A Tale Of Remnant

The Ogre of Grimm (revised)

I am very proud of the original Ogre of Grimm. I came up with a majority of it off the top of my head. However, looking back on it, I feel like I could've done so much better. So I made this revised version for your entertainment.

Enjoy.
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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. Any who failed to escape the infinite march of Grimm were destroyed. Every man, woman, and child were torn to pieces by the wrath of these monsters. The young men of Resìtan alone would battle these monsters to prove themselves warriors. Those who killed a Grimm were given priority for survival in the tribe. The first to eat, sleep, and receive medical care, to be a slayer of Grimm would be the definition of elite. Those who did not kill the Grimm, would die. Whether in the attack of Grimm or by disease or by starvation, 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. No elder, nor warrior, nor laborer of the tribe understood how, or why, but he continued to live. Barley, he continued to survive.

He did whatever he could to keep going. 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. He would not beg. As a child of Resìtan he knew it would be met with execution. The boy stole what he could, taking both verbal and physical abuse from the women of the tribe. It was a hard life of scorn and rejection. As a rule, he wasn't allowed to sleep in the encampment. So night after night, he lie in the cold, moist gravel.

He had only one true luxury. His only gift from his tribe was a long, thick branch just barely qualifying as a spear. Long and deformed, the staff was hard like iron. Grendel treasured it, for it was him: deformed, rotted, yet ever enduring.

Six years passed. Six years since he was first abandoned. Six years of sickness and hunger. Six years of abuse. Six years had passed when he finally broke.

Mangled from the beating he took for food, he crawled to the chief, Abel Cain. Cain was everything Resìtan admired: strong, relentless, and hardy. The tribe was moving and Grendel had not the strength to continue on. Quietly he begged the chief to slow the advance for only a little while. Only enough so that he could get back on his feet. 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. Two days passed without a bite to eat nor a sound was made. Two days passed away.

He was not alone, however. A lone Beowolf emerged from the darkness of the forests. It approached the corpse like body of Grendel as a spider approaches prey caught in it's web. It attacked with murderous intent, but Grendel did not die. Grendel fought back. He got up, jabbing ferociously with his spear at his attacker. The Beowolf bloodied him, but it wasn't enough. A frenzy took hold of Grendel, and he stood triumphant over his bloodied foe.

More came after, as Grendel knew all too well. Beowolf packs, Boarbatusk and Goliath herds, Griffon and Nevermore flocks, Deathstalkers, Ursa, and King Taijitus all. They came alone. They came in great numbers. They surrounded him on all sides. They attacked him head on. They used dexterity. They used brutality. Somehow, someway Grendel survived. He killed them one by one, day by day. Ever onward he wondered into the abyss of an infinite horde of Grimm leaving death in his wake.

Over the years he grew stronger. His muscles pulsed, his bones were hard. Every Grimm he didn't kill he devoured. His new diet changed him. 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. Her deep red eyes pierced through the viel of darkness. Grendel's instincts screamed at him to flee.

But flee he did not. Grendel attacked. He struck out again and again and again and again. No one would survive his wrath, no one. Yet despite his blows, nothing seemed to harm her. Then, it was her turn to attack.

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 in the form of a Grimm parasite. She corrupted his blood, his very body. Violating each cell of his being with her black magic and dark parasites. Every inch, every crevice was mutated into an abomination. His skin turned pale like the moon, his eyes glowed crimson red. His teeth turned to fangs and his fingers grew into claws. The woman fashioned a black spear made from the bones of Grimm and granted it to Grendel.

Taking her blessing, Grendel went forth to do her will. Forcing his power over the Grimm, he formed an army which he unleashed on the nomadic tribes of Remnant. Killing and ransacking every tribe he came across, he made a note to leech the very life essence of every man, woman, and child who was not killed by his horde of monsters. With each victory he grew in power, devouring hundreds, thousands. He morphed more and more until he was finally unrecognizable. The people of Remnant dubbed him the Ogre of Grimm.

In his rampage, his Beowolf packs had attacked and cornered a familiar tribe. Grendel marched through the camp, eager for the flesh of man. He recognized the village 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. What food they had was maggot filled and rotten. Malnourishment plagued the camp. The people lurched back from the Ogre, fearful like mice in the presence of a lion.

The Ogre made clear who he was. The tossed aside boy, Grendel, demanded to see Abel Cain. Fearfully, a single child lead him to Abel Cain's makeshift tent.

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. He begged desperately, offering the position of chief to Grendel. Grendel looked around, he saw the faces of decrepit women, who shooed and beat him away so often. He saw the faces of men who had battered and broken him in return for scraps. He saw the disease ridden children, innocent yet doomed to die. He saw the face of Abel Cain, his eyes were filled with many things. Desperation, sickness, weariness, fear, and.... Hope?

Hope? From a people so broken. From a tribe so adept in war. From a people so built upon the dominance of the superior human. From a people who are dead.

They are a dead people.

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.