[story] Darkness

[Okiba]

”Ghosts are not just lost souls, but cherished memories eroded by the merciless onslaught of time”

Darkness: Chapter 10 â€" Ghosts

He laid his head back against the cold smooth surface of the rock; it embraced him in this little den like a cradling embrace. Though he had managed to pop his left shoulder back into its socket, the pain continued, each heartbeat sending a surge of bewildering pain beyond his elbow all the way to the wrist.

You should have done something...

He let a short, pained breath escape his lungs. He was safe here, among the maze of tunnels and small den like holes he had memorized, it had been the second tunnel he had searched and he’d learned its paths well. With the horror of the main chamber drifting from his mind and exhaustion taking his body, he drifted toward sleep as thoughts echoed through his mind.

What could you have done... what could be done at all...

His eyes shut, fading from one black to another while his mind’s eye settled and began to wander inward. Colours he had not seen in what felt like weeks raced by, greens, blues and yellows. Their sweet aura caressed his vision, vibrant with a life of their own despite their diminished hue of grey. Even his dreams were succumbing to the dark...

Sounds rushed by his head, the whirling of the wind and rustle of long grass in its breeze. Gentle aromas overran his senses with the scent of the trees mixed with humid rain drenched earth. It was overwhelming, yet also felt as if it was barely in his grasp for every moment. it was all held on to desperately, easily lost at any moment.

Nagrand...

Home, before the first war, before any woe, before the rise of the horde. He walked through the moon and star lit meadows of a place he clung to in his dreams, at a time held dear in his memory. His body felt strong, nimble with the vigour of youth and an eagerness of an unburdened heart. He had not felt this alive in decades, not a care in the world or a weight on his heart to blemish the moment.

Then he heard it, at first it felt like a clean musical chime. It hummed through his bones and pulled on his feet, turning him toward a small pond surrounded by over-arching trees. He followed obediently, summoned by rhythmic notes akin to a harp.

So calm, serene... peaceful.

His dreaming eyes moved around the water-side, his ears strained to focus on the source of the heart stealing song. Each note was like a whisper from the spirits, calling him to come closer and fall in love with the sound. Using his young brown hands to move aside a low hanging branch of leaves, he at last saw her.

Borla...

His heart skipped, leapt for a forgotten joy. Her back was turned as she knelt before the water’s edge, her long purple hair wound down her bare back as a braid. She wove circles in the flat crystal water with a hand, crafting shapes as perfect notes of song escaped her lungs. Kalimag, it felt like, but he did not know the words, or he could not recall them in the depths of his memory.

How he longed to place his hands on her shoulders, to run his fingers down her neck, to place his lips against hers. But his feet remained rooted, unmoving. What had begun as enchantment was becoming torture as the moon arced over the horizon, its yellow surface causing a pang of horror to rise in his chest.

I know that moon...

He had not seen that moon since he and his mentor had parted ways after exchanging blows, he had of course come away the loser and mortally wounded. A throb of painful memory ran through his left shoulder, his body shifting in his sleep on the injury but also remembering the old wound.

Was it tonight? Please not now, please do not ruin this moment...

He ran his eyes over her, pleading with silence to see her face one last time. But nothing, she remains with her back turned as her voice lowered to a sorrowful whisper.

”You cling too harshly to this memory, student.” came a cold, emotionless tone from behind.

A cold chill ran up his spine, turning to face those piercing purple eyes and that gaze that missed nothing, searching and always knowing. They looked upon him with annoyance, and he felt as a boy once again.

”Master...”

[Okiba]

”To succeed in your ambitions, do not be afraid to get your hands dirty.” â€" Mor’ak of the Shattered Hand

Darkness: Chapter 11 â€" Ambition

He growled deeply. Inconvenient was not the word, irritating barely covered it, infuriating just about did the deed. The Orc was long over-due, late by far and picked the worst time for wanting an audience.

He picks now to show up? Bah!

Mala’kal lumbered down the tunnel he himself had carved into this mountain, the clank of his mail chiming with each foot-step. The spirits, agonized by the runes he had burned into the bones of this peak and by the presence of his chained totem on his hip, fled before him as he turned down every corridor. Their terrified whispers pleased him, proving his power and supremacy over them.

Fear and obedience, as it should be.

As he turned right and descended down a final corridor he considered the warm furs he had to leave behind, complete with Teshka left bathed in their combined sweat upon them. She had fallen for the boon he had gifted her like a bitch in heat, providing much needed satisfaction and a loyal lieutenant, and spirits subdued... soon another son too.

She will yield great use.

Reaching the end of the flame torch lit corridor he came to a large wooden door, and slammed it open with his powerful, muscled hands. Within was a dark gloom that sat nervously about the place, the spirits kept their distance long before he arrived, giving clue to the presence of another.

Where are you...?

With a waft of his hands, like a slap to an unwitting child, the brazier at the side of the room ignited through the intimidation of the fire spirit. With the illumination came clarity, the large chamber had been filled with crates, a dozen of them while a figure clad and hooded in red robes stood by the brazier.

Been waiting for me eh?

The figure, its face shrouded in shadows under that crimson hood, gestured to the crates with a gloved hand.

“Oh? A gift for me? How ‘kind’ of you to keep up your end of the bargain...” Rebuked the dark shaman, with a pinch of sincerity and glee. He had been waiting a long time to get his hands on this.

At last, the tools I need to make them all pay!

He strode over to the nearest crate, half as tall as an Orc and twice as wide, grabbing the loose wooden lid with his massive bare hands. With a forceful push and pull, it was soon removed. What lay within made him hunger, not for sustenance, but for its use.

”you have done well by us indeed.” Mala’kal mused while the robed figure remained eerie silent. He placed a hand into the crate and raised part of its contents, turning it in his hand, examining it closely.

Dynamite. We will make their bastions crumble, and the traitors cower in fear!

He dropped the wrapped group of explosive sticks back into the box without a second thought, fixing his gaze on the robed Orc who stalked around the edge of the dark room inspecting the boxes.

He will be pleased to know our end of the bargain is fulfilled. Such a small deed, in exchange for so much!

”I have kept my word, the Blademaster is dealt with.” Mala’kal smiled as he spoke, the figure tilted its hooded head then nodded, satisfied.

”He will suffer in our little prison before he gets torn apart or rips himself apart in madness!” He boasted, it felt good. A Triumph over the traitor who betrayed Hellscream.

Slam!

The strange Orc slammed a fist on the edge of a crate, his dissatisfaction clear at the prospect of the Blademaster still being alive, sharp and to the point.

Blah, fel dammed nit-picker wanted him dead out-right, too good for that ‘Orc’.

”He will die down there. Do not worry. None escape from that place, it is impossible. He will suffer, horribly, then die in despair...” He cracked a wicked smile, at the triumph.

The robed Orc tapped a finger on the crate, then raised the hand and lowered his hood. It always struck Mala’kal how frightening those eyes were, how they seemed lifeless yet full of narrowed, beaded malice. The blank menacing expression, turning to that dumbfounded grin...

”Oof, as lung as snoopy Orc taken cure of, Luk nut care an’ will moof un Rud bladez. Deal iz deal.”

[Groshnok]

Luk is back! How ever did he escape from his asparagus polymorph?

[Therak]

Lovely stories.
And as for how? I'm guessing... pure luk!

[Rukorah]

Read through all of this on my lunch break and enjoyed it very much.

[Okiba]

”The shadows of mentor and father, are a hard thing to escape.”

Darkness: Chapter 12 â€" Nightmare

Rage burned in his chest, his heart hammered a drum beat of fury. The nerve of it, the insult, intolerable!

”You have some nerve, some arrogance to come here, of all places! How dare you make me relive this again!” he snarled, clenching his sleeping fists, the crack of knuckles sounded both in his slumber and in the waking world.

The spiritual visage of his long dead master shimmered, its eyes glaring in defiance. Ashlan was old here, as he had been when Krogon knew him. His scarred body, long silver beard and braided hair were as he had always known them. Those purple eyes had their usual steely gaze, narrowed and full of knowing, looking through him like glass. The choice to lack his left arm, as had in life, was a curious one though.

Why would he choose to be maimed as a spirit?

”Why do you think student?” came the echo of a voice long forgotten, the maimed masters calm, coarse voice probing for an answer. Krogon should have expected he’d only need to think to ask a question in this dreamscape, this vision.

”Because it is who you are. It is the essence of what defined you, shaped you into the famed one armed sword master.” He replied. He knew the answer, his sub-conscious needed no time here.

”Good. As for your first question, I am here because this memory is relevant to your current ‘predicament’, so now I will ask you a question. Why are you young in your dreams?”

Krogon felt himself snort before he even decided he wanted to. His former master had come to him in his dreams, to grant him some clarity from the spirits? So be it, if they had no other way to reach him in this prison he would follow the path they threw in front of him.

He grumbled, straining to keep his eyes from the shape of his long dead mate. Her beauty and the sound of her singing were memories he wished he could hold close, but time had simply eroded the visage and the chorus from his mind. If love ever had a meaning, it was to be distraught that you could no longer recall that which you had adored so dearly.

”I am young here, because deep inside I have not fully embraced who I truly am. Is that what you wanted to hear?” He answered, the scene shifting as rain began to cascade around and upon the memory of a long gone Nagrand.

Ashlan tilted his head, then shook it with a ghostly sigh. It was now that Krogon noticed a strange symbol etched into the tanned brown flesh of the dead master. Its single rune, seemed familiar yet unknown. The marking was also defiantly becoming more prominent as moments wore on.

”It is not what I want to hear that matters, Devilstep.” Came the reply, and he shuddered hearing it. Ashlan had never known the name Devilstep, it had always been ‘Krogon’, or ‘student’.

”Do not feel disdain at hearing me use that title. You have earned it well. The ‘devil Orc’ eh? Respected by your allies, feared by your enemies. Yet down here respect and fear do you no good.” He spoke, very simply put. He was right of course, fear was his favoured tool and he had been more subject to it than master.

”The dreaded Devilstep, master of the shadows.” The spirit groaned, then pressed on. ”He who can walk through walls, confound and route entire armies single handed, out-wit an ancient...” Krogon growled, where was he going with this?

”and yet, you can’t climb out of a Gul’dammed hole!” the spirit sneered, his expression showing clear and pained disappointment.

Krogon sighed, a weight lifting off his shoulders, his master was revealing the sense of things to him.

”Then what would you have me do, master? I have no weapons, no tools, no resources...”

The ghost shivered, the growing rune on its chest now glowed faintly red as if burning. It was familiar, so very familiar...

”The spirits did not proclaim this to be your demise, remember that, and hold that thought close... my student. Shed fear, wield terror and ascend. Remember the vision of Kosh’harg.” He continued, his lip turning in pain to a grimace. The mark on his body burned now, eroding.

Krogon’s memory flew, to the last Kosh’harg and the visions that Steelheart had brought. The words flew from his spirit mouth like a river running...

”When that dreaded bow is strung, at last your immortal song shall be sung...”

”Exactly, now is not the place, or the time. Dig deep within yourself, and do what you have too to survive. The constraints you had in the past, will not save you here... Haâ€"aagh!” He ended, wailing in agony. The rune was now on fire, then an inferno ripping that spirit to embers then nothing...

He jolted, his vision reeled as the dream melted away like mist and became only dark, the pitch black of the depths. Pain surged up his left shoulder to his neck and back down to his wrist. He was awake, back where he had begun.

Running a sore, calloused hand over the stony surface of the ground he lay on, he considered what he had been granted in a vision. Ashlan had come, but the runes etched into this prison by the dark shaman had eventually driven him off. He also realised that Vrex had forgotten to tell him why he knew this place so well, though he had a feeling.

A murmured prayer of thanks to the spirits escaped his lips. They had gone to great lengths to give him something to spur him forward.

Thank you, Ashlan. Forgive me...

Rolling onto his knee’s to return to the main chamber, he knew one thing that Mala’kal did not.

The dark shamans me given me the rope to hang them with...

[Okiba]

”Fury is the fire of life.”

Darkness: Chapter 13 â€" Fury

The fire was burning in him now. He knew what he had to do, and how low it would take him, but it was the only way. The spirits would forgive him though, and that was all that mattered right now.

When that dreaded bow is strung...

He told himself, over and over, affirming what he knew to be true and irrefutable. He felt it in his bones, he believed what the spirit of Ashlan had suffered to tell him. He would not die here.

...At last your immortal song will be sung.

His right hand pulled him up onto the ledge, his left helped but still panged with pain as he scrambled onto the flat surface. He knew Vrex would be here, there others would be sleeping off their meal.

His senses narrowed, honed. He could hear Vrex breathing. Not the usual steady slow breath of waking or speech, but of fitful sleep.

My climb up was far more subtle than I expected...

“Wake up...” He felt himself growl. There would be no restraint here, only answers. Vrex gripped the earth at his side with a grasping hand, the contact of skin on blood slick stone had a distinct noise. He’d eaten. He stirred quickly, tensing his muscles, licking dry lips...

I can feel his worry in the air, hear how nervous he feels...

”You are alive! Good, yes, good... I saved you some scraps...” He spoke, fast. A little too fast for someone who should feel comfortable. His foot caught the ground, the tell tale sound indicating that he had sat up and was crouching.

No mercy.

”Scraps? Of what?” Krogon asked, blank and without emotion. He stood directly in front of the other Orc, by the ledge facing inward to the hollow. Though he could not see him in the dark, he knew Vrex was facing out toward him, and taking a great deal of time to answer his question.

He hesitates.

”Garbage, what else?” he answered, exhaling sharply. Knuckles cracked, a waking habit or a sub-conscious warning from a cornered Orc.

Liar

”The human you drooled over earlier, what else?” He answered, following up quickly before an answer could come, ”Kor’kron.”.

Vrex growled lowly. His knee’s creaked as he stood to his full height. He was angry, not at the accusation but at being found out.
”How did you know?” He asked. His tone indicated hostility, the light crack of his neck hinted at possible violence.

So it is true.

”You knew this place ‘well’. Your words. I think you helped Mala’kal build this place, and for your troubles, he threw you down here first, to test if someone who knew it inside out, could get out. The ultimate test.” He probed, not gently, but with a spear head of an accusation.

Vrex snarled. Now it was plain anger, nothing hidden about it. Perhaps he did not even realize himself the reason for his fate, or simply had not accepted that his loyalty had been rewarded with this hell.

”You are a smart one, aren’t you. And I was hoping to keep you alive as a walking larder, but you have out-lived your usefulness, I can’t let the others know who I am.”[/]

They would not much tolerate discarded Kor’kron down here.

”Don’t worry. I’ll be killing them too.” Krogon answered, flatly. Vrex laughed, deeply, the sound echoed through the main chamber and doubtlessly drew the attention of the others. Their digestion would keep them inactive but they would be listening.

”Not so smart after all!” Vrex roared, and bolted forward. Those large Orcish hands whistled through the air as he swiped to grab the Blademaster, finding only empty air as his target ducked, side-stepped and chopped down with his right hand. The blow made contact with the back of his neck, stunning him and forcing him down.

One.

Vrex hit the ground, his head dangling over the lip of the rock ledge startled and coughing. Raising his bare foot, Krogon forced it down square on the back of the closet cannibals’ neck.

Crunch!

Breaking necks always made such subdued noises, this one was no different. The edge of the ledge helped too by crushing the wind-pipe. Krogon turned and spat on the freshly made corpse. It had begun.

When that dreaded bow is strung...

[Okiba]

”It’s no good simply struggling to survive with every breath my son, you have to strive and fight to live.” â€" A fathers advice

Darkness: Chapter 14 â€" Survival

He eased his breathing, focused his mind on something other than the agony in his muscles, legs, arms and back crying for respite. Usually he would enter this sort of mental trance to meditate and order his thoughts, now he did so to keep himself still.

Breathe in, slowly...

Air dragged into his lungs with a hollow rasp, near silent but a tell tale sign to those who would be straining to hear. The ordeal of this place had not been kind on his body, his lungs felt rough and his body drained. But he persevered, flexing and tightening his hands around the small boulder he held tight to his chest.

Breathe out, gently, not too fast...

Vrex had died without any real struggle, more caught by surprise than overwhelmed. His body now sat tucked away in the depths of Krogon’s personal maze, well away from any of the others. They may even still think him alive, so he had resolved to move swiftly to ensure panic was not raised among them.

frightened sheep bite back.

Each step of the plan from here needed to be done in succession, dispatching the others in a particular order as to minimize the danger and maximize the chances of success. First among them, the ogre.

It can’t be fought head on, surprise is the only option.

A full grown ogre was not a foe to be tackled in hand to hand combat. Beyond this place he would slit the throat or cleaved a limb clean off, but this time he had to settle for a blunt instrument and the aid of downward force.

Spirits this thing is heavy...

His hands strained, adjusting his grip on the boulder he peered down into the dark, listening. He had perched himself above the inside of the water-pool cave, where everyone came to drink. With each foot at one side of the entrance he was perched perfectly above any would be thirsty visitor as they entered or left. However, despite the Quilboar and Troll already visiting for small sips of sustenance and padding cautiously back out again, he’d not seen or heard anything of the ogre.

...and it will only get heavier.

Shuffle... shuffle...

His body tensed at the sound, the shuffling of large bare feet. Quickly followed by the huff of large lungs. It was him, he was peering into the chamber from the outside, checking it. This one was cautious, unusual for an ogre, though this place makes odd beasts of all of us.

A little closer...

The growl of uncertainty echoed into the chamber, bouncing over the water surface beyond. Krogon held his breath, straining and squeezing to keep his grip until that perfect moment. With each shuffle, grunt and waft of a groping hand from the ogre it inched further in.

”Ghmmm...” it paused, its slow witted brain considering. The sound was below him only feet away...

Now!

He lifted and thrust downward, the coarse surface sliding past his finger-tips as the boulder was propelled downward into the dark. He couldn’t see where it headed, how close his aim was or even if he had held it at all.

THUD!

”HHrrgâ€"kgghh--... The all-mighty thud was followed by gargled, strained attempts to take in breath. The force of the rock had achieved its purpose, striking the top of  its skull, forcing it to compress down on the spine. It would be struggling to breath, suffocating on its own blood.

Crash!

Two.

[Okiba]

”To hunt is to live.”

Darkness: Chapter 15 â€" Predator

When that dreaded bow is Strung... and only then...

He repeated the phrase in his head, even now using it so harden his resolve. It had become his mantra, a source of strength. His prey had been unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of that newfound belief, both that swine Quilboar and dribbling troll had been dispatched in the dark tunnels of this place. Both had to be subdued with various methods.

Three and four.

The swine had been a simple matter of drowning. When he’d come to drink, a swift boot into the hind quarters sent him into the drinking pool. He’d assumed correctly, Quilboar don’t know how to swim, and a lax of air did the rest.

The troll was a messier ordeal, he’d taken a hand full of the pigs’ quills and made a primitive shank out of them. Creeping down into his side cave he, like Vrex, had been sleeping off his meal. However, unlike the Kor’kron, he had an instinct for when danger was immediately near and had leapt to his feet sensing an attacker.

Much good it did him.

With deft grappling, and a degree of rabid punching he eventually managed to thrust the quill-shank deep into the side of that skinny throat, using the trolls own tusk to hold him down while he bled out. But he didn’t leave the body there, no, he’d make use of this one.

He was heavier than he looked...

With some tired effort he had dragged the body as quietly as an exhausted Orc could, to the centre of the main chamber. And there it lay at the water’s edge, ready in full view when the light next poured down from above to illuminate it.

An easy meal, hard for anyone to ignore, least of all a mother and hungry child.

This was perhaps the most calculated move so far. She and the pup had become feral, but they still had sense, they wouldn’t leave easy pickings to rot. No, she’d come and grab the body and drag it away for later. She’d also need the pups help to move it quickly, they’d both be there as soon as everything descended back pitch black, sitting ducks.

...At last your immortal song shall be sung.

He sat now, running the phrase through his mind, crouched at Vrex’s old ledge. They would not see him here, but he would be able to hear them. Laying there on that flat, cold surface he considered what he had to do.

No mercy, or quarter. Not for them, not for me. Either they die, or we all die down here.

The thought of this place being his tomb angered him, this pit of savage beasts. But equally too the idea of killing a youngling, but there was no other way, no other way.

Click!

The grinding of stone began, an explosion of light was thrust down, banishing the dark to the shadowy corners and tunnels. It was maddening, but he did not need to look so he shut his eyes and waited. The splash of discarded garbage hitting the water sounded that his meal had arrived for later.

I will need every morsel.

He gripped his make-shift weapon tight, the rags he had torn from Vrex bound the pointed swine needles together. They would be watching, he hoped, taking note of the gift he had left. They would consider how the troll came to be there, and take the risk. His heart began to race, soon he would commit the ultimate misdeed, just to survive...

Scraping commenced, the Kor’kron above had begun shutting the entrance while the light shrank and faded to nothing and less. When pitch black had returned he strained to hear, listening for even a whisper or a noise.

He heard it, a shuffle of bare feet on stone, a scrape of a hand on rock, the grasp of skin on skin, and the clear sound of a body being dragged. His hands and feet worked in response, clambering down from the ledge silently, every footing and grip memorised as he reached the bottom, turned then circled toward the noise...

Make it fast, make it painless...

As he drew near, each footstep without a noise, he could hear them whispering. One spoke of assurance and requesting assistance, the other of fear and questioning their luck.

You are wiser than you know child. Your mother should have listened to you.

[Okiba]

”Sometimes, when you touch darkness, darkness touches you back.”

Darkness: Chapter 16 â€" Insidious

The smell was intolerable, nearly. Tanning was a slow, tedious process that was made all the harder by having no way of seeing what your hands were achieving.

When that... dreaded bow, is strung...

He felt sickness rise in his chest but suppressed it. The feeling had forced it, not the smell. Though urine in such volumes, especially after so long, could overwhelm the senses if not well minded.

Persevere.

A little known and over-looked fact when turning hide to leather, was tanning it in Urine. And so he did, this batch in the natural stone basin had been soaking for a whole day as its surface tightened and hardened. The main chamber had become his workshop, sat at its side while he used its natural rocky shapes for his craft. His hands nimbly wove the previous batch he had cut and shaped into lengthy strips for his purpose.

Turn, twist, pull...

Turning strands of leather into lengths of rope without the use of his eyes had at first been problematic. However, as time wore on, he’d become deft if occasionally frustrated with it. Though patience was still required, and often tested.

...At last your, your...

His mind whirled, placing the strands of hide down. Nausea nearly overwhelmed him before he slammed his fist on the ground. A snarl escaped him as he tightened his grip around a climbing pin he had fashioned.

Concentrate.

He turned his attention, placing the top of the femur on the ground to begin grinding the tip of the bone into a flat wedge. He had to shape each of the pile into a particular shape, a unique way, for a specific purpose. The largest, two massive thigh bones would take time, one in particular would make a fine weapon.

Each has to be done perfectly, none can be wasted.

He grumbled, considering the plan in his head. Firstly the Kor’kron threw unlucky victims into this place to either be eaten by previous inmates or to go mad from starvation. Second, they had marked every tunnel and surface with wicked runes to keep spirits and magic at bay. Finally, they would be stripped of everything, only the barest of rags would follow them down giving them no way to pool resources for a climb.

it can be climbed, they knew it could, that is why they stripped us.

All cliffs and rocks could be climbed, it was merely a matter of patience, agility and ingenuity. As well as proper tools of course, and now he at least had some, macabre as they may be, he had to tolerate the morbid nature of his choices.

The spirits will be done. The spirits will it, you obey it. The spirits will be done...

He felt the sickness stir in his gut once more. It was a swirling  bile of liquids rising and surging within. It demanded to be let loose but he didn’t have time for it now, time was too precious to be wasted on being disgusted with this, all of it. But telling himself was not enough, as a sensation he had not felt since the internment camps came to him.

what is this...

It began upon his face, from his left eye. It then wound down his cheek toward his chin. Moist and cool, a stutter of air escaped his lips. He had to stifle the emotion that was surfacing, pushing it back down before it overwhelmed him.

No more. Press on, now.

He spat, snorted, and resumed his work.

There is no other option. None.

[Groshnok]

Krogon approves of the murdering of all children *thumbsup*

[Okiba]

”Iron in the blood, fire in the heart, steel for the soul.”

Darkness: Chapter 17 â€" Patience

The pain was numbing. It did not strike, nor did it surge up his shoulder any more. It simply was, present and persistent. He decided in the end, that something was broken, or more likely fractured there. He could move his left arm, but each time it held his weight and that of his load, the pain got slightly worse.

Rely on your right, save your strength, focus on the goal.

The climb was a complex business, memorising each possible route literally from the ground up. Three angles of ascent had ended in dead ends half way up, but the fourth and final one had kept going far beyond the others. It had taken days with a meticulous process of elimination to discover every hand-hold, grip, ledge and obstacle. There had been two garbage drops since he started, at his guess that meant four days had passed. The short glimpses of light no matter how much they blinded him, also gave short glimpses of what was above, revealing opportunities.

Right now, he was latched to the side of a flat, vertical rock-face. He could guess how far he had yet to go, or how far he could fall, but it was easier to simply assume it was a long way in both directions. Bound around him he bore a wound length of leather rope, intertwined with smaller loops and various ‘tools’ he had made. As he had ascended, the tools were gradually used up. Some broke, some remained in hand holds just in case, some occasionally could be re-used.

Slow, and steady. Don’t put your weight on what you don’t trust
His left hand was searching the space above him, groping the cold stone surface. There was a grip to his upper left, but it felt too far and an over-extension was dangerous.

Switch arms.

His placed his left on the curve of stone he had grappled himself too, then lent out to his right to search and hope. The pain in his left arm was subdued, for now, his feet held his weight atop the lip of rock he stood upon.

The rock-face curved there, on the right.  From knee-height upwards he ran his hand over the surface until his fingers found purchase in a small hollow. It was head sized, but grew larger inside. It would make Ideal footing as well as a suitable grip, allowing him to continue the upward advance.

The small one, as a wedge.

He slipped his right hand back, easy not to place too much weight on his left for fear for falling. With gentle, searching hands he ran his fingers atop the selection of bones looped through the ropes wound around his torso. Each was a different size and shape, fit for various purposes. He at last came to the one he sought, a femur, Smaller than the others, but the largest of that body.

When that dreaded bow is strung...

He swallowed with his parched, dry throat. It was a chore to eat, and drink. Raising his right arm back up he searched for the hole once more, then neatly slid the bone in. Turning it from vertical to horizontal it became something to hold on to, aided by gravity and wedged in by force.

Test it, trust its reliability before you trust it.

Tensing his grip around the bone, he pulled on it one, twice and a third time. It did not budge, shake or bend. Solid and reliable, it would take his weight. He would place his weight onto it, and would trust in its strength to hold him.

Breathe in...

He stood on the tips of his sore, bare toes, raised his left hand and let his body swing right. He stopped dead centre below it, dangling with nothing beneath and safe only by the grip of one hand.

Next one, and hope it goes up this time.

He raised his left hand tentatively. The pain was numbing but tolerable, and thus he  began to search...

[Okiba]

”Pride comes before a Fall.” â€" Human proverb

Darkness: Chapter 18 â€" Hubris

She stifled a yawn, waving a dismissive hand at Brusk. The Dark Shaman adept was the only student of Mala’kal, and insufferably jealous. Ever since she had begun warming their leaders bed the other males had been whispering, snarling in their corners at how lying on her back had allowed such sudden advancement and gifts.

Bitter fools.

They entered the main chamber of the cave complex, turning into its massive space from the main corridor, its three braziers sat around the fringes burning low. It was time to feed the animals, so she brought  Brusk and the grunt Vorg to do the heavy lifting.

That’s the only use they have, ha!

”Go on, put those strong arms to use for once.” She barked, waving a hand at the pair to get a move on.

The two males snarled and muttered as they took their places by the large, flat boulder that covered the entrance to their very unique prison. As they strained with their muscled arms to push that rocky mass aside, veins rose on their necks and teeth were gritted. After an initial click, and the groan of scraping stone, the first glimpse of the dark below came into view.

What shall we gift them today, hm?

She turned, striding over to the short table nearby, planting a wicker bag of discarded chicken legs, stripped bones and half rotten vegetables. Drawing the sword she kept ever at her hip, she prodded the scraps with the deadly tip.

Today, let us separate the good stuff from the bad, and give them only the rot and bones...

She grinned widely, amused at her own devious malice. Starvation was good for them, it taught them what happened to those who stood in defiance. They would be throw down, and left to wither, rot and fight among themselves. No more than savage dogs, Ghosts of Orcs.

This be far more fun than it should be.

She turned the gleaming, pristine sword in her hand, shifting aside all the ‘good’ bits of food, and using her hand to place all the true rubbish back in the basket. Behind her the grinding of the great stone continued, accompanied by the snarl and growl of the males.

I wonder how much this would fetch for on a market...

Teshka held the sword up again, the low glow of the braziers danced on its shimmering blue surface. A thousand folds, each like a wave of ice cold water. It was mesmerizing, eye catching, alluring. What she did not understand however was the emblem, and its demonic connotation. The face of a twisted, snarling Orc baring huge fangs sat at the base of the blade, Its head was mounted by a pair of twisted horns atop its head.

Why would a Blademaster pick such a symbol?

She resolved not to worry about it, but the question kept bugging her. What did it mean?

Brusk and Vorg groaned as the stone finally ceased, the grinding of rock due to its motion ended and silence descended on the chamber. Without turning her back, Teshka wafted a hand, signal for the pair to be at ease. They grunted and panted in return.

Then she felt it, a chill ran up her spine as wind rustled in her ears. A growl, a low, menacing growl... then the hellish echo of a word, rolling like thunder from some deep place. It built up like the rumbling of a storm, then struck...

”MALA’KAL!!” it roared.

Teshka shuddered, her blood froze.

[Okiba]

”It is better to die trying than live with despair and failure.”

Darkness: Chapter 19 â€" Ascension

It had been two days since he had last ate, and the make-shift water skin he had made had run dry hours ago. Hanging here between two jutting spikes of rock, he had no easy choices.

Breathe slowly, conserve your strength.

Both hands, and legs wrapped around this shard of stone, gripping on for dear life. If he fell here he would plummet into the unknown, and likely be not so fortunate as to hit water.

A day now, he’d been here. After reaching the top of the cavern he had dragged himself half way around the roof until he found suitable holds and rocks to clamber inward, to the centre of the ceiling. From here, if he remembered right, he could leap upward. From here, he could make a last push for freedom.

It will be the last.

One of the rock formations that he had clambered and dangled across had fallen into the abyss as he moved on and removed his weight. If he was to repeat the climb, he would have no way to get back to this point. This would be the first, last and only attempt he would ever make. The significance had not been lost on him.

When that dreaded bow is strung, at last your immortal song shall be sung...

He murmured to himself, over and over. Reassuring him, affirming what he knew. It was all that gave him focus, strength to his tired limbs. Though he had to consider it, what if he lost his grip? He would plummet, and likely die. If he did not, he would die of injuries. And failing that, he would go down into the depths and throw himself into another abyss.

You will not let go. You will rise, you will succeed.

His fingers burned, the callous skin worked raw on his palms. He had little to soothe the itching, no way to gain respite for his exhausted body.

It will end...

Above him, through what he hoped was a thin layer of rock, was freedom. He could feel vibrations, occasionally, of movement. And better still, he felt the whisper of the spirits, like an echo of a voice at the end of a tunnel. They were close, but agonizingly out of reach. They were afraid, wounded, but simmered with anger below their subjugation.

They are in pain. I will avenge them.

Click!

The sound he had longed for had come at last. First the shunt and grinding of displaced stone, then a blinding burst of light shot downwards on his left... a pillar of colour, illuminating the whole chamber around and below.

It is time.

His eyes narrowed, strained, pained as they adjusted. He would be fighting blind for a few moments, but it was better than nothing. Above he could hear the rumble of laboured breathing and exerted bodies. He stole a glance above, he could see feet pushing aside the great stone. This would be it.

Make them pay.

He dug deep on whatever strength he had left, propping his feet on the rock ready to propel himself upward. Balling that those weeks of hate and anguish into a single, burning ember of fury, he thrust his legs outward and leapt upward while his throat let loose a rumbling roar of that name...

Mala’kal...

”MALA’KAL!!”

[Okiba]

”Panic is like a forest fire, it spreads so easily.”

Darkness: Chapter 20 â€" Panic

Her heart skipped, one beat, two beats, three. It felt as it would never start beating again when at last a surge of blood left that organ, coming to a thundering chorus. The air shivered, something had burst out of the abyss.

Turn!

She rounded, pivoting her whole body in one motion, her feet leapt as all her weight was thrown into it. Landing on both she clenched her hand around the sword hilt as she took in what she saw.

Brusk was on his knees, an object protruding from his blood spurting throat as he grasped and gargled. It was a bone, sharpened and used like an axe. Vorg however was still standing, throwing a hand down to the axe at his hip and the knife at the other side only for the impossible to happen as his hands met hilts.

A shadow, a mass of black, grey flesh struck him. It could have been a limb, maybe an elbow, dug into Vorg’s throat with a sickening crunch. He choked, and staggered only for a second limb, a foot, to place itself on his abdomen.  He reeled until his feet found empty space and plummeted. He’d fallen into the dark of the hole.

What... what is...

Its skin was slick grey, a beard of matted filth and hair of oiled madness sprouted from its head. Its body was adorned with bones and body parts, skin and hide of pig, troll and Orc. In one hand it held the leg bone of some great beast, sharpened to an edge. And the smell, by all the ancestors the smell near forced her to gag, like death had spat upon a body and let it fester.

The creature turned, looking upon her with malefic emerald eyes. They burned through her, piercing like arrows. It was angry, and aiming that malice her way, tightening that grip around the weapon it held.

Raise the alarm... raise the alarm!

She tried to open her mouth, to speak, but so panic struck was she that only shocked gasps escaped her lips. Its mouth curled, revealing stained yellow teeth in a vicious growl. Tightening her grip on the sword in her hand, she looked left and right for ways to run but found the way blocked by this monster both ways. As Brusk took his final desperate gasp of blood drowned air, she realized this thing was looking at the sword. Not just noting its presence, not admiring its quality, but gazing at it as if its eyes alone could pull it away.

”Thank you..” It whispered, a voice hoarse and full of disdain, those emerald eyes lifting to stare back into hers.

She hesitated, blinking in surprise.

It speaks?

”wh-what for!?” she blurted out, hoping a response would keep it at bay.

”...For bringing me my sword.”