P
Pandionwolf
Guest
'Neath Lychfield's Earth
Lychfield graveyard. The last resting place for all Albion.
Mist lies low against the grey soil, occasionally punctured by a rotting hand punching the soil. The old black iron gates groan as they shift in the breeze.
A figure wandered through the graveyard, occasionally swearing as it stubbed a toe on a headstone.
Web had been having a bad day. He’d spent four hours wandering the graveyard in search of one particular headstone and had turned up nothing. He’d started to head back, got confused, fallen over and cracked his head on a particularly sharp stone cross. And he’d lain in the dirt as the light had faded and then he finally regained his wits and set off once again.
And then the light had faded and he’d spent yet more hours wandering around. But he was beginning to get his bearings now – wasn’t that old Nostro’s tomb up there? And the grave of Capt. J. Sparrow? His mental map shifted and fixed his position. Not far now…
Web was a Hero, one of the last to graduate before the Guild had been destroyed. The certificate had still been in his pocket when he’d heard. Now he was forced to wander – people were more wary of Heroes now, after Jack of Blades. And he’d run out of money and luck, and now he was here, wandering the graveyard paths, occasionally sticking his spade half-heartedly into one of the graves to see if there was anything valuable in there. There wasn’t.
The Graveyard was quite popular among young Heroes – the Undead problem always needed to be sorted out, which gave them the opportunity to gain a bit of renown and experience. And the tales of treasures in the grave were rampant in Albion – in every pub was at least one person telling the tale of ‘Ol’ Such-an’-such’s fortune, buried with ‘im, yer know’. Of course, no civilian had been inside the graveyard for years – the service was normally held in the town square and then some guards would take the coffin and deliver it to the graveyard. It didn’t even have a gravekeeper anymore – after the old one died, no one had volunteered – but it wasn’t really an issue. In Lychfield, the dead normally sorted themselves out.
Web’s toe caught yet another headstone. “D*mn it, by Skorm!” he swore, as he plunged forward into the ground. Bugger this for a lark, he thought.
He pushed himself to his feet, not bothering to dust himself off. His apprentice uniform – the only clothes he had – was wrecked now anyway, one trouser leg torn and bloody where one of the Undead had grabbed it, and it was so smeared with grave dirt he could probably make a fortune by selling it to a necromancer.
He sighed and shook his head, absent mindedly smacking a grinning, rotted head emerging from the soil with his spade. Damned undead, been following him all day, never actually attacking, but always close.
It wasn’t that they were evil, exactly. Just stupid, and single minded. Whatever drove them now was very different to what had driven them in life.
Lychfield. The dead rest uneasily.
Web looked around. He definitely recognised this place now. There was a large closed tomb just ahead, with a statue of a hooded figure on the roof.
He moved closer. The inscription was carved on the door in a heavy, gothic script – Death’s own hand. It read: The Dark Duke Sibelis. Your reign of terror is no more.
Web shivered. Sibelis… It was familiar. He’d heard it at the Guild somewhere. Sibelis…
He rapped sharply on the stone. It echoed.
He looked at the statue. Maybe the door opened that way…
After a few fruitless minutes of twisting and pulling every knob and dangly thing on the statue he gave up and walked away. Out the gate, towards home.
The graveyard was quiet. The only sound was the sudden cold blast of air, which sounded hauntingly like a sigh.
Four hours later, Web lay sprawled in an ancient chair of an abandoned gatehouse, fast asleep. It had taken him three hours to get there – after leaving Lychfield, he’d headed in a roughly straight line, towards where he thought lay Bowerstone. His direction had become increasingly erratic over the last hour, as he rapidly emptied his supply of beer. He’d stumbled against the gatehouse, tried to pick the lock with a twig and a feather, and then blown it apart with a massive fireball that stank of alchohol.
The creature that had been stalking him watched this with interest. It understood humans very little these days, and watching this one make his stumbling way through the marshes and woods of northern Albion had seemed to be both amusing and instructive. But as it moved towards the wrecked doorway it perceived greater possibilities. The human had been in the graveyard earlier – Skorm knew why, but he stank of it, the smell of damp earth and ancient dust mingling horribly with the stench of alchohol. Maybe it knew something. The creature evaluated the possibilities as best it could. It’s cold, dry sentience was very different to humanity’s kind, which was colourful and explosive and erratic. It knew a little of such terms as imagination – it sounded horrible, but that was the tool best suited for this purpose.
The creature loped away into the darkness, scratching it’s head.
End of Part 1
Lychfield graveyard. The last resting place for all Albion.
Mist lies low against the grey soil, occasionally punctured by a rotting hand punching the soil. The old black iron gates groan as they shift in the breeze.
A figure wandered through the graveyard, occasionally swearing as it stubbed a toe on a headstone.
Web had been having a bad day. He’d spent four hours wandering the graveyard in search of one particular headstone and had turned up nothing. He’d started to head back, got confused, fallen over and cracked his head on a particularly sharp stone cross. And he’d lain in the dirt as the light had faded and then he finally regained his wits and set off once again.
And then the light had faded and he’d spent yet more hours wandering around. But he was beginning to get his bearings now – wasn’t that old Nostro’s tomb up there? And the grave of Capt. J. Sparrow? His mental map shifted and fixed his position. Not far now…
Web was a Hero, one of the last to graduate before the Guild had been destroyed. The certificate had still been in his pocket when he’d heard. Now he was forced to wander – people were more wary of Heroes now, after Jack of Blades. And he’d run out of money and luck, and now he was here, wandering the graveyard paths, occasionally sticking his spade half-heartedly into one of the graves to see if there was anything valuable in there. There wasn’t.
The Graveyard was quite popular among young Heroes – the Undead problem always needed to be sorted out, which gave them the opportunity to gain a bit of renown and experience. And the tales of treasures in the grave were rampant in Albion – in every pub was at least one person telling the tale of ‘Ol’ Such-an’-such’s fortune, buried with ‘im, yer know’. Of course, no civilian had been inside the graveyard for years – the service was normally held in the town square and then some guards would take the coffin and deliver it to the graveyard. It didn’t even have a gravekeeper anymore – after the old one died, no one had volunteered – but it wasn’t really an issue. In Lychfield, the dead normally sorted themselves out.
Web’s toe caught yet another headstone. “D*mn it, by Skorm!” he swore, as he plunged forward into the ground. Bugger this for a lark, he thought.
He pushed himself to his feet, not bothering to dust himself off. His apprentice uniform – the only clothes he had – was wrecked now anyway, one trouser leg torn and bloody where one of the Undead had grabbed it, and it was so smeared with grave dirt he could probably make a fortune by selling it to a necromancer.
He sighed and shook his head, absent mindedly smacking a grinning, rotted head emerging from the soil with his spade. Damned undead, been following him all day, never actually attacking, but always close.
It wasn’t that they were evil, exactly. Just stupid, and single minded. Whatever drove them now was very different to what had driven them in life.
Lychfield. The dead rest uneasily.
Web looked around. He definitely recognised this place now. There was a large closed tomb just ahead, with a statue of a hooded figure on the roof.
He moved closer. The inscription was carved on the door in a heavy, gothic script – Death’s own hand. It read: The Dark Duke Sibelis. Your reign of terror is no more.
Web shivered. Sibelis… It was familiar. He’d heard it at the Guild somewhere. Sibelis…
He rapped sharply on the stone. It echoed.
He looked at the statue. Maybe the door opened that way…
After a few fruitless minutes of twisting and pulling every knob and dangly thing on the statue he gave up and walked away. Out the gate, towards home.
The graveyard was quiet. The only sound was the sudden cold blast of air, which sounded hauntingly like a sigh.
Four hours later, Web lay sprawled in an ancient chair of an abandoned gatehouse, fast asleep. It had taken him three hours to get there – after leaving Lychfield, he’d headed in a roughly straight line, towards where he thought lay Bowerstone. His direction had become increasingly erratic over the last hour, as he rapidly emptied his supply of beer. He’d stumbled against the gatehouse, tried to pick the lock with a twig and a feather, and then blown it apart with a massive fireball that stank of alchohol.
The creature that had been stalking him watched this with interest. It understood humans very little these days, and watching this one make his stumbling way through the marshes and woods of northern Albion had seemed to be both amusing and instructive. But as it moved towards the wrecked doorway it perceived greater possibilities. The human had been in the graveyard earlier – Skorm knew why, but he stank of it, the smell of damp earth and ancient dust mingling horribly with the stench of alchohol. Maybe it knew something. The creature evaluated the possibilities as best it could. It’s cold, dry sentience was very different to humanity’s kind, which was colourful and explosive and erratic. It knew a little of such terms as imagination – it sounded horrible, but that was the tool best suited for this purpose.
The creature loped away into the darkness, scratching it’s head.
End of Part 1
