A lone hand ascends skyward, dark wraps ensnaring it, a black moon and sun dominating the heavens above. Despite the winter winds whipping about, freezing all hints of heat and movement, it stands strong. A living corpse rebuking the soul chilling world.
A lean winged figure stands on a snow-bitten permafrosted-plateau, raising their right arm above them, looking like a dark bolt of lighting on a sheet of white paper. On his lifeless domain, a blip approaches, moving towards him with haste. A chariot approaches from over the horizon, pulled by a beast of burden, dragging a sled across the frozen snow. The man at the helm shivers ferociously, movement slowing despite the thick clothes and wraps suffocating their body. His attention is split between their beast, the man on the mountain, and the sled behind them.
The sled-master curses their fate, drew straws short on the ride of life, almost every misfortune possible falling on their path. Now they’ve been sent as a courier to deliver a coffin of incredible importance to a terrible, terrible, monster. They couldn’t tell what was worse, the angel of death that stood in the distance, the foreboding-frigid landscape they’ve been plunged into, or their “parcel”. Parcel being the sealed coffin behind them, wrapped in several linens dyed black with the poisons they’ve been soaked in. Its stench of death has thoroughly penetrated the sled-masters' clothes, luckily after a week and a half of traveling with it they’ve grown accustomed to it. No more gagging, only dry asthmatic breaths, any hints of moisture immediately frozen.
Each quarter mile traveled stretched on in time and apparent distance. Life began to return to the freezing sled-master, their hearts beating accelerating and feeling returning to their fingertips. They reign in their beast, letting it slow as they cross into a valley with an iron pole at its center. Icicles grew from it, giving it the appearance of a white flag. A large mass sat beside the pole, a tarp that’s been frozen solid.
The sled-master slowly departs from their chariot, letting their feet crack into the ground's snow. A sort of weakness is realized by them as they have trouble balancing, feeling as if their legs will collapse at any second. Though the sled-master keeps their eyes reverently glued towards the top of the plateau that they sit below, waiting for some sort of sign or action, anything that didn’t kick them into the grave at least.
Silently a darkness kicks itself off of the top of the plateau, gliding, circling around the sled-master and their coffin. The sled-master braces himself, leaning against the chariot for support. He can feel the coldness of the warping wood through their clothes. The winged man eventually drops before the man, falling like a cast iron ball. A dampened thud shifts through the air, a cloud of snow and displaced ice forming around the winged man's landing area.
The sled-master bites their tongue unsure of what to say or do, simply standing stagnant, watching the shadow in the icy cloud as it begins to shift. Like an eclipse parting pale clouds. The sled-master views this man, the definition of their figure becoming apparent. They wore robes like that of a clergyman, jet black, ruffled, and loose. They covered their entire body, only revealing their head, feet, hands, and a sliver of their chest. Seemingly the only thing which keeps the robes in place is a black belt with white trimming, much of its length folded off and flapping at their side. They had no undershirt, just white wrappings, spiraling all across the body down to their claw-like fingers and feets talons. A sword sat at their waist, hidden by its white-wrappings sheathe, tied to their belt. The sled-master knew not by personal experience or story, but their heart told them it was not ceremonial. That sword has split veins, fractured bones, and raptured crowns. Death lingers with it. One last thing slips itself in the sled-masters eye. Hovering across the figure's heart, pinned to their robes, was a silver cross.
Of the wrappings one part stuck itself into the sled-masters mind, branding itself like a hot iron. The Right Arm. Black bands like voidborne snakes spiral down their arm, a harsh, restrained, and entombed light leaks from the cracks. At the center of their palm was a small structure. A simple white dot, no larger than a nail, snake-like flairs whipping from it and across their palm. A pressure leaked from it, each twitch of a finger drawing attention. Consuming more of the sled-masters' attention like the darkest of voids drawing in light.
A snap from the figure's left arm breaks the sled-masters focus, the right arm receding, collapsing, from awareness. The figure takes single, simple steps forwards, slowly. The sled-master turns their gaze upwards with every inch that disappears between the two. Their face was clear, that of a Cliffhelm, an avian peoples. Thick, matted, purple fur spring from their neck and head like a roving and raving flame. Ice failed to freeze them, a light steam searing away the chill. On their face sat a bone mask, pure white with painted red streaks rippling through it. Two deep holes opened for their eyes, shadows filling the crevasse. Within the darkness, each blazed with violet, nebulas on a night's horizon. Both balls of light centered on the sled-master.
The sled-master breaks their chapped and dry lips, attempting to conjure words, only spitting out ghosts of sputters. The figure before them lurches forward, thrusting a shadow over them and the coffin. The sled-master cannot be sure, but as the shadow engulfs them they can’t help but believe that the sounds and chill of wind have been dispelled. The figure speaks, a voice cracking out like shattering glass. A voice filled with bitterness and scorn, an oppressive sarcastic flare breaking throughout it. Something akin to a church being immolated by its own stained glass, outside light filtering through an multicolored image of a tributes fire being snuffed, focused onto the pulpit and igniting sparks.
“I am…” and with that the figure lingers on silence for a bit. Setting the index finger of their right hand at the tip of their beak, rhythmically tapping it with a hastened pace, as if hushing the sled-master.
“I am someone you’ve probably heard of me… Li’l here, li’l there, li’l something somewhen or somewhere… Feel free to call me ‘The Head Researcher’. If you can speak that is, don’t suppose you can…” he whispered. The Head Researcher hooks a finger over his beak momentarily, as if caught in thought, reeling it away fairly quickly. They set a finger under the scarf sitting around the sled-masters forehead and scalp, flicking it off. Once again they hook their finger, bringing down on the frozen cloth frozen around the sled-masters pale cheeks, nose, and mouth. In a jerky motion they slowly peel it off, like a frozen bandaid, each stunted motion releasing a jerky crack.
The sled-masters face was open to the world once more. An old elve, a face defined with wrinkles and scars. Slashes and thick gouges all across their face, each scar pierced by a sagging wrinkle. Graying fuzz centered around their mouth and chin (Some patches now uprooted, revealing soft pink splotches). Droplets of white ice stuck to the ends of their sickly beard. Their lips were tight, thin, like a slice of a dried peach. Red cracks split them, forming alternating strips of soft pinks and reds. Their gray hair was patted back, near frozen, white icy strips netted throughout. One of his eyes was blasted open, vigilant as ever. The other eye was settled shut, frozen, carrying an unspoken story with it. The Head Researchers own eyes pierced through the ice and darkness, seeing the story of an old frail warrior form.
Gently, the Head Researcher centers right hand over the sled-masters closed eye. It hovers there, the sled-master bracing for some sort of push or pain. For them time ticks on painfully slowly, anticipation twitching at their nerves. The Head Researcher draws their palm away, resting their thumb on the frozen eye. A cold steam begins to form on the skin of the sled-master, something adjacent to a warmth coating their eye. The Head Researchers thumb twitches at the eyes lid, shuffling ice and forming water off of it. Once satisfied they pry it open, light bashing their restored eye.
A flash overtakes the sled-masters eye, lightness filling their head. They stumble backwards, catching themselves by grasping at their chariot. One hand catches the chariot and themselves whilst the other grasps at their piercing eye. Slowly, limp by limp, they stumble upwards. The arms grow heavier and heavier, slipping off their chariot and face, dragged down to their sides. Both eyes have been broken open, focused on the Head Researcher.
A wimping mutter puffs out of their mouth. “H-Ho-w… T-Tan-k y-you…”. With a strange reverence they limp their chest and head forwards, a submissive bow. No words slither away from the Head Researcher, no limb folds and no stance is taken. Silent iron. The sled-master raises themselves slow, as if they fear that they’ll shatter with any movement hastier than a melting leaf.
A life and warmth returns to their tongue, to their lips, to their breath. A light returns to their eyes. “Sun L-League… The Sun League sent me… Scattered stories are about, something about men who drink blood and vanish in the sun. Great men across the world have come together… Guild leaders. Great mages. Advisors of great kings and queens. All come together and have established ‘The Sun League’! They warn of a great threat, the start of the apocalyp-”.
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The Head Researcher cuts through their monologue with a dagger-like shush. “Shh! Don’t speak of an ‘apocalypse’ here, don't speak of it unless you mean it… And if you seek refuge here, hiding out at the end of -your- known world, scatter. Go. Shoo!” sneers the Head Researcher. With their left hand they wave them away, dusting away distractions.
The sled-master staggers backwards, putting space between themselves and the chariot. In the space they leave, the coffin and its black linens bleed back into view. Softly they speak “Aye… I know you’re probably tied up with… S-Something…”. They scan the barren wasteland around them, hoping their words don’t strike something sensitive, eventually returning to their speech.
“But I don’t seek refuge. The thing in that big black box slipped into town. In a single night it took the lives of sixty-six people… Knew each and every single one, man, woman, and child. We were descendants of warriors, strife in blood, couldn’t do a damn thing to save each other. I tried, I tried to stop that thing. Armed myself and lunged at the thing. Hacked off an arm but it threw me into the river…” their speech slows, stopping, word caught on what they’ll say next. Resolve forms itself in their throat, energy and clarity returning to their speech. “Caught myself downstream in the morning, saved by a band of men holding a flag with the sun on it. Guided them home, and the next night they went out, returning in the morning with this. I offered them everything I could, so they sent me down here with this box and a message!” they proudly exclaim, their voice belting out into the wasteland suffocating them.
The Head Researcher sits on the man's speech, not a whisper leaking from them. Once again they hook their finger around their beak, eventually throwing their hands in the air exclaiming “Baah! Opportunists they are! The whole lot of them! Taking advantage of an old… elderly man in crisis! Cruel!”. They cackle wildly like a dying hyena, cawing out at one last joke, cutting it short with silence.
“Oh, I hope you’ve taken no offense by the way! Tough times, I know, I know, we’ve all been through them, and I know age is a bit of a killer!” declares The Head Researcher, softly sighing. They proceed to waltz forward at a brisk, unfettered pace, approaching the coffin. Their voice winds back up “Though I suppose this… thing? Monster? Maybe even a man, perhaps, is a killer as well.”.
The Head Researcher plants their feet on the ice next to the coffin. Behind them the sled-master wrings their hands through each other, no interruptions, comments or protests. They mutter silent pleas, pleas to their vanished friends and family, their father and friends now long gone. Though what they wish for they don’t even know. A mass of bloodied flows ebb through their mind. Safety. Vengeance. Daughter. Sun League. Researcher. Death. Return. Home. Fear. Rage. Flows braiding themselves into a knot, tugged on by their weak body, fading stamina, and emotional overstimulation. Letters begin to emerge on each crossing rope.
1. E. L. P. L. E. S. S.
“Helpless little bugger, some fine sheets of sealing we have here, if not a li’l stinky.” pipes The Head Researcher. They set their right hand on the linen, softly, a hissing boiling up, pale bubbles forming between their palm and fingers. Unconcerned they pull a mass of the sheets into their hands, balling it, grasping with force. Like an energized child being asked to clear off a table, they grab the cloth and pull, swiping the tablecloth away. The linens float down, laying themselves on the ice like a glob of resting ink on a page. They begin to simmer, releasing pale vapors, bubbles bleeding from the piles edges.
The form of the coffin reveals itself to the sled-master and The Head Researcher. A six sided box of gray wood, black marbling flowing like ripples from the bottom to the top, golden chains wrapped around the entirety of the box. At its center, binding all chains together, an iron lock. The Head Researcher strums their fingers across the wood, like tapping on empty iron pots. Focusing on the chains, The Head Researcher sharply calls out “Sled-master, the key!”. They extend their left hand to their side, open, fingers flicking about like snakes tasting the air.
The sled-master voice breaks “I-I was given no key sir, the men in the band said as a safety precaution they didn’t want the key with me, they would send an executive with i-”. A metallic scratching impales and twists through the air, cutting off the sled-master. The Head Researchers right hand has formed itself into a claw, driven itself onto the coffin, scraping across it. It’s like masses of metal clawing at each other, echoing throughout the still air. The Head Researchers head begins to tremble, shakes rippling throughout their limbs. In a wrathful voice they screech.
“THEY WHAT!”
The scream cascades through the emptiness, bringing movement to the land. Ice and snow falls from the nearby plateau, pelting the party with sogging sleet. Though silence overtakes the lands after the brief burst of energy. The hearts of both men beat with strength, each almost strong enough to be seen through their chests, almost strong enough to be heard by the average ear.
The Head Researcher pivots on a single leg, the active talon throwing up ice and snow, the resting one digging in and clenching at the ground. The Head Researcher forces steps forward, thick and heavy thumps billowing out alongside the upturned snow. At a rhythmic pace they approach the sled-master. The sled-master attempts to backpedal at a pace which copies their momentum, shifting trembling feet backwards whilst their gaze is locked with the monster. A heel shifts its weight down deeper into the snow, whether by misfortune or mismanagement. The sled-master tumbles backwards, back never touching the ground. Black wrappings grab at their collar, The Head Researcher has grabbed them.
Slowly the sled-master ascends, grappling with the hand and their clothes collar, attempting to exert some degree of control or security. Feet begin to slide out of the ground, toes attempting to grasp for any ground that they can. The sled-master is brought to eye level with The Head Researcher, kept at an arm's length.
Like a whirlwind of steam, searing words begin to whistle from The Head Researcher “This… This… I- I- I am at a loss for words, I feel like I am about to have a breakdown. Clown world. Clown world. We live in an absolute joke of a world, a fantastical story of mental retardation! And I have the dignified honor of being at the center of it all! I can’t believe it! I am on the verge of having a religious experience!”. The Head Researcher folds their arm, reducing the gap between themself and the sled-master.
“K-K-Kah-ha-ha-ha! KAH-KAH-KAH-HA-HA! A-HA-HAK-KHA-K-HA!” breaks from the beak of The Head Researcher, cackles shaking throughout their being, ragdolling the sled-master around in their hand. The sled-master retains their breath as if about to take a dive underwater, grasping and grappling the hands at their neck. The Head Researcher twists themselves around, stomping towards the chariot and coffin, rickety mad laughs breaking out with each step.
As they come to a stop, standing over the chariot with the sled-master in hand, they begin to ramble “Shit-spewing-senile-scum-suckers, humanities sewage and the safehaven for all that gluts and gloats. All of them, robbing us, raping us, resrpretory-rot, enough retards to fill ten-hundred lots. Do what I should have done and put space between yourself and them, get as far away as you can and treat everything you hear as a rumor.”.
The Head Researcher lowers the sled-master right next to the chariot, freeing their right hand once more. They slither their hand to the coffin, caressing its edge until they come in contact with one of its golden chains, physically following it up right to the chain's heart. The iron lock. The Head Researcher grabs the lock, the heart of the golden seal, from below. They firmly grasp it, turning towards the sled-master once again. They release a dry giggle, as if it's the single remaining laugh they could conjure up “Guh-he-he… I suppose I do have an alternative… A way so I wouldn’t have to wait for some silver-spoon-sucking executive to waddle their way here, attempting ‘diplomacy’ or ‘negotiation’. “
The Head Researcher loosely wraps the lock in the fingers. They ask the sled-master “See?”. And with their question they curl their hand into the fist with the lock inside. Like glass it shatters, iron slag scattering across the coffin, dancing across the lid in a symphony of jingling clanks. The golden chains fall limp, sliding off the lid, falling to the snow. A soft cloud of fluffy snow is kicked up from the collapsing chain, soon descending as they did.
The Head Researcher turns to the sky, staring at the sun, watching it descend. A half minute passes, hints of darkness beginning to overtake the land as the sun begins to greet the horizon. They speak once more, wrath seemingly subsided within their voice “Night falls. There's supplies under this tarp here, enough for tonight and your journey back. Make sure the satchel of gold I left for you isn’t all spent on booze and women. Tell me, what is the name of these… creatures… the ones ‘The Sun League’ claims there shall be a crisis over.”.
The sled-master raises himself to their feet, shambling over to the tarp. They sputter out “Vampires…”.
With that The Head Researcher takes the coffin, lifting it, carrying it in both hands. They begin to walk away, leaving some parting words “Vampires… What a nice name. I will enjoy seeing what becomes of them. Now, I see that a war with them is quite inevitable. Perhaps the title of ‘crisis’ shall be an apt anointment. Though for an apocalypse… apocalypse… apocalypse. I can’t say I can claim the date and cause of such a… accusation. Whether it be by hurricane, the birth of a dreadful state, or monsters… Though by any path of fate we shall all be blown to Kingdom Come, perhaps that egg of evil, egg of the end, is already here… Now, farewell, friend!”