[centre][h2]The Curse over Grimholt[/h2][/centre] [i]Théin[/i] Gomarix sat atop his elk, scanning the highland surroundings with great admiration in his eyes. The curving hills between patchy forests and rocky canyons offered much-needed nuance and texture in an otherwise snowed-down landscape. Behind him trailed a small warband, all looking very much exhausted from the journey thus far. The commander sucked in a deep breath through the nose and said, “You know, Kaer Obee - I think I have another verse in mind.” Kaer Obee, who had aged during the war about as well as milk, offered him a wrinkled, tired stare. “Splendid, brother… Would you -please- give us your -best- performance of it?” “I thought you’d never ask,” chuckled Gomatrix to the chagrin of his companions. He took another deep breath and spoke, [centre][i] ”Snow ‘pon yonder hill is a wondrous sight, Mayhaps as great as my own might. One, one-two, one-two-three flakes fall; The snow’s as deep as I am tall. A smile from Ynea, this winter be, A kiss at my druid, my men and me!” [/i][/centre] Kaer Obee sighed. “Brother, please do not use a goddess’ name so frivolously in verse…” “What? She’s a Cenél goddess, Bee-Bee - she can’t do me anything, as she does not exist.” “Please do not call me--” “For there are only fourteen gods, my Bee! And neither Ynea, Malgog nor Seva are among them!” The commander fisted the air triumphantly. Kaer Obee took a deep, impatient breath. “I pray we are alone on these plains today…” Gomarix turned to look over his shoulder, a white shock all over his face. “Woman, you are married!” Obee blushed and scowled back. “I meant alone from any Cenél spies, you stone head! And that’s ‘sister’ to you, [i]théin[/i]!” “Hmph! Why, I have never. You ought to learn some proper manners before you speak to me in that manner, siste-- Oh, look! We’re here!” Before Obee could even begin to retaliate, the officer clapped his elk’s buttox with a flat palm and rode ahead. The druid could only suppress a deep, furious growl. When they got a clearer view over the slight hill brink, the anger subsided somewhat, though. They had arrived. There, opposite a dip in the landscape with a thick forest, tree saplings had begun to reclaim what had once been the clean-shaven hill up to a castle at the foot of Tordentind, the eastmost mountains in Dûnan territory. Grimholt. “Or at least what’s left of it,” came a sober comment from one of the guards. She was silenced by a hard glare from Gomarix. The [i]théin[/i] took his axe from his belt and lifted it to the sky. “By Caden, what glory awaits us up ahead! Soldiers - today, we stand at the brink of oblivion, as so few warriors are sent to reclaim what was once the Eastern Gem of the Dûnan civilisation! There are none I would rather share this experience with than with you, loyal sons and daughters of the Trueborn Folk. Together, we will surely triumph, and those who may fall will await nothing but glory eternal in the afterlife! Now… CHARGE!” With that, the commander rushed forward down the hill and into the woods. The others exhumed a collective groan. “He knows it’s most likely empty, right, mother?” one of the warriors asked in concern. “At this point, I’m not sure anymore,” Kaer Obee confessed and all of them followed at a much slower pace, albeit still a small jog. Twenty minutes later, they heard the echoing creak of ancient wood, reasoning that Gamorix had opened the gates of the palisade fort and moved inside. When they themselves reached the open gates and stepped into the fortified village, they looked around for their commander. “Brother?” Kaer Obee called. “[i]Théin[/i] Gomarix?” They moved down the main path, passing by houses as empty as could be. The streets, once alive with trade and music, were completely deserted. The warriors huddled together somewhat, wearing mixed emotions of concern and confusion on their faces. “We heard it’d be abandoned, but I, personally, was at least expecting a few squatters or Cenél settlers. What’s going on?” Kaer Obee felt her breathing quicken. “[i]Théin[/i] Gomarix? Are you here?” They then turned a corner to see the town square. There, in its centre, their commander laid dead. More specifically perhaps, his torso did. His other limbs had been arranged in a neat pile on his belly, his head topping the pile with a twisted expression on its face. His elk had been butchered, too, its limbs and entrails surrounding its owner’s pile like a wall. Many of the warriors screamed, and the others immediately went into high alert. That was when a wooden crash shook them even deeper to the core. The gate had closed itself. Despite the fear of the warriors there was no charge, no sudden eruption of violence. Things seemed grimly quiet despite the grisly scene before them. Things were stilled, grimly so as the warriors collected themselves. The only noticeable change a chill breeze sweeping past. “I-... I wanna go home,” came a quivering confession from one of the warriors. “Hush now, my daughter,” Kaer Obee soothed, but she seemed anything but calm. “Let’s just… Slowly make our way back to the entrance and see if we can get it open.” Their morale stabilised by a tangible purpose, the group slowly began moving backwards to where they’d come from, leaving the mutilated corpse of their commander behind. “What caused this, mother?” “I-... I don’t know. It could… It could’ve been the Cenél gods, for all I know.” “They exist?!” “I don’t--! I don’t know, but let’s not take this discussion now. Move faster!” They quickened their pace, keeping their voices to loud whispers. The winds picked up as they got closer and closer to the gate working their way back. Getting colder and colder in spite of all else the chill stayed and surrounded the Dûnan warband. A door slammed open in sudden motion, nothing came out, it slammed back with the breeze. Soon others joined in this cacophony, strangely hounding the band as they moved back through the town. Shifting and other noises could be heard around corners, wind or perhaps something else that could be waiting. One of the warriors at the back of the party hunkered down, pulling her hat down over her ears. On the other side, those at the front set off in a full-force sprint. Kaer Obee was stuck in the middle with the remaining third of the soldiers. “HEY! COME BACK!” she shouted while her companions tried to haul the last one with them. She refused to move, even kicking and screaming as they began dragging her with them. Those who had run ahead quickly disappeared out of sight behind the various houses and ruins, their footsteps and shouts deafened by the thunder of slamming doors. The slamming cacophony of doors continued as the few warriors tried to corral her along. The wind and cold worsened, each could begin to see their breaths before them as they trundled along. Then it stopped. The chill remained, the wind was absent, the doors no longer swung on their hinges by any unknown force. The warriors could barely move, as shaken as they were, and after all the chaos, the sudden silence seemed almost less natural. The anticipation gnawed at their bones like rot, and every cell of their bodies pulled them closer and closer to the gates, whether by sprint or by walking. They kept quiet, convinced that any sound would alert the evil spirits again, for it had to be evil spirits. Passing corners each seemed to hold untold danger. Only frozen splatters of blood, arrows from unknown archers, and Dûnan weapons left abandoned, stained and broken. Grim scenes that foretold the fate of those that ran off before, their assailants still left unknown, excepting the idea of evil spirits, haunting things of ill-fortune and ill-fate. The group grew ever closer to the gate, both with grim fascination and fear and hope to escape. “I think we now know why the last settlers never wrote back,” one of the warriors whispered through whimpers. Kaer Obee comforted her with a squeeze of her shoulder. When they came to the gate, they found those who had run ahead earlier - spread in bits and pieces across an area of twenty square metres, their blood and skin curdled and frozen as though they had been dead for weeks. Kaer Obee and the four warriors that were left all sounded screams on reflex, which only scared them more, and they tossed themselves at the gates to drag them open. They were thrown back with an overwhelming force, bringing them to the ground, landing on their backs. One or two managing to skid for a bit on the frozen entrails of their compatriots. It became clear not just that they were not alone, but that figures were watching them from the doorways here. Shrouded and tall, the forms of warriors for sure in build. They were men surely, too short and tall to be any kind of troll. And yet there was something so off in the way they stood and watched, motionless although they had been there the whole time. Yet what was most in concern although their clothes were darkened by well use, is the arms they carried. Axe and shield, bow and arrow, fresh blood covering near all. At least seven had made themselves visible from the doorways, but if they were responsible for all this or otherwise had some connection to evil spirits… “P-please! Spare us!” pleaded Kaer Obee. “We are but humble settlers! We will leave if you claim this land!” Silently the seven walked out towards the remaining members of the warband. At each step the Dûnans felt the strength drain ever further out of their bodies, whether fear or something else. The figures surrounded the Dûnans at a distance, excepting one who approached Kaer Obee. It lifted up the Druid with one arm, grasping an axe with the other. The stench of death and rot was nearly unbearable as Kaer Obee was brought face to face with the... ...[i]man.[/i] It spoke with a rasping and gasping voice, "Humble. Settlers. Nothing Dûnan about that." It paused, drawing Obee ever closer to its face, before throwing the Druid down and speaking once more to the group, "Grimholt stands again. No Dûnan blade or blood will take us." “H-hey, isn’t that--” “Y-y-y-yeah… That’s Barth - I could’ve sworn Vegard took his head before, before…” Kaer Obee quieted the two soldiers down with a quivering shush and swallowed. “W-we understand. If you let us go, not a single Dûnan shall ever set foot on your soil again…” She took a shaking breath. “B-but if you kill us, I guarantee you that, come spring, they will send another party of settlers - then another - and another. We w-will tell them never to venture here again! We swear!” "Sworn oaths mean little from a Dûnan." Thus came the snarling reply, however he-who-was-Barth looked around at his party standing so still around them. "If Dûnans come again dismemberment will be the least of their worries. Pick druid." Barth pointed towards the remaining warriors of the warband. "Two." “T-two what?” the druid whimpered. "Pick the two that will carry you." With that Barth slammed the back end of his axe against Kaer Obee's leg causing a most unpleasant cracking sound. "Something to keep your memory clear." The druid screamed and took her leg, holding it up limply while the adrenaline still held. Her breathing could barely keep up with her pained sobs as her woolen kneesock darkened with blood, and the others instinctively backed off at first, afraid they would be next. However, two of the warriors whom Kaer Obee had soothed earlier each hooked a grip under each of her arms and pulled her with them, their backs now up against the gate. The Men of Grimholt let them leave. [hider=Prestigios] 11k words. Circle of the Long Stride: 12 + 5 = 17 [/hider] [hider=Summary]Some Dûnans go to reclaim Grimholt. When they arrive, though, it’s all empty and shit. Their general charges ahead, thinking the enemy just hides inside the castle. The rest come in a bit later, only to find the general dead in the town centre. Everything gets super spooky and lots of people die off camera. Then, when the survivors reach the gate, which had closed by its spooky self, the attackers reveal themselves - they’re super spooky undead. They announce that Grimholt is rightful undead clay and break the legs of the druid in the Dûnan group. They then let them go. The end.[/hider]