Ghost in the Corner

"When the Hammer fell, We knew naught the effort of it. The spire to form from the strike, our mountain homes still green with the lack time. Timeless in your Effort, our tribe divided. A war forgotten, a hatred known. We beseech thee, our Sacred Three. Illuminate out ignorance and elucidate our minds once more.
In a love that we left behind, we chase a fading sun. Polarity we stand against ourselves. Mothers from times before our lives, tears to stain the world. A balance must be struck, though our homeland is forsaken. We honor you, we honor ourselves. For we were once the same people, now brother. What has happened?"

The strumming of the lute filled the Mhuzelti Company's camp like the chorus of the damned, the victory cry of the bloodied and weary. The smoke of their battle still hung thick in the air, burning Gjorn's nose from the acrid stench of gunpowder and spilled fuel. Soldiers still busing themselves with piling the Mhuzelti Empire's dead in mass graves, seabirds perched atop the high ramparts of the fortress waiting for their moment to feast. The Gnomish military had lost a significant foothold in this rout, a nearly a one-sided slaughter.

Their King Gjorn had been planning this assault for months. Seeking advice from Second King Gherdal on the tactics involved, having settled on timing the attack for when the seas would shift. Pushing the Gnomish Naval forces further north, unable to react in time before the Dwarves had taken the fortress on the Isle proper. He smiled as he thought how proud his Father would be for having achieved something that hadn't been seen in generations.

Distant memory filling his mind at the thought of the former King. He was sitting in the fledgling fortress that would become the City of Mhuzchet, the thick stone walls radiating the heat back into the rooms from the hot sun baking the blackened stone all day. The dusty book open in his lap while his father taught him battles of the past. The victories, the losses, the sacrifices made and the reasons behind them. His father had slapped his back while he recited the old tales from memory. "That's my boy" His deep baritone reverberated in his ears, a smile reaching his eyes. Gjorn's chest puffed up at his Father's pride.

Snapping back to his senses as a seagull screeched near him. The bird was stationary in the air as the wind blew in a heavy gale, the storm still not satisfied with its fury yet. Though the rain had stopped, the warm southern air made it humid sticking to his bread like burnt sugar. The birds scattered as he approached, the pile of dead like a siren’s call to the scavengers and carrion birds. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something move amongst the dead. Like a shadow moving wrong in dimly lit halls, it disappeared when he tried to see it again.

The one thing the Dwarves of the Rhojic Clan didn't need while taking their homeland back was the far superior Gnomish Navy blockading their supply lines. Fortunate weather had allowed the Rhojic to assault the fortress with the wind at their back. The storm was an excellent cover for them as their ships bottomed out in the soft sandy beaches, even better when the thunder hid the sounds of them pulling the gatehouse down. Breach charges blowing cables and chains effortlessly. A perfect storm to breeze through the defensive positions of foxholes and Gatling guns, rain battering down covered their footsteps as one by one any alarm was silenced before any threat was seen.

Far too late the Gnomes were to react to the army at their doorsteps. Gjorn strolled down the battlefield softly strumming his lute with a cocky grin. Though young, he had proved to his clan that he was able to take a far superior force with his planning. Though no longer with him, he thought about the conversation he and his father would have about the plan, what could have been better, what could have used less effort, and where the holes in his assault had been. Despite the phantom chastising he would have received, his Father would have been smiling the entire time.

His clansmen saluting him as he passed. Their heavy plate armor rattling as they did so, noting the bullet dings in them, Gjorn reasoned the precaution was warranted. Despite the cost, his Dwarves looked regal in their edged helms and bronze pauldrons. Rifles and axes belted across their backs.

"Majestet...Fourth Honored king...Songbird" Phrases passing through his ears, making his way toward the fortress's heart to personally see to the surviving Commanders of the Mhuzelti Empire's Garrison. He would need to wring any information out of them that he could, anything would help. Mhuzchet would be overjoyed to hear of his victory here. Finally, after centuries of skirmishes with the Empire, the Dwarves had a chance to retake their ancestral homeland, and he would be the one to do it.

"Songbird, I quite like that one". He thought to himself. Idly noticing the connection at the seagull feathers he wore in this cloak. "A little tongue and cheek, but I can work with that." His boots fell hard on the rain-slicked cobblestones leading into the interior of the fortress. Noting the similar layout to their own fortifications.

"I shouldn't be surprised, we used to be one people. We share that bloodline, no matter how much we hate it." Gjorn thought to himself as the Arcane Lantern light overtook him, arcing in static electricity. Allowing himself a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Noting the stench of bile and blood in the room, paying it no mind. The bodies hadn't been cleared from the structure itself yet, a standing order to salvage any and all armor and armaments still intact, made by himself.

The strumming of the strings of his lute echoed off the hard earthen walls as he ascended the staircase where his soldiers were keeping the Commanders. The dying noise of the storm was barely audible in the cold passageway, almost have faded entirely if it weren't for the arrow slits lining the hall. A stark juxtaposition to his lively tavern tune.

Eventually he reached the heavy Beechwood door, its iron reinforcements having been smashed away. The memory flicked through his mind, the bulwark of soldiers hammering away at the door with a heavy ram. The noise of steel on steel rang throughout the passageways. The sound of gunpower igniting as the Gnomish artillery defenses fell to Dwarven axes and hammers and blunderbuss. Still, he smiled at his one-sided victory, despite the memory of blood on his tongue.

Shaking his head to clear the still vivid memory, he pushed the door open. Well, pushed being a gentler term for letting the monstrosity fall inward. Its metal hinges crashed loudly against the smooth stone floor. In the corner of the command center, the Officers sat tied to their chairs. Heavy iron chains weighing them down, barely even looking up as Gjorn made his way to the desks piled high with intel and troop movements. He had his men pillage every last office and loose stone to find all this information, stopping them while they were in the middle of burning documents.

Just having this information at hand was more than the Dwarven Wandering State could have hoped for. Knowing when and where the Empire would be moving would allow a certain amount of safety for the Rhojic. Allow them the upper hand in shipping material to Mhuzchet, ships and overland routes could be planned better. The safety of his men as well as the three other kings could be guaranteed, for once... The memory of his Father crept back into his mind.

Sitting behind the stacks of papers, Gjorn kicked his feet up letting them thunk loudly on the burnished and well-made oaken desktop. "Hmm, Dwarven designs I see. Carved deep into old wood. Would have really thought you Gnomes would prefer your own aesthetics." The condescending comment fell on deaf ears, however. Gjorn knew full well their oaths of silence should any officers be captured, their training to resist 'hard questioning'. He had a few tricks up his sleeve though.

"My my my, Battalion Nixian on orders to move through the Mhuzelti Strait in the next thirty days. Well, won't they have quite the surprise when they wander into enemy territory then? Just so you know boys, we caught that messenger you tried to send out through the underground tunnels that empty out into the Fjords. We knew about that escape route for a while, a good attempt." He strummed at his strings again, an angry tone filling the room.
"Just not good enough. Do you people realize how much suffering my people have faced because we had to wander the continent? We were forced out of our own homes by you Zelthic dogs. We'll make sure to have that battalion roasting on a spit for the boars when they get here soon enough." Gjorn breathed venom in his words.

"Shut it you Mhuzthic pig. It was your clan that started the war, not ours. Only by the Sleeping King's grace did he cast you out. The baptism of fire and hammer was the only solution the gods had for you and your 'people'" One of the Commanders spat out. Not as difficult as I thought it would be, loose tongue this one does.

Gjorn got up from his chair, swaggering over to the bound Gnome. He leaned down and grinned at him, "So you have a voice after all?" Promptly putting his steel-shod boot into the Gnome's chest, sending him flying back to crash into the wall. Leaving him nothing more than a groaning heap. "The next words I want to hear out of your mouth, dog. That is what I want to hear. So tell me, why is this fortress built on such an easily taken position?"

***

Even days later, Gjorn was still receiving reports. Endlessly, that stack of hastily scribbled intel just continued to grow with each passing day. Reports of odd lights, the Company plagued with nightmares, lost voices. Gjorn ran his hand over his face, feeling the exhaustion of the last few days. The dark circles had carved themselves under his eyes, threatening to hand up curtains these days.

Looking over to his captives, the Officers stared off into one corner of the room. Never taking their eyes off that thing, an amorphous shadow that giggled when you didn't look at it. "Has this ever happened before, dogs?" His voice, dry and rough, trying to slate his thirst with another round of strong drink. Drown out the nightmares that swarmed his mind like a grotesque cloud of flies.

"Ghosts on the shore. We heard legends of this during the Hammerfall. The darkness emptied from the earth and drove men mad with their honied words." One of the Gnomish Officers commented, his bloodshot eyes twitching from the effort of not blinking.

"And how did you get rid of them." It was idle speculation, not really a question. He didn't have the energy to beat the answers out of them this time. The sore limbs and bags under his eyes just wouldn't permit it, his fists already screaming at him from his last attempt.

"No, the fortress was built and the nightmares went away. Months of slaving away, stone by stone. Lands cursed, they found that enough rock on top was enough." The other Officer commented, resting his eyes awaiting his turn to stare at the shadow.

The last time the officers lapsed in watching the thing, Gjorn had to come into the room with a lens from the lighthouse and a massive arc light to focus on it, pinning it into the corner it was now in. The two surviving officers never lapsed in their job again, seeing they were still chained to the chairs they sat in. The cuts and burns on the dead Officer were seared into Gjorn's mind. Shivering from seeing that thing consume him, the cuts laced with rot the moment the thing touched the Gnome.

The Dwarven king was starting to succumb to his exhaustion, fading in and out of consciousness. "What did you bury?" Were the last words he spoke before fading away into his nightmares.

He was alone in the fortress. A still stormy sky just outside the window, the roiling clouds howled with an unearthly wind. Though the seas were still, placid as the glacial lakes in the Fjords of the Ilse of Mhuzelt. Though what caught his attention first was that the hallways were knee-deep in a dark liquid. His face grew pale as he sloshed through the purgatory, thinking he had seen something moving through the murk. Trying to pay it no mind, he trudged on.

Though he was a battle-hardened soldier from his days in the Company and the endless travels of the Nomadic Dwarven States; he was not accustomed to pushing through what he was beginning to think was the ocean tide having made its way into the fortress. Pushing open a doorway to the outside of the fortress, the sickly ichor began rushing out onto the soft sand beach that drank it like a grotesque sponge. Staining the grains red and black, forever to be a reminder of its deed. The thick smell of bile and iron bit at his nose as the sea of vital fluid drained away in the beach. Only then did he realize the fortress was filled with blood, not seawater.

He felt something grab onto his leg, kicking at it, a corpse crawled its way out of the sand. Stumbling out of the fortress proper, more corpses rose from the earth, crawling toward him, slowly, losing pieces of themselves as they did so. Like the earth giving birth to an unholy abomination, they left gory trails behind them, he thought back to his trails in life. Their lipless mouths screamed in rage at him, a toneless sound, silent but audible.

Running toward the burning ship that sat moored at the shore where they had first landed, he ran face-first into something. Falling hard to his backside, knocking the wind out of himself, he whipped his head up to see a massive raven staring down at him. Beady red eyes bored into him as if he were the next prey in its mind. No, not a Raven, that was just the first image in his mind as it changed before him. A massive harpy, blood-drenched feathers reeking with rot.

As he watched it changed as the corpses clawed at the raven's feet. Tearing away feathers and flesh from the monstrosity. Shifting from bird to woman, feathers still poking out of her skin at odd angles. Where the corpses clawed at her, she bled, her own blood blackened and boiled away steaming in acidic clouds that reeked of sulfur. Though, to his eyes lied to him, her nude form held nothing for him except revulsion. Her perfect slender and inviting form held nothing but horror for him.

Chest rising and falling, proffered like melons in the market. She licked her lips, red as a clear ruby of perfect construction, eyeing not him, but something beyond himself. Slowly striding forward, her long slender legs pressing softly into the bloodied sand. His body screamed at him for her beauty to his eyes, though his mind told him to run. Fuck it all and run, this would be his end.

He crawled backward from the poisoned beauty, as she stooped down to feast upon the corpse of a woman with flaming wings. The body still spoke as it was eaten. "Then dear sister, shatter it. Run. Take them and leave. I'll burn away the rest, but you must run." The world silently screamed as the woman tore flesh from bone as the corpse still spoke.

"So you won't resist? You'll let me just take it, my Love?" The raven carrion feast continued. Something profane, like something he was never meant to see. Her voice sibilant and full of rotted honey, pulled at his soul like he had never felt before. "Why are you so cold? You are Warmth, you are mine. I want you inside me, I need it!"

"What is there left to take, we've trapped you here. Take my body then, I will be the last women you ever love in your life." The corpses wings where ripped away from her as the raven women continued her feast. Gjorn retched, his mind not wanted to comprehend the scene in front of him. What was he watching? The sun in the sky turning black, the world having gone cold.

The raven women's eyes began to burn in The Divine Fire. The sun reigniting with pale flames, seeming like a mockery of it's true heat. Smiling with her blood and horror covered mouth, she flicked her eyes up to him. Blood and bile dripping from her lips to her chest, and again to the ground. A hunger in her beady eyes, her finger-tips barely touching his boots. He bolted, the sand kicked up from his footfalls, nothing more than clouds behind him as he ran toward the fortress once more. He'd take the blood filled halls over this insanity.

He couldn't shake the feeling he just witnessed the birth of something profane. One vile and evil, who was that winged women? What did I just see? His mind racing as he ran through the hallways, slowed only by the waterfalls of hot blood tumbling down the steps toward the secured lower levels of the fortification. Though he felt like he had passed that doorway before, had he? She was catching up to him, he knew it.

He ran harder, his short legs gaining no ground. He passed through endless hallways, time slowing as he tried to run faster, harder. The stonework around him unmoving as the soft whoosh of feathers through the air filled his ear. Panic setting in, he ran harder. Sweat beading on his brow, little air left in his lungs. Blood did not make for good terrian, no did be pursued by some gore covered thing.

Despite his best efforts he could still hear the second set of footsteps just behind him as they pounded into the same sea of putrid ichor. He didn't dare look behind him, not wanting to see how close that raven was to him. He ran through the lowest level, quickly reaching the end of the dead end hallway. The pursuer still audible behind him, closer and closer as the seconds passed like eons weathering away a mountain peak.

"Child, this way." A sweet woman's voice called out to him from the gloom. A passageway he hadn't noticed coming up quick. A proverbial slit in the stone, a crack in the masonry as the fortress settled over the centuries. He didn't think twice before slipping into it, staying still not even daring to breath. Sweat dripping down his pale face, terror in his mind as he tried to keep from shacking like a leaf in the wind.

The footfalls crashing through the blood filled walkways passed right by his hiding place, the distinct sound of talons raking across stone was not lost on him. The smell of rot and flowers flowing into the hallway as the raven passed by, coming to the dead end that would have been his end. She unhinged her jaw and screamed, a reality vibrating noise. Nothing but malice and fury, he waited. The very stones themselves quivering in fear at her voice. His vision beginning to fade to black from the edges as he held his breath, until he heard it walk past again back the way it came.

He caught a better look at it from the reflection of the bloody surface. It constantly shifted form, painfully sprouting new limbs, and changing proportions, each one a pantomime of feminity. It emitted a cloud of shadow from every part of it's body, though it's eyes now burned with that Divine Fire reserved for the gods he knew.

It's razon talons as long as he was, dragged along the cobblestones like nails on a chalkboard. It shambled away as it giggled to itself, "I won Syn. I won. This world will be ours as it always should have been! That Bitch Brownie demon should never have done what she had! Now what did that get her? A slit throat by Bhal, that's all it got her..." He couldn't make out anything else she was saying as she rounded the corner, hearing her plod her way back up the stairs. The loud clack of talons and claws tapping the cobblestones slowly fading away as it finally left.

"Come, deeper into the sanctuary son." The same sweet voice that had pointed out the hiding place to him. He thought it was better than trying to sneak past that horror again. Worming his way deeper into the narrow crevice, he soon came to a small chamber. Runes softly glowing as he passed through a ward, feeling as if he just walked through a wall of warm water. Noticing all the blood and gore was cleansed from himself as he walked toward the center of the circle.

Arcane runes of unknown origin to him pulsed with his own heartbeat. Pictographs he noted, symbols reminiscent of things he knew. A flowing symbol for water, an amorphous pattern that reminded him of the night sky. Another that was clearly meant to be fire, the final was a set of scales. All encompassed in a large circle, connected together in series of four. Four symbols divided into four sections flowing into a single point where a seed was set to grow. Like a Quartet, his mind unconsiously connecting the rune to a song long forgotten.

"Child, you need to wake up." The sweet voice said.

"What? What do you mean wake up?" Gjorn responded, confused.

"You need to wake up, Gjorn. You shall see the Truth, but you need to wake up." The scales burned brighter with his heartbeat as the other three faded.

Gjorn woke with a jolt. Though he immediately was met face to face with that giggling shadow grinning at him. Flicking his eyes over to the Officers, both of them had their throats slit, pale, clearly having been dead for a while now. Their guts flung across the walls like a grotesque set of wings.

The door burst open as his own Dwarven soldiers brought an unearthly amount of touches into the room. Hoping to dispel any shadow the ghost could hide in. Though it worked, Gjorn threw the thing off himself and into the wall. It still giggled at him as it vanished. "She was delicious, I still smell you in those halls, Prey." Was that?

He shuddered thinking about his nightmare. One of his soldiers came up to him, offering him a bottle of strong Mhuzelti Spirits. Though the only thing he noticed was the symbol of Azu around the mans neck. A silver raven holding a rose in it's talons. "Get that fucking thing away from me." He ordered the dwarf, ripping the thing off his mans neck. "Goddess of love and beauty be damned, t'aint no goddess at all."