What Atrocities May Come

The Legends Of The Rasper

Fire burned at the timber of the towering estate. Stone crumbled, clay siding cracked, and the ceiling collapsed as the crimson flames flared up, consuming the ceiling beams. All within were dead or dying to the skin roasting flames.

Standing between the utter blackness of the autumn night and the consuming flames, Sir Punctious watched for any survivors escaping their gruesome demise.

Smoke rose into the cloudy night sky, as if they were facades of ghosts, fading as they reached up heavenwards for redemption. No saints died in that fire, only sinners, the cruelest of the cruel and vindictive of spirit. Not one would seek redemption when offered, self-proclaimed masters of men.

Looking into the crimson swathes he saw a silhouette darkened a the lit doorway. Walking out of the inferno, covered in cinders, a man with skin melting off his revealing skeleton stumbled into the cool night air.

Heat from the fire had caused him to look as if he was a corpse giving life again, as the flesh fell off his bones. Smell of cooked flesh reeked on his body, as he trembled, looking around with lidless eyes for any sign of help.

Looking out the wretched man saw a figure in the light of the fire, at first he thought it was devil, covered in spikes. Not till he stepped first, did he see it was a man disguised in tarnished violet plate armor, covered head to toe in spikes. In one hand he held a weapon, a large, thick, blunted broadsword, covered in skin puncturing spikes.

‘Do you resent your life of sin, even after it has led you to this gruesome fate?’ the spiked knight’s words were filled with pitiable woe. Looking as if it was skewered with the agony of violence he afflicted on his fellow man, his burden wasn’t lessened when he heard the other man’s response.

‘Do you consider this an end?’ the scorched man seemed almost giddy, despite his fatal state of being. ‘...I consider it home.’ with that the moon came into view as the black clouds parted, and a blood scarlet moon shone brightly into the sky, shining a beam down onto the burnt man. Despite a moment of frenzied joviality he perished moments later, as the crimson moonlight rescinded into the clouds, as if claiming a soul.

Just as the black clouds covered the blood scarlet moon, there seemed to be a terrible, shrieking laughter echoing in Punctious’s mind.

“What deviltry can make my sanity waver?” his head was cracking under the stress of the psychic phenomenon. Feeling the yolk of his mind start to bubble through the seams in his ethereal skull, he lost strength in his limbs and collapsed on the frost hardened ground kneeling, while dropping his sword Rasper.

Chill set into his bones, and before the supernatural Cancers could set upon him he recovered as snowfall started. Landed on him with the softest of impacts and the most silent of sounds, the shards of frost quickly covered the ground in a cloak of pallid ice.

Lifting himself off the ground, he retrieved Rasper and headed away from the still brilliant fire, as he was sure no more survive that blaze. As the light snowfall started to became a swiftly growing blizzard, the flames inevitably died, leaving only charred remains of the isolated estate.

***

Weeks Ago

The Regency was dead. War had decimated the Gulf Nations, one such casualty was the northern most territory of the Imperial Regency had been utterly annihilated. All the bannerman have been sent fleeing into the Unmapped Lands. All noble bloodlines have been purged and vanquished, only for miserable few survivors to fade into obscurity, and the lands and treasures plundered and divided by sell swords and warlords.

A proxy war at heart the Regency Wars were thereafter regarded as the result of conspiracy to regain the Inhaling Passage—the only opening into the Gulf Sea, that the Regency had claimed for nearly a eon. Upon their destruction, a pact was signed by the surviving nations that no one should hold the passage thereafter.

After having their economies strangled by high tariffs and ruthless embargos, the opening had allowed formally weaker nations to become wealthy, as their goods reached the outside world.

Only ruined castles, torched and salted farmland, and lord-less peasants call the north their home, which had hence been called Blighted by the other nations.

Sir Punctious upon returning to his family estate found like all the other Lord’s lands has been torched and lay in ruins. What shelter remained of his castle was used as shelter by those affected by the plague. As he marched up the slopes of the hill his estate was built upon, he was warned by a pox covered holy man that;

‘Only the walking dead dwell here. Leave now, or be damned with us.’

The words were a haunting prophecy that he heeded and returned to the vale, from where he watched as those who occupied his families estate succumbed to disease and died; becoming a carrion feast for the crows and wolves.

None of his family had survived, those that were entombed were few, as many he was told died in defending the castle or in open battle. Once slain, they were stripped of all worth and left for food for predators. A miserable fate he couldn’t bear to witness, chasing off the beasts he buried the dead, trusting the Lord, God would spare him of any ailment.

Travelling eastward he crossed the many rolling hillsides, and ruined farming fields to the Outcast City, where many of the realms refugees had gathered. Filled with the pleading poor, the crippled workers, and the despised brigands who control commerce, it was a hive of despicable wasps.

Coming to the gates he was met by two groups of cutthroats, each wearing different colors to show their allegiance to rival powers.

‘Whut’ brings you here, spikey? Dot’ you have bizness in our town?’ speaking in almost unintelligible slang and rough accents, it was clear they had the mark of brutality upon their protruding foreheads. A disgusting trait shared among the bad breeds from the fringes of the land.

Speaking in a clearly, Punctious stated his intentions. ‘I am Sir Punctious of the House Of The Lance, I have come to parlay with those that laid claim to these lands.’

The two sides guarding the gates exchanged looks and whispered among one another, quietly evaluating their options. None of them carried good iron, only wood spears and clubs, they wore no armor, and lacked military training, soldiers they were not. However lacking in combat capabilities, they made up for in brute numbers.

After they quietly laid in their plans for ambush, one of them tried to sneak up behind the armored knight, to knock him out with a large rock, while the others swarmed him with vicious blows.

Dirty, bloodshot eyes looked at the knight who awaited the response, as the one behind him raised the rock intended to bash in the spiked helmet. Slamming the skull sized rock, while avoiding getting stuck with the protruding spikes, the menacing ambusher was astounding when the rock broke apart as the knight’s spikes pierced its hard surface.

Before he could retreat Sir Punctious leapt backwards, and impaled the honorless thug on his armor. Sliding through his body, the armor’s quills stuck through vital organs and gouged out one of his eyes. Blood and pus streamed down the long stakes, the gore was enough to cause the rest guarding the gate to retreat into the city, abandoning their posts.

Tilting his body back, the deceased thug fell onto the ground, as a puddle of blood formed under the corpse, connecting to a trail of blood leading into the city.

***

Despite the firm walls, and strong gates, Outcast City was under threat of a malignant threat that seemed to exist beyond its fortifications. Harassing them nightly, Black Riders riding misshapen beasts, wearing identity concealing horned helms, they would prod the defenses, attacking the gate with their great axes, and scrapping at the walls.

Children would wail in terror before succumbing to violent convulsions as they approached, as if their waking minds were being tormented by the bewitching fiends. Once the Brigand Lords who control the city, sent out a sizeable force to chase away the nightly tormentors. This was folly, for as they huddled in their fortified stronghold during the night, they overheard the wretched wails of despair and agony from their men. Upon morning they discovered horrific, almost impossible displays of grotesque brutality left at the gates.

Serving as a warning against further resistance to the prying of their defenses, the rulers of the city resigned to simply fortify their defenses, in hope it will be enough to dissuade the Black Riders—or so the Brigand Lords claimed, when Sir Punctious went to meet them at their shared stronghold.

In the heart of the city, a old lookout tower, had been rebuilt into a towering fortification, to serve as a central place of power, where they can oversee their shared domain. The four Brigand Lords, were warned of the barbed knight by their lookouts.

As they sat near a large brazier for warmth, the cautious leers of them were upon Punctious as he stood sever feet from them, on the outskirts of their light.

‘You claim to be a Lord of these lands, yet the House Of Spears has not be known to have a knight such as you.’ the large gutted and bald headed Lord Privfoưs stated after hearing the knight’s introductions. Covering in battle scars, Privfoưs was the decided on speaker for the meeting, as he was a seasoned mercenary captain, and had the most experience in negotiations. ‘Even if that were true, why would that matte to us? The old noble bloodlines have been broken, no ships, no farm lands, no silver, we are pauper lords among those too wretched to be rehomed in other lands.’

‘Those deplorable woes fill me with pity for the people, yet I am uncertain as to the reason for your exposition, though I can guess.’ Punctious wished to bring the Brigand Lords to heel, to bring about proper law and order to the land, yet he saw a opportunity to increase his profile in the roguish court of the land.

The Brigand Lords looked at one another through the wavering flames, and came to a silent understanding.

‘Whether you speak honestly or false we care not, these riders threaten business and the people. If we are to survive the winter we need to expel these threats. Tonight deal with these haunts, and we will heed any request you make regarding our dominion.’

A simple bargain that Sir Punctious would agree to if only to get moral standing to hold them accountable.

‘I shall do so.’ with that the knight left, as he heard the silent conspiracy buzzing in the chamber he just left.

***

The streets were filthy and crowded, no open space was not used for walkways, vending stalls, or makeshift shelters for the people. Alleyways become tent cities were people huddled under tattered blankets, in front of smoldering fire pits. Disease and hunger were rampant, and the dead or suspiciously deep sleepers were thrown into the sewers to decay with human filth.

Never had Punctious seen such despair, it wasn’t like war, it was a whole new breed of desperation, one rife with suffering. Those of strong bodies who serve the cities rulers have taken bunk houses and homes for their own uses. Sturdy clay and brick buildings became whore houses, booze halls, and casinos. Sounds of card games and dice rolls echoed as the snow started to fall again, bringing further worry to those living in the streets.

Coals were not a luxury in the past, but had become so as the Brigand Lords deemed it necessary as a currency. Food was rare, and could buy a few bags that could last over a month, but even rarer was young flesh to satisfied deprived hearts.

A mother, worn, dry skinned, and weary in body and spirit lost her two sons to the pox that ravaged her beautiful face. Husband died in the war, and all she was left was her daughter whose flower bloomed later than others. Holding the girls hand in her own, she handed her off to a large, donkey toothed man, who struggled to get a hold on the girl, but the mother forced her into the hands of the man.

Handing in return six bags of coal to survive the winter, the mother took them in both hands and left, never looking back.

‘Momma!’ the girl cried, over and over, as her eyes reddened, and her nose dripped.

‘Don’t cry darling.’ the man said, as he fondled his new purchase. ‘I’ll feed you, you’ll have to earn it though.’ As he grabbed her cherubic face, he tried to force her into a deep, lustful kiss, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as if he were a bovine, trying to lick its master’s hand.

A sharp blow struck the man across the face, stinging him as if he was attacked by a dozen wasps at once.

‘Blazes!’ he cried, as he felt a sharpness puncture below his eye socket, scratching the underside of his eye. The girl was released, and ran behind her mauve protector, who stood formidably between him and her. ‘Get away from her porcupine, she’s mine!’ he growled as blood dripped from his face.

Vision blurred, he wasn’t sure what he saw, it was a man appearing to be covered in spikes, not till his uninjured eyed gain focus did he see it was a man in a full set of barbed armor.

‘You dare seek to fornicate with a child?!’ Sir Punctious had witnessed many atrocities, but never had he seen it so normalized by a need to survive.

‘What business it is of yours? If not for me she’d be dead with her mother, I’m her only hope for food and safe place to sleep, if not me than another will snatch her up and that fella won’t be as gentle as me.’ the man’s filthy teeth widened as if he was congratulating himself for a saintly act.

‘No man worthy of life would do such a deed. I am tempted to smite you down, but you are unarmed, and unknowing of my virtuous ways. Begone from my sight, this child is under my stewardship, till I see fit to settle her.’ his words carried a supreme authority, one of noble speech and deed.

Afraid that the armored man was a tougher opponent he retreated, mindful he was unarmed, and he reasoned he had other girls. Figuring a loss of six bags of coal was acceptable, he returned to his dwelling, closing the door shut, to tend to his wounds, that were more grievous than he imagined.

‘Sir Knight—’ the girl addressed, wanting to hold onto his arm, but found it was covered in many sharp points. ‘—with a thankful heart I praise your chivalry…though I must lament, my mother is unfit to raise a girl as I am, and I fear this city has descended into such wickedness…I fear for my life and—” she didn’t need to speak further before her savior promised her his devolution.

‘Child, I am Sir Punctious, honorable Knight of the House Of The Lance, and I vow to serve as your guardian and protector, till such time as to bring you to safer havens.’ with that he walked alongside her, down the streets, his formidable presence warded off any who’d threaten her safety.

As they walked the girl spoke up in a unsure dove-like voice, ‘Sir Punctious I am Alöwynn, my family name I no longer have.’ the crestfallen dower of her voice consumed the last words she uttered.

‘Fear not Alöwynn, I believe God himself in his mercy has guided me to intervene in your life, for what purpose I cannot say.’ his words gave her comfort, and she wished she could hold his hand, but his spikes were too sharp and almost completely covered his shelled body.

Accepting that they spent their walk in quiet.

***

Outcast City was at one time, Pristyrrion western capital of the realm. Sir Punctious spent many of his travelling days stopping by the formally pristine city. What virtue that lay in its ancient stones had been carved out and replaced with putrid malice. Only its secret holds offer sanctuary for those who remember their locations.

Near the northern gate, a old aqueduct was converted into a safe house, in case of an invasion. Sadly the attack on the city didn’t offer enough time to unseal these chambers. Under the streets, among ruin buildings was the safe house, Sir Punctious led Alöwynn there to hide in safety, as he fulfilled his promise to the Brigand Lords.

Supplies were there, though covered in dust, and much had gotten rotten, many preserves still survived, and there was a furnace there, that he lit for his charge.

‘I must leave you here. Seal the door shut behind me, and do not leave here or open the door unless I knock twice, then after a pause I’ll knock once more. Do you understand?’ his words were firm in his instruction but spoken with kind patience.

‘Yes.’ she seated herself on a stone bench far from the door, closest to the furnace. The stone chamber was cold, and she would require the warmth to survive the nights chill.

‘I will go now. Please, pray for me.’ Sir Punctious left her alone, as the coals in the furnace started to brighten, chasing away much of the malignant darkness within, as the door was sealed shut and a automatic lock was set in place.

As she heard the knight’s heavy boots echo outside, Alöwynn began to pray, for the grace of God to see her new guardian safe.

***

The night had a supernatural grimness to it, a oblique darkness that didn’t seem to be alleviated by the lights within the city. Instead there was the rising smoke of coal fueled fire pits and furnaces that deepened the darkness, hiding the moon and stars from view. Utterly withdrawn, the city guards barred the gates, and left the lands outside its walls unprotected.

Sir Punctious walked along the walls at the north gate, looking upon the deeply laid scratch marks on the stonework. Blood trails indicate to him whoever or whatever dug their nails into the stone, had stripped away flesh in their a maddening desire to dig through or scale up the wall.

It was too high for any mortal to hope to do so, and as he thought about it further, he began to wonder if the Brigand Lords spoke true about the bewitchment of their blight. Before he could contemplate it further a horrendous cry of labored pain echoed in the distance. Something was coming towards the city that night, a tortured chorus of baneful suffering that took some time to come within the illumination of the city’s lights.

For some time Sir Punctious listened, hearing the gurgling grunts and sharp yelps as if they were right in front of him, but he couldn’t see their tortured cries through the black curtain. Then on the back of a starved beasts, the first of the Black Riders came into view, in the shadows he didn’t look human. Covered in dense fur, and horns seemingly growing from its head, it looked as if it was a chimeric beast from legend.

‘Stay back!’ the knight commanded, raising his sword, Rasper high, the broadsword he carried in one hand, and its many protruding spikes was a fearsome weapon to look upon, which had may times warded off trouble more than engaged with it; but this time it did little than dissuade the trespassers for a moment.

Riding out from the shadows, the riders regarded what they saw for a moment, before moving towards the figure, their voices a gargle of forced speech. Twisted, their words held no meaning for him, all they were was a continuous sonata of animalistic grunts and squeals.

‘Continue and face the consequences!’ Punctious words were unheeded, there was a fearlessness in their approach, as if they couldn’t comprehend the danger. If he wasn’t fearful of their beastly nature, he might’ve shown them some degree mercy, but they were beyond recognizable as anything remotely human.

As they charged towards him in the light of the city only their blood soaked eyes could be seen through the clutching shadows around their forms.

Raising Rasper into the air, both hands wrapped around its grip, he slammed the spiked covered weapon onto the head of the beast carrying the closest rider. Blood gurgled up from the cracked cavity, and brains foamed out, overflowing onto the ground. Shaking about the beast made no more sounds, yet it kept moving till it collapsed as if it were a leathery sack of bones.

The rider on top the slain beast fell along with the beast, and with shaky arms reached up to Punctious, despite impaling its finger on one of the spikes it kept reaching digging the sharp point deeper into its flesh. So terrible was this feral man-creatures desires to get hold of the knight, that Punctious felt compelled to strike it dead with Rasper.

One swing after another, the bones were splintered, and the flesh was tore apart by the weight and barbed spikes of the broadsword. As he slew the miserable wretched, more of them reached for him, and he could feel the blood splashed and poured upon his armor. Thicker than oil, the blood seemed to curdle in their petrifying veins. Nothing was remotely sacred about them, and Sir Punctious was driven into a vehement hatred, slaying them in greater earnest.

Heaving back Rasper he crushed and tore them apart, as they surrounded him, trying to drag him down to the ground. Despite piling on their weight upon him, he was not pull down, and brutalized them to death, till the last, leaving them as black stains upon the ground.

When he was finished the night was still in its prime, and all he could see through his gore clogged visor was black stains upon the ground. Resting himself against the walls of the city, the wintery wind settled upon his armor, making his body within the shell numb. Thankful the heat radiated from the city allowed him to survive the night, as he was certain he slew the fiendish black riders.

As he sat though he contemplated what he was told, were the brigands truly plagued by evil? Were they speaking true? Recalling how he slew the riders and their beasts made him feel unsure of his actions, for they seemed in retrospect to be seeking salvation. With the hours passing, and his sight being cleared by the gore dripping from his visor he saw what he did with the brightening twilight.

The Black Riders were not some devils crawling from the darkness, they were men and women, afflicted by plague. Riding upon diseased mules, they wore the skins of rams to keep warm in the winter. Covered in black scabs and shreds of furs that kept them warm, they lay broken, and torn apart, as he realized with the rising sunlight his sins.

He was deceived, in truth he killed refugees, who suffered from a disease far greater than that suffered by the city’s people—The Black Rot. Highly contagious, it deteriorates ones humanity, reducing them to babbling, snarling malcontents, who strive into a nocturnal hysteria. Unaware of pain, hunger, or thirst, by the looks of their broken remains, they looked as if they were barely surviving on wild roots and flesh from goats. Wearing the black stained furs as if to retain a sense of civility, many of them wore the horns as helmets, giving them that beastly appearance in the darkness.

Death was a mercy to them, but a great one would be offering milk and honey as they slowly succumbed to disease, not to be hewn into pieces of dismembered gore. Ashamed of what he had done, he didn’t allow ignorance to pardon his sins, instead thinking back to the moments of their slaughter.

How many times could he have stopped? How much of their acts were malicious, or simply them begging for relief. His armor was drenched in their black, diseased blood, and as the gates opened he withheld his rage as he watched the cities guards bring forth pots of pitch and torches.

Watching them his anger was set aside for their masters, as he watched them pour pitch on the dead, obviously to kill all remnants of the disease with fire. One guard was shoved aside by another, and fell into the pitch and gore, he tried to plead for mercy but his comrades show him as much as he would’ve shown them if they were in the same circumstance. Torches were thrown at him, and the man wailed out as the fire roar soon silenced him, and despite his attempts to crawl out of the flames, he was burned to bone and ashes in moments.

All the Black Rot afflicted remains were burning, and then before Punctious could enter the city he felt a splash on his armor. Smells of swamp oils helped him realize swiftly, that he was also a target of their purge. A torch was thrown at him, and before it could ignite the pitch drenching his armor, he swatted away with Rasper.

Already the north gated was an outpour with shield carrying thugs, wearing all the colors of the Brigand Lords. Wielding spears, clubs, and torches, their intent to exterminate him was obvious. With such a show of force of over a hundred armed men, all Sir Punctious could do was flee, carrying his hefty armor he could only a manage to spring at a full jog.

Feeling the hurling rocks strike his helmet and back of his cuirass, his armor was forged by metals unknown only to him; he only knew it shattered stone, and turned back blades made of most known metals.

The only thing he worried was cooking inside his armor, as if he were a peasant in an oven. Slicing away torches thrown at him, he was continuously being hurled at by pitch pots set alight, serving as flaming projectiles that burst in flame to his flank or close to his rear. Despite being surrounded on both sides, his spiked covered armor allowed him to ram into his pursuers, sending their broken bodies to the ground.

Infecting wounds with his Black Rot gore covered spikes, the cities men had to stop and pour pitch on those wounded men, to fully purge the disease. This tactic had create a growing wall of fire, that dotted the fields north of the city. Allowing Punctious enough time to escape to the hills, rushing into the maze of slopes, he was not too surprised to see himself still pursued. Running out of breath to fuel his escape, he found a ditch and climbed into its shadows, to hide as he heard footsteps stampeded overhead.

Between two hill slopes, he hid in that ravine, digging himself further into the shadows, till he heard the fires being lit above, an obvious ploy to smoke him out of hiding. As he was hiding, he felt a living hardness scrape against his armor’s bristles. Looking at the narrow darkness that he dare not further within, he saw the faint silhouette of a massive crawling entity.

Moving away from it and into the light, he was followed by it, as the lights reflected in its many eyes, Punctious felt his blood run cold. A terror he had been tormented with in his dark imagination was coming true, he was in the doorway of a massive spider.

Beings of the deep underground caves, and hollowed out darkened holes. They were the stuff of many children’s nightmares, as their parents would warn them off of dangerous dark places, by mentioning those giant bugs. Webbed coffins filled with the bones of children unheeding their parents, was something Punctious dreaded, even after witnesses the horrific violence of war.

Taking Rasper he dug into the eyes of the shadow cloaked arachnid, driving it back into its dead, one blinded eye at the time. Something in that feral, savage brain told the spider to pursue that meal meant only pain, and with a silent retreat, squeezed itself back in its den. Leaving the barbed knight alone with a growing haze of smoke.

Climbing out of the ditch, unable to tolerate being near the spider’s den, he walked about the smoke, realizing his pursuers had gone, leaving him with the fires they lit. Most likely to return, having agreed to lie to their masters about his death—a lie he intended to expose.

Wandering through the throat burning smoke, he didn’t navigate through the smoke till dusk. Standing on a hill he looked at the city with a steel hardened desire to bring upon it some kind of justice. Fires that were set had died down to the winter winds and frost, leaving charred heat to melt the snow and ice, till the heat would leave, and allowing snow to reclaim lost territory.

Between the heat and cold, Punctious realized the snowfall that started was washing away the Black Rot blood on his armor. Despite the curing of that disease sludge from his armor, he was a harbinger of greater blight, one that he had discovered not to long ago.

It was a horrid affliction from greater than the Black Rot, one that was given to him, and that he avenged in a fiery vengeance. Now he intended another such retribution, for not only tainting him with a sinful slaughter of innocents, but with the gal to offering him up to the pyres for sacrifice. What was needed for the people of the city was salvation from the Brigand Lords.

Climbing down the hills, he intended to enter the city by a secret way, one he didn’t take before, to assert his will he needed to come unafraid, this time he needed to come upon them by surprise; lest they escape their fates.

***

Lord Privfoưs handed his co-conspirator a leather flask of wine, having drank more than his share, in jubilation at the success of their treachery.

‘Freed of those nightly lamentations of those damned miscreants, and to ending the life of that fool knight.’

The other three Lords who chuckled not only at their trick succeeding, but at the drunken state of their fellow.

‘You drank too much.’ softly scolded one of them, as he lamented his lack of share of wine. ‘Send in the women with more.’ he commanded, as he got up to go to the pot they used to piss into, as he stumbled about the brightly lit chamber, he thought he saw something in a dark corner.

Fear sharpened his vision, as he saw the spiked shadow of Sir Punctious approach swiftly, before he fully let out his yelp for help, he was cracked by the face, by the unbarbed palm of the knight’s gauntlet. Holding it as if it were a unripe melon, the threat of scrapping off his face with the clawed fingers of his gauntlet, was enough to make him go quiet, and let out a pathetic whimper.

‘What brings you here!?’ Lord Privfoưs bellowed, his crimson stained spit sputtering out of his mouth. ‘What gall do you have invading our inner chamber?’

‘You speak of gall when you don’t offer even the smallest of allowances for the poor souls you set me again?’ the words came out of the spiked helmet as if an angelic edict of indictment.

‘They would’ve died anyway, and left us the poorer should their affliction spread to the people.’ the Brigand Lord had no remorse, and boldened his deceit with plausible cause.

‘Then why set me on them at all? They would’ve died soon enough.’ the words were sorrowful coming from the knight, laced with vindictive desires, as he dug his nails into the skull of the Lord he held onto.

‘You accuse us?!’ the drunkenness of Lord Privfoưs made him boldly step forward, barring his rotten teeth, just out of reach of the knight’s sword. ‘You come here make demands of us, claim nobility, but truth is you are a scut, a coward who couldn’t be here to die with the rest of the nobility. I spit upon you.’ growing a hard lump of mucus in his mouth, he spat out the black and crimson wad striking the knight’s helmet.

Part of it dripped into his visor. As the other three Lords chuckled drunk on wine and their own authority, their spurious glees were turned into grimaces of horror as they saw the knight unclasp the latches on his helmet.

Pulling off the helm adorned with spikes, they saw not a battle worn face of a knight, but a oily, crimson skull, whose bloody flesh was slowly melting from his body, and forming a honey-like liquid that drooled down his face. Dropping the helmet, Punctious put both hands on the Lord he held, and with no great effort, pried open his mouth, and allowed his infectious, crimson-golden spit to drop into the man’s mouth.

Immediately the formally quieted scream came out as a heinous howl, as his lips fell from his mouth, and his skin boiled over, exploding in gushing in melted gore. Pinkish flesh and crimson blood became the sludge that fell from his body, reaching out from help from his fellow Lords, the man continued to cry out, as he saw his body become a reflective puddle on the ground. Skull showing, as his flesh continued to melt, the other Lord backed away in horror, but were too drunk to flee in earnest.

One by one, Sir Punctious grabbed hold of them, and gave them the infectious kiss of a excruciating death. Lord Privfoưs was the last to be infected, as he was backed to a door he ordered locked, he was helpless to escape the clawed gauntlets that grabbed him by his bald scalp.

‘No! No!’ he screamed. ‘By Jesus Christ I beg you, spare my life!’

Those words held not power to commute the sentence the knight deemed to place upon him. ‘Even his name will allow you no mercy, for you are far below his graces to even be considered worthy of redemption.’ Before giving him that damning kiss, the knight told him of what awaited him, beyond the agony of dying.

‘Though the Black Rot is a terrible disease, it is a mercy to those afflicted with the Devouring Mange. Once it melts you to liquid flesh and blood, leaving only your bones, your liquid remains will usher your soul to one of the most despised realms of the Underworld. The Deliquesce Bog, a domain of hell, where the sinful and meek alike, who are afflicted by the Mange go to suffer, in the boiling bog waters of their own melted flesh and blood.

‘Despite not discriminating against those of good and befouled souls, I make it my mission, to send as many deserving, cruel souls down there as possible.’

Then he kissed Lord Privfoưs, wriggling his black slug of a tongue around the Lord’s before parting in a crimson strand of blood.

Vomiting immediately after that lipless mouth let go of his own, the Brigand Lord felt dizzy, as he saw the others scream in agony and horror at being melted to the bone. Slow and excruciating, their fates were, doomed to continue to suffer it in the next life. Lord Privfoưs felt the very skin from his fingers slip away, exposing his bloodied muscles, crying out for help, he beat his melting fists against the doors.

They were opened only briefly for the men outside to see the fate of their master’s, and just as quickly were they slammed shut and sealed, to prevent them from escaping.

‘The bosses got the Mange!’ one of the guard’s voice could be heard through the door. ‘Keep them in there, and don’t you dar open nit, or we’ll all git it!’

‘No! Let us out! Let us out! Get the healers! Get us some remedies! We command you open!’ their damned cries were in unison, but were unheeded, as they continued to beat against them, smearing their melting flesh against the sturdy wooden doors.

Sir Punctious locking his helmet back onto his head, was relieved his blight would not affect others, so long as he wore his armor, but even more so could if he so choose.

Leaving out the secret passage that was coffered in shadows, he sealed the entry point, leaving down the passage, hearing the cries of the wicked, damned souls fade into the distance.

***

Outcast City was in an uproar, as the Brigand Lord’s men were fighting amongst themselves to lay claim to their bosses former roles, the coup resulted into bloody skirmishes throughout he streets. The night became a disturbance, that would result in the spilt blood of many vile sinners, as the righteous went away from the fighting, to seek shelter and comfort away from the conflict.

“Perhaps they’ll kill each other and leave the city for the meek refugees?” that thought was of some comfort, but Sir Punctious had doubts of that, inevitably corruption takes the seat of power in the world of man.

Deciding it best to leave the city, he went to get Alöwynn from the safe house. Going to the isolated ruins of the city, he found the stairs leading down to her refuge. As he stepped into the tight darkness, he could smell something was in the air, a acidic intrusion that made his heart twinge with fear.

Something was wrong, descending the steps, he found the door that hid her away from danger was pried open, as a light within revealed heinous, occultist symbols upon it, done it blood. Opening the door with Rasper drawn, he nearly fell to his knees in crestfallen agony, the girl he saved was dead.

Body sprawled out onto the blood, her clothes were torn from her body, and her torn at groin was exposed. A smoldering smoke came from the private orifice, as her charred skin indicated she was stuffed there with scalding hot coals from the furnace where she warmed herself.

Bone was exposed around that area of her body, and the knight wanted to embrace her lifeless body, holding her he forgotten his armored spikes, which pierced her body. Drawing out dead blood from her cold body.

‘Precious child…why must I fail you?’ he held her face, and even through layers of metal could feel the softness of her skin. ‘May God take your soul to paradise dear child, if only cause your virtue was not freely given.’ Before he was overcome with emotions unfitting of a knight, he placed her body into the furnace, and allowed the still burning fires to burn her body to ash.

Lamenting the loss of an innocent, he looked upon the blood inked images on the walls for clues of her attackers. Despite profane imagery of the zodiac, he saw clear indications of devil worshiping cults, and not just any other, but the House Of Rouge.

‘These heathens will be damned, for their sins…’ that was all he could tolerate to utter in that sullied place, and left the safehouse. Returning to the city, he saw much of the districts were set aflame. Due to the power struggle someone had rather deemed to set much of the city ablaze than let it slip from their control. Looking skyward to the central tower he saw it was consume by fire, turning into into a pyre that carried smoke to the sky, where the clouds cleared and a Blood Crimson Moon looked down on the carnage below.

Unwilling to intervene, he left through the unguarded north gate, and went away from the city, to search for the followers of the House Of Rouge, to eradicate that cult from God’s Earth.