The Necromonger's Eve

The Raid

Krakish was a barbarian, a killer, and terror over the other tribes of Weteria. He was proud of his glory and victories and today would just be another in the long list. His fellow tribesmen looked at the valley with a great hunger for battle wishing nothing more than to quench their thirst for blood. His bearskin clothes kept him warm in this northern tundra.

"What say you, Krakish? Shall we commence the raid?" Asked Zaern, Krakish's brother.

"We sailed here after all! Might as well." Replied Krakish. While Weteria was one huge continent, there were other smaller islands off the coast that the barbarian hordes claimed for themselves. Krakish was proud to be among them and even prouder to win them glory and wealth. 

With a loud roar of war cries, the army of barbarians charged into the fray of villagers.  Some ran and some tried to used their farming tools as weapons, as was the case with Krakish's first opponent. She leveled her oxgoad to his chest as he ran towards her, a loud thunk emitted from her skull as the warm blood sprayed Krakish's beard the white fluid from her eye was flung into his mouth. The taste was sharp and metallic and reminded him of the color green, he spit it out as his other tribesman slew their opponents with ease. The massacre of farmers was lackluster for their conquest of Weteria. But sacking the city of Arinfell would be better. Gold, women of all sorts of races, weapons, food, all the things a barbarian loves. This farm was just the first in the long line of conquests to the capital.

"You've got Crom's blood in you, boy" Shouted Zaern as he saw Krakish's kill. 

Krakish chuckled as he ran into the heart of the village, a young boy armed with a stick cut him off striking his shins. Krakish grunted as the stick hit him in the back of his head and a white flash overcame his eyes. His head became heavy and fuzzy, his vision blurred and he spat some pink vile liquid. But the boy celebrated too quickly and Krakish cut him down, his ax cutting cleanly from one hip to the other. As the warm tendrils of stinking stomach fell on him he saw more of the boys and women rising to the fight, not men. This struck Krakish in an odd way, never had taken a village where there was no men or at least capable warriors of some manner, but these were small children and weak mothers, not Valkyries or staunch protectors. 

"Where are the fighters?" He shouted to another of his tribesmen.

"I don't know, Chieftain." 

Krakish saw a building at the top of the hill, perhaps the men were there building defenses. He charged up the hill cutting down two more girls armed with knitting needles. Knitting needles. This was not a battle of glory and honor. it was a massacre. When he made it to the wooden hut at the top of the hill, he heard nor saw anything. Only when he began to chop into the boards of the door did he a whimper and once he kicked down the broken remains of the door did he find the men of the village. They were sobbing and crying begging for their lives like cowards, letting mothers and children fight their battles. Krakish turned to his tribesmen and shouted the order to stop killing. Those engaged in combat knocked their opponent into submission, some surrendered some didn't. 

"These women and children have earned their place in the world, they have shown strength for the village and they shall be honored with song on this day." He grabbed an elderly man by his hair and drug him in front of himself. 

"But these men. These cowards..." He grabbed him under the chin and with a grotesque crunching of bone and marrow he twisted his head around. "They become dust."

He picked up his ax and drove it into the shoulder of another man if you could call them that, the blood was warm and it sprayed onto the other men. They cried in fear and tried to run past him and grabbed one the bone in his neck and wrenched him to the ground shifting his weight to snap his neck. Those that did get past him were cut down by his fellow tribesman and some remained on their knees begging, Krakish killed them in one mighty swing of his ax the splat of their heads falling onto cold ground gave him a sense of pride. His muscles bulged as he gripped his ax tightly.  He walked outside to see the men sitting with some of the women. They didn't like them but now they had their surrender.

"Zaern!" He shouted as he made it to the bottom of the hill.

"Yes, Cheiftan?" Zaern smelled like piss and jizz, which concerned Krakish. 

"Is there any food that we can feast upon?" He asked

"Yes, Chieftain several pounds of mutton and rabbit." 

"Have the women prepare a meal, and the old ones shall write a song to their honor." He walked away from Zaern and sat on a stump. 

Some of the women who hadn't surrendered were being slain by the tribesman. Krakish smelled the raw meat of a rabbit being cooked on a spit. He wasn't satisfied with the underwhelming raid on the village, but as he looked at the cloudy sky and the cold rain fell on him, he felt calm. The women fought hard and well and their courage would be remembered in the eyes of Crom and perhaps they would be allowed in his hall to feast and fight forever. It was a fitting end to their lives. The women who survived would be made wives for the men and their children would the men's children. It was just how these things went.

As Krakish bit into his first chunk of rabbit, he heard rustling behind the house that they had taken for they're own. He picked up his ax confidant that this was just some animal. But as approached the noise he was surprised to see the bearded face of the man whose neck he'd broke. His teeth were inches from his shoulder as moved out of the way of a lunge. He threw his ax into the beast's chest and sent it sprawling onto the ground. 

But to his surprise, as he walked to retrieve his ax the beast rose up from the ground and began to crawl towards him. A dark fury had taken him as he rushed toward Krakish and he slashed Krakish across the chest leaving a deep gash. Krakish grunted as he lunged for his ax and ripped it from the beast's ribcage splintering the bones and spilled its heart and lungs onto the ground with a wet, warm splat. But still, the beast remained standing. And its claws still tried to cut deep into Krakish's flesh until a dance had formed between them. Krakish would hack off a limb and the beast would flail into a new attack formed to adapt to his wounded shell.

It would have gone on forever had three more not popped up, these ones were the bodies of some of the women who died defending their home. Krakish raised his ax and called for his brothers to help.

He expected to hear the joyous cheers of the tribesman running to earn glory. What heard instead were moans of agony behind him. He turned only to see his brothers, his friends, tribesman, slaughtered. They had bits of their bodies missing their torn flesh hanging by a few threads of skin. Their eyes sunken deep, others had no eyes. They were slow at first, but after seeing him they charged. He cut them down with ease as they came, but they still did not die. They continued to rise with missing limbs and broken bones. Shambling or crawling towards him forcing him to run away from the village with the beasts that could still run close behind. He leaped over the rocks and almost lost his balance as they were slick with rain. As his legs pumped he realized he had lost them. He saw the city of Arinfell nearby and made his way there. He would not sack it today, he just hoped that Crom would give him the strength to make it and that these beasts hadn't claimed Arinfell under their grasp.