Chapter 52 “In the Clutches of Darkness”
System count down: 12:00 hours.
System: Bloodthrone's Arrival: Chaos and Reunion
As Bloodthrone burst onto the field, carrying Nyx in his arms, Storm and Shadowfang sprang into action. The pre-arranged meeting area became a flurry of activity as the wolfman brothers swiftly moved to assist their leader, bringing in bags and supplies. The humans, well aware of the constant threat from the wolves, knew better than to draw attention to themselves.
Bloodthrone's voice reverberated with a mix of fury, demand, and a hint of underlying stress. His appearance was a stark contrast to his usual composed self, with his body covered in vomit, blood, and cuts. Both Storm and Shadowfang, seasoned guards, had never seen their boss in such a state, let alone their battle-hardened warrior companion, Nyx.
"I believe she's been infected with scorpion venom," Bloodthrone declared urgently. "Get a line into her veins and start pumping the anti-venom potion. We need to administer fluids as well."
“Right, away, sir. I hope you made those dam bugs pay,” Storm snorted as he started to run a IV-line.
“Of course, Blood made them bleed. I had never seen Nyx, this badly hurt before. Must have been some bug,” Shadowfang retorted.
You two, enough! Focus on your tasks and do your damn job. If Nyx doesn't make it, you both will be joining her lifeless body. And mark my words, it wasn't just some bug that did this," Bloodthrone bellowed, his voice filled with a mix of concern and anger.
Nyx lay there in the glass, as the others worked on bringing her back from the edge of death. Her body was shaking uncontrollably. As the fluids, that might save her life entered her body every muscle twitched with an intensity that betrayed the turmoil within. Nyx’s hands trembled, unable to find steadiness as if gripped by an invisible force. The tremors spread through her limbs, causing her entire body to convulse with each passing moment.
Bloodthrone thought it was as if her very essence was caught in a chaotic dance, an unrelenting storm that refused to subside.
Nyx’s eyes began to open as the potion fought with the poison. Her eyes were wide with fear and helplessness, darted frantically, searching for solace amidst the uncontrollable tremors. Storm and Shadowfang rushed to bring water to cool her. They also wanted to avoid the wrath of Bloodthrone, but there wasn’t much more that they could do, but wait to see if the antivenom potion would win.
The humans moved to the edge of the clearing and stood there, witnessing their captor’s torment, many wished to smile at her pain but feared a beating if they were caught.
Nyx wasn’t going to give in, she was feeling the weight of her struggle as she battled against the invisible forces that held her captive. She began to spit up the poison, and a strange purple liquid sprang from her mouth.
As the antidote coursed through Nyx’s veins, a different kind of trembling took hold of her body. The once violent convulsions began to subside, gradually giving way to a more rhythmic quivering. The antidote was working its magic, soothing the ravaged nerves, and calming the storm within her weakened body. Her shaking limbs started to find newfound stability, the tremors diminishing in intensity with each passing moment.
A sense of relief washed over Bloodthrone’s face, mingled with lingering exhaustion. "By the gods, she's going to make it!" Bloodthrone exclaimed, his voice filled with a mixture of relief and elation. "Nyx, you're a fighter, a survivor!" he shouted, turning to his comrades with an exultant smile. "Can you hear that? Our pack will prevail!"
Nyx’s trembling transformed from a sign of distress to a testament to her body's will for survival. The healing power of the antidote was evident, gradually restoring balance and bringing a glimmer of hope to her once-tormented form.
Shadowfang, his eyes gleaming with pride, joined in the celebration. "This victory is sweeter than any we've known," he said, his voice tinged with emotion. "We've faced countless enemies, but this... this is a testament to our unity and unwavering determination."
Storm, his eyes shining with newfound hope, let out a howl of his own, joining Bloodthrone in their shared proclamation. "This howl echoes through the night, a symbol of our resilience and defiance," he declared. "No force can break our bond, for we are warriors of the pack, and together, we shall overcome any obstacle!"
Shadowfang whispered into his brother’s ear, “Maybe, maybe this will get us off guard duty, and into the action again.”
Storm smiled his wolfish grin and howled again.
The beaten and broken father, his body bruised, battered and unable to walk, looked into his red-headed daughter's eyes with a mixture of fear and determination. Bloodthrone and the others were caught up in their triumphant howls, their attention temporarily diverted from the surrounding chaos. It was now or never.
"Run, my love," the father whispered urgently, his voice quivering with a mix of desperation and love. "Find safety, find a place where you can be free."
The young girl, tears streaming down her dirt-streaked face. Her one arm holding her broken ribs, her free hand clung tightly to her father's tattered clothes. "But Daddy, I can't leave you," she sobbed, her voice filled with anguish.
His grip on her small hands tightened, his voice steady despite his pain. "You must, my brave girl. You are our hope, our future. Don't let their cruelty extinguish your light. Survive, my daughter, and remember who you are."
“Where should I go?”
“You are still small, find that those thorns that almost killed Nyx, hid there.”
With one last, longing look, the father pushed his daughter away, urging her to flee. She stumbled backward, her gaze locked on him, her heart torn between obedience and loyalty. The few other members of their group heard this discussion and formed close creating a wall with their bodies.
"Go now!" he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. "Remember, I love you!"
And with that, the red-headed girl turned and ran, her small form disappearing into the shadows. The father left behind in the chaos, knew that sacrifice was his only option. He squared his shoulders, summoning every ounce of strength, ready to face whatever fate awaited him.
Bloodthrone and the others, lost in their jubilant celebration, remained oblivious to the agonizing farewell that had just unfolded. The father tried to stand tall, but his body refused to work. His spirit, however, was unbroken, a beacon of resilience amidst the turmoil. The other fathers in the group lifted the man to his feet, as they continued to watch the wolves.
The wolves’ voices intertwined, carrying their joy and triumph far beyond the confines of the field. At that moment, their collective spirit burned brighter than ever, lighting a path toward a future filled with renewed hope and endless possibilities.
Until Storm paused for a moment and asked one question breaking the joy, “Where is Hunter?”
****
System count down: 10:00 hours.
Accessing log.
Storing in the secret library.
Adding to a diary entry.
In the moonlit forest, shrouded in eerie darkness, a little girl with red curls darted through the dense underbrush, her heart pounding with fear. At first, she moved slowly and quietly, not wanting the wolves to see her. She hated the idea of leaving her father, but she understood just like any other human raised in the captive world of the beastmen. She understood that this was the one day, the one chance at freedom that her father gave her.
Once, she was far enough, or where she thought she was far enough, she ran. She ran in the direction that the two leaders had come from. The trail was easy enough to follow in the dark, there was blood and vomit that marked the way, mixed with broken tree limbs. The big brute ran in a straight direction.
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Twigs snapped beneath her hurried footsteps, and the rustling leaves whispered secrets of the night. She cast furtive glances over her shoulder, her wide eyes reflecting the moon's pale glow. Fear gripped her heart as her imagination wove tales of a menacing presence lurking in the darkness, the legendary Big Bad Wolf.
Every crackle and hoot of an owl sent shivers down her spine, and she could almost feel the presence of the big bad wolf lurking in the shadows, his growls echoing through the trees. The wind whispered cautionary tales of his hunger and cunning, intensifying her dread. Yet, she pressed on, her determination fueled by a flickering ember of hope.
The wind carried a haunting melody, rustling the foliage and adding to her trepidation. Shadows danced ominously around her, playing tricks on her innocent mind.
Her small frame weaved through the gnarled branches, twirling through a maze of darkness, her breaths coming in quick gasps. The trees, towering like sentinels, seemed to whisper foreboding warnings, urging her to turn back. But she had no choice. She had to escape the clutches of the menacing predators. Through the darkened woods she raced, heart pounding, the distant howls of unseen creatures blending with the pounding of her footsteps.
As she ran, tears streaked her cheeks, mingling with dirt and sweat. Her fragile voice trembled as she whispered to herself, trying to summon courage. She clutched a worn toy tightly to her chest, a talisman of comfort and familiarity, providing a faint glimmer of solace amidst the encroaching shadows.
With every step, her legs grew weary, her pace slowing. Fear threatened to consume her, its icy tendrils coiling around her fragile spirit. Moonlight occasionally pierced through the thick canopy, offering fleeting glimpses of her path, but it did little to alleviate the darkness that seemed to encroach from all sides. The girl's breath hitched with each fleeting shadow, her mind racing with tales of cautionary bedtime stories and warnings from loved ones.
Yet, in the midst of her panic, a faint glimmer of courage flickered within her. She could almost hear her father's voice echoing in her mind, urging her to be brave. With every stride, she pushed past her fear, mustering the strength to keep running, refusing to succumb to the imagined horrors that chased her.
Then in a short distance she saw a distant glimmer of light caught her attention, beckoning like a beacon of hope. Was it the humble cottage of the huntress? The stories told of its warm glow contrasting against the darkness of the night.
Summoning her last reserves of strength, the little girl sprinted toward the cottage, her heart pounding in sync with the rhythm of her desperate steps.
Then little girl's scream pierced the air, shattering the silence that had settled in the wake of her escape from the woods. It was not the light of the Huntress’s cabin she had seen. Her heart pounded in her chest as she stumbled upon an unsettling sight—a horde of metallic spiders, their countless legs scuttling ominously along the path Bloodthrone had tread.
Fear surged through her veins as the realization dawned upon her that danger still lurked nearby. Without a moment's hesitation, she dove into a nearby bush, her small body trembling with adrenaline-fueled terror. Huddled in the undergrowth, her wide eyes watched with trepidation as the mechanical arachnids descended upon the path like a swarm of malevolent automatons.
The spiders, their metal bodies gleaming under the dappled moonlight, moved with an unnatural precision. Their mechanical legs clicked and whirred, echoing through the air, amplifying the girl's anxiety. Each spider possessed an otherworldly beauty, their intricate designs hinting at a malevolence hidden beneath their polished exteriors.
As the horde advanced, the little girl held her breath, her tiny form hidden amidst the foliage. She trembled, her fingers clutching the earth as she fought to suppress her terrified gasps. The metallic spiders scoured the path, their razor-sharp legs tapping against the earth with calculated accuracy, as if searching for any remnants of the wolf pack.
The girl's heart raced, her mind reeling with a mix of dread and desperation. She dared not make a sound; her body pressed as close to the ground as possible. Every instinct urged her to flee, to run from the encroaching threat, but she knew that any sudden movement could give away her hiding place.
Time seemed to stretch, minutes feeling like hours, as the mechanical spiders scoured the area with ruthless efficiency. Their search was methodical, unyielding, as they scurried over rocks and fallen leaves, their metallic bodies glinting vindictively in the light.
Finally, as if sensing their mission was complete, the horde began to retreat, their attention drawn to another direction. The girl exhaled a shaky breath, relief washing over her like a gentle breeze. She watched in awe and trepidation as the spiders disappeared into the depths of the forest, leaving behind only an eerie stillness.
Cautiously, the little girl emerged from her hiding place, her eyes scanning the surroundings for any lingering threats. With a newfound resolve, she pushed herself up, determined to find safety and seek out the hedge her father suggested. The encounter with the metal spiders had ignited a flame of resilience within her, a determination to face whatever challenges lay ahead.
****
Violent Journal Entry: Nightmare Scion
My mind had been so distracted with the gun battle, I didn’t pay attention to my other two scions, who took away the wolf scout.
I asked myself, when had Nightmare created all of this? She created her own, for a lack of a better word: laboratory. It was under her tree; in the swamp I had created. Nightmare’s room was a paradox, a place where creation and destruction danced in an eternal embrace. The air hummed with an unsettling energy, thick with the scent of possibility and the scent of decay. It was a realm where the boundaries of life and death blurred, and the artistry of the macabre took center stage.
In the depths of this dimly lit laboratory, I started to watch, where arcane machinery hummed with life powered by a mix of steam and mana, a scene unfolded that blended the eerie with the artistic.
There, in the center of the laboratory amidst the chaos of scattered tools and discarded experiments, there stood a peculiar contraption—an intricate loom adorned with delicate threads of various colors. The loom was placed over a worktable which held the body of Hunter. My Doll Scion, Nightmare, stood over the corpse.
She held dozens of threads and odd needles in her hands. The threads swayed gently in the stagnant air, creating an ethereal dance as if they held a life of their own.
She had created a towering conception of stitched-together flesh and bone, it rested there, amidst a backdrop of swirling mist and pulsating energy. The air crackled with an otherworldly presence as if time itself had woven its threads into the fabric of this macabre tableau.
Threads, thick and sinewy, draped across the room like a web spun by a deranged spider. They crisscrossed the space, connecting various contraptions and apparatuses, forming a complex network of interconnectedness. It was as though the very essence of creation had been distilled into these ethereal strands, binding together the components of Hunter's existence.
I remember when Nightmare first used the skill to make a puppet of the wolf corpse, it was a first attempt, but she was going to improve on that now. Goliath had hope that she would save the wolf who fought on so bravely, but she had no empathy for the monsters that would hurt her children.
In the center of the room, a massive loom stood as a focal point, its wooden frame adorned with spindles and needles. Threads of different hues, each representing a different aspect of Hunter's being, were carefully woven together by invisible hands. The rhythmic clack of the loom echoed through the air, the sound merging with the creature's labored breathing, creating an eerie symphony that seemed to reverberate within the depths of one's soul.
As the loom continued its intricate dance, the threads intertwined, forming a tapestry of life and purpose. Nightmare weaved through the very fabric of Hunter's existence, each stitch a testament to the tumultuous journey that had brought this creature into existence. Some threads shimmered with a pulsating blue light, representing vitality and resilience, while others bore the scars of the dark and mysterious, carrying the weight of torment and anguish.
In the presence of this haunting tapestry, Hunter's new hulking figure seemed to quiver with a strange mix of anticipation and vulnerability. The threads that crisscrossed his body trembled as if imbued with a life of their own, pulsing with otherworldly energy. They wove through the remnants of his disparate parts, merging flesh and bone into a twisted symphony of existence.
As the loom rumbled ominously, Hunter's gaze fixed upon the pulsating threads, drawn to their mesmerizing allure. With a slow, deliberate movement, he, or I should say it, extended its massive hand, fingers stretching towards the vibrant strands. With each touch, the threads seemed to respond, vibrating in recognition of the creature's presence.
I watched as Hunter raised his hands to the threads again. His touch became more purposeful, delicately intertwining the threads, weaving them together in a complex pattern. It was an odd show, I couldn’t tell if Hunter was alive and moving the threads himself, or if it was Nightmare. As the threads entwined, otherworldly energy crackled through the air, infusing the room with a strange vitality. Sparks danced along the length of the weaving, illuminating the new creature's face with an eerie glow.
In this morbid tapestry, I could tell that Nightmare found solace. She wove the threads with delicate precision, creating a pattern that mirrored the twisted paths of her own existence. Each strand represented a fragment of its tumultuous journey—a patchwork of memories, hopes, and the yearning for acceptance.
I was amazed, as the weaving grew in complexity, a sense of purpose filled the air. The threads became a metaphor for the new puppet’s own identity, each one a vital part of its story. The Hunter puppet could be seen as an abomination, but I could feel that Nightmare found solace in the act of weaving, a form of creation and self-expression that transcended the boundaries of its grotesque appearance of this living corpse that she was creating.
With each careful motion, the Nightmare wove together the threads of its existence into the heart of Hunter, crafting a tapestry that defied conventional notions of beauty. The doll scion embraced the scars and imperfections, transforming them into symbols of resilience and strength. The weaving became a testament to the Nightmare’s own journey of self-discovery, a reflection of its complex and multifaceted nature.
As the last thread was woven, the room fell into an expectant silence. The completed tapestry hung that was her new puppet was a tangible manifestation of the Nightmare essence mixed with the wolf’s little remaining life force. The new body shimmered with an otherworldly luminescence; I could swear it was infused with a life force of its own.
In this peculiar moment Grace had fired her last gun shot, Nightmare’s loom of fate continued its tireless weaving, entwining the threads of Hunter's existence. Each stitch a delicate balance and as the loom's final thread was drawn, the room held its breath, awaiting the culmination of this monstrous masterpiece, the culmination of Hunter's new enigmatic existence as Nightmare's newest puppet.
Hunter stood, Nightmare was as a creator, a weaver of this puppet destiny. A chill went up my spine, because I could wager what she planned to do with it, would not be kind to our enemies.