself on the blood and gore lying strewn before it. Instead, it turned, unsteadily, dragging its leg behind it, and headed back up the stairs.

No thoughts stirred within the shadows of its shrivelled mind. It had been left with only the most base of desires. To survive, to feed.