Ghost was in a killing mood. He dashed through the dark ravine and up the nearest black rock cliff face with a deft practiced speed. By the Titan he was bored. Those many legged Bugs were plenty strong and fast but they didn’t have the emotion that people have when they die. They were beasts, and consequently they barely satiated the inferno that welled deep in Ghost’s body. The others could have their warm shared meals and skin crawling physical embraces all they wanted. Ghost would take the cold night air, the whispering wind on his skin, the thrill of sinking his knives into another. Ghost leapt from black logs to stones, to thick grass expanding his perimeter around the band’s new homebase.

Ghost told Sharps that he usually only patrolled a relatively close radius around the new base but in reality he was not a sentry. He was a hunter. He grinned as he donned his cloaking Boon and blended into the black wood so completely that it would be hard to say anything was there at all. He caught the stench of sweaty bodies in the air earlier than he expected. He hadn’t hunted in a few days and he had hoped a large group would drift close. To Ghost, this was what had to be done, unidentified Boons and the mad minds that wielded their power were a risk he couldn’t allow. Despite his detachment, he cared for the others, and the prospect of them facing mortal danger was something he tried to avoid as much as he could. Sharps was the leader, but even he didn’t know the extent of what Ghost had done to protect them. Part of it was justification. Part of it was pleasure. But it was to save Drowse, Shadow, Sharps and even the Freshy. To prevent them from suffering the brutal deaths he had seen so many times before. But then what about the torture? Was that justified? Did it really matter? It was fun after all.

Ghost grinned as he sniffed smoke and sweat and looked down with experienced night vision at an encampment. Four makeshift shelters and a cooking fire. Looked like desperate, hungry drifters. Average Cursed, barely holding on to survival. He could see one standing watch. The guard stood, thin as a sapling, leaning on a makeshift spear, shaggy hair and beard nodding as he almost fell asleep over and over.

He would be first then. Ending the watch was the easiest way to ensure no one else would wake. As long as his silence was on them there wouldn’t be much they could do. Especially if the first time they woke was under Ghost’s blades. He gripped the staghide hilts of his twin daggers that Sharps and Shadow had painstakingly made for him. It was time to get to work.

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Before they had gone to bed, the boys told wild stories of myth while sitting around the fire and passing a liquor made from fermented fungus. They told gregarious tales of encounters with the Titan, blood spikes glittering, wide sharp fanged mouth grinning, spike crown black with hate. The Titan could shift its size at will. So the tales varied from avoiding gigantic footfalls to taking the Titan on in single combat in its more Cursed sized avatar form.

Of course Dark knew that most of these stories were utter bonehound shit. He was young but he knew a lie almost instinctively. Bandless for all five long cycles of his life, he recently fell in with Fungal and his crew. There were only a few of them, four including him. There was Hardshell, who had used up all his Boon’s power early on in life and now was just a branch thin spearman with a wavering heart, making his name a bit tragic. He insisted on keeping it though, and Dark admired him for it. Hadn’t known the man during his heyday but apparently it was something to behold. Fungal told him that Hardshell became twice his regular size in a bone shell of armor at will. He said that it made him as strong as ten men. But like many Boons, the power was too good to be true and soon the shell was thinner and thinner and then he couldn’t use it all. His body stretched thin, and now he had aches in his bones that he complained about nightly.

Dark sipped his liquor and then grabbed the skin, offering to refill Hardshell’s cup, who took it happily with a nod. Fungal was out scouting with his mushroom networks for Bugs or hostile Cursed bands. Frost snored lazily against the log, his white hair pulled over his eyes. It wasn’t a bad group, power wise. Hard was the obvious weak link but he was an old soul as far as The Dying Wood was concerned. Almost five hundred cycles and still kicking. He had killed more Cursed than anyone Dark knew if his stories were to be believed. Plus, he was one Titan of a tactician. And with Dark and Frost’s projectile Boons and Fungal’s utility and food production, they really were a decent group. Dark wouldn’t stick around if it didn’t give him a better chance to survive. He was the youngest of the group, only five cycles, but what he lacked in practical survival experience he made up for in pure power. His Boon let him slice anything and anyone in his path to ribbons with black streaking shadows. In the light of the crackling fire he flexed his fingers and pulsing black shadows emanated from them.

Dark looked over and Frost was stirring, “Morning boys,” He said with a yawn, bright eyes creaking open.

Hardshell grunted and Dark said, “It ain't morning.You warm enough?”

“Never,” Frost said, shivering as he rubbed his pale hands together and held them out to the fire.

“This’ll do ya good,” Dark said as he handed Frost a mug of liquor.

Dark found himself actively thinking about generosity and care for the needs of others around him. His Curse killed that instinct in him and he hated the things it had made him do in the past. He had killed whole bands without much concern before he met Fungal. He didn’t want to stay remorseless, but such was the nature of being a Cursed. You had to adapt to meet your own needs.

“Hey fellas, did I ever tell you that old story of the Cursed who can kill ya without ya even seeing him?” Hardshell suddenly asked, his voice slightly slurred.

Dark gave a quick glance to Frost who knitted his white eyebrows and said, “I don’t think so, Hard.”

“Yeah, let's hear it!” Dark said with triumph.

“Alright then. Back in my day, this story didn’t scare me much, I thought of myself as the unkillable type. Now, it makes me shit myself.” Hardshell said with a chuckle and a glance down at his spindly body under torn tunic, “The Tale of The Silent Death first graced my ears back when Nekro still stood as a center for Cursed to band together. People reported finding bodies mangled beyond recognition inside and outside the walls of Nekro. And one day, a desperate terrified looking man ran into the tavern I was drinking at, looking like he had seen a ghost. He demanded the strongest drink and beckoned others to please listen to him. Of course most laughed at him but as he began his story, even the drunkest leaned in to listen. He said that he and his band were doing some contract hunting outside the walls of Nekro when all of the sudden none of them could hear each other speak. None of their Curses affected their hearing but there they were, unable to even hear their own voice. They stared at each other confusedly until the poor sod saw blood spraying from his leader's neck as he silently screamed. They were all so terrified and disoriented that they couldn’t even think to react. The Silent Death was on them and they were dying left and right.”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“How do you know it was a Cursed?” Dark asked.

“He saw the bastard,” Hardshell said solemnly, “After killing all his friends, The Silent Death revealed his twisted smiling face. Luckily the poor sod had a mobility Boon and sprung out of there as fast as he could. Over the cycles I met only a few more people with stories like that. But I’ve come across countless camps where each corpse has been cut to ribbons. Makes me wonder.”

“He must be dead,” Said Frost with a shiver.

“Let’s hope,” Hardshell replied with a grin, “He’d be older than me if he was. And that is rare indeed.”

“We should turn in boys,” Dark yawned, “Fungal will probably be out for a few more hours.”

“I’ve got the first watch then,” Hardshell said, “You boys get some rest.”

“Thanks Hardshell,” Dark said mechanically, forcing himself to acknowledge Hard’s compassion.

“Happy to do it,” Hardshell said with a soft smile.

Dark crawled into his sleeping sack and breathed softly. This was more comfort than he had ever known when he first emerged from his egg. He would do anything to maintain it. Protecting the group suited him well as a purpose and he would use the power of his Boon and his whole mind set to the challenge. As he drifted off to sleep, he swore that the crackling of the fire was snuffed out in a sudden blanket of inky silence. Despite Hard’s dark tale, the silence lulled him to sleep as his thoughts drifted to his friends and their growing bond. And by then, it was far too late.

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Ghost snarled silently as he pulled the branch thin watchguard to the dirt and began rapidly and repeatedly thrusting his staghide hilted knives up and down the thin man’s back. Warm blood sprayed over his cloak and shot into the silent crackling fire. It seeped into the dirt and over Ghost’s boots. The man’s face twisted in anguished pain and he made the idiotic mouth agape expression that Ghost knew was screaming. He had never heard a scream and thus had no concept of one, but he did like the vibrations that came when a person screamed. He grinned as he cut up and down the skinny man’s back and neck. He sliced off one of the man’s ears and felt a surge of surprising strength come from the skinny man. But of course Ghost was stronger and he pinned him until the man was exhausted. That would do for this kill. He pulled the man up by his hair and wrenched the knife across his thin neck and blood pooled endlessly out as the skinny man died. A wave of shuddering satisfaction washed over Ghost’s mind and body.

Who’s next then? He thought excitedly as he violently ripped open one of the tent flaps of the makeshift shelter. A man with short dark hair and sunken eyes breathed quietly, his head poking out of his sleeping sack. The guard didn’t even try to manifest his Boon. Pathetic. Ghost liked it when they put up a bit of a fight. This one had the countenance of a killer. Ghost was so eager, so eager. He straddled the dark haired man and started stabbing endlessly into the sleeping sack. The man awoke with wide startled eyes and suddenly a black streaking object shot out of the sack. Ghost had a lot of experience with unknown Boons and he rolled off the bed as the dark missile ripped upwards out of the tent. The dark haired man spluttered blood and tried to launch another projectile at Ghost. He rolled again, narrowly avoiding the cutting edge, all the while the dark haired man was screaming silently. Ghost’s knotted muscles burst as he launched himself at the injured man. Ghost drove his knives into his neck, one on each side. His black eyes glazed over as he died, blood pooling into the sleeping sack.

This one’s done then, Ghost thought as he wrenched his knives out and stood up. The warm blood felt nice on his skin. He grinned as he came into the next shelter. He saw brilliant white hair poking out of a blanket. This one hadn’t even stirred. Sometimes, Ghost wondered what it would be like if his victims actually stood a chance. With this last one he took his time. He woke him up and went to work on his pale white hands with his long knives. Cutting off fingertips cut off many Boons, a fact Ghost utilized any time he could. It appeared his white haired friend was one such pathetic specimen. Ghost played with him for a good while, until his knives had a long long drink of crimson. He finally ended it with a quick slash across the throat and stepped back into the night. He ran his bloody fingers through his gray hair, wrapping his cloak tight around him. He’d visit the stream for a bath then find a nice place in the trees to sleep near the base. After his work was done he was always filled with a deep sense of calm euphoric bliss. He went back through the killings in his mind, reliving the glory.

He remembered that there were four shelters and only three victims. He would come back for the other.

There’s always tomorrow, Sharps ghostsigned with a grin in Ghost’s memory. He always signed that after a good day of work, and Ghost thought that was a right way of thinking.

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Fungal returned back to the camp close to sun up. He had been so intrigued by the signals his fungus networks were sending him that the hours went by in the blink of an eye. The sheer mass of swarming mega insects put off such an intense wave of vibration that reverberated through his many league wide radius of fungus networks. He needed to keep their movements clear in the claptrap of his mind, if he was to keep the group safe. He didn’t see Hardshell, who usually stood watch and his wart ridden forehead furrowed with concern. He took careful steps towards the dying fire, the dawn light rising. And he saw it. Black pooling blood. A heaped body.

“No… No…” He staggered towards Hard’s ruined corpse.

Fungal choked a sob and fell to his knees, looking at his friend's ruined body. His skin was so pale. So pale. His eyes were open, mouth agape, terrified expression plastered like a horrible mask. Fungal sent out a pulse of awareness through his underground fungal networks, seeing if the attackers were still near. He felt nothing and quickly dashed to Frost’s tent.

Fungal wailed a guttering cry of grief when he glimpsed the red ruin that was Frost’s face. His wonderful soft hands were cut to ribbons, nubs of bloody bone. He was shirtless and almost every surface of his chest was long lines of deep gashes. His ears, eyes, nose, and lips were all gone. They had just started to get close. They had just started to share each other’s closest thoughts. They had just started to love each other.

Fungal growled as his grief switched to anger. Huge mushrooms sprouted around each footfall as he stomped towards Dark’s tent already preparing to accept that he was gone too. A few agonizing moments later he emerged out of the tent, a wash of cold determination seeping deep into his consciousness. He sat, focusing only on his Boon, only on the fungus around him. Their mycelium networks formed neurons deep beneath the crust of soil. His mind was isolated to the task, fueled by a desire for vengeance.

There you are He thought, Mushrooms sprouting painfully out of his skin. His Curse reared itself when he delved deep into the power of his Boon. The mycelium networks extended for leagues and they seeped up to the very surface of the soil. His perception reared up and outwards until he was aware of all the treading life in a massive radius around him. His eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth foamed spittle.

The figure rested casually in a low underbrush near some blackbark trees. Fungal sensed the fresh blood still staining some parts of his body with the nutrient absorbing fungal roots of his network. This was the killer then. But Fungal knew that if he killed all of them, Dark, Frost and Hardshell, this was no weak Cursed. He also sensed a group of four more Cursed resting in a cave not too far from where the killer lay. Fungal would be back. He would call on his long owed favors, his long lasting allies, beg the Cursed that hated him to come to his aid, and those that followed would help him kill this monster and everyone he held dear. Fungal’s long experience told him that the vengeance would likely be hollow. But that didn’t matter, because Frost was dead, and with him the last bit of Fungal’s hope for a comfortable life dried up like it was never there at all.