The Devil's Bane, The Rebel's Boon; For Dawn an' Gundarak

[shadymerchant]

Dead men walking



He stood at the crossroads. The sky, its heat, beat down unbearably upon him. In all directions stretched desert, dotted only with the occasional shrub. Those shrubs might be his dreams, he mused. Scattered, dry, and dying. Behind him stretched the road. Red maybe. Redder than the desert beside it, atleast. Flat and featureless. Devoid of life. It cut through the desert like a knife dragged through butter. Dust and sand tornados could be seen blowing in the air on both sides occasionally, but not a speck came to rest on the road.



Far behind him, almost beyond sight, was a dark smudge. He did not look back. He had no need to. He could feel them. Even across all the miles between them, their gazes were like daggers digging into his back. He knew somewhere among the horde was her. He had even seen her once, when they had been closer, but he had shied away from focusing on that one. The one he could not face. He had ran then. He had run until he couldn't feel his legs, and after another mile, had collapsed onto the road. He could not run forever, he knew. He could not escape them, but he could keep the distance.

He had come upon the crossroads a short time ago, and here he stood. The path he had been traveling ran as straight as ever, to where he did not know. More of the same, he guessed. What interested him now were the two branching paths. They led off to the left and the right of the one he had been traveling. There were no signposts to mark where they led. They dissapeared into the desert horizon just the same as the one he had been travelling down. He didn't think that was fair. Who would lay down roads and force folks to make a choice, but not provide signs? Outlander thinking, he thought. Outlanders or devils.

 This wasn't the first crossroads he had come to though, just the first in a long while. Years had passed, hadn't they? He remembered the last one clearly, for one of those paths had whispered to him. "Come Fredek." It had said. "You will be welcomed. Your loved ones will be proud. Replace indignity with rightious fury. The Morning Lord needs your service." He probably would have given in, had the whispering voice not been that of his father. That had scared him. That, and the vision that had come to him with those last words. Service to the Morning Lord. He would kill in his name. Great sword would replace hammer, and beheadings would replace poison. It was all the same. Why would his father want this for him? The man who had raised him. The man who had welcomed a lost and lonely little boy into his home. The man who had become his only friend in a world without friendship or kindness. But friendship could only exist to such a degree with a man who was also your father. He had made a new friend. A best friend. Now he had to protect her. The whispers were a false. A trap.

He had walked on then, leaving the crossroads behind. The paths before him now did not whisper. He glanced over his shoulder then, to gouge the time he had to choose. The miles they had gained on him. He would have to choose soon. There was little reason to continue on down the current road, anyhow. Both his father and his best friend were behind him now. Ever approaching. Every hungry for revenge. He had gone on for them, and it had killed them. He knew there was a word for such circumstances, but he did not know it. Neither did he blame them, for he had failed both. He too would wish vengeance on those that failed him. Elfric. Miklos. Ubul. Zeteny. Katalin. Should he fall, it was best he take them all with him.

He reached up and scratched his head. He had hair here. Odd, that.

His friends. Despite what he would have to do someday, he was in no hurry to see them dead. He liked them. He even liked the the group shambling down road after him. He had nothing against guards, or those that had gotten in the way. The halfling that had tried to follow them through the city. He knew he was back there, a walking nightmare of flattened ribs and half a skull. No, he saved his hatred for those that did nothing. For every peasant and nobody that he had to fight for. That he had to kill for. They were responsible for the road he walked. Weak, stupid, cowardly. These were his charges.

Scratching his head, he considered the paths once more. It would make sense to know where you are going, wouldn't it? The woman. He wanted the woman. Which path led to her? Did one of these roads lead to redemption? They could not, he knew, be the same path. Life was like that. The Tepestrian's had learned this.

He glanced involuntarilly behind him once more. He knew the inquisitor was there now. Holding his head under one arm as he stalked after his prey. He wondered what the head was saying. They all spoke, cut throat or missing tongue, but he could never make out what they said. Cursing his name, most like. One of his names. There was not much in a name, he had discovered. Elfric, Fredek, Fran, Josef...  Names given to guards, to fishermen, to strangers and comrades. It dawned on him that he did not know who he was any longer.

Perhaps one of these roads held this knowledge. Most likely not. Life was like that, he knew.

[shadymerchant]

Path of the Damned

A sand tornado blew through the desert some two hundred paces beyond, whipping up soil as it spun, dancing like a top on the virge of falling on its side. It had formed only an hour ago, and had big steadily picking up speed ever since. There was no danger of it coming too close to the road though, for they never did. Was it, perhaps, just an illusion then? Some kind of performance? For what purpose then, and for whom? It was growing bigger as it spun on its windy course. Picking up more dust, rocks, and whatever else lay buried beneath that mysterious desert. Four hundred feet in height now, at the very least. Like a little god of the desert, picking up its worshipers and smashing them down into violent oblivion.




He trudged down the dirt road, oblivious to this statement of nature. Had he known, he would have delighted in it. He was at heart a most cyical man. The road however, whatever its ultimate purpose, had proven beyond the reach of the forces surrounding it. A safe haven for him alone to travel through, or maybe to die within. He glanced to the sands on both sides of him. He knew that to step into those sands would invite a thousand varities of madness. Not here, no, but in the waking world. He would silently gather up his hammer, and bludgeon his sleeping comrades beyond all recognition. He would not awake at all, but speak nonsense for the rest of his days in a fitfull slumber. He would flee his comrades and make his way into the city, cutting down everything that moved. He would savage himself beyond recognition, claiming a new identity and a new purpose in the world.

Yes, the man knew this world could only be a dream. And yet... To step off the path... The consequences would be real. Nothing could be taken lightly here. Wherever it was, he only found himself in this place when he slept. Before he awoke he would cross a hundred miles. Every night he would return, to continue his walk to where he did not know. The shoes he had started the journey with had long since fallen to pieces and been left behind. In their absence the skin on his feet had hardened, proving more durable then any animal hide could have been. Onwards he marched. The sun, ever eternal, beat down upon his skin, but any sweat he had brought forthe into this dream world had long since dissapated along with his shoes. He knew one more truth of this journey, which was that upon awaking he would remember nothing of this. A sign, perhaps, of a mind not completely gone.

He stumbled then, nearly falling, as he felt an emmense pressure buffeting him. Looking towards the desert storm at last, he was alarmed to see how close a tornado had come to the path. It wanted to come closer, he thought. Perhaps it was not a tornado. It wanted him. He could feel it. No, not him... It wanted the path. It wanted to scourge any trace of it. He knew then that while this path might be his, if only by virtue of being the only traveler upon it, the world surrounding it was much older. He wondered then if there had been other paths, and if so, had the desert succeeded in swallowing them up? What of their owners?

It struck once again for the path. With a grunt He fell backwards, off of his feet, and nearly fell into the sand behind him. It had been gathering its strength for this attack, he now knew. A relentless assault where all others had failed, had been insufficient to even gather his attention. There was rage there, a force of will so strong that he thought of fleeing further down the road. What manner of creature was this? He climbed to his feet, finding himself rather shaken. He had walked these dreams for years without apparent meaning or intent. He had thought he knew the rules. This was new. The tornado made several more attempts at battering its way past whatever barriers kept it back, and then all at once it was moving away. Retreating.

Fredek watched it dissapear into the distance. He shook his head. This was a strange place.

He heard it then. The whispers. The moans. Spinning around, he found himself but a dozen feet from the damned. They lumbered towards him, all eyes locked on his. The Tepestrian strode at the forefront, a sword held gallantly before him, as if leading a charge, and under his other arm his damned head held to his side, just as he had thought. It too stared at him, eyes as black as coal, a nearly silent litany upon its lips. Behind him was a small army of armored soldiers. Vallaki guards, their spines visible through their neck wounds. Men with ghastly stab wounds. The one they had fed to the Caliban, now a skinless horror. Guards with crooked necks and missing limbs. Under other circumstances the Tepestrian leading this Vallaki army, the army that had executed him, might of amused him, but he was presently unable to find such humor in the situation. Visible behind them, by virtue of his size, was his father. A giant of a man in life, he now stalked towards Fredek with hands that had crushed stronger stuff than skulls with ease when he lived. There were yet more behind those, but he could see no further than his father. Not because of the man himself, but because of the creature that rode upon his shoulders, leering down at him him with a smile that chilled his soul. She had her kerchief wrapped around her pale face, and in her hands she held knives. The knives she had done so much damage with. He stumbled beneath the gaze, collapsing backwards upon the road once again, and in a fit of panic found himself crawling away from them. How had they snuck up on him? Had the storm held his attention so long? They could move fast when they wanted to, the bastards. Regaining his feet, he began to flee.

He did not look back. One of them cried out then, a shrill shriek that could only have been from her, but he did not give it thought. He could not. Tears ran down his face as he ran. He held back a sob. The consequences of being caught by that lot were clear. It was inevitable, he knew, that one day they would rip him limb from limb.

He had learned his lesson though, from his last flight, and paced himself better this time. After awhile, when he could see only a vague blur in the distance, he resumed his walking. That had been a close one. He shuddered, unable to help himself. He could not think about what he had seen. No, there was little to be gained from that. He tried to mentally shove it from the forefront of his mind. Other thoughts, anything, to escape that memory. Julia Colds. Yes, that name had the force to drag his mind away. He had underestimated her. Or perhaps she had underestimated him. Whatever the nature of betrayal, it had not become a profit for him. He  had suspected something was wrong, that he was being led into some kind of trap, but his greed had gotten the better of him. Admittedly, it would have looked suspicious to back out at that point. He had even thought to dangle his next prize before her, to give her reason to protect her investment, but she had not taken the bait. Yes, he had underestimated her. Greedy, but also a more cold and calculating wench then he would have thought possible. What was he to do now? He could not war against the Vardo alone. A group of merchants they might be, but they numbered witches and hired killers among them. More, the battleground would be the Outskirts, and that held little in the way of defensive positions. He could dissapear at anytime and none would be the wiser. No, a different approach would have to be taken. The Rebels could not strike back, for she had no knowledge of striking at the Rebels. Most infuriating of all, he did not think he could kill her. Vengeance would have to be a slow process, like a vest of chainmail, composed of thousands of links. Not so difficult as a fine vest, he mused. He would have to gather his own army, one apart from the rebellion, to stand against her. She had many strengths, but he knew she must have even more enemies. He would find them, all of them, and then it would begin. He would ask his friends for assistance first though, although he held little hope that they would support him. Miklos, perhaps, if they kept it a secret. Zeteny too. The old man had an independent streak in him, Fredek knew. He was far more than he seemed.

Abruptly, he laughed. When he awoke, he would remember nothing of this, and none of these thoughts. He might very well try to choke the life out of Julia Colds the next time he saw her. Unable to help himself, he glanced behind him. This was a dangerous world, but he was beginning to suspect they were all dangerous. His end, in either one, would be bloody. Once long ago, she had spoken of him continuing on with his smithing, of smithing on behalf of all of Gundarak, but now knew that to be a fantasy. His days of smithing were behind him. You could not wield a hammer when your grip was slick with blood. He lowered his head then, tired of the heat, and closed his eyes.

He walked on, pushing all concerns from his mind, and concentrated on his footing. He still had a long way to walk before he woke in his bed. The road of the damned stretched a long ways.

[Iconoclast]

//     Excellent piece.  Strong images.  Nice weaving of the Tempestrian into the dream, among others.  A role player can only create so much depth via the nwn engine.  Having insight into Fredek from these pieces definetly brings a lot more depth and enjoyment to the in game rp. 

[shadymerchant]

Forgotten Friends



For a thousand miles in every direction there was desert. Dry, arrid land. Cracks could be seen everywhere in the soil, with the occasional weed poking out from them. The soil had a sandy, tan color. Perhaps desert was not an appropriate term. Wasteland. A place so lacking in life, even the smallest of bugs and rodents could not survive in it. How the weeds survived was anyones guess. Such a place should not exist in any world. It was an abomination. A deformity upon the landscape. Let man try his hand at taming it, or let the oceans pull it down out of the sight of man. That was assuming, of course, that both scenarios had not already happened. That man had not failed in his task, and the very oceans had not rejected this stretch of nothing.

Cutting through this terrible wasteland, from beyond sight in one direction to beyond sight in the opposite direction, was a road. Red, dusty soil. Impeccably seperated from the desert on both sides, as if the path and the wasteland had come to an agreement not to cross one another. At times, however, it seemed a more hostile affair.





Presently Fredek Artali was making his way down the road, staring with interest-or perhaps intense loathing-at the rain. It had begun to come down early in the morning, merely a light misting, and yet it had persisted throughout the day. It fell on both sides of him, soaking into the dead land, and yet not a drop saw fit to drop onto his path. Above him the sky remained clear. He glared at the blinding sun. Was it just his imagination, or was it even hotter then usual? He focused his gaze on the path he was walking. The rain made him take notice of how dry his mouth had become. It made his eyes water for the same reason. He had been walking for what seemed like days now, and his skin was devoid of moister. Oh, how nice it would be to swim in a lake. When he awoke, that would the first thing he would do. The first thing he would forget to do, anyways. He knew Fredek-he frowned-knew that he would not even think to bathe when he awoke. Shaking his head, he considered what he had just done. He was Fredek, asleep or awake. No good would come of coming to think of himself as...something else. And yet, was he not more then the man asleep in a soft bed, far away, by virtue of his experiences? The walk had changed him, he knew. He was far more durable man. He also weighed less. So much for the muscle theory, he thought with a grin. No, he was still that man, whoever that man was. He might come to this body, but it was with the same brain. He was still a wannabe-blacktmith-turned-killer. The same regrets. The same fears.

Frowning, he stopped. He thought he had heard something. Something familiar, tickling at his memory. He looked around, into the desert. It was the same as always. Lifeless. But there had been something, he was sure. Squinting, he looked again. Yes. There was movement out there. He shuddered, unable to help himself. Why would that trigger a memory? There was nothing out there he ever wanted to meet. It was coming closer. As it approached, he found himself gaping in astonishment. It was people. A group of people were running across the plain, coming towards his road. His breath had left him. People in this hell? How could people survive in this land? Why had he never seen any of them? He had walked this land for years without anything to suggest life. Life could not exist outside of the road! He could hear them now, as they closed the distance. They were screaming at him as they ran across the desert. The blood drained from his face. No, it was impossible. He felt his heartbeat increasing, threatening to explode in his chest.

"Fredek!"

"Fredek, we found ye! By all the gods, we found ye!"

"ye couldn't escape us ye fat bastard!"

"Ye av' no idea how long we been crossing this damned desert for you, blacksmith."

He stared in shock, unable to find words. Before him, but a hundred paces, stood his friends. A more bedraggled lot he had never seen. They wore desert garb, colors to fend off the sun, and under their chins were veils that when worn would block the grueling sun. It was more fitting on them then he would have imagined. Their clothes stood in tatters though, and it was obvious they had been in some kind of battle. He could see wounds on all of them, and Miklos seemed to be holding a broken arm. There were two missing.

"W-we found you, heh. We're here to bring you home."


They could not be here. They could not exist here. He was dreaming. He had been dreaming, before his dreams had been engulfed by this hell. They could not come here. He realized his jaw was hanging open, and abruptly closed it. There was so much he wanted to say to them, but still the words would not come.

"What's wrong with you? We come all this way and you can't even say hello? Typical Fredek."

"We're here to take you home, Fredek. You dissapeared on us! We've come all this way."

"Ye must come with us lad, quickly. This land be a nasty business. The old man didn't have it in him."

"N-Neither did..." The one that was Miklos looked to Elfric.

"I lost my wife to find you, blacksmith. She would forgive you for it, but I won't. Come with us."

He saw it then, in the distance behind his friends. It was moving fast. Very fast. A creature of some kind, with four legs. A horse maybe. The impossible group glanced behind them, and their faces showed that they had encountered this thing before. A very nasty horse, maybe.

"It's found us! Fredek, there be no way now. Ye must let us in."

"L-let us in. That thing nearly killed us."

"Ye av' to let us in, Fredek. It's going to kill us this time."

He studied the man that had been Ubul. He had more wounds then the others, he could see. His knuckles were bleeding profusely, forming little puddles where he stood. Open the path for them? He did not know how to open the path. He frowned, looking around him. Did he have some form of control over this road? If he did, he had never succeeded in using it. he looked back to his friends. The beast was closing in quickly, and he could make out its features now. Like a bull almost, but without hair. A tan, leathery skinned beast. It loaped forward on hooved feet, and yet its teeth were something out of a nightmare. Massive white canines, razor sharp. Spittle coated its chin as it closed on its victims. His friends. They turned to meet it. Elfric had acquired a bow somehow, and even as he took note of it a slew of arrows was loosed. Three, maybe four, in the blink of an eye. They flew true, striking the beast in its chest and its back. One even took it through the eye. They may as well have missed, for all the effect they had. The beast was closing.

"F-Fredek, ye got to open the path! Open it now!"

"Open it fredek, or ye doomed us all! All for nothin!"

Ubul considered him, his gaze seeming to pierce Fredeks soul, and then he turned towards the horror.

"He can't do it boys. We'll give it a fight."

He realized he had yet to say a word to his friends, friends that had crossed into hell to find him, and yet what could he say now? He could find nothing that would be appropriate at this moment. So he stood, watching.

The beast, reaching its prey at last, let out a gutteral squeel. It stopped at a speed that should have been impossible, and all at once lunged towards Miklos. He willed himself the strength watch his friend be slain, but somehow Miklos was down, rolling, and the beast passed harmlessly over him. He came to his feet once more, now with two knives in his hands. Before the beast could turn, he landed a deep slash on its flank. It howled in rage. Quicker than any natural beast could move, it lept in a quarter circle and snapped at Miklos with its teeth. His friend tried to step back, but he was not quick enough this time. The beast tore out a chunk of his shoulder. Before he could fall, Elfric was descending upon the demon from the other direction. He had a longsword in his hands, taken from some hiding place or another Fredek knew, and he drove it into the beasts side with his own howl of rage. It should have been the end of the thing, whatever it was. Had it been mortal, it surely would have. It was enough to knock it off balance. It stumbled sideways, trying to keep its footing even as Elfric continued to push. Miklos, he saw, had succeeded in crawling away a dozen paces. His hand covered what had been his shoulder. He looked up at Fredek then, his face pale. It was look of hatred. He was stamming a word, but he did not have the strength to speak it loudly enough to be heard over such distance. He did not need to hear it though. He knew the word. Failure.

Several feet away, the beast had managed to keep its footing. It turned itself to face Elfric, who now stood weaponless. The thing opened its mouth, apparently intent on savoring the next bite. Before it could lunge for him for though, Ubul stepped in its path. The beast, just for a moment, seemed to hesitate. Then it was again in motion, its teeth looking for flesh. ubul's fist shot out like lightning, grabbing ahold of the arrow shaft judding from the creatures eye. He used it to pull the beasts head aside, causing it to narrowly miss Ubuls own face, and drove his fist into its throat. The beast squeeled in agony and surprise. Its momentum took it forward, crashing full body into Ubul. They both went down. The beast, a good eight hundred pounds if not half a ton, covered any trace of Ubul beneath it. Seeing his chance, Elfric descended once again on the beast. His foot snapped on the buried shaft in its eye. The Beast screamed in pain. He looked around then, hunting for a weapon, any weapon. Miklos, seeing their chance, used his good arm to toss one of his long knives toward the fallen beast. Elfric reached down to pick it up. The beast was quicker. Not able to right itself in time, it instead lunged out with his powerful jaws, locking them around Elfric's calf. His friend bellowed in agony. The beast violently whipped its head, and to Fredeks horror he saw his friend falling, minus the leg. "Elfric!" he found himself yelling. "I don't know how Elfric, I don't know how to open it!"

The creature that was the bull-beast had succeeded in righting itself at this point, and it closed quickly on Elfric. His friend managed to raise his head then towards Fredek, a look of steely determination on his face, even as the beast tore away the back of his head. He was not alone in crying out at that moment. Miklos had regained his feet by now. He was charging, or more accurately stumbling, towards the scene of carnage. One limp arm hung to his side, a dagger still clenched in his fist, and in his other hand twin to it had appeared. How many knives did he carry, Fredek wondered. His friends had changed. The beast met his friends charge, Elfric's skull and brains too visibly wedged into its teeth. The strike should have been the end of Miklos, but somehow he avoided this one to, instead crashing into the beasts chest, his good arm wrapped around its neck. The beast, finding itself unable to use its teeth, instead began to spin wildly. Miklos could not strike with his good arm and hold on at the same time. Still, not wanting to be trampled, he held on. The frustrated beast reared up on its hind legs, bellowing in rage, and in that moment Miklos released his grip. His arm was moving even as he fell, driving his blade deep into the beasts belly. He dragged it all the way down. The creature screamed then. Not just one of pain, or anger, but of fear. It was hurt, and it knew it. Miklos grinned up at the beast even as its forepaws decended upon him, crushing his head with an audiable crunch. Fredek stared in muted horror. He could feel his heart breaking.

The beast, bleeding from dozens of wounds, stumbled and nearly fell. Its eyes locked on Fredek. If such a creature could smile, it then did so. He felt ice travel down his spine. He knew this beast. The familiarity he had felt had not been at his friends yells, but at this...thing. At its intent. At its rage. He looked towards his fallen friends, and was not surprised to see that they were no longer there. He looked back to the beast again. It looked to him. With a snarl, it turned and headed in the direction of the desert, and away from the road.

He stood for a long time then in the middle of the road, staring at where the "mock battle" had taken place. The place where he had seen his friends die. They might not have been real, but his helplessness had been. He could do nothing while they fought for their lives, trapped on this cursed road. How had it known to use them? Could it read his mind? This place, he thought, was truly a plane of hell. The creature had wanted into the path. It had tried to force its way in, and when that proved beyond it, it had tried to trick him. The ruse had failed, for he did not know how to let it inside.

 He shook his head. He had to walk, to get moving. One thing that never changed in this place. They would come eventually. He turned to walk down the road then. He was still in shock he knew. How could one recover from that? It was a mercy then, that the waking Fredek would remember nothing of this. A mercy. He was not afforded such luxary.


He sobbed then as he walked, and thought of the friends he would never again meet.

[shadymerchant]

A dreamer awakens

In the arid desert that had become home to Fredek Artali, or at the very least the home of his dreams, the sun beat down upon the land with a fury that only an unmindful celestial body could produce. There was no telling the amount of days it had been soaking into the land, for it was always day time in this place. The sun did not set, and the sky seldom changed. There was an order to be followed for the creation of a world though. Any world. Somewhere along the line, the order of this place had been lost.





One foot in front of the other, for what might have been the millionth step since he had awoke. Since he had gone to sleep.  No, it didn't matter what he had done.  One foot in front of the other.  It had sounded like an eggshell breaking, hadn't it?  Elfric's head.  He tried not to picture it. Julia Colds, the next one to be added to his eternal army.  He wondered if her head would make the same sound when his hammer descended upon it.  He had never really listened when his hammer made impact.  Betrayal was a just fate, when he had betrayed so many.  He deserved to die.  One foot in front of the other.  It was just habit that had kept him alive so far.  He was good at surviving.  Good at bullshitting his way through life. One foot infront of the other.  Why did he care about his friends dying, when he was willing to kill them himself? They thought of it as a battle against evil, but they were evil.  Everyone was evil.  One foot in front of the other.  They would die anyways, all of them, and it would be for nothing.  More men would rise up in their stead.  The fight would go on.  Their names would be forgotten.  One foot in front of the other.  He should kill them when he next awoke.  When he went to sleep.  One foot in front of the other.  Now was not the time though, for he was in love, and he could not let her slip away.  Slim, alluring, and inspite of her massive ears, beautiful.  Yes, he would win her over.  By bullshitting his way into her heart. He would probably end up having to kill her though.  That was the way of things.  Beauty had no place in the world.  One step in front of the other.  He recalled his father saying something about that.  He said as much talking about his wife, Fredek’s mother, and explaining the reality of beauty.  It would have been a smithing metaphore, of course. Ah, he recalled his father’s words: "Son, nothing is born beautiful," he had said.  "All of these pieces you see in here, they are beautiful, yes?" he had continued, gesturing to his most prized collection that hung all around the shop. "No, best you not respond to that one. You will break my heart, my boy,” he had said, grinning downwards at him.  "All of these pieces, they began as lumps of metal, and only by beating them with all the force I could muster did I shape them into form.  These pieces, they are like my children.  No, more than that, it is like I am their god.  Do you see what I am saying?" he asked, looking down into a face of confusion.  "No, I see that you do not. Your head may need shaping, boy.  Beauty is the end result of struggling against a force greater then yourself.  The weak and the stupid, they break.  It is the strong, the sharp, that are shaped.  It is those that emerge as weapons and shields, pots and spoons."  He was staring at Fredek with a rare intensity, as if looking for something.  He must have found it, or grown bored, for he then unceremoniously announced, "Boy, get out of my shop. There is work to be done and your mother will not forgive me if I mistake you for a sword and begin to work on layers."  He frowned, thinking back on those words.  His father walked behind him now, not as tall as he had once seemed, but somehow bigger at the same time.  Maybe it was because only now, after being out in the world, could he truly appreciate him. It was not a surprise his heart had given out, really. It took a lot to keep such a body going. His mother and him had never spoken of it, but he learned to fear it from a young age. The old man seemed intent on fufilling his long ago made threat. One foot infront of the other. Foolish words, anyhow. What did a village blacksmith know of the world? He had not held men by their throats, squeezing until all life left their eyes. He had not dumped bodies into a pit, or a harbor. They had been the words of a naive old man.

He slowed his steps.  Something had changed.  He looked around, frowning.  It took him a few moments, but then he gasped.  The heat was gone, as it well should have been, for the sun too had disappeared.  Night had come.  Overhead, a million stars sparkled, and looming larger then he would have thought possible.  The moon cast its rays across a thousand miles of desert.  He shivered then, for the first time in a long time, as a breeze flowed around him.  Looking towards the heavens, he noted the constellations, different than any he was familiar with.  The moon appeared so large it could fall out of the sky, he thought.  He resumed walking.  This was much nicer than the heat.  May the devil take the sun and shove it up his arse.  One step in front of the other.  He would have to find the Tempestrians.  Another breeze flowed around him, sending his tattered clothes fluttering. He would have to explain to them what had happened, how they had been betrayed.  One foot in front of the other.  It had been Julia Colds and the Vallaki Guard.  She was a witch, after all.  He had seen her at work.  Yes, a most terrible display.  She had grown to ten feet in height, and ripped a child's head right off.  She torn it off, and then promptly stuffed it in her gullet.  Swallowed like a grape.  That had been shortly before they had arrived.  He had been hiding the brush.  Yes, the brush beside the inn.  He would have to steer them away from a direct confr--All at once his mind was in agony.

He collapsed into the dust, holding his head.  The pain was incredible.  He was screaming, he knew, but he could only vaguely hear it.  The world had become awash in sound.  He writhed on the ground, in the dust, as something seemed to settle upon him.  A feeling of extreme violation, not upon his body but his mind.  There was...something.  It was trying to reach the road.  It was coming through.  There was a face before him, leering at him.  A massive, pale face, grinning down upon him.  All at once, the sound dissapeared, and the pain subsided.  He realized, lying in the dust, that the face he was staring at had been the moon.  Out of habit, he tilted his head to the side, looking at the road he had traveled.  Clear.  He rolled over onto his stomach.  With a groan, he climbed to his feet.  He looked up towards the moon once more.  No face.  It must have been his imagination, but rest most certainly had not been.  He looked around.  What had just happened to him?  He coughed.  Dust.  Dust coated the air.  From his flailing?  He coughed again, and stumbled backwards.  He had not kicked up that much dust.  He narrowed his eyes in suspicion.  What manner of torture was he subject to now?  He should not have trusted the coming of night.  Changes were painful.  The wind was blowing harder now, he realized, whipping up the wind.  Something was indeed happening.  He fell back more, hoping to escape the small storm.  It was beginning to find focus.  Tightening, in a way.  Becoming compact.  He felt his bowels turn to ice. Had the demon found its way inside, then? The dust was taking shape now, becoming the outline of...a man.  A huge man.  He tried to shield his eyes from the dust, glaring into it. If he had any chance of survival, he would have to strike the moment the opportunity presented itself.  That had always been the key to winning battles.  Strike before your enemy was ready for the fight.  The dust was beginning to settle now.  As it drifted towards the floor, the intruder's form became evident.  The dust form, large, gangly limbs, used a long staff to support him. The wind whipped around it violently, now blowing dust off of the creature, revealing something more of flesh and blood beneath the dirt.  He felt the muscles in his body tensing.  He stepped forward.


[Continued on next page, 20,000 word count!  ]

[shadymerchant]

[Continued]






ACHOO!

Dust exploded from the creatures nostrils.  He gaped at it, frozen in mid step.  The creature attempted to wipe the dust from his own broken chin, but found himself helpless as he sneezed again.

ACHOO!

The creature appeared to be reeling now, with one of his eyes appearing to be rolling lazily about, perhaps broken. "ahh,ahhh, ahhh, ahh..." It managed to wheeze out, then abruptly sneezed again.  Before Fredek’s surprised face it exploded into a cloud of red dust.  The thing that had been before him was gone, and in its place was the dust it had come from.  He stared in disbelief.  It appeared the thing was not content to be defeated by its own creation though, for he saw that the dust was already gathering again, finding form.  After a few minutes of this, the man-dust-thing stood before him once more.  One eye sewn shut, the other eye rolled lazily until finally coming to a stop, to peer down at Fredek as the moon shined from up above.  It appeared to be to be grinning. The face was far from what he would have expected from some kind of dust monster.  It had the quality of a child, yet at the same time his skin, perhaps a caliban, was flaking pitifully to dust. The delight of its success was visible in its eyes.  The scent of onion permeated from the flaking skin.

"Who the hell are you n' what are you doing in my bloody dream?" he heard himself asking, more calmly then he felt.  The creature, one eye sewn shut, stared at him.  It's eye was still doing something funny.  It appeared to be spinning.  "I said, why are you here!" he repeated, louder.  Still it merely stared at him.  It broke off the gaze to look around. When it saw the moon, it grew excited.  It began jumping around, making crying noises, and shaking its staff at the moon with glee.  He wondered if this thing had made the mistake of wandering in that mad desert.  It certainly did not appear to care about him. Yet, he knew, this was the intruder.  He scowled at the idiot.  "I'm gonna give you ten seconds to explain yerself before I hurl ye b-"  Fredek got no further.  The creature had picked up a handful of dust during its lunacy, and flung it at Fredek.  Fredek attempted to step back, but the dust settled all over his skin.  The creature mumbled a word, and all at once Fredek could not move.  His muscles would not work.  His eyes bulged in anger.  He should have attacked.  He had let his guard down.  A fatal mistake in this place.  Now he would die.  The creature appeared to be examining him.  Apparently content, it hooted.  Fredek had to find a way out of this.  He could not be overtaken by this mongoloid.  It was stepping towards him.  He felt a moment of terror as it leaned in towards his face.  Yes, this was it.  The picture his mind conjured up to be his last was only appropriate, he thought.  Gibrana was skipping down the dirt road, hand in hand with his father.  He would make them happy with his demise, at least.  The dust caliban’s cracked lips parted, sinking jagged teeth into the flesh of Fredek’s cheek.  Fredek tried to close his eyes, but his eyelids would not work.  He was staring into the creatures one eye, a void of oblivion.  Abruptly it was pulling away from him, stepping back, and blood ran down a busted chin.  All at once Fredek was in motion, stumbling backwards, as his legs carried out the last command he had given them.  He fell on his ass with a grunt.  The dust caliban’s manic laughter drew his gaze up once more.  It was bellowing hysterically. Was the beast toying with him?  He growled, climbing to his feet.  The creature's laughter stopped.  It held out before him a handful of dust, and he was once again grinning.

"I get it,"  Fredek told the thing.
He did. He was not in control.
It spoke, as the moon flickered overhead: "Mother takes many forms….loves many shapes.”
He frowned at it.
 "Who are you then?" he asked.
"I am the Steward…of Old Night," it replied.
The Steward.  It sounded like one of those fancy noble titles.
"Are you real?  I mean, are you from the real world?" he asked, finding himself desperately hoping for it to be the latter.
It stared back at him with an expression of confusion.
"Barovia, Tepest, Forlorn, Bluetspur, Hazlan, Nova Vaasa!"

The thing grinned even wider then it had been previously, if that was possible.  At the same time, a tear appeared to be running down its sickly cheek.  It must be mad.  A thought came to Fredek.  Mad it may be, but it had powers.  "There are ones chasing me. They mean to kill me! If you use your powers to get rid of them, I will be in your debt. Please, they are terrible monsters."  The thing frowned.  It appeared to be thinking.  It looked past him, down the road.  One eye sewn shut with dust, the other suddenly widened.  It muttered a word, and without warning dropped back into a pile of dust.  The dust was quickly picked up by the wind though, and even as he watched it was blowing past him down the road.  He stared at it as it went.  Perhaps there was mercy in this world.






Far down the road, a small army marched. The core was clearly composed of professional soldiers, for they marched in their armor still. They appeared also to have decided that even in death there was a job to do, for they had arrayed themselves in a defensive pattern.  Half a dozen had taken up rank at the back of the group, protecting their flank from an attack that would never come.  Several more walked on each side of the group, keeping the herd closed in.  At the forefront were the bulk of the soldiers.  Walking ahead of them all was a headless corpse.  It held a head with bright red hair under its arm.  In the middle of the group loomed a giant, and beside it a small woman.  Around them an array of individuals.  One appeared to be waterlogged and rotting, for with each step it left a wet puddle.  What concepts they understood is anyone’s guess.  Their purpose was clear though, and they pursued it relentlessly.  So they marched, mile after mile, taking little note of their surroundings.  Even when the dust began to swirl around them, they payed it no heed.  Dust could not stop them.  As it began to coalesce in front of them however, all at once, they paused.  Dull black eyes regarded the dust with what might have been irritation.  From among the horde there were moans of displeasure.  The dust began to take the shape of a man.  Arms and legs, a torso and a head.  The moans grew louder.  The decapitated one in the lead dashed forward in an awkward gate, and behind him several soldiers followed.  They clang of swords being drawn could be heard, save for the headless man who always carried his in his free hand.  They fell upon the dust creature, slashing and stabbing at it.  The decapitated man used his one unburdened arm to beat at it furiously with the flat of his blade.  For a few moments the dust seemed to resist, intent on forming regardless of the obstacles.  Then it collapsed.  The soldiers regarded the lump of dust wearily.  A chorus of moaning erupted behind them.  They turned back towards their charges. The group itself had turned, regarding something behind them.  A man of some kind stood on the road behind them, some twenty paces away. He was holding a handful of dust toward the group. Moaning, the rear guard began to advance on him. The man threw the dust up into the air. A great cloud of dust wafted toward them. The caliban spoke a word, and the dust turned to fire. He was lost from view behind a wall of flames. Screams of rage rang out from the group, only to be consumed by the roar of the fire as it reached them. It swept through the horde, throwing armored soldiers and peasants to the ground, or hurling them forward through the air. The fireball dissapated as it traveled further down the road, withering into nothing. The bodies of a small army lay strewn across the road, smoking and charred.

The one known as the Steward stood back a dozen feet from the carnage, sniffing the air. He strode forward, stopping infront of the first corpse. That had gone well. A moan came from among the destroyed army. He frowned toward the group. More joined the first, and soon there was a chorus singing to the night. Maybe it had not gone so well. Among the downed lot, some could be seen stirring. The small woman was the first up. Her clothes appeared to have been incinerated as she stood naked before him, her obsidian gaze promising retribution. The giant rose at her side. The flesh on its head had also been burnt away, leaving only a skull to glare at him. Much of the left side of its body had also been consumed. He must have shielded the woman from the blast. Around them soldiers picked themselves up, smoke and steam still rising from their armor. Those had that been at the front of the group, the ones had had sought to stop his rise, seemed the least effected. The headless man was upright, the head held in one hand by a fistful of hair. Ash and burn marks marred them. The Steward shrugged haplessly towards them. A puff followed as his form exploded into dust, and all at once he was passing through them once more. The Tepestrian had the foresight to wave his sword through the air as it passed, but the others made no such moves, opting instead to stare at where he had been.






Far ahead of the group Fredek Artali stood, seemingly intent on regarding the desert.  He thought had heard something happening down there, but it was too far away to make it out.  He had probably been imagining it.  Where had this strange man come from?  Was he a god?  The thought might have seemed ludicrous to some, but Fredek Artali had never held the gods in high regard.  The man had given little enough for clues.  He was a steward, and something about a mother.  Was his mother around too?  He looked up at the night sky.  It was beautiful, he had to admit.  You could not admire the sun as you could the moon and the stars.  To do so would invite its judgment.  He glanced behind him again. fA breeze flowed around him, and after a moment he could see the swirl of dust approaching.  He felt his heartbeat increase.  Had it succeeded?  Was he actually free of pursuit?  He would toil for an eternity for this crazy man to get away from them.  The dust blew past him.  It took longer for the dust to take shape this time.  Five minutes.  Ten.  He began to wonder if the stranger had been hurt somehow.  Eventually it found its shape.  The dust fell away, revealing the intruder.  He raised an eyebrow towards him.  He did not have the strength to speak his fondest wish aloud.

Dry dust caked lips parted and spoke: “The dreamless….that which should not be….march on…..for they are….thee."  A lanky finger pointed at Fredek’s forehead.
"You are not strong enough to kill them?" He had to work at keeping his voice down.  He was dissapointed.
"Pursue….shapes within shapes….the Steward must go….the Dreamer must awaken." The last words were spoken with weariness.
He could see that the thing was tired from whatever it had done.  Whatever it had attempted to do.
"Where will you go then?" his voice cracked, he could not help it.  He did not want to be alone again.

The stranger cackled.

"Two eyes are blind….third eye doth sees….where memories won’t die."  It was grinning again.  It enjoyed this.  He felt his temper rising.
"Please, tell me where you are going!"
"The Steward will return."

A puff, and it was gone.  He found himself rushing forward into the dust, leaping upon the remains of the creature.  His hands scooped up piles of dust, holding them tight.  He did not care if the creatures caught up to him just then.  Let someone have peace.  He laid there for a long time in the heap of dust, face nearly buried in it.  After a time, his senses returned to him.  He did not know how long he had been lying there.  Even before he picked up his head and opened his eyes, he knew it had returned.  Like an oppressive overlord, the sun shone down on him, intent on smothering him.  He glared up into it until his eyes burned , and then he buried his head in the dust once more.






Special Thanks to Iconoclastic for help with editing and the guest appearance

[Iconoclast]

Son of Dawn, Son of Gundar




   He imagined himself being led to the gallows as he dug and scraped the ash from his pipe with a copper tapper.  It was the pipe his father carved for him, just before his mother gave him the task of retrieving Gibrana years ago.  All the Zsivosky men carved their own pipes.  When a father carved a pipe and made a gift of it to his son, it meant the boy was now a man.  He would no longer dress as a boy, or see the world as a boy, or talk like a boy.  He would join his father and uncles after dinner outside and smoke his pipe and partake in discussions and matters of family importance.  With manhood came responsibility.  None of them could have anticipated that Ellfric Zsivosky would come to this though.  With restless coal dark eyes that burned slightly from the wall torch’s fumes, his gaze fell across the all too familiar round table, wax spotted and ink stained desk with disheveled parchments, stacks of musty books and political pamphlets, reports on the militia and Red Vardo, and suspected spies for the Devil.  There were discolored maps nailed to the stone cellar walls, some dating to the time before Gundarak become the Devil’s piss pot.  And then his eyes settled upon the portrait of Strahd that hung on the storage room wall that was riddled with holes from drunken dart games over the restless years of plotting and sabotage.  The portrait, with the visage of Count Strahd barely recognizable after the years of abuse, had relocated with them each time they fled from the militia raids.  He could never look at that portrait of Strahd, no matter how many dart holes riddled the visage, without remembering the time he faced the Devil in Castle Ravenloft.  He looked to the pipe ash that coated his hands.  Gibrana had burned to ash in these very hands.  The Devil had corrupted her, tainted his little sister, and transformed her into something wicked and unholy, before by the grace of Dawn, the light burned her and scattered her ashes to the winds.
   
        He set his pipe and cleaning tools down and began to pace again.  He looked at Gotz with a pang of guilt.  Living in this underground shelter was barely tolerable, let alone a place to keep a Shepard dog as strong spirited as Gotz.  Gotz belonged in the fields, herding, or the forest on the hunt.  Only blue blooded fops typically kept dogs cooped up like slaves to be shown off and fondled for affection in their lonely shallow life styles.  Ellfric longed for an excuse to relocate into some rural area, away from these Vallaki cellars, deep into the forest, or even the mountains where only the hardiest survived, where he and Gotz could hunt every morning and evening without such daily worries as here in Vallaki.  He allowed himself on rare occasion to picture himself building a cottage, where Katalin and he would be married at last and raise children.  But that is a dream that has no place in these dark times, when the Devil’s Law binds them all. 
   
        He was near going mad being cooped up like this, month after month, winter after winter, when the walls were closing in and the air stifling.  Rebels could not be too careful.  The Devil’s minions lurk everywhere.  No place is safe.  His last venture to the Lady’s Rest had nearly ended with his death, after a long night of being tortured by the Red Vardo witches.  He didn’t tell anyone, not Ubul, not Fredek or Miklos, or his uncle Zeteny.  He didn’t tell them that a part of him regretted surviving the ordeal.  Death for liberty is the highest honor for a Sun of Dawn and Gundar.  Ellfric was a son of both, a true believer in the impending Dawn, the liberty of his people from the Devil Strahd.  One day the sun would rise to the west, he was sure of it, and Szbadsag for the Gundarakites would finally be achieved. 
   
        Gotz gave a protesting whine as Ellfric began to pace again.  His head ached from thinking too much, pouring over maps, writing up reports, all the tactical aspects to ensure the rebellion’s success.  Too much time to think was dangerous to the mind.  His eyes darted from the portrait to the desk top.  A fresh report was at the top of the paper mound upon his desk, with the name ‘Jerovich’ upon it.  Jerovich, a known butcher of women and children, was finally dead.  Ellfric even risked death when he snuck out to the western outskirts to spit upon the fresh corpse as the Devil’s militia men upon the wall watched on with chuckles.  Jerovich had led the massacre at Sullan Camp, butchering families who had chosen to live as free people deep into the Sullan Woods.  It had taken years to establish the hidden rebel camp, but it took only hours before the Devil’s militia butchered them all, once the traitorous wench led the Devil’s men, with their blood lusty halberds to the slaughter.
   
       Ellfric sighed, then sat back down at the desk with papers littered across it.  He closed his eyes then rubbed his thumbs over his eyelids.  His mind began to drift to his death again.  He saw himself standing in front of the citadel, with the executioner’s axe lifted high in anticipation.  He saw the heavy axe fall, and his head roll.  Death for liberty is the highest honor for a Son of Dawn and Gundar.  More and more now, he fantasized his own death.  Suffering was a key; he learned that through Szabadsag, and from his god, the Morninglord, the giver of hope.  Only through self sacrifice would the Dawn of Gundarak become reality.  With his arm he swept the papers from the desk to the floor.  Gotz lifted his head from the floor at the sudden commotion.  Ellfric placed a map before him, and then dipped a quill into a jar of ink.  He must be certain that his blood paves the road to liberty, even if it means he would not have the chance to carve a pipe for a son of his own some day.

[Iconoclast]

One Last Look






      He just stood there, with distant eyes.  We’ve all seen some shit in our lives.  Those rebels who’ve been in the shit long enough to have seen the worse, they get the look.  It’s as if they’re looking through you.  Hell.  It’s as if they’re looking through life itself, as if they see the mad truth behind it all, or see that the truth of it is that there aint no truth.  His eyes though, were something else.  What do you say to a man who knows he’s about to die?  We knew he was coming.  We’ve known for months.  But knowing something and doing something aint the same.  We’d been planning for this day for months.  The scene played out hundreds of times in my mind.  We’d walk right into the barracks.  They’d roll out of bed and grab their halberds.  They’d see Gundarakites and see red.  They’d be about to charge, but then they’d stop.  Oh yes, they’d stop alright.  They’d have a good reason to stop.  We’d not be strolling in if we’d not have a good reason for them to stop. 

      He just stood there, with distant eyes.  We’ve all seen shit.  Was he at all afraid to die?  I mean, none of us, and I don’t care who you are, none of us know how we’ll truly face death when it comes knocking at our door.  You take the toughest son-of-a-bitch you know, and stand him before death’s many faces, and you see what happens.  Muscles mean shit in the end.  You just don’t know until it happens.  You may surprise yourself.  But the thing is, with this fellow, death wasn’t knocking at his door.  He was knocking at Death’s door with a keg full of black powder.  If that aint an act of liberty, or rebellion, I don’t know what is.  And he was planning to bring a shit load of the Devil’s dogs with him. 

      He just stood there, Fredek on one side, me on the other.  And just like I pictured a hundred times, they rolled out of their bunks, scrambled to their halberds and swords, and began to charge.  They stopped short.  We gave them reason to stop.  Holding the wick in one hand, the keg at his side, torch ablaze he just stood there, with those strange and distant eyes.  “If ya’ want ta’ live ta’ see ya’ kin an’ the light of day, do as we say!” I shouted.  The guards, their eyes, they were ripe with indignation and fear.  I would be too if I was in their shoes.  But no way in hell would I put on their shoes.  We each got to reap what we sew.  Maybe that’s the difference between us and them.  Gundarakites got it rough all over.  When you got it rough all the time, when you don’t have the luxury to wallow, you find out what your really made of it because all we got is our spirit in this Devil’s cursed land.  Comfort is the destroyer of spirit.  And we aint comfortable, not a bit. 

      He just stood there, with distant eyes.  We didn’t even know his name.  All we knew was that he lost his wife and children to the Devil’s dogs.  He’d spent these past few months watching this scene play over and over in his head.  He was ready.  And at last, here he was.  Thinking about something and doing it though, are two different things, but maybe not for him.  I was afraid they’d look into his eyes, and see what I saw.  And come to think of it, when I look back to their panic stricken faces, I think some of them knew on some level, that it was a lie.  They’d not be living long enough to see the dawn, no matter what.  They’d not live to see the faces of their wives and children.  They must have known, just by looking at him, the way he just stood there, with those distant eyes, knocking on Death’s door with a joyful smile.  As Fredek and I fled the barracks, I heard his last words before thundering fire and stone ripped a smoking hole into Vallaki.  “Let me tell you about my wife and children”  he said, with one last look.  “We’ll be meeting them real soon.” 

[Iconoclast]

Time has Come




The ceiling creaked and groaned under the strain of the winter blast beating down from the Balinoks.  Coal black eyes burned with a quiet, sorrowful intensity in the dim lit basement, eyes like his sister had, until she too was taken from him, in his futile embrace, outside of Castle Ravenloft, as the morning sun burned and shed her skin into a whirlwind of ashes.  The Devil Strahd, the source of all pain and sorrow.  How did it all come to this?  His mother, father, little brothers and sisters, butchered by the Devil Strahd’s imjorti minions in revenge for his audacity to rebel, to dare call the Strahd by his true name to his face, in his own abode; Devil.  They had taken all of their bleeding limbs and body parts and with the most wicked of black magic turned his family into one massive flesh golem. While two of his siblings were spared the worst of fates, they were not spared the memory, of watching hidden through the cracks in the floor boards, as their parents and brothers and sisters were inflicted with such unspeakable pain.  They were now hidden, protected, guarded against the wickedness, until the day comes when they will have the right and choice to seek revenge against the Devil. 


How many Vallaki garda had he abducted and taken out upon Lake Zarovich?  It had become an art form.  How many had been tortured?  Chomski and his wooden peg for a leg, and his rage.  Julia Colds, who with her Red Vardo had meddled into affairs they had no business with.  She had screamed until her voice was strained and wasted gone.  The names and faces floated before his mind’s eye, and then faded, leaving him staring at an oval framed portrait of the Devil Strahd himself, a dart protruding from each heartless eye.  How many were blown to ash and pieces when he ignited the wick at the western wall of Vallaki?  He remembered nonchalantly walking into the Lady’s Resting Place, as everyone rushed towards the massive explosion, finding Fredek sitting down for a celebratory dinner.  He remembered flooding the Blue Water with sewer shit and piss, with those worthless Barovian fops left to wallow, slipping and falling in their own deserved waste.  He remembered pointing a crossbow at a bank guard, until their sacks were filled with the people’s gold, to feed and fuel the Rebellion. He remembered the Red Vardo chasing him down, Tarth beating him to the ground, and then waking up in the dark cellar of the Gaping Wound, tortured by Colds and that Jimmy fey witchin’ bastard until he was turned over to the Vallaki Garda.  His brothers didn’t abandon him then.  Sorin Dalakis, who was one of the Devil’s dogs responsible for the massacre of women and children living in hiding out in Sullan Woods, he stood over Ellfric in that dank dark dungeon cell, until he was saved.  But saved for what?  Saved for who?  What was there left to do? 


Ellfric remembered the blank look in a rebel brother’s face, and the smile that cracked upon his lips moments before he sacrificed himself, lighting the wick to a barrel of black powder strapped to his chest, blowing up a dozen guards in the barraks.  The scene played itself over and over in his mind’s eye.  And before he knew it, it wasn’t the man he saw sacrificing himself, it was himself.  Why not?  He stood before the Devil Strahd in that black castle, and saw the Devil for what he, or it, truly is; a vrolok and witch.  The Gundarakites Rebels had no fighting chance against vroloks and black magic.  As other Gundarakite Rebels secretly joined the underground cell, dwelling in the Grey City of Vallaki, he no longer found any purpose, meaning, or interest in their plans.  It all felt so futile.  Another garda abducted and slain, would not give them liberty.  Even if the Gundarakite Rebels were to slay every last one of them, in the end, there would still be no liberty, not so long as the Devil Strahd remained. 


He unsheathed his skinning blade, and without pause sliced it across his other palm, and watched as his blood trickled down to the floor.  Still he was numb.  Why not?  Why not go out with a bang.  For Dawn, for Gundarak, Szabadsag.  Win or lose, he feared no death, but longed for it, and he would take with him as many of these pathetic Barovian fops and Devil’s dogs as fate would allow. 

[Iconoclast]

The Graves Have Been Dug



The Ballinoks loomed ahead to the north; the peak of Baratak grey and cloaked by thunderous clouds.  The ground shook under the coming thunder of spring.  The Gundarakite kept an eye to the western sky, tracking the Grizzly as much as the soon to be setting sun.  Not much time left, the signs spoke, the grass whispered that the Grizzly was near.  To the east of Vallaki, two other rebel souls were thrusting shovels into the ground; empty graves in the moist dirt of the forest floor, waiting, with building anticipation.  Thunder rumbled upon the Old Country; the Gundarakite Rebels were busy, preparing for the coming storm; preparing for death and Szabdsag.


His father had taught him how to track, how to string his bow, how to take aim, how to be a man; a Gundarakite; tenacious, resilient, and resourceful.  You had to be, to scrape by in the occupied lands of Old Gundarak, the Devil’s pissing pot.  The Zsivosky’s were part of the land, as much as the wolf’s song.  “I Strahd, Walk the Land,” he had seen a sign say once; it made for a good pissing post. 


Ellfric reached into the Grizzly’s innards, and scooped the blubber out, filling several leather bags.  It felt wrong, leaving the meat and fur.  But it wasn’t for food that the grizzly bear had been killed for; not this time.  And even if he could manage to carry the meat back, he didn’t count on being around long enough to eat it.  It felt wrong, but it was necessary.  Off to his left a pack of emaciated wolves, hungry after the long depths of winter, stalked and waited. 


He stood up, hoisting the bags, judging whether or not there was enough light left to make it back to the Pit, before Old Night swept across the Old Country.  Coal black eyes caught the glimpse of obvious outlanders in the distance.  Their pace showed no obvious signs of concern for the encroaching night.  Best to avoid them and their witching ways.  Too often the outlander is too eager to stick their noses into affairs they have no business meddling with; just like the Red Vardo.  Most were useless, lost in the mists, half bored, half hungry, until the day they die; like chickens running wild with their heads cut off.


It was all coming together though, the plan; after all the years concealed in the shadows of Vallaki, after all the graves had been dug; Szabdsag and death were at hand.  For Dawn.  For Gundarak.  For Death and Szabdsag. 

[Iconoclast]

Time-Obscure


Time stood still—a stagnant pool, cut off and isolated from the river of life. He was unable to differentiate between one day and the next. No summer, nor winter—no changing of the seasons. No morning, nor night--No warm glow of dawn upon a mountainous horizon in the lands of Old Gundarak.  Nothing. Nothing but a dull, seamless, never ending moment bankrupted of all things natural and good. Time-Obscure was but vaguely measured by the meager portion of moldy bread and gruel, the occasional rat—the best that an imprisoned Son of Gundar would receive within the dark, damp dungeon of Vallaki’s citadel—The belly of the beast. 


He was fed just enough to be kept alive, but just barely, by the thinnest of threads. His body gradually withered until his once olive skin was stretched sickly taut over his skeleton. It was only a matter of time before the mind too would deteriorate. His mind could not sustain itself for long without the body’s support. Now and then he’d become aware of himself and his condition, but the intervals between moments of lucidity, of sanity, lengthened as his hope for a quick execution lessened.  And when the moments of self-awareness did come, he was flooded by the agony of regret. The regret of being alive—Death denied and deprived.


In the beginning—however long ago that might be--he would pass the time with a vigorous routine, keeping his mind focused upon the matter at hand—his execution for crimes against the Devil Strahd and Vallaki. He had expected to be soon led to the gallows, the hangman’s nous. He hungered for it—death. He wanted to show them all how it was done--dying. He’d not stand quivering and feeble before the Barovian rabble. He’d show them what death was to the Sons of Gundar. He had been forged and reborn under the benevolent blood and violence of Ubul Szierza’s fists. He had discovered his true self and power upon the blood stained cellar floor of the Gaping Wound.  He imagined that the Devil’s dogs—the Vallaki Garda—would intend for his execution to inspire fear and dread into other Gundarakites, and to reassure the Vallakian villagers that the Garda had the rebellion suppressed. But what if the symbol turned upon itself? What if his public death, by accepting the hangman’s nous with a smile, would convey the true message: That the Gundarakites will stop at nothing, even death, until Szabadsag comes—For the Dawn and Gundarak—Rebels rise, rebels rise.

[Iconoclast]

Death Denied



Rats. It was for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But there was no distinction nor conventions of meals here. Not where there was no sun nor moon, nor wind nor rain. Rat, after rat, after rat. Uncooked, for there was no fire, no comfort. Raw and bleeding in complete and utter darkness. For years. He had been left for dead, buried and forgotten within the citadel. The rebel. He had prayed for a quick execution. He wanted them all to see how a true rebel dies. He envisioned himself, gloriously within the hangman’s nouse or his head upon the block, smiling for the fearful Barovians to see. Nothing pleased him more than this dream. But death by execution was deemed far too light of a sentence, especially for the Gundarakite, this rebel, the one who had trespassed into the Devil’s castle, robbed his banks, and slain Dagris the Cruel. Days turned to years, turning into a one endless monotonous day without end. Even the distinction between dreaming and waking was blurred. The rebel was rebel no more. The man was man no more.

When a sudden light cracked open the darkness, shattering what had become an indestructible tomb, his eyes could not bear the strain. He then felt a touch, a woman’s whisper, a man’s voice, but the Gundarakite was no longer a man. The rebel no longer a rebel. At such a foreign and strange thing as touch, he lashed out, viciously clawing and striking, until he was rendered unconscious.

He awoke under the cold splash of bucketed water. Voices and faces. Lamp light, barrels, chairs, tables, furnishings. However, there was no sign of recognition upon the gaunt, bearded face or within his glossy, vacant eyes. He cried out hoarsely as more cold water was thrown upon his wrecked body. The fecal matter and blood of years began to form a stream, slowly finding its way to a drain.

Trembling, he was wrapped in a thick, wool blanket, his frail, sinewy body lifted and taken to a bed, where he slept and slept. Spoonfuls of hot soup greeted his parched lips in the haze of dreaming in the weeks to come. Uncertain, of whether or not he’d survive. Uncertain, that even if he did survive, whether or not he’d be better off dead. Would the rebel ever rise again?

[Iconoclast]

Ghosts of Zeidenburg

There go the Ghosts of Zeidenburg,
Along the hell-bent road,
Across the Luna Bridge to Vallaki
Where our children don’t grow old

Where they’ll hang you for the words you speak,
When tongues of Luktar dare go rogue,
Our mother’s “I love you” a lethal word
Szeretlek
Death’s last kiss our love is bold

There go the Ghosts of Zeidenburg,
Singing from an Oaken branch,
Our feet are wings, “free at last”
Such strange fruit that swell and bloat

Give us today our daily toil,
They claim jurisdiction over heart and soul,
With these lips we yell, szeretünk téged-We love you
With this proud tongue that is not yours

There go the Ghosts of Zeidenburg,
Get your hands off my fecking throat,
Across the Luna to Vallaki
Where our children don’t grow old

To my brothers, my sisters,
My uncles, my aunts,
To the parents we’ll never now know
In the Grey City of Vallaki
Where our children never grow old

szeretünk téged
szeretünk téged

[Iconoclast]

Dirge of Woe

Today the sky is sullen black, the day itself is sullen,
Today Gundarakites are sorrowing, the Ballinoks are mourning,

Today we sing out and the dead do dance,
Upon the grave of Horatio,
Today we sing out and the dead do dance,
Upon the grave of Ubul,

In the grave be free at last
And with this blood remember
In the grave be free at last
And with this blood,
Rebel! Rebel!