A Tale Of Remnant

The Ogre of Grimm

In the rugged wilderness of Remnant, there was a nomadic tribe by the name of Resìtan. A strong, warlike people, this tribe valued strength before all else. They needed it, for the many tribes of the wilderness struggled and fought for the barest scrap of resources. Mills, mines, hunting grounds, they fought to the death for it all. They could not, however, linger around these resources. For in the darkness they were hunted by the creatures of Grimm.

Foul beasts that spawned from darkness itself, these creatures forced the tribes to constantly move from one haven to the next. Young men would battle these monsters to prove themselves warriors. Those who killed one were given priority for survival in the tribes. Those who did not, would die. Whether in battle or by disease, they would die.

In Resìtan, there was a boy by the name Grendel. A sickly and weak child, he was orphaned at the age of seven for he was expected to die as a weakling. Yet he continued to live on. Barley, he continued to survive. Whether by acting as a practice dummy for young men in return for food or by taking the rotted leftovers considered beneath the tribe, he survived. Considered a burden, his only gift from his tribe was a long, thick branch just barely qualifying as a spear.

Six years after being orphaned, he finally broke. Mangled from the beating he took for food, he crawled to the chief, Abel Cain. The tribe was moving and he had not the strength to continue on. Quietly he begged the chief to slow the advance for only a little while. Disgusted, the chief snarled at the thought of waiting for a weakling. Glaring at Grendel, he spoke his answer.

"A chief must never carry the dead."

With that, the tribe continued without the sick boy. He lied where his chief left him. Two days pass, yet he dare not move. He was not alone, however. A Beowolf approached him. It attacked with murderous intent. Grendel did not die. Grendel fought back. He jabbed ferociously with his spear at his attacker. The Beowolf bloodied him, but it wasn't enough. Grendel triumphed over his foe.

More came after. Beowolf packs, Boarbatusks and Goliath herds, Griffon and Nevermore flocks, Deathstalkers, Ursa, and King Taijitus all. They came alone and in great numbers. They surrounded him and attacked him head on. They used dexterity and brutality. Somehow, someway Grendel survived.

Over the years he grew stronger. His muscles pulsed, his bones were hard. No longer was he a sickly being. He was a slayer of Grimm. He wandered as a lost soul. Crushing anything, and anyone, who got in his way.

One day, he came across a woman. She was draped in shadow. Impure veins etched themselves across her pale, death like flesh.

Grendel attacked. He struck out again and again and again and again. It was soon over. Grendel was on his knees, drenched in his own blood. His spear, like his will, was splintered, cracked, and broken. 

The woman did not kill him, though. Rather, she granted him her favor. She corrupted his blood, his very body. Violating each cell of his being with her black magic. His skin turned pale, his eyes glowed red. His teeth turned to fangs and his hands turned to claws. The woman fashioned a black spear radiating the emotion of hate and granted it to Grendel.

Taking her blessing, Grendel went forth to do her will. Forcing his will over the Grimm, he formed an army of Grimm which he unleashed on the nomadic tribes of Remnant. With each victory he grew in power. He morphed more and more. Until he was finally unrecognizable. The people of Remnant dubbed him the Ogre.

In his rampage, his Beowolf packs had surrounded a familiar tribe. Grendel marched through the camp, recognizing it as Resìtan, his old tribe. It had truly fallen. Shortly after leaving him to die they were hit by an ambush. Leaving half their warriors dead, they would continue to suffer from raids, food shortages, and disease. It was clear they were in dire need of aid.

Grendel was embraced by Abel Cain. He pleaded for a son of the Resìtan tribe to save his people, not as an outcast but as the new chief. Grendel looked around, he saw the faces of decrepit women, who shooed him away so often. He saw the faces of men who had beaten and battered him in return for molded bread. He saw the face of Abel Cain, his eyes were filled with many things. Desperation, sickness, weariness, fear, and.... Hope?

He knew his answer. Grendel leaned in and whispered to the former chief.

"A chief must never carry the dead."

The Beowolves didn't wait for Grendel's orders. They didn't have to.