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Dead Men Tell no Tales (Story)
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Post by
oneforthemoney
The roads in Gilneas were still in reasonable repair, despite events which should have caused the contrary. Jonathon attributed it to good old fashioned Gilnean engineering, his glowing blue eyes staring at the road ahead leading further into the dense forest with slight pride for the skills of his countrymen.
Halberd over his shoulder and bobbing against the bedroll set atop a large backpack, loaded with the standard military kit for the soldiers of Gilneas Jonathon marched along the path leading through the woods, his solitary patrol a task that he had performed with a squad of other soldiers during his life as it were. He made do on his own now, as he did in all matters these days. To not perform the regular patrol he would usually be assigned would be considered a dereliction of his duty after all.
It had taken him some time to gather the necessary items for his kit, looting having been rampant before his arrival yet he had managed. The fact that oftentimes those who approached the walls and saw him tended to drop what they were carrying to run, hastening their escape by removing whatever had weighed them down that could be lost in the moments given them had been a boon. This aspect had assisted his endeavours tremendously.
Taking the light given opportunities Jonathon had approached the abandoned items and sifted through them, searching for the items he lacked for the standard kit, and only that (those who fled returning in the night to retrieve the possessions once Jonathon had finished his shift). It was the dried foodstuff that had been the hardest to acquire, but he had managed. It had helped that he did not require food to survive, though the act of eating had been sorely missed. He had managed that craving well enough by chewing on a block of soft wood whenever the urge had grown too strong. Degrading, but it had felt like he was eating something and that had been all that mattered in the end.
The large backpack holding his kit bounced slightly on his back as he marched down the trail. Back before his death and subsequent revival he, along with the rest of the soldiers in his squad, had often been sent on patrol, duty rotated with nearly all the other soldiers on the wall to better keep the order in Gilneas.
Of course, with Lord Crowley’s growing civil unrest, subsequent rebellion and following civil war Jonathon along with his fellow soldiers had been forced to take additional shifts on the road. The soldiers of Gilneas would commonly complain about the nature of their extra shifts, the rebellion making their marches more frequent and arduous.
No one, however, would mention the other reason for their increased shifts in the marches, namely that of the deserting soldiers who joined up with the rebels. Those that had left the wall rarely made it far though, their drawn bodies hung from the gallows set up for that specific purpose as soon as they were recovered. It was a disgusting procedure, but one that was unavoidable, desertion a capital offence after all.
It had been during one those patrols that Jonathon had first killed a man. They say the first stays with you always; Jonathon was inclined to agree. He along with several others had set up a road block, a common practice where soldiers would set up spontaneous ambushes for travelling merchants in case they were smuggling supplies for the rebels.
It had been a cold muddy day in which they had stopped a small horse drawn cart, a short bald man at the reigns who looked considerably surprised when Jonathon and his fellows had seemed to materialise from the woods like phantasms, the eldest Stark son the one who had ordered the man to halt.
The man had seemed calm and collected, even calling out in greeting once he had recovered from his shock of the soldier’s sudden arrival. As two of Jonathon’s companions had searched the vehicle he and another had stood with the driver several yards away, Jonathon scrutinizing the bald man while his companion had chatted with the merchant amiably. That all changed when one of the men searching the cart found a false bottom, rifles and gunpowder lining the hidden compartment in neat orderly rows.
The bald man had broken away in an attempt to flee as soon as the soldier had made his surprised declaration, shoving harshly the guard who had been sharing Jonathon’s duty and who had been chatting so amiably moments before, attempting to run into the forest. It was luck, more than anything, that the Stark had caught the rebel, the shaft of the halberd Jonathon so casually held becoming entangled in the man’s legs as he ran past, sending him crashing to the ground with a startled shout. The rebel had scrambled to his feet, a dagger being drawn from his belt and flashing in the gloomy sunlight ominously.
Jonathon had stood between the man and escape, the other soldiers shouting in alarm and moving to aid him but there had been no time. In the moments it took the soldiers to arrive the rebel would by then be into the woods and, weighed down by their armour, the Gilnean soldiers would surely lose him.
So he did what he had to, what the men of the Stark family were expected to. He had defended his nation, setting his halberd in both hands and plunging it forward. The pointed end of the weapon had pierced the rebels chest with almost contemptible ease, Jonathon had even thought he had missed and had gone merely caught but the shirt at first, so effortless the thrust. Then the curved end of the blade had caught against a rib, preventing it from entering the rebel further than it already had. The bald man for his part had gasped in pain at the sudden metallic intrusion into his being, falling backward as he tried to automatically escape the source of his torment.
The wound had been fatal, Jonathon watching in stunned horror as the rebel had writhed in pain amongst the mud of the road, gasping and entreating for help that could not be given to alleviate his state. Had he been older, more experienced, Jonathon likely could have been able to end the man then and spare him further suffering but the cold dirty work of slitting a man’s throat as they lay helpless had been beyond the Stark sibling at that time, though not long afterwards.
The bald mans blood had not been easily visible at first, the brown of the man’s clothing and mud making it nearly invisible but it had been there, Jonathon knew it. He had watched until the man breathed his last, feeling it his duty to the fellow if that made sense.
They had driven the cart back to the nearby town following the rebel’s expiration; corpse in the back amongst the smuggled goods that had sealed the bald mans fate. Jonathon had watched as his captain had pulled back a blanket he had covered the body in, had stared at the ashen and ghastly pallor of the once living man’s face brought about by the cold embrace of death. At the time, Jonathon had wondered what it was like to die, to have life seep from your body and stolen by the cold air.
Well, he thought as he turned the corner of the road and entered further into the woods, he supposed he now knew without a doubt.
The woods passed him by with an eerie silence he had stopped noticing hours ago. His boots were the only steady sound about him, the odd hoot of an owl or rustle of bushes as small animals skittered about all that broke the monotonous clicks of his soles echoing amongst the foliage. As such it was easy for him to identify when voices were heard up ahead, the gloom of twilight along with the thick curtain of tree branches overhead making it difficult to see any great distance, but speech was nevertheless distinguishable in the distance.
Nevertheless Jonathon continued his steady march without pause to consider the source. He had no reason to change course, events such as these were the whole purpose of his patrols after all.
It took some time, but at length Jonathon could finally see the two speakers. From the dimming gloom they grew in definition, the soldier soon being able to see them clearly and they him. They both were garbed in leather jerkins and pants, slim blades hanging from their belts loosely in preparation to be drawn to attack but small enough not to restrict movements. Ragged black and brown hairs were on their heads respectively, they apparently having foregone hats on this particular outing. Their attire marked them as scouts and the pair of steeds but yards away with bridles tied to a low hanging tree branch promoted them further as tasks being that of outriders.
“Ho, brother!” One of them cried out, waving a bony arm in greeting as both glowing sets of yellow eyes observed Jonathon’s approach.
Forsaken.
Jonathon made no reply, merely continuing to march forward at his steady pace. Light how he loathed the language known as gutterspeak, a bastardized form of common nearly impossible to speak by any but the undead nations citizens, yet much to Jonathon’s self loathing perfectly understandable to him. The speaker attempted a greeting again but had the same reaction from the stoic Stark approaching, one of the bony horses nickering slightly at the alien sound of Jonathon`s clanking boots.
“Don’t take it personal Harry, look at his tabard.” The brown haired Forsaken declared, pointing at Jonathon. ‘Harry’ peered at Jonathon’s chest, a slight hacking and depreciating laugh bubbling from his throat when he saw what the approaching man wore.
“Hah, a noobie. He’s still wearing his old tabard.” The black haired one guffawed, pointing at the symbol of Gilneas emblazoned on the dead Stark’s chest. Harry shook his head in bemusement and stepped towards Jonathon amiably.
“Listen buddy, which regiment are you from? The army moved out of this area ages ago.” Jonathon stopped in front of the Forsaken who had just spoken. Glowing blue eyes bored into yellow as the former lowered his halberd from where it rested on his shoulder, the butt of the weapon tapping the ground slightly as he held it at attention.
“Halt, to whom do you serve?” Jonathon demanded sharply, a palm held out to forestall the other undead man. Harris paused in surprise, glancing back at his companion for insight but whose sole answer took the form of a bemused shrug.
Responding in kind the black haired Forsaken had turned back to Jonathon. “The Dark Lady.” The living dead man informed the other in an obvious tone.
Jonathon had suspected as such. Fel, he had known it the moment he laid eyes on them. But there had been that tiny ray of hope, like the pitiful beams of the sun that managed to penetrate the curtain of branches and gloom of the forest to light his way through the shadows.
But it was for naught he realized sadly as he raised his halberd high over his head. He had been a fool to believe otherwise. He was the exception he mused sadly as he brought the bladed weapon down, cleaving into the surprised black haired Forsaken’s skull with a sickening crack of bone as the weapon dug into the man’s rotted head, splitting it open like a pumpkin.
The other Forsaken cried out in surprise and shock at the sudden assault on his fellow. The brown haired scout quickly turned, disbelief that a fellow Forsaken had turned on him poisoning his mind and dulling his thoughts, forcing him to regress to fight or flight instinct. The leathers of his clothes creaked as the Forsaken began to move away the opposite direction of Jonathon, the road ending several meters away to meet the treeline and his salvation.
Jonathon did not bother pursuing. His heavy armour encumbered him and would make catching the fleet of feet fleeing corpse difficult at best, impossible at worst. But, then again, he was a Stark Jonathon thought as he unslung his rifle and lined up a shot with the rushing figure, halberd rattling as it fell against the ground from the abrupt redeployment of hands to the secondary armament.
And all Stark's were persistent bastards.
The crack of a gunshot and small plume of smoke erupted from his rifle, several crows taking flight at the unnatural noise with indignant caws. The brown haired Forsaken crashed to the dirt road heavily with a shriek of pain, leg brittle and little more than bone anyway sent flying out from under him at the bullets impact. The leg catapulted away, rattling into the bushes yards away from the now prone Forsaken with a rustle of dry branches and the dead leaves.
Jonathon lowered the rifle with a slight downturn of his nearly fleshless lips. “Ah,” he began mildly, ignoring the scream of pain and fear from the dead man he had shot as he slung the rifle over his shoulder once more, “I missed.” Shrugging helplessly Jonathon bent his knees with a slight creak and retrieved his halberd from where it had fallen.
Silently, he strode forward toward the other dead man, who was currently endeavouring to drag himself away and untoward the perceived safety of the trees. The scout froze when Jonathon’s shadow passed over him, turning wide glowing yellow to meet Jonathon’s cold blues.
He did not given the Forsaken a chance to plead, for both their sakes. Raising the halberd the dead Gilnean brought it down in a swift and sudden motion. Idly Jonathon watched the now severed head roll away, the twin lanterns that were the brown haired Forsaken's eyes swiftly fading to dull embers, then nothingness as death extinguished them.
It was nothing like his first, Jonathon mused as he hefted the halberd back over his shoulder. The rebel he had killed so long ago had been a human like him, a Gilnean to the core even if he had rebelled against their king. He had felt compassion for that man, regret even for having to end his life as he did. That man had been the first of that life, but certainly not the last.
It was different this time. He may have been undead like these men, forced to live again and mayhap could have even considered them brothers like he had his companions in the Gilnean guard. But it would take far more resurrections than the one he had been through so far to bring him to a life that he would ever call the minions of the Banshee Queen comrades.
Jonathon pivoted on his heel, the click of his greaves soon filling the air once more. He marched away and did not look back, leaving the now permanently dead men to the carrion that would soon gather. He did not shift through the bodies for loot, search their packs for materials or take their steeds. Even though what they carried may have aided his journey he did not want what those men had owned.
He would accept no aid from the dead.
Post by
Morec0
Damn, that guys a badass. And the story was awesome. Poor dead bastard.
I may have read it wrong, but does it say that Crowley's growing civil unrest (which I'm guessing is the begining of the civil war) is happening at the same time the Forsaken are invading Gilneas?
Post by
oneforthemoney
I believe it was just after the wall was built the rebellion began, I think they captured him around when the Forsaken started to attack.
It was all somewhat vague on the specifics so I played on that.
Post by
oneforthemoney
Authors Notes:
This was remarkably easy to write up until the ending, as usual. His recollection of the first man he killed was relatively easy to write, it was with the Forsaken that it became difficult. Not on how it all would come about but, rather, how to say what Jonathon experienced when comparing this interaction to his recalled one. I had to rewrite it several times (not including the ending line) in order to approach the situation in a way that imparts what I wanted to express as best I could.
I really enjoy writing him, his nature as the seeming exception to the rule and fully aware of that fact makes him rather complicated yet simple compared to most of my other characters.
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