The Unburied

He Who Dies By The Blade

One would assume that the sun would shine upon a field of victory.  This was not the case.  For this field was not one of victory, rather it was one strewn with corpses.  Some were long dead, while others, had their lives cloven from their bodies, in an instant of immeasurable pain.  Some were but bones, strewn about the streets, no doubt the fallen of Lucretia’s Skull Kin, while others were dead long before the curtain did close upon their lives. 

Indeed, twas a field of victory, all the same as it was a field of defeat.  For the pikeman of the scores does not know victory or defeat.  No, he simply knew survival, or otherwise.  And the defeated, far outnumbered the victorious.  

Across the shell of a city, the weeping of the victorious did echo amongst the empty halls, the streets ridden with cadavers, the walls stained with blood, an unkindness of ravens circling the sky.  Indeed, they did weep for those they lost, as they did weep for themselves, to have seen such wretched horrors.  And indeed, had he tears in his body, Letifer would weep among them. And of course, amongst the weeping, there was as well, the laughing.  Of course, not all were sombre.  Some were joyous, celebratory, relieved to draw breath.  They drank and feasted upon what they could find, hunting birds and rodents among the streets, roasting rats and gulls, simply overjoyed to taste the scant meat.  

The Earl Dascule however, fell to some spectrum between the two.  He had much to be joyous for: the healing of his wounds, the return of a long forgotten comrade, even the breath in his lungs.  However, he too had much to mourn.  The death of not only yet another comrade, being the Herald, but by her hand, that of someone he’d considered his next of kin.  Indeed, twas a crushing blow.  And while he did mourn them both, he would celebrate them as well.  And as Letifer approached him, the Earl donned no mask of cheer, nor one of sorrow.  Rather, the face upon him was one of a gently wistful smile, one of bittersweet remembrance.  

“How are your wounds, my lord?”  Letifer asked, as he leaned against the crumbling stone wall beside the two.  

The Earl replied, in an attempt to give them both a small modicum of cheer, “You’d have need to specify.” 

The two chuckled quietly, before Letifer answered, “In way of laceration.” 

   “They are a burning irritation, but are superficial.”  The Earl responded calmly, “Likely I’ll syphon from Lucretia, and heal them in the majority, at some point today.  I’d recommend you mend yours as well, lest you slow.” 

“Indeed.”  Letifer replied, “I mended them shortly after the battle.” 

He proceeded to demonstrate, holding out his wounded forearm, recently stitched.

The Earl stated, “Your stitching is…”  He proceeded to examine the wound, beginning to laugh as he finished the sentence, “Absolutely wretched.” 

The two shared a quick laugh, before the Earl stated, “I’d recommend you seek one of Lucretia’s alchemists.”  

“Where might I find her, in any case?”  Letifer asked.

The Earl responded, “Last I’d heard, she’d gone to aid her Marrow-Knights in mending the wounded of her corps.  I’d assume Sanger is high upon her list.” 

“Indeed.”  Letifer replied, before continuing, “I’d best be on my way, I’d not want to keep the alchemists waiting.” 

The Earl proceeded to lean against the wall of stone, his expression shifting to a more sorrowful tone.  

Letifer asked him then, “How are your wounds…    …in way of the mind?” 

After a moment, the Earl sighed, looking out unto the streets of corpses, “Tell me Letifer,” He began, “Do you know the nature of the curse that enshrouds this shell of a dwelling?”