WINNERS
AND RUNNER-UPS FOR THE AGE OF CHAOS
SCARY STORY CONTEST 2002
Best Scary Story 2002
“The Mound”
By Cammori
Darkness fell
like a hammer upon us, smashing the feeling of euphoria which had arisen upon
the discovery of the huge moss-covered burial mound. The change brought on by
the darkness was immediate and awful. One moment our spirits were soaring with
the eagles and the next the eeriness of the place imposed itself upon us. I so
wished Master Elghinn had stayed with us, but Phaedra had sent Jicks in his
whirly-hickey to pick him up for some staff meeting back at the academy. That
really left no one in charge here, and that lack of leadership probably just
exasperated the current situation. Misty rain had begun falling just as the
darkness came, and the wind was howling sinisterly through the moss covered
bones which comprised the burial mound.
Our bonfires
burned brightly attempting futilely to fight back the darkness and any evil
which resided there. Minutes passed slowly, very slowly. Eventually, one by one
we began slipping away from the apparent safety of the firelight and made our
way into our beds. I was one of the last to bid goodnight to my comrades and
our guards which remained on duty. Sleep came restlessly several hours after I
retired as I continually chased shadows in the sounds which surrounded me. The
unease of our huge find filled my mind as I drifted into and out of
consciousness.
I awoke with a
start. Weird noises were all around and the huge bonfires we had lit seemed to
have gone out. Peering out my tent flap, the darkness was overwhelming and
despairing. Wisps of light fog floated throughout our campsite and strange
sounds almost like bone grinding on bone hung menacing in the air. Quietly, I
slipped my blade from its sheath. It felt reassuring and magnificent in my
hands. Slowly, I slipped from my tent and began to work my way towards the tent
of my neighbor.
Crick-critch…
crick-Critch - came a sound from behind me. I swung violently around; sword in
hand wanting to face whatever it was that had gotten behind me. Four orbs
glowing sinisterly red hung in the darkness. A heavy taint of death and decay
hung in the air as those four orbs mesmerized me. Crick-critch. Crick-Critch.
Again came the sound as the orbs slowly approached me.
I stood frozen unable to even shift my gaze from those forsaken orbs as they
approached. Crick-critch. Crick-Critch. Went the sound as the orbs moved slowly
past me in the darkness.
Incredibly as
they passed I felt myself turning to follow. Against my will, I slowly pursued
those damned orbs as they floated off toward the barrow. I found it
increasingly harder and harder to breathe the closer I came to that mound. Crick-critch.
Crick-Critch. What evil power had enthralled me? I had a terrible suspicion the awful answer
would all too soon be clear. Crick-critch. Crick-Critch. Onward I marched
toward the mound.
“Missy and Mandy
gonna eat well tonight,” came a disembodied voice through the darkness. “We
must thank the master.” The voice shook
me to the core. Devoid of all emotion and soulless, the voice sliced through
the remnants of my sanity. Crick-critch. Crick-Critch. The sound grated even more
on my sanity. Helpless - that’s what I was.
Crick-critch. Crick-Critch.
Into the mound I mindlessly followed. Visions rose in my mind. Horrible images
of what was to come. I strained hard against this force which controlled me to
no avail. Slowly, I followed where the orbs led. Deeper and deeper I delved
into my own horrors. Archway after archway passed as I was led towards the
heart of the barrow, and still the sound came to me. Crick-critch. Crick-Critch.
Crick-critch. Crick-Critch. Steadier and louder now, as if more of them were
coming together and getting closer too. Still I followed against my will.
Crick-critch. Crick-Critch.
Crick-critch. Crick-Critch. As I entered the next arch two orbs glowed yellow
brighter than the rest, and I knew it was he that held sway over my body; he
that trapped my mind in this uncooperating body. The orbs grew brighter ripping
away the darkness and releasing my soul. Outward I flew. Upward. Away from this
pain. Away from this helplessness. Away from this life. I knew this was my only
escape and I took it gratefully.
Crick-critch. Crick-Critch. Crick-critch. Crick-Critch. The wind
swayed the pole lantern as the figure approached. Savoring the last wisps of
life they sucked from their fading victim, “Mandy” and “Missy”, their red eyes
flickering playfully, purred as their master, the Dream-Miser holding his
two-slitted yellow pole lantern approached. “Ah my pets, I see you found the
treat I left for you.” Cheerfully he
patted both his bog wraiths lovingly while his box of nightmares swung
contentedly around his neck.
Runner-Up Best
Scary Story 2002
“Beware the Unknown”
By Solric
My name is Elleron and I am a teller of
tales. The tale I have for you tonight is one of terror and vengeance. If your
intestinal fortitude is lacking or your heart is weak then you may want to
leave.
It was a
cold and stormy night and lightning streaked the sky like demons fighting over
an innocent’s soul. The storm had come up out of nowhere and I lost my horse at
the first eerie thunderclap. The storm seemed have a mind of its own. The storm
was getting worse and I had to find shelter soon. I knew that New Manetheren
was close so I speeded up to a slow jog. As I approached the gate I noticed
that the gates were closed. That was strange because the gates never closed.
At that
moment a savage streak of lightning came down, breaking into five bolts as it
struck somewhere in the city. Once I was close to the gates someone shouted,
‘Show yourself!’
‘And
state you business,’ quickly followed.
Both
shouts were fear tinged and I wondered what I had gotten myself into. I was
beginning to think that I should keep moving the weather be damned. ‘Elleron,
Teller of Tales, in need of shelter from this god forsaken weather,’ I shouted
back as I lowered my hood and removed my cloak.
‘Advance
and be recognized,’ yet another soldier shouted.
As I
approached a small door opened and a figure stepped through with sword drawn. I
kept my hands visible as the figure approached. ‘Ah, well met Elleron,’ the
figure said wearily. I was still unable to see who approached but I recognized
the voice. ‘Well met to you, Captain Rudric.’ As we turned back to enter the
gate I asked, ‘What is the trouble?’
By the
reaction on his face and the skip in his step I immediately regretted asking.
His voice trembled as he answered, ‘No one knows, this storm came up out of a
clear sky and has already killed fifteen of my men at this gate.’
‘What do
you mean the storm?’ ‘The lightning. The men have started calling it the hand
of death. Every time it strikes five die. Every mage and cleric in town is
trying to discover what is going on.’ As the captain spoke lightning struck
again inside the city. I could hear faint screams coming from somewhere inside
the city. It was then that I realized that there were no lightning strikes
outside of the city.
A guard
came stumbling up to the gate. ‘Five more sir.’ He hoarsely reported before he
collapsed. Two guards ran forward and picked the unconscious man up. I over
heard one of them mumbling, ‘We will all be dead by morning…’
‘I must
get to an inn,’ I said and turned to head into the city.
‘Elleron
seek shelter quickly. Run and do not walk. Run swiftly. The Stag & Crown
Inn is on the right,’ was shouted after me as I started running into the city.
I ran as fast as my weary feet
would carry me and came to a halt by slamming into the inn door. Upon entering
I could tell that I had startled the innkeeper, ‘I apologize for the abrupt
entry. I did not mean to frighten you.’
‘Quite
alright,’ he replied with his voice shaking and a forced smile on his face.
‘What can I help you with?’
‘I would
like a room, hot food and drink. Not necessarily in that order.’
‘We have
all that you require. You can find the food and drink through there.’
For it to
be so quiet I thought that the bar was empty but it was about filled to
capacity. The people were only speaking in whispers and you could here the
occasional clink of mugs bumping together. I scanned the room looking for a
place to sit. I saw that there was one table that was only occupied by one
individual and started making my way toward it. As I made my way through the
room I was able to gather that there had been over two hundred and fifty deaths
caused by the lightning strikes. Everyone was scared to go outside, especially
groups of five.
‘May I
join you,’ I asked as I drew near to the table.
When there was no answer I took it
to mean that I could sit down. When I set down I took a look at person I was
sharing a table with. Standing quickly while making a warding sign against evil
I knocked the chair I was sitting in over and had taken a step back before I
stopped and took a closer look. My reaction did not cause the man at the table
to stir but it did draw a few uneasy chuckles from the other customers. Upon
closer inspection I saw that I had not sat down with Death himself but with
someone that was close to meeting him. As I set back down I forgot about food
and drink and thought only of the story this elf had to tell. The man did not
look like he would talk using regular means, so I tried something different.
‘What
happened,’ I asked with a slight push of the power. At first I got no reaction
and was about to try again when the man looked up to me and I saw into his eyes.
What I saw made my skin crawl. Deaths, terror, blood, carnage…. As I looked
away he spoke.
‘It all
started this morning,’ he began speaking with a voice from beyond the grave. I
was having second thoughts about hearing his story but I was also drawn to it
like a moth to the flame. ‘Five of us had decided to go out and make our
fortunes and build our reputations. Quinstarr had been given a map last night
when she was out but could not remember who gave it to her. All she remembered
was that it led to vast riches and glory with almost no risk involved. We were
all for it and did not think twice about going after the treasure. We were
naïve. We gathered our gear and our horses and set off for the Waygate that was
shown on the map. None of us talked about it but I knew that it was the first
time any of us had been through a gate. Once we arrived at the gate we all
acted like this was no big deal but you could tell by their voices and actions
that they were scared. I was too, but the idea of vast riches over rode our
fears and we entered the gate. Immediately after entering the gate we heard
this terrible howling in the distance. We did not know what it was but we had all
heard stories and did not want to meet it.
Our
cautions were pushed aside by our dreams as we continued on the path. The
howling got softer for a moment then louder and we could tell that it was
getting closer. Our mounts started getting skittish and the air seemed to get
heavier. We picked up the pace and were beginning to think we had missed our
gate when we came upon a gate blocked by debris, just our luck. The howling was
getting closer and seemed to be coming up the path behind us. We dismounted and
frantically started moving debris. We realized that we would not get the gate
completely clear before what ever was howling reached us. We started squeezing
through the space we did get clear. I was last. As I started putting my legs
through the gap in the debris it arrived. I do not know what it was but the
horses were going crazy and it tore into them like a butcher. They were tore to
pieces. Blood and guts were flying all over the place and I was getting covered.
I knew that I was dead and would have been if Cuda had not grab my legs and
pulled me through. They immediately started asking about me and I was finally
able to get out that it was not my blood but the horses. After I had cleaned up
a little we continued down the path shown on the map. It was overgrown and hard
to travel. Luckily it was only a little ways further and I was even getting
excited even though I had looked Death in the face.
Rounding
a bend we came out in area with a large building in the middle of it. Quinstarr
took off immediately toward the building. We had no choice but to run after
her. She has never been this reckless, I found myself thinking. When we arrived
at the entrance to the building she had already went in. We entered without a
second thought trying to find her. There were no diverging paths and the hall
led to the center of the building. The more I looked around the more I had the
feeling we were being watched and that we were not welcome here. We were in
some sort of forgotten temple. I could not recognize any of the writing I saw. Once
we entered the center chamber we saw Quinstarr in the center of the room
standing by the altar taking something that looked like a blanket out of her
pack. She spread it out on the altar and then picked an object up and placed it
on. As soon as she laid the object down a sinister laughter filled the room
followed immediately by a shrieking scream. Quinstarr was lifted into the air
by some unseen force that was trying to pull her in five different directions. Her
screams were silenced when her head detached with a loud ripping sound followed
quickly by her arms and legs. I saw Cuda run forward and attempt to wrap the
object up. Before he had barely started he flew across the room. He did not
even have time to scream before lightning shot out of his hands, feet and head
leaving nothing behind but a charred torso.
I was
frozen in place and did not know what to do as I saw Valdar run up to the altar
and continue wrapping the object. The scream filled the room again and seemed
to be directed at Valdar as he fell to his knees holding his ears. I was unable
to hear his screams as I watched the flesh fall from his arms and legs. Finally
the screaming stopped as his head followed quickly after. Jessica was next in
approaching the altar and I wanted to rush forward and stop her but I was still
unable to move. It now felt like something was holding me in place. As Jessica
arrived at the altar I closed my eyes not wanting to see what would become of
her but I will forever remember her screams. As her screams died away I
realized that I could move once again. I turned to leave but found myself
approaching the altar. My mind was screaming for me to leave but my body was
acting like it had a mind of its own. I found myself standing at the altar
looking down at the item.
The same
sinister laughter that had filled the room earlier echoed throughout the
chamber, as I saw that the item had been completely wrapped. I did not want to
have anything to do with it but I felt myself bending down and picking up the item.
As soon as I had the bundle in my arms I knew it was time to go home. It was
then that I realized that my way home was on the horses. I did not want to go
back in there. Almost immediately I felt that same presence taking me to the Waygate
then through it. The presence left almost immediately but my survival instinct
kicked in as I heard the howling quickly approaching. I started digging through
what was left of the horses looking for the saddlebags. Finally I found one and
ripped the buckle open. Reaching in, I grabbed a scroll of recall. On my first
attempt my voice trembled as the howling grew louder. I knew that I had only
one more chance, so I took a deep breath and read the scroll. As I started to
fade away the howling arrived and ripped through me. I felt something being
torn away and thought that I was dead. I looked up to find myself in the middle
of the courtyard in the worst storm I had ever seen. I staggered to my feet. Thanking
Lady Kirha for my survival and for the storm I stumbled for the Stag &
Crown Inn….’
He came
to a stop and I thought he was done when I heard the man sobbing silently to
himself. ‘They are all dead,’ he continued ‘dead, torn to pieces and I was too
weak to do anything.’ He paused again as he reached under the table and picked
something up. ‘All for this. I do not even know what this is. Would you like to
see,’ he said as he dropped a bundle of what looked like skin on the table. As
he reached to unwrap the bundle I had the fleeting
thought to run for the door but my curiosity won out and I stayed put. When the
unwrapping was almost complete the man froze and his scream made me jump back
and fall from my sit.
‘My Lady,
forgive me!!!’
As I got
to my feet I was knocked back down by a massive peel of thunder that shook the
entire inn. Lightning filled the room incinerating everything in it. I was
lying flat on my back babbling thanks to every god that I knew for protecting
me. In the middle of the carnage that was once an inn stood a beautiful elven
maiden radiating power. I stayed on my back as I realized that I was in the
presence of Lady Kirha, Mistress of Storms.
‘On your
knees and look upon vengeance, gleeman,’ reverberated around the room. ‘See who
stands before you as judge and executioner.’
As I got
to my knees I saw the man I had been talking with was the only other survivor
in the room. He was on his knees in complete supplication arms raised toward
Lady Kirha.
‘Gleeman
- watch and learn,’ was pounded into my heead.
She
approached the elf, ‘Solric, you will be judged. Stand,’ thundered through the
room shaking the walls. There was deadly command in her voice as the elf got to
his feet still showing reverence with head bowed and arms raised. He stood
straight as if accepting whatever judgment might come. Solric flew across the
room and was pinned to the wall by four bolts of lightning. The fifth bolt did
not fly and I could see the pain on his face but he was enduring it in silence.
She
turned her complete attention back to me. I felt her power flow through me,
searching and gathering the information she needed. ‘Go now spread the word
that vengeance will be mine and I find the one that did this.’ Each word seemed
to dig through my skull and attach itself to my brain. Drifting in and out of
consciousness I saw Lady Kirha pick up the skin and the object within. She then
looked at Solric pinned to the wall and I thought she was going to throw the
fifth bolt but instead she gestured and they all disappeared with a clap of
thunder that shattered every window in the city. As I struggled to my feet and
made my way to the door two thoughts rushed to my mind: beware the unknown and
the urgent need to tell the tale.
Best “Real” Scary Story 2002
“Where Am I?”
By Apollo
I
slowly awoke and turned over onto my back, staring up at the ceiling of the
room I was in. It was designed such that if I barely moved my head, the pattern
seemed to completely change. I quickly looked away from this, as it began to
hurt my head, and looked to finding a way out of wherever I was. But first, I
had to find out where I was. I walked out of the room I was in, and saw a
woman, sitting very calmly, unflinching.
I
walked to her and questioned, "Where am I?"
She
calmly looked at me for a moment before replying, "Why, you are at the top
of the high
Therefore,
I set out to find my own way out, if she would not help me! I quickly ran down
a corridor, and came to a staircase. I went down this, and the
followed along the hallway that it
emptied into. I could now go 4 ways. Straight, to the left, to the right, or
back the way I came. I employed the tried and true method of
eenie-meenie-minee-mo, and came to the right path. I turn that way and noticed
wisps of what appeared to be smoke coming from under a door. I gingerly opened the
door, and saw several witches standing around a cauldron. They had obviously
heard me, or felt the disturbance in air flow, and snapped around to face me,
their hands glowing green. From the Power, or their concoction, I did not know,
but I did not bother finding out. I rushed at them and with a flick of my wrist
slit the throat of the first one. The second managed to hit me in the back with
a miniature fireball, and I retaliated by tapping into her soul and crushing
it. She fell limply to the ground, and I felt the back of my head being hit by
the remaining one's staff. I kicked at her legs, but she dodged out of the way.
I hopped to my feet and tossed my dagger at her. It barely missed her,
shredding her robes as it went by, and I cursed. I was in a spot, now, then I
remembered the sword strapped to my waist. I had no time to feel stupid, so I
drew it and slashed at her several times. I missed the first few, but the last
landed, clearing off her head.
I
quickly rushed back out of that room, and spun to my right, running along. The
hallway made a sharp left turn, then an equally sharp right turn. I followed
this for a moment, before making
another right turn. At last, a stairway! I leapt down it and was faced by 2
wooden golems. After a few minutes of fighting with them, I continued on, a
little more bruised than before. I continued down the hall, and saw a blackened
door to my left. I carefully opened it and rushed in, my dagger out. I saw
nothing, until I turned to my left. There were two skeletons, a zombie giant,
and another, magical looking man, presumably the necromancer who had summoned them.
I dared not attack them, lest they be too powerful, so I hurried back out the
door, and carried on my way.
A
short while down the hallway again, I saw an emerald door to my left. I opened
it, and looked in. There was a giant, multi-colored, 3-headed dragon there, waiting,
and growling at me. I let out a little yelp and ran away screaming. Oh what a
brave warrior am I! I followed the hallway around another bend, and came to yet
another door. I opened it, and walked in. Suddenly several golems leapt upon me
and started thrashing about, attacking me to no end! Along with them was a human,
most likely a golem maker. I dispatched them, after a while, and turned to the
left, only to find more golems. Deciding that discretion truly IS the better
part of valor, I did what would be expected under the given circumstances. I
RAN FOR MY LIFE! I rushed back down the hallway, vowing to myself to get out of
here alive! After a few more turns, I found another staircase. I ran down it,
and encountered another pair of wooden golems. I decided to run from them now,
as I was already bloodied. They began to give chase, and I kept running. Many
quick turns, I thought, and I should be able to escape them. I was wrong. I
found another staircase, and another pair of golems. I now had 4 golems chasing
after me. I made it down another staircase, this time without any golems.
I
kept running, and they kept chasing. I ran into what appeared to be a
disembodied hand floating in mid-air. I did not dare attack it, as I did not
know what it was, so I kept running. Unfortunately, it too, kept chasing me! I
made it out into a large room, and saw an exit into a forest to my left. I
snapped around and ran towards the dim light. I saw a massive golem crafted of
pure diamond. I screamed, for surely I was dead. But instead, it did not attack
me. But as soon as the other golems and the hand came near it, it smashed them
with its massive fists, saying, "You must not leave the Tower. You must
stand guard! You have disobeyed the Grand Mistress, you must die."
I
sighed with relief, as well as sheer exhaustion. My nightmare was finally over!
Or so I thought. I ran into the forest, running around blindly, and soon
realized that I was completely trapped, as well as lost. I will never get out
of here. This thought plagued me for most of the rest of the day. At least I
was safe, however. Finally, when I was completely exhausted, I heard an echoing
voice.
It
seemed to be saying, "You know, you could have just taken the emergency
exit at the top of the Tower."
Runner-Up Best “Real” Scary Story 2002
“Untitled Journal”
By Migas
Journal entries from a travel
diary, now covered in dried blood and gore:
Tenth day of the Month of Suns:
“I have traveled through these
accursed woods for days now, and still no sign of this damned Ogier Waygate. To
think I had to kill 15 of these peaceful bastards to get the information I
needed. So much for them…”
Twelfth day of the Month of
Suns:
“The large leaf enscripture is
exactly as the Ogier had pointed out before I cut his throat, letting his death
come quickly... Mmmm his flesh was most enjoyable... Entering this damned
creation will be most interesting.”
Nineteenth day of the Month of
Suns:
“Ah having the air sucked from my
lungs as I entered this damned portal was shocking enough but now this wind...
I can’t take this eerie sense of death anymore.”
Thirtieth day of the Month of
Suns:
“ALL OF THESE BASTARDS MUST DIE! I
can’t sleep at night hearing these howls from those damned chromatic shimmering
creatures and their spike-covered friends. Every time I kill them they either
drain me of my magical prowess or crush me with their shooting spikes.
Mountains of Dhoom, The people who named this place were not kidding... They
don’t seem as aggressive once you rip their flesh from their blood-engorged
muscles... Wearing these skins has made traveling in these lands much better,
yet the stench from the rotting flesh has made me vomit in my slumber... waking
up covered in the dinner I ate the previous night... I doubt I’ll keep any food
down in this fiery deathtrap.”
Sixteenth day of the Month of
Pestilence:
“AHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHHA! Ahhhh
the smell of decapitated corpses and trolloc mating brings back memories. This
dark citadel stands in the middle of shadow. Everything about the damned place
is dismal and horrid; I can’t wait to kill this beast and claim my rightful
power.”
Twentieth day of the Month of
Pestilence:
“Weston, that stupid fool...
Thinking he can keep me from my true meaning in life. I laughed at him and his
attempts to stop me. Futile. I can taste my infinite wisdom and strength
already. Nothing will obstruct my path for vengeance.”
Twenty-first day of the Month
of Pestilence:
“Catacombs. Death is on the other
side of this damned circle of thorns and screaming souls. Some petty traveler
must have carved this stupid saying into the ground here:
BEYOND IS A PLACE LONG FORSAKEN BY
GOOD AND EVIL ALIKE.
As if that shall stop me...”
Twenty-second day of the Month
of Pestilence:
“After traveling through that
circle of death, I found myself wading in a pool of gore, rendered flesh, and
excrement. South of me, My Destiny, My Passion, My Power!
This creature was the size of 50
men, covered in the blood of people who had come before him. It was surrounded
by the most abysmal aura I had ever sensed. Having tiger-like claws the size of
a short sword and a shaved face with a muzzle resembling that of a lopar or
demon-like bear, there was no question in my mind it was the source of the evil
surrounding this citadel of doom. As I walked toward it, I realized why it was
at home in this pond filled with liquid death; It’s lower torso was comprised
of strange tentacles tipped with barbs, enabling it to travel as efficiently as
a bird in air or fish in water. This was no bird or fish, rather a creation
from some curse so great it was a plague to the entire universe. Drawing my
golden relic sword from its sheath, I stood ready to battle. Before I could
move another muscle, the beast had razed my right arm cutting through viscera,
muscle, and bone with one disgustingly graceful movement. Writhing in pain, I
attempted to block the next barrage of attacks, while trying to find my arm in
the excrement beneath my feet. Using my devotion to Lord Azakhet, I chanted
some words, mending the bone and muscle. The creature then stepped back; this
was my time to attack. Using all the willpower I had, I enshrouded this
creature in his own evilness. Now, I had the upper hand, or so I thought. The
creature did not merely step back, but had weaved a pattern of earth and fire
himself. Now I would be feeling his wrath two fold...(The remainder of this
entry is inscribed so hastily that no words can be deciphered except for the
last part)... Now that the demon was mine, he did not accept death. Instead, he
leaned over me and whispered “Malignor shall live forever.” Just as he said
that, my sword met his open abdomen; this caused him to secrete a fluid that
was blacker than the darkest night. The power is mine...Now, to find a way out
of this hellish realm.”
Third day of the Month of
Justice:
“AHAHAHHAHAHHA! I have all this
power and no way to escape this dark place. At least I have all of the blood to
drink for me... All mine... MINE!”
Seventeenth day of the Month of
Justice:
“The sweet taste of excrement and
blood is beginning to haunt my dreams... I lose sleep over the taste...”
Twenty-fourth day of the Month
of Justice:
“I am finding myself crying
uncontrollably...Am now having flashbacks of former people who possessed this
power, the Kingdom of Astirin was a beautiful place... hah... hahahahah
...ahhahahahahahhahahaah”
Twenty-seventh day of the Month of Justice:
“My enormous stomach are
controlling my actions I can’t stop eating... All hair has fallen. I don’t need
look beautiful.”
Thirty-first day of the Month
of Justice:
“Feet blurring... Many legs of
darkness... No sleep, Must control...”
Thirty-fifth day of the Month
of Justice:
“Hunger...”
There are no further entries.
Best Funny Scary Story 2002
“Untitled” *
By Caanan
"Blood
and ashes!!!" the man thought to himself as he was accosted once more on
his way through town. He forced a vapid smile on his face and parroted back the
words they tossed at him. “Idiots,” he fumed silently. He thought about his
little secret and almost smiled evilly, but caught himself just in time.
Eventually after having their fun at his expense, he continued onward. Making
sure no one was looking, he slipped inside a supposedly abandoned warehouse
along the docks in New Manetheren. Donning his bloodstained apron and grabbing
the huge, ever sharpened cleaver off its hook, he grabbed the dungeon key ring
and, humming the latest court tune, sauntered down the stone steps. Arriving at
his destination, he casually unlocked the door and gave it a great kick,
resulting in the door flying inwards and something soft crying out loudly.
Quickly he went inside the cell and closed the door, knowing that the prisoner
within would have to go through HIM to escape. That never happened. He made
sure of that. Seeing the small halfling glaring up at him and clutching his arm
was almost amusing as seeing the makeshift knife the wee one was planning to
use on him. Smiling in amusement he fell into his old routine. A quick slash
here to free the blood and stop the voice, a hard chop here to loose the head,
a few more chops to pare the legs and arms and he was done with the cleaver.
Wiping his beloved cleaver clean on his apron he began to hum. He fished out
the carving knife from his waistband and began to work.
Several
hours later no one noticed the tall man as he wandered aimlessly through town,
carrying his large and bulky brown paper wrapped package. Eventually, after
silently cursing several of the towns more abusive morons, he shambled into
Murryn's shop and dropped off his package, received his gold, a pat on the head
and off he went, fuming internally. “If these fools only knew,” he muttered to
himself, making sure to smile inanely at the passerby's. “I love to see them
rush in and buy all Murryn's meats.” he grinned at this, somehow managing to
turn it into something almost pleasantly idiotic as he walked though town on
his way back home. He was stopped many times and as always he played the fool
for the town, a town he despised. Clumping back down the pier Captain Slag
grinned evilly and very quickly and stifled a fit of insane giggling.
"Oh
yes," he thought as he smoothed his face back into the moronic, innocent
face he wore while at the docks, "Being evil is ever so fun!"
* When Captain Slag himself was
asked what he wanted his story to be titled, be replied:
“What
do you want the story to be buff but now he just plain sux's,
no really he does.'”
Runner-Up Best Funny Scary Story 2002
“Untitled” *
By Sergei
“Father,”
said Sergei, “what was my mother like?”
“Your
mother was an Aes Sedai of the Yellow Ajah. She devoted her life to the
betterment of the world, to heal the ill people and the dying land,” Father
Kelvin replied.
“But how
did she die?” the young boy asked.
The
father replied, “One of the
“In that
case, I want to help out the Aes Sedai. I want to be a Warder!” exclaimed the
excited child.
Father
Kelvin said, “Train hard enough, and you will one day become the strongest and
most courageous of Warders.”
Sergei
never once forgot the day his father told him he would be the best Warder.
Shortly after his father’s death, Sergei left New Manetheren for the
countryside, near the Mists of Shar Loelyn, where he taught himself how to use
a sword. Much of his maturity into a blossomed fighter is credited to a person
he befriended by the name of Candrel. Candrel was a pelt maker; he had the
ability to create magnificent, exquisite weapons and armor. Candrel took a
liking to the determined boy, and helped his training by offering him the best
of weapons. Perhaps the most prized item Sergei received from the craftsman was
a beautifully crafted ‘Frostspire’, created from the horns of the fabled Great
White Dragon. With this magnificent halberd, the resolute warrior perfected the
art of charging.
The big
day arrived. Sergei was no longer the young, overexcited lad in New Manetheren.
He had developed into a handsome, muscular man, with a bit of facial hair.
Holding his beloved ‘Frostspire’ with one hand, and a sturdy iron shield with
his other hand, Sergei marched from Shar Loelyn to New Manetheren, where he
planned on taking a ferry to the bustling city of
After this small nuisance, Sergei
returned to his journey, this time heading the right direction towards the
grand city of
With
victories over the Riparian Horror and the mysterious druid, Sergei felt ready
to become a Warder. He paid a giddy ferryman, Thaelix, and soon after arrived
at Tar Valon. He could already see the imposing figure of the
“Excuse
me, but where can I find the Amyrlin Seat? I aspire to be a Warder for the
The
Sedai, of the Yellow Ajah, responded, “Ah, another hopeful Warder? Well then,
if you can find the Amyrlin on your own, ye shall become what you desire.”
“She
could be anywhere! This place is so big….how will I ever find her by myself?”
“You do
want to be a Warder don’t you? Only the smartest, boldest, and strongest
fighters are worthy for the
“I shall!
I swear by my honor to the Kelvin family that I will find the Amyrlin and
become a Warder of the
So Sergei
entered the daunting building in search for the Amyrlin. He didn’t realize he
had no idea who she was or what she looked like, only that he had to find her.
With what little brains he had, Sergei deduced that the Amyrlin was at the top
of the edifice. Unfortunately, she was not, but Sergei thought he had it all
figured out. He happened upon a door locked by some mystical object, but
luckily the old sergeant had to go upstairs. He unlocked the door, allowing
both he and Sergei to pass through. Sergei wandered around some more, ending up
at a dead end. On the ground was a note with the words, ‘I serve the Great Lord
of the Dark, as you do. We both serve.’ He read them aloud, not knowing what
they meant; suddenly he was transported to a dark hallway with insignias of the
Black Ajah. He had heard from his father one time that the Black Ajah had
caused a great trouble in the land for many years; thus, Sergei reported to an
Ajah that there were Black Ajah about in the
Lesson to
be learned: Don’t join
* As this story was also untitled –
we asked Captain Slag again what he thought the name should be:
“If
you want the scary story about that, but it's a bit of a fucking mystery!!!!!”
Best Age of Chaos Mythos Story 2002
“Untitled”
By Mara
The
Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and go. Legend turns to myth, and even myth
is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. An Age long
past, an Age yet to come, called by some the Fourth Age, the Age of Chaos. In a
land called the Shire, a quiet and mysterious man walked. His journey was
neither the beginning nor the ending, but it was a beginning.
Down
His
approach did not go unnoticed, however. An elderly nursemaid, upon seeing him,
abandoned her fruitless pursuit of a nearby toddler and met him at the entrance
to the keep.
“Marathan,”
she nodded her head, “it has been long since you visited these parts. Have you
come to regale our children with your tales of strange lands once more? They have sorely missed you, though,” she
added under her breath, “I can scarce understand why.”
If
the man heard this last comment, he deigned not to respond. “I have indeed,” he
replied, “I have a new tale to tell. A tell of adventure, of horror, of love,
of death, of a journey, and of a quest. There is no story like it, nor will
there ever be.”
The
nursemaid pondered this statement. Shrugging, she said, “Well, it could not
have come at a better time, Marathan. The toddlers are impossible to control
today; they simply will not listen. Perhaps they will all settle down when they
learn you have a story for them.”
Marathan
smiled. “Yes, I think they will.”
Within
minutes of his arrival, each and every toddler was accounted for, sitting quite
uncharacteristically patient and silent, excitement plain on all faces, nearly
ready to boil over. The old man himself was seated upon a large rock, where he
always told his tales from, looking like something out of a tale himself, so
powerful and mysterious did he seem. Silent he remained for several minutes,
but not a child dared to speak, for fear that the story might be rescinded as
punishment. Marathan did not care to be interrupted, they all knew.
Suddenly,
he began. “This is a tale different than any other I have told. For this tale
is not about some faraway hero in another land rescuing beautiful princesses
locked in tall towers or slaying mighty dragons of frost and fire. This tale is
my own, of something I lost, and found again.”
Each
and every pair of eyes was riveted to those of the speaker’s. Even the
nursemaids were listening, though they would never admit it to anyone, least of
all to themselves.
“So,
let me get this straight,” the centaur said, “you want to travel the Ways?”
Marathan
nodded. “Indeed. It is the only way by which I can arrive at Ebou Dar in time
to save them from the Trollocs.”
“And
you need us to protect you on this dangerous journey,” Candrel added, flexing
his most impressive frame, to which the centaur had to stifle a laugh, for did
not everyone knew the superior strength of beast over man?
“Yes.
There are… quite terrible things lurking in the Ways. I require the help of
each of you in order to pass through safely.”
Another
member of the party, a beautiful young woman, spoke up. “But of what use would
I be on such a mission?” she asked, sounding slightly confused, and not a
little afraid.
“You
are indispensable to this mission, Holly,” Marathan answered. “However, the
reason for this may not be disclosed now, for fear of endangering the
mission.” Holly seemed about to reply,
then, catching the peculiar, expressionless, somehow deeply unsettling look on
Marathan’s face, she thought better of it.
The
centaur, however, was not about to settle for that response. “Why imperil the
woman? I think that…”
Marathan
interrupted. “That is precisely the problem, Lorn. You are not being paid to
think on this mission. You are here strictly as muscle. Fades and Trollocs
patrol the Ways, as do much… darker and more sinister things.” Lorn grumbled to himself at this, but wisely
held his tongue.
“And
what of I?” the last of the companions asked, a tall Aracoix asked.
“That
is simple,” Marathan responded, “you, Sting, are here for your valuable skills
as a Ranger. The Ways are difficult to navigate. I require a tracker of
unequalled ability to ensure we do not end up wandering the Ways forever. Also,
you speak Ogier, the language of the builders of the Ways. All the signposts
within will need to be translated. Anything else?” Marathan asked, then, not
waiting for a response, added, “Good. Let’s be going.”
For
several long and difficult hours they rode, Candrel and Holly upon the back of
the centaur, Sting on foot, and Marathan gliding swiftly across the rough,
hilly terrain on channeled currents of Air. At long last, the Waygate was
finally in view. It was far more massive and beautiful than any of them had
imagined, yet it had a sick, tainted quality to its beauty as well, an
impossibly evil aura that could almost be tasted.
Marathan
approached the gate, and examined the intricate carvings along the pillars, of
every leaf of every tree and plant known to man and Ogier. He grabbed hold of
one, the Avendesora, and pulled hard.
The leaf came off easily.
The
Waygate groaned, trembling like a living thing, rumbling its protest at being
awakened from its long slumber, then creaked open, slowly, inch by inch. It
took nearly a minute to permit the entrance of the large centaur and his riders.
Marathan entered without hesitation, but Lorn locked his legs at the threshold
of the entrance.
“Come
on, centaur,” Marathan glared at the beast, “This is no time to get cold feet.”
Holly
stroked the centaur behind the ears, gently caressing, down his neck and back. “Just
think of all those people, living in fear of their lives from the Trollocs. You
have to help them, Lorn.”
The
man-horse let loose a tremendous neigh, and charged into the opening.
After
the entrance had shut, the group was left in total darkness. Holly screamed. Lorn
grumbled. Candrel muttered. Sting shivered. Then there was a spark. All started
in surprise, blinking their eyes at the dim light now produced by the torch in
Marathan’s hand. Waving his free hand towards the now visible black monolith,
he said to Sting, “Translate.” The
Ranger obeyed.
“North
ten thousand paces, it says, then east, then north again. There should be
another monolith waiting there,” Sting reported. “But, it also has carvings I
cannot read, fresh carvings, I might add. It could be the Trolloc script.”
“Trollocs
prowl these Ways, now,” Marathan said. “This is, as I have told you all, why
you are here. Now, keep moving.”
“Ordering
me around like a damn pack horse,” Lorn muttered angrily, but spoke no louder
than a whisper. Holly whispered soothing words to the man-beast, who soon
calmed down.
How
long they traveled in the near-darkness, no one was sure. Marathan only
consented to stop when finally Lorn shook off his saddlebags and passengers,
and lay down, refusing to go any farther that day.
“Gosh,
I’m starving,” Candrel muttered, “what did you bring to eat?”
“Nothing,”
Marathan said. “I brought no food.”
It
took a moment for the meaning of that to sink in. Lorn shot up onto his feet,
despite his exhaustion, and Candrel whipped out his hunting knife and gestured
towards their leader, quite threateningly.
“No
food?” Lorn shouted, “Why, I should
kill you where you stand for this! We are
all doomed!”
Holly
patted the centaur’s back. “Hold your horses, Lorn,” she said, and then gasped.
“Whoops, sorry. Anyway, I’m sure that Marathan has everything under control. Don’t you?” she looked hopefully at him.
Instead
of replying, Marathan began to weave his hands in the air. Strangely, he
appeared to be tracing the shape of a cornucopia. Candrel boggled suddenly,
surprise evident on his leathery face. “I’m not hungry anymore!” he cried.
“Indeed,”
Marathan said, “none of you should have to eat or drink for several days, now. I
did not wish to burden Lorn with more supplies than were strictly necessary.”
“Ah,
I see. Thanks, I suppose, are in order,” Lorn muttered grudgingly, but
sincerely. “Now, I am going to get some rest.”
Lorn promptly collapsed into a heap, and was asleep in an instant.
Holly
lay down beside her father, but could not sleep. Candrel pulled out a beaver
skin from his pack and commenced to work on it idly, passing the time. Marathan
kept first watch vigilantly, as if he were expecting an attack at any moment.
“Light
no fire,” he ordered, “It will attract the denizens of this place.” No one protested.
Somehow,
some way, eventually, everyone was asleep. Perhaps it was the need to be away
from the reality of the place for awhile, perhaps it was the evil of the place,
or, most likely, perhaps they were all simply too
tired to keep awake. In any event, no one saw the stealthy figure enter the
camp. Silently it worked, cutting straps, throwing supplies into the bottomless
chasm on either side of the path, and scraping the pitch off their torches so
they would not light. Giggling to itself, it then left as quietly as it had
come in.
“Sting,”
Marathan glared at the guilty-faced Ranger, “you had the last watch, did you
not?”
The
Aracoix nodded grimly. “I did. And I most humbly apologize for failing at my
post.”
The
camp had been ravaged. Someone, or something, had entered during the night. From
the light of the one torch not ruined, one could see that all of Lorn’s
saddlebags had been opened, the contents strewn about chaotically, as if by a
crazed animal. Much of the most important gear, their ropes and weapons, for
instance, were simply missing, stolen, or worse, thrown into the abyss that lay
all around them. Lorn’s harnesses were slashed, and Candrel had not been able
to repair them, for most of the tools of his craftsman’s trade had been among
those that had vanished. Holly was in tears. Lorn was enraged. Candrel vainly
attempted to comfort his daughter. Sting looked dejectedly at his feet, unable
to meet anyone’s accusing gaze.
“Well,”
Marathan announced, “there is nothing to be done about it, now. We continue
onward.”
Lorn
boggled. “Are you insane?” he shouted, “We have nothing! The only weapon
remaining is Candrel’s carving knife; the only torch remaining is in your hand.
If we come to a chasm, we will not be able to cross it. We should go back.”
“NEVER!”
Marathan screamed viciously, startling the entire party in the first display of
emotion they had seen in him. Just as quickly, he was calm as death once more. “We
shall not go back. We have a mission to complete. And we will see it through.”
“I
agree with Lorn,” Sting added, “it is far too dangerous to be in here at all,
much less as helpless as we are. I am returning to the Waygate, and leaving
this foul place. Anyone is welcome to come with me.” Lorn immediately strode up next to Sting,
indicating his support.
Holly
whipped her head suddenly to the left, her soft blond hair swirling about her
face. “What was that?” she asked fearfully. “I thought I felt something brush
past me.”
Marathan
held the torch up higher, revealing nothing but more shadow. “There is no one
there,” he stated.
Holly
was not convinced. “I’m sure that I felt someth-”
Sting
whirled around, hand going to scabbard instinctively, before remembering his
two-handed sword was gone. “I felt it too. Like a wind, it was. Like Death
itself.”
“I’m
getting out of here right now!” Lorn cried, and ran back the way they had come.
They
all saw something then, a flicker of gray, in the corners of their eyes. All
turned towards it.
Nothing
was there but more of the gloom.
Sting
grunted.
“What
is it?” Holly asked, concerned, then let out a bloodcurdling scream. Blood
gushed forth from Sting’s torso like a geyser, centered over his heart. The
business end of a dagger was sticking out an inch from the birdman’s chest. He
groped feebly at his back, struggling to remove the blade, and crumpled to the
floor. Behind him stood a gray figure, so plain of feature that the eye slid
across him like water off a duck’s back, crimson wet on its hands, wicked grin
on its face.
“Grey
Man!” Candrel shouted, charging the enemy with his tiny knife, which easily
dodged the attack, and struck at Candrel’s wrist, jarring it to the bone. The
knife skittered across the jet-black floor, out of reach. Disarmed, he did not
give up. Wrapping his powerful arms around the Grey Man, he squeezed with all
of his might, the strength of three lesser men. Like liquid rubber, the thing
flowed out of his grasp and brought down both fists on Candrel’s head, knocking
him flat on his face, out cold.
Lorn
had, however, heard the commotion, and returned. “For honour and glory!” the
centaur belted out its war chant, and smashed headlong into the Grey Man,
sending it sprawling. As it strove to regain its balance, there was a
thunderclap, and purple lightning arced from Marathan’s outstretched hands,
tearing into the Grey Man, and setting it ablaze, filling the air with the
mixed stench of ozone and charring flesh.
The
Grey Man hissed in pain and fury, and frantically beat at itself, trying to
quench the magical flames. Lorn charged again, and delivered a tremendous kick
to the groin of the enemy. With a muted squeak, the Grey Man staggered
backwards, and dropped off the edge of the precipice. It made no sound as it
fell to its certain doom.
Sting
made one last, futile movement, and then was still.
“We
go back,” Lorn insisted, after the shock of the attack had dissipated, “You saw
that thing, we all did. We cannot hope to face another Grey Man without more
casualties.”
“He
is right,” Candrel heartily agreed, as he sliced away at the beaver skin he had
been working on earlier, “I fear for both my safety, and my daughter’s. This
place has been damned by the gods.” Holly
had nothing to say about the matter, but the haunted, pained look she gave
Sting’s lifeless body spoke more powerfully than anything she could have said.
Marathan
shook his head. “We cannot go back. The city of
Candrel
threw down the beaver pelt and roared his defiance at the new threat. He rushed
the fearsome beast clung to Lorn’s body and rammed his dagger into the thing as
hard as he could, but it harmlessly deflected of the scaly carapace. The beast,
angered at this display of retaliation, whipped its wings towards Candrel’s
face. Claws extended from beneath the shadowy folds, and Candrel narrowly
managed to evade the blow. Bleeding from a dozen deep gashes, Lorn again
thundered his battle cry and launched a whirlwind kick at the flying monster. With
amazing alacrity, it not only ducked the attack, it launched a counterstroke
with its hind legs that smashed the unfortunate centaur in the side of his
cranium, crashing him to the floor.
“NOOOOOO!”
Holly screamed, “Lorn!” She ran to the
man-beast’s side, heedless of the danger. Candrel ordered her to get back, but
she refused to obey, instead bending down to examine the head wound of the
mount that had brought her so far into this forsaken realm.
The
aerial enemy continued to wrestle with Candrel, and it was clear the big man
was losing, despite his powerful endurance. Slowly, Candrel was forced to his
knees, and just as the thing raised its terrible sharp claws, intending to
disembowel its victim, Marathan conjured a great, fiery sword in his hands,
flaming bright red with the pure energy of the One Power. Without a sound, he
plunged the massive weapon into the base of its neck, the thick scales easily
penetrated by the saidin-wrought
blade. Candrel’s assailant gave a gurgled croak, and fell away from his almost-prey.
When
Candrel regained sufficient composure to stand, he saw his daughter cradling
the poor centaurs head in her lap, neck bent at nearly a ninety-degree angle to
his shoulders, clearly not a healthy position to be in, even to the most
ignorant of observers.
“He
is dead,” Marathan intoned, his voice showing no emotion, “Hurry, let us
continue.”
Holly
glared icy daggers at him from amidst her hot tears. “Have you no compassion at
all? Surely we can have at least a few
words over his grave before we go home.”
Marathan
was adamant. “We do not go home. We move on. Remember the mission. If we go
home, Lorn and Sting died for nothing. Do you want that?”
Holly
lowered her eyes. “No,” she whispered, “I don’t.”
“Good.
Say your words over his corpse, and then let us be going. There may be more of
those monsters about; Draghkar, they are called.” Marathan held the flaming sword high, as it
produced the only remaining light in the infernal darkness. He had been forced
to drop the torch he carried to wield the magical weapon, and it had put itself
out.
Still
gently holding the dead horse-man in her arms, she whispered, “I love you, Lorn.
I wish I had got to know you better. Much
better.” She held Lorn’s body for
several minutes after that, not speaking.
Candrel
muttered to himself, while Marathan merely waited patiently, not bothering to
comment on the matter. He could have been a statue for all the interest he
showed. Growing bored with the wait, Candrel retrieved his knife and pelt, and
once more commenced to work. He was crafting a cap from the skin, it could be
seen now, and promised to be a fine piece of workmanship when complete, barring
any mishaps.
Apparently
feeling the need to be on the move again, Marathan said, “Holly, grab the torch
for me. I do not wish to expend my strength on this blade merely to light the
way any longer. I must conserve it for any future encounters.”
Holly
nodded sadly, then stood up, and walked over to get the torch for him. It lay
about halfway between her and Candrel. She bent down low to pick it up. A loud
RRRRRIIIIIIPPPPP was heard suddenly, and Holly looked up at the sound.
“Blood
and flaming ashes!” Candrel fumed as he stared at the pelt in his hands. A long
gash running nearly the entire length of the pelt was visible, nearly severing
the thing in halves. Not even a master craftsman could do anything with it now.
Shrugging, he tossed the wrecked beaver cap into the void of the Ways.
“When
crafting such things,” Marathan commented, “it is best to keep one’s eyes on
the work.” Candrel flushed a violent
red, but fortunately, the beautiful Holly was blissfully ignorant of her
father’s wandering eyes, and Marathan did not mention it further, more likely
due to apathy than anything else.
There
was a brief silence, then, as could be expected, “Get ready. We leave. Now.”
Several
hours passed away uneventfully, and the remaining trio reached the next Ogier
monolith, covered in that race’s ancient runes, and also vandalized by
Trollocs, and who knew what other monstrosities, with twisting, spidery runes.
“Oh
my gosh!” Holly suddenly realized, “The Ogier
writing! We cannot read it!”
Candrel
groaned. “Then we cannot continue onward. Surely, Marathan, even you can now
see that.” Marathan stared at the runes,
as if urging them to speak by sheer force of will, but the enigmatic scrawls
remained silent as a tomb. Not quite silent, though; there could be heard a
faint rustling of air, like the whisperings of a ghost or a lost soul. Candrel
thought he was imagining it until it began to grow slowly louder, and Holly
observed it as well.
Marathan
suddenly became incredibly alert, eyes darting to and fro, across the dark
expanse, searching for something.
“It
comes,” he whispered almost reverently, “it comes.”
Father
and daughter gave each other a confused look. “What comes?” the former asked. Marathan
did not reply. Instead he tensed himself up, and readied his hands for a spell,
and continued to watch like a hawk. The whispering increased, maddeningly just
out of the grasp of understanding now, hissing and moaning in the background
like a cacophony of quietly chanting, eager voices.
The
air was cold now, and Holly shivered. “What is happening?” she asked Marathan,
who ignored her. “Marathan? Do you know
what’s going on?” she begged him, becoming frantic. Candrel, too, was demanding
answers, but their leader paid them no heed.
“Soft…” something whispered, “warm…” It sounded hungry.
“Great
Talen Almighty!” Candrel howled, “It’s the Machin
Shin! We are all doomed!”
“Suck the marrow…”
Holly
went absolutely rigid with fear, the sheer terror of the certain damnation
before them paralyzing every muscle in her body. Candrel screamed the vilest of
curses at their leader for bringing them to their death, then fell shockingly
silent as he saw the wicked, expectant gleam on Marathan’s face. He planned for us to die here, Candrel realized.
He must be suicidal.
“Crack the bones…”
With a last, desperate act, Candrel pulled out
his dagger, and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Though we die here today, I
swear by Jesuel that I will send your soul to Shayol Ghul first!” The craftsman leaped forward, swinging his
weapon in a wide arc aimed at Marathan’s head. He did not even move. The blade
smashed into the side of his head and it shattered. Marathan’s skin was hard as
rock. Without even turning around, Marathan raised a hand and made a small
gesture. Candrel dropped the dagger and clutched at his throat, suddenly unable
to draw breath. He wheezed and gasped as he began to suffocate, going first red
in the face, then purple, and then blue.
“So wet the blood…”
The
wind rose to a howling crescendo, screaming like the wails of a thousand
keening banshees, drowning out all other sound, all other thought, all sanity,
from the mind. With all of its awful might, it tore into Holly’s waiting body. Flesh
began to peel off of her bones, dropping off into space. Her blood exploded
into the air, where an invisible force madly drank it up as fast as it came,
then snatched the tidbits of meat that it had rendered a moment before. Scarcely
more than a skeleton, Holly still managed to utter a last, piercing scream of
unimaginable suffering and horror. The Shin
then brought all of its power to bear upon even those remaining bones,
shattering each one in two, and sucking the marrow out of them like a straw in
lemonade.
Candrel
could do nothing to prevent it as he was rooted to the spot, as he uselessly
strove to breathe. Then Marathan turned to face him. “I thank you for your
services, Craftsman,” he said, “Now; I shall reclaim what I have lost. It is
too bad you will not live to see me returned to my former glory. Perhaps, in
another turning of the Wheel.” Candrel
attempted to reply, but his vocal chords were too tightly squeezed by the
ancient magic enveloping him. Instead, he made one last gesture of his own,
extending one middle finger in the direction of his murderer. Then his eyes
rolled sickeningly back in his head, and the last remaining member of
Marathan’s group gave up the ghost.
Marathan
turned to face the wind, which was now groping at the corpse of Candrel,
scouring the flesh from his bones as well. “Damn you, Machin Shin!” He thundered. “Give
me back my soul!” Hot balefire erupted
from his hands and flashed into the darkness. Machin Shin recoiled in pain, but not even that tremendous magic
could destroy it.
“Suck your marrow… crack your bones… So
wet your blood… So warm…”
Great cascades of lightning raced across what passed for
sky here, forming long chains that lanced into the wind with all the strength
Marathan could muster. Storms of fire burned fiercely, surrounding the
maddening wind that screamed louder and louder with rage at this defiance. Striking
forward, the Shin raked its invisible
claws at the soulless being before it, and deflected harmlessly off of a dozen
protective enchantments.
“Give
me back my soul!” Launching every source of battle magic
available to him, Marathan deftly conjured shearing lances of ice, tornadoes of
howling fury, walls of swords and sheets of hellfire at
the thief of his precious soul. Pressing the attack, Marathan redoubled his
efforts. Machin Shin fought with all
of its might, but even that great force could not stand up to the full power of
the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the world. Machin Shin crumpled to the floor, mortally wounded. It begged for
mercy. It pleaded for its life. Then, as a last resort, it released the thing
that Marathan had sought for so long, the thing that he had unhesitatingly
sacrificed hundreds of innocent lives for in his impossible quest. It released
the archmage’s life essence.
Marathan
snatched it up like a dying man laps water in the
desert. “MINE!” Glaring with hate at the thing that had
deprived him of the thing he held most dear for so long, he channeled open a
gateway and left the wind writhing upon the floor, completely uncaring whether
it lived or died.
The
nursemaids were deathly silent. The toddlers were crying softly, shivering with
the horror of the tale. Kid’n Keep was no longer was a joyful place where children
could laugh and play. The telling of this story had shattered that image
forever.
“So,
as you no doubt have realized,” Marathan said, “I required living beings as
bait to attract the Machin Shin to
me, for since it had taken my soul so long ago, it would not be able to sense
me at all. Now I can feel my emotion, again. You see, when I lost my soul, I
was unable to enjoy anything anymore, not a thing. Not my wealth, my women, my
magic, my power, not even the thing I love above all else: killing. But now
that I have it back, I shall enjoy very much watching you all die.
The
screams that echoed across the hills from Kid’n Keep that day were not
carefree, nor innocent. They were the screams of the damned, the dying. Of
purest agony and torture, they were, and Marathan drank it all in, enjoying
every second of the carnage, the pillage, the rape and the murder.
After
he had finished, he Traveled to Shayol Ghul, where he had a long overdue
appointment with the Great Lord himself. Shai’Tan had promised him a new body,
but required that Marathan have a soul in his current body in order to obtain
it. Strangely, his dark master had picked out a woman’s body for him, this time.
Strange, but not unheard of. He recalled that Balthamel had also been granted a
woman’s body, once. He had already chosen a name for his ‘new self.’ Mara Selene. The Living Death, in the Old
Tongue. How true that was.
Runner-Up Best Age of Chaos Mythos Story
2002
“Fragments of a Journal”
By Jaquon
12/Month of Cups Had a fairly uneventful day, the usual
couple of cuts and bruises from bar fights, a few kids with injured fingers or
hands, nothing out of the ordinary. The same foolhardy stories about Jlindan at
the tavern too, one even claimed he got stung by a bunch of scorpions from the city.
Too much ale is what I say.
13/Month of Cups I must confess to be a little rattled,
had a call from the tavern owner in the dark hours of the morning, one of the
patrons (the one with his scorpion stories actually) started screaming in his
bed, bleeding from his eyeballs of all places. Gave him something for the pain,
but I have no idea what’s the matter; he kept tearing at his eyes screaming
something about the itching.
14/Month of Cups There is some foul devilry afoot. The
man from the tavern was found dead in his room this morning, the sheets
drenched in a deep crimson hue. A strange white jelly was splattered against
the wall, and his hollow eye sockets had maggots worming out of them. The
people are visibly shaken. I must remember to ask the Rowena or Neysta to
investigate.
15/Month of Cups The nigh watchman on duty in the area
could swear he saw the dead man from the tavern walking around the streets last
night, probably the ale talking. All the same I must remember to consult
Rowena.………….
18/Month of Cups These last few days have been insane. Half
the townsfolk seem to be rotting the very flesh off their bones; this foul
undead plague has taken its toll on the fair city. I found the white tower
deserted, this cannot be a good sign. We have gathered together about
20/Month of Cups Chaos is sown among our ranks; we headed
east, to the safety of the Stedding, but found the gate held against us. Many
fine men have died these last two days, falling preys to the rusted, moldy
blades of the carcasses barring our passage. My brother Johanon was struck on
the thigh; I have taken it on myself to carry him with us. I will not tell him
this, but the blood soaking from the wound is a grave sign.
21/Month of Cups With each shriek of a dying man the
enemy’s ranks swell in size, discretion is the better part of valor they say,
we have fled out the west gate, though we seem to be safe for the moment a
grave sense of foreboding eats at my mind.
22/Month of Cups Damn these woods! Even at
24/Month of Cups We have lost five men to the wolves, the
savage beast raided out camp last night when the clumsy guard fell asleep and
let the fire die out. In the chaos of the screams, howls, weapons being drawn
and dropped I lost all sense of direction; I fear we are hopelessly lost. This
is not of prime concern however, the sight of five of their comrades
torn limb from bloody limb by the beasts has made many of the men even more
uneasy. Many have deep bites on various parts of their bodies; the blood is
oozing out of the infected wounds like rotten puss out of a scab. Johanon’s
wound too, has become septic, and though I will do what I can I fear for the
worst.
25/Month of Cups The men are too terrified to move. Seven
of our strongest were discovered this morning with their decapitated heads
dripping with deep crimson blood, eyes gashed out, gray
matter oozing out of the hole where tent pegs were driven through their skulls.
Their bodies were turned inside out, and the entire camp reeks of rotten
entrails and digestive juices. This is clearly not the work of the wolves, but
as yet we have had no trace of the horde pursuing us. No doubt they are
bolstering their ranks with each passing minute.
26/Month of Cups Nerves are running high, and a number of
men snapped, drawing swords during a quarrel earlier today. Damned fools! We have enough troubles without killing each
other too! I have bound their wounds,
but doubt they will make it, one had an earlobe cleaved clean off his head, another had a huge chunk of bloody flesh gouged out of his
leg. After the quarrel had died down we started building several makeshift
rafts for the next day’s journey.
27/Month of Cups A third of our party have left, veering
north and opting for the ‘safety’ of the caves. Our pleas fell on deaf ears,
they truly believe they will survive the caves of fire. We lost one other raft
to the waterfall, the men could not stop their craft in time. The horrible
wailing of men plummeting to their death is something I will never forget.
28/Month of Cups A moment’s sanity in the madness! We have met with Alfric, who provided us with
warm, rich meals for the night. Two of the other leaders and I sat late into
the night in counsel with the bard. He had heard of the tragedy at Tar Valon,
and intended to leave with us when we did. We were warned to remain on the
correct paths at all times, lest we stray into the
29/Month of Cups The start of our journey has been somber,
for we buried many of our companions this day. Among them my brother, the rotting
flesh of his leg had attracted all kinds of disease and maggots, he died a
slow, painful death as we watched and mourned. But we must continue, for the
sake of all our lives.………….
2/Month of the Fox: Woe the day! We were ambushed today by a mage of most
terrible power! In our exhausted state
we were no match for the insidious caster. Alfric our guide, too, fell to the
columns of balefire that turned flesh to ash and clouded the sky with the
noxious fume of roast human. For the first time in over tens years I threw up
at the sight of death and decay. We ran, we ran as we have never run before,
and the slow and tired fell to the vile mage.
4/Month of the Fox: As if having seen our friends and family
members burned to cinders, cleaved limb from limb, and have our face splattered
with our own blood was not enough, we not find ourselves dealing with the fact
that we left them behind to be killed. The aspen trees at least allow us to see
the sun on our faces, but it is little consolation.
5/Month of the Fox: Four more of our company have gone, one to
a festering wound which wrenched his meals out of his punctured stomach, three
others in a most bizarre turn of events. Some infernal dragon appeared out of
nowhere, and weaved a ‘Forget’ spell on 3 of our members who were straying
behind. We waited for them, yet when they got to us they saw the blood on our
clothing and the weapons in our hands, and thought we meant them harm. Now we
have the blood of our kin on our hands in an even baser manner. Spirits are
low.
6/Month of the Fox: Praise the light! We have made our way to the fortress! The elves have proven to be much more open
than the stories make them out to be. Verana, a High Priest of Talen, has
tended our wounded, the healing magics of the elves never cease to astound my
humble human mind. The king is urgent for news, and I am to meet with him and
Qethlas tomorrow.
7/Month of the Fox: Tesathran had difficulty believing the
incredible tale we told him, but after some persuading he was swayed. He told
me the mage we encountered was called Bakshra, an old enemy of the Tree
Fortress. The council has met, Ashlan was sent to fetch Moritsu to the main
fortress.
8/Month of the Fox: Ashlan has returned with grave news:
Moritsu is dead, the outer parts of the forest are a dance of yellow and red
flames. The undead have arrived in the forest, Bakshra has joined them and is
now leading the assault. A protective ward has been lain down around the
fortress, and Tyglaadian and his captains are rushing to organize the defense,
knowing the enchantment will not last long.………….
10/Month of the Fox:
11/Month of the Fox: The bastards are cunning! They have started catapulting rotting corpses
festering with disease over the walls and onto the various levels of the
fortress. At least a hundred men have fallen ill, seizures, delusions, foaming
at the mouth with blood oozing from nostrils and ears.………….
14/Month of the Fox: Khalas has fallen! The fortress grieves, but the very
foundations are now on fire! We must
charge them soon. The council has met to discuss our options. Ashlan mentioned
the one we dare not contemplate, for it would cost the king and his advisor
their lives.
15/Month of the Fox: I awoke early this morning to find a huge,
gaping maw hanging over my face, with filthy maggots and flies creeping from
the orifices in the skull before me. I managed to kick the creature off
balance, and found our group surrounded on all sides by undead knights and
revenants, the scum from the
16/Month of the Fox: We do not have the reserves to charge
through their ranks, we now await the inevitable. Tyglaadian and Ashlan fell
today, the ground is drenched in the blood of elves and undead alike, flesh and
bone both are turning to cinders all around, the sky is blackened by the smoke,
such that the day is as night. Bakshra has issued a challenge to Tesathran less
than an hour ago, but the king has not yet responded. The wounds I treat get
worse by the hour, huge gashes in torsos, entrails ripped out, lungs
splattering a gruesome much of blood and mucus into the air. I have lost count
of the number of amputations I have had to perform, the limbs are simply flung
to the ground in the same heap as the bodies of the fallen. In truth none of
them have any chance of survival, the infernal plague being rained from the
skies is infected the smallest of cuts, turning them into festering wounds
bubbling with mucus and blood. Three men today had seizures so severe they
broke their own back and spilled their entrails on the floor. I should clean my
shoes.
17/Month of the Fox: Qethlas gathered up all those who could
still stand on their own feet, and lead a charge against the ranks today. The
power of the elf amazes me, he slew by my count over a hundred of the foul
monsters. Yet in the end he fell, his tortured screams echoed throughout the
woods, and the very earth quivered at his agony. The streams run red, and the
hollows and low lying areas on the ground have formed themselves into crimson
rivers, running off into the forest. The birds too have gone, fleeing the
burning trees for a safer home. The enemy was not as strong as we thought,
though we now have no more warriors left in fit condition, the horde appears to
have no more than a hundred or so. Still a hundred too many. Bakshra again
issued his challenge, and Tesathran has agrees to battle him, one on one,
tomorrow at
18/Month of the Fox: Lords of the Light! The horde is vanquished! Bakshra and Tesathran sparred until
nightfall, the mage’s balefire scorching the king to a deep brown. Yet the
elven king was powerful, and at his blows the remnant of the horde shriek and
quivered, Bakshra staggered under the powerful strikes. It was clear that the
king was gaining the upper hand, but the denizens of darkness can never be
trusted. Tesathran was assailed from behind by 3 revenants and a monster the
likes of which I had never seen before. A gigantic wall of flesh was slowly
striding toward the king, blocking his escape, turning noxious the air with its
foul odor. Trapped between the flesh and Bakshra, Tesathran fell pray to blows
from all sides, yet with his last few breaths managed to strike the mage so
powerfully that his very body ruptured, and spouted his dark blood into the
trees and the crowd gathered around. The two fell on top of each other, and a
deathly silence prevailed in the woods. Without warning the very ground began
to quiver and shake, and the fortress seemed as if it would collapse upon
itself. There was a howl of a beast clearly not of this world, one which the
remaining elves would later tell was named the Vindicator, with claws the size
of men’s arms he tore through corpse upon corpse, rending flesh, bone and metal
as a hot knife through butter. The last of the damned corpses fell, and the
beast charged the wall of flesh with such ferocity that it ripped asunder,
flinging chinks of decomposing human flesh into the branches. The beast ran
off, into the forest, and we have not seen it since. The fortress is still on
fire, however, and we must work feverishly if we hope to make it out of here
alive.
19/Month of the Fox: We have battled all day against the raging
blazes, and though we would ordinarily have n…..nce a blessed rainstorm has
made our task possible, if..til……lex. I once again awoke in the early hours of
the mourning, and heard the wail……………..r. None of u….. ….ain what that b………our
safety here.
………….………….………….………….
………demon….………….
………………….…goblin…sp.…s………….
………….………….………….………….………….
The rest of the journal is too
decayed and ripped to read.