jdh97

Torn Across the Rift

The sounds thrust Herbert back into coherence, sending him wide eyed with panic. It shook the very ground, starting as a trembling bass, as deep as the earth it shook, like gravel and rock grinding together, or the shifting of a mountain. The castle quivered around them, the wall rattling Herbert’s skull. Chips of old rock flaked from the ceiling, and fine stone powder and dust puffed into the air.

Then the sound shifted, rising in pitch. It was like metal tearing, stabbing the ears, all sharp and jagged edges. It cut through the bricks of the walls as easily as it did the low conversation. And it was angry, terribly angry, intertwined with molten lead and fire.

Herbert jerked forward away from the wall. At first, he thought it was an avalanche, but it had stopped now, and was all too sudden and lacking of sufficient rumbling fortitude. So maybe part of the castle had collapsed, excited by the presence of the bag-owners, or at least others. This seemed reasonable, and yet there was part of Herbert’s mind that felt that something had made this sound. Of all the plethora of cries he had heard, many of which he discovered were missing in the patchwork of is memory, nothing had ever sounded quite like this, but the fear was still there, buried deep in his gut, without logic or recuse.

Will did little to quash the vexing qualm, bolting off after spewing out a string of semi-comprehensible statements. He had a point though; there was all likelihood that the castle’s structural integrity had been compromised, which meant they needed to get out. At least they had food and warm clothes now so that their death would not be quite as immediate as being crushed by several tonnes of stone and ice. Survival was important; he had to get back to Liza, and struggled to suppress the thoughts that that was be becoming less and less likely.

He coughed into his hand and stood, snatching up the bag from which a discordant chittering came sporadically, stuffed his wet clothes into it, and slung it over his back. Bizbee crawled out onto his shoulder, appearing restless by the flicking of its tail.

Herbert nodded in agreement with Ryann, as he found it hard to make words leave his mouth. He was a little dubious of letting Dmitri trail them, as he looked exhausted, but there was no time to argue.

As they ran, Herbert began to realise just how tried he was. Fire flared up in his lungs almost immediately and his muscles ached with the slow heat of dying embers. Hormones and strength-of-will must have kept him going thus far, but now that things became strenuous, he questioned how long he could continue.

Glimpses of red hair and armour were visible when the tunnels straightened. Herbert’s pace slowed, and just after Will called out to turn left, he spluttered, resting a hand on the wall to steady himself as he staggered to a stop. He held up a hand to show Dmitri he was okay, but it was several seconds before he stopped whooping into his fist. Afterwards his eyes were streaming, and his pace was much slower, but iron-hard determination to live drove him onwards.

Once he reached the exit and broke into daylight, Herbert almost walked, and he had to shield his eyes until they adjusted. His feet crunched in the fickle snow that would have had no second thoughts of slipping him up. When he reached Will, he stopped, and tried to get his breath back, fighting the urge to collapse.

Torn Across the Rift

Swell Arty. Looking forward to your first post.

Torn Across the Rift

Once inside, Herbert breathed a deep sigh of relief, which developed into a spluttering cough that he covered with both numb hands. It was warm, and he could feel sensation returning to his chillier extremities. He brought his hands up to his eyes and wiggled his fingers. They ached numbly. It would not be long before they burnt, recovering from the cold.

The only place name that Herbert recognised was Jericho. He knew Jericho to be under the rule of Mandatory Palestine. However, he was certain that in was inland, which made her statement about its coast rather confusing. Last Herbert heard, the populace were not winged. This set cogs turning in his head. Jericho was ancient, the disputably the oldest city, from a time of myth. The angels could have easily brought its name from the heavens at its conception. He tried not to think too hard of the implications as his head began to hurt.

“I think anywhere would be warmer than here,” Herbert agreed, shivering at the mere memory of the lurking cold.

Twelve bags, he noted, and a fireplace too, a godsend for sure. The tapestries, whilst ornate, held Herbert’s attention for little more than a moment, as he moved to sit near the hearth of the empty fireplace. He slumped against the wall. The weariness began to set in, and he felt three times his age, aching to his bones and groggy, with eyelids suddenly heavy. He rubbed and hand across his face and shook his head, in an attempt to clear it a little.

He diverted his eyes respectfully from Dzel, who revealed a scandalous amount of skin, but not before he could see the wounds. She was an amalgam of injuries, like an educational diagram, with bruises and cuts of varying severity. They marked her, just as the wings branded Ryann. The serrations on the thigh were brutal, deep and jagged. That Dzel was walking was astounding. Herbert was unsure how much could be done without needle and thread, but left Dmitri to it; there was nothing worse than backseat doctoring. Besides, he was too tired by half.

Instead, he turned his attention to Ryann, who was rather vigorously shaking each item she found whilst rummaging through one of the packs. He smiled at her out of politeness, and gave a half nod, pleased that she was so excited, but envious of her energy.

Despite this, Herbert got up a brought a bag back to where he had been seated, sitting down with it. There was a book that he took out and placed beside him, with the careful reverie that all books deserved. A work of fiction, judging the book by its cover. He pulled out the clothes, which had been folded quite deliberately so they took up as little space as possible. A red and white plastic bottle fell out with them, skittering to a stop against the hearth. Curious, Herbert picked it up. “Extra strength Tylenol” was plastered across the front. From the looks of it, they were paracetamol tablets, but the garish packaging called it acetaminophen; it was from across the pond.

The contents of the packs were exactly what one would need to brave the mountain weather, so there was a slim chance that the owners of the packs were not as lost as the rest of them. A party of at least twelve could be in this very castle then. His mind went to the altar, the charred corpses circling the room, and then he thought no more of it, but felt an echo of the chill.

He stripped off his shoes and socks, both soaked, and rolled up the hem of his trousers. He used the thermals to brush his feet dry and rub some heat into them, slipped into new socks, and then the boots, tying them tightly as they felt a few sizes too large, but at least they covered the skin revealed by the rolled-up hems. He threw the coat on over his wet shirt and fastened it up all the way. The gloves lay across his lap with the scarf and hat. Herbert let out a contented sigh, feeling warmer than he could ever remember. The book went into a coat pocket, and the “Tylenol” into the other, not before he took two tablets dry for his developing headache. It would make sense to offer them to Dzel once she had been seen to. Ryann went about modifying her coat with a knife, which brought a genuine smile to Herbert’s lips, and he closed his eyes and lay back against the wall, enjoying the contentment while he could, disregarding the gnawing hunger and thirst.

A flash of green forced Herbert’s closed lids open. He looked around, a little confused, until he saw the glow coming from Dimitri, or rather, his hands. They were luminous, and blazed a grassy green. Dzel, for her part, didn’t seem as concerned as one would expect, so Herbert made an effort not to cry out in exclamation, making his mouth a thin line. His body went rigid with effort and apprehension. When the stroking hands reach the wound on the thigh, the only wound Herbert could clearly see, Dimitri slowed, and made a semiconscious declaration, to himself more than anyone. And then the wound began to knit together, and Herbert felt sick.

Clearly, he was very far from home, but what he just witnessed was storybook magic, fairy tale wizardry. There was no small part of Herbert that thought this was a very precise, and realistic, lucid dream. The healing made a mockery of science and medicine. Perhaps this was the contemptuous part of his brain jeering him. Perhaps he’d just witnessed a miracle. Perhaps this truly was purgatory, and he was being tested. There were many possibilities, each a little less feasible than the last. He handled the thought-chain, picked it up, and locked behind a door of his mind with the rest of his disbelief, which he would return to later. He had not even considered possibility of this “magic” being used to inflict a wound. It took half the effort to harm than to heal. And so, only slightly catatonic, he sat there, warm, with a lump of icy dread in his chest, looking inwards.

The monk’s demand roused Herbert from his stupor. He looked around the room. Dimitri was on the floor looking exhausted, and Ryann handed him a bottle. From the casual manner with which Ryann conducted herself Herbert assumed this was not as astonishing to her as it was to him. Maybe she had merely missed it, distracted with her coat.

Bizbee grated as it nuzzled itself into a bag. He hadn’t noticed it leave his shoulder.

Herbert stood, rigid, and, mechanically, began to put the wood into the firebox, his eyes far off. When there was enough, he patted his coat absently, already knowing what his hands would tell him. He didn’t have any matches. Sighing, he sat back down again, gathering the hat, scarf and gloves that he had scattered by standing, pointedly staring into his lap. He barely registered Ryann’s bizarre question about a crab, but part of him did, and he frowned, remaining silent.

He spluttered into his closed fist.

I’ll be back soon Liza, he thought, don’t you worry.

Torn Across the Rift

Drop it here, and if it's approved you can move it over to the character section.

Torn Across the Rift

Feel free to drop us a CS; we've doubtless a place to fit you in.

Torn Across the Rift

A particularly sharp wind sent a chill running down Herbert’s neck like a lightning bolt, causing him to grimace, but he tried to supress to urge to shiver. Giving up his coat was invariably stupid. However, as Will pointed out, he valued the woman’s dignity in death more. He just hoped that there was someplace warm, and the castle wasn’t a hollow cave of ice and frozen stone.

Herbert waved the compliment away dismissively. “You have more sense than me then,” he grumbled.

Bizbee nudged Herbert in the side of the face, and his waving hand went absentmindedly to the creature, his fingers pattering hard bone as he stroked. It took a short while for Herbert to realise, whereupon he withdrew the hand and coughed into it. Then he stood rigid and folded his arms, bracing against the cold.

So, it seemed nobody knew what had happened here. Apart from the perhaps girl on the altar but – well, that was a dead end, quite plainly. At the mention of the supplies, his ears pricked up. His stomach rumbled lamely and his mouth felt dry. He had entirely forgotten how long it had been since he had eaten or drank a thing. Moreover, clothes! As fortune had it, he may not live his final hours as a chattering, frostbitten lump of frozen meat after all. No small blessing that Herbert counted.

Guns were a doubled edge sword; they could protect them, yes, but how much could he trust everyone here? Not with his life, that much was certain. He warily eyed the weapons Will and Dzel held. Dzel’s unfamiliarity with the item was obvious, the awkward way she handled it was a sharp contrast to Will, who seemed surprisingly more comfortable. Herbert made due note of this.

The radiation explained the ill feeling, or it would have, if Will hadn’t assured them it was too low to cause harm unless they had a fortnight of exposure. Whilst Herbert was not terribly familiar with radiation, he knew of radiation poisoning, and levels as low as Will claimed would have a delayed onset when one entered the immediate vicinity; a couple of hours, Herbert hazarded. Either Will was giving false information, or something else was causing that foreboding, leaden feeling in the gut. Herbert wasn’t sure how he felt about this revelation. He would have to ask to see the Geiger-Müller counter Will was using; until he saw the reading with his own eyes he was not believing anything, and even then, it could be faulty. Quite the dilemma. Perhaps it would simply be best to try to leave the area as quickly as possible, and put a good few yards of stone between them and the source.

“Very distant”

An understatement. Herbert had never heard of the “Eastern Ridges” or the “Silver Fist Elites” Dmitri had spoken of, but that could simply be because it was part of the uncivilised world. Ryann on the other hand… She must have been from a different world altogether. She hadn’t even offered her place of origin in introduction, but Herbert guessed it would be unbeknownst to him. He had never heard of a place with a winged populace, save for Heaven’s Angels.

“I can have a look at those wounds for you”

The words were practically stolen out of Herbert’s mouth, which hung open dumbly. He shut it and furrowed his brow. There was likely nothing Dimitri could do for her, other than perhaps find a cleaner dressing and ensure the wounds had been cleaned thoroughly. Unless they found some alcohol or iodine solution. Then a great deal could be done.

He brushed his hand brusquely against his trouser legs and looked around quickly. His eyes slid quickly across the charred corpses, now destined to be part of the landscape, but he said a silent prayer when his eyes fell upon the girl again.

Turning his attention back to Will, he held out a gesturing arm and bobbed his head curtly, arching his brow; an invitation for him to follow the great monk first. The wind nipped again and made his hairs stand on end. He brought the arm back and rubbed his body firmly, crossing it with the other after he was warm enough.

Ryann stood close by. Her spindly form stood out against the vast mountains and immense blankness of snow and empty sky. She had introduced him as Bert, and he wasn’t sure whether to correct her. He hadn’t at the time. Maybe it would just stick now. It didn’t matter terribly. He tried a comforting smile in her direction, but it was uneasy; half from the dire need of practise, and half from the little wings that twitched on her back. Realising this was probably not a pleasant sight; he instead asked the first question that came to his mind.

“Where are you from?”

Bizbee chittered at this question, crawling around the back of Herbert’s collar to reach to other shoulder to see whom he was talking to; its attention fixated on Dzel until then. It chirped at Ryann.

Torn Across the Rift

Surprised he’d been asked, Herbert simply shrugged his shoulders, a minute gesture masked almost entirely by his shuddering, “Perhaps it would be so under different circumstances.” There were certain sights meant never to be seen by certain eyes, and if the scene was as awful as Dimitri told, then one such sight was awaiting their fair maiden companion. Herbert, on the other hand, had likely seen worse before. He hoped.

The tiny skeletal creature undulated its entire form, watching the large monk, making a high-pitched scratching that would make eardrums vibrate rather noticeably. As it chirped, it would flap its membrane-lacking wings; long bony protrusions that seemed to fan out. It hung tremulous in the air, but at a strong gust, it was quick to latch back onto Herbert. Regardless, it seemed happy.

“I think it is fond of it. How quaint,” Herbert said with the ghost of a smile.

He fell quickly in line behind the larger man, somewhat pleased that he was taking point. It was not the blood Herbert cared about; it was not uncommon in the medical field, and was far too common in his research. No. With every step Dimitri took, Herbert answered with one of his own, resigned to be led, rather than to lead. That was a great weight of off his shoulders.

He cast nothing more than a glimpse back at Ryann. How old was she? Sixteen perhaps? Certainly not that far out of childhood. There was an instinct to protect her, to keep her ignorant to the scene they were fast approaching, perhaps a remnant of a shared dream that never bore fruit. Then he remembered her wings. She was no human. The urge dissipated quite suddenly then. He gathered his jacket around him a little tighter, turning from her, bristling. He strode onwards.

The ground went from slick-crunch to sticky. “BB” scurried inside his Jacket, hiding in the breast lining. Herbert slipped past Dimitri to get a better view. There was an oily sheen on the floor, a charred residue. The room was a circle, swathed in fire, blood and ruin. Around the periphery, charred bodies lay mangled, stripped of all skin and clothing, black immolated flesh with weeping red sores. There were about a dozen of them, maybe more, maybe less; Herbert did not let his eyes linger, trying to keep them moving to avoid the scene. Human debris and viscera grew denser around the centre. Moreover, the centrepiece itself, upon a stone altar was-

"Hey. Am I interrupting? It looks like you've already got some introductions going on. I'm Will and this is Dzel- aside from that we'll just join the queue."

He looked at them; one seemed practically dressed. The other reminded Herbert of Sir Gawain when the eldest schoolchildren acted out Sir Gawain and the Green Knight at the festivities around every summer solstice celebration, only in this case, “Sir Gawain” was a female. He was surprised he had not noticed either sooner.

“Salutations,” Herbert managed, blinking exaggeratedly, trying to clear his swimming vision, “I’m sure Dimitri will be rather fond of you both.”

His head felt light, and he could swear the whole room was spinning about. He smiled at them curtly, and drifted away, towards the centre of the room, very much disinterested with these new people. He knew what lay at the altar, he had seen it, and he wished he could omit that sight from his mind, but he was drawn to it like iron to a lodestone, drawn by morbid curiosity. Each step was unsteady. Each breath was ragged. The wickedness grew stronger, and he had to swallow back the bile rising in his throat. Lone tears fled from his watering eyes. He stood over her.

A woman. An untidy cut down the centreline laid bare her insides, from just above the sternum, across the abdomen, finishing at the womb. Ribs, terribly white against the sanguinity, snapped and broken, marrow-filled shards protruding from the cavity, pulled wide open. Most disturbing of all, arguably, was that her insides, instead of being definite organs and bodies, were a liquid, a macabre soup of that which was most vital to life. A veil of steam rose from this, as if he had once been hot, and now was cooling. Mercifully, her eyes were closed, but her mouth was wide and gawping. Flecks and splotches of red marred her face and matted strands of her hair.

It was odd, that he had never worked upon a female before, and perhaps now he realised why. His mind was drawn unavoidably to memories of his late wife, and the vile thoughts that began to manifest were overwhelming. So, he tried to distract himself, hoping to lock the grief away again.

With utmost care, and the steady hand of man from a walk of life that demanded it, he began to wipe away the blood with the cuff off his jacket, and clean her face as best as he could. There was still the radiating foulness that permeated this area most strongly, but, in his distraction, he was able to partly forget his knotting stomach and raised hackles. He propped her head in such a way that her mouth would stay closed, and her hair fell in auburn waves. The split down her middle was far too large to bind with a strip of fabric. He thought about cauterising it with the heat from the unending flames, but that would be too difficult, as he doubted he could find iron suitable.

Instead, after a little consideration, he took off his jacket, and draped it over her exposed front, tucking her arms over the top. The cold bit him immediately, but if they would be heading inside soon, a mild discomfort was a far lesser sacrifice to make than a woman’s dignity in death.

And then, because he felt it expected, he spoke a few words, for his sake more than that of the woman. “Rest well, forever undisturbed.” A small amount of closure. Nevertheless, enough to sustain the shocked and readily accepting state that had kept him sane thus far, locking away portions of his mind for his own safety.

He turned. Suddenly he was very aware of how queasy and weak at the knees he was. He needed to sit down. Blood everywhere. If he was to take a step, he feared he might have fallen, so he stood, swaying slightly.

The whole thing wouldn’t have taken more than a few moments, and he drew his attention back to… “Will and Dzel”, those were their names.

“Have you any idea what happened here?” He very much doubted so, but you never knew until you asked. Somebody had to know something. Herbert had his suspicions of course; the whole thing spoke of sacrifice. The body on the altar was the only one in the room not burnt to a cinder; not a mere coincidence. Not that he was foolish enough to believe that such poppycock worked; he was a man of science, not arcane suspicion.

He rubbed his arms, trying to generate some friction to keep warm before they delved inside, to where it was hopefully much less cold.

Torn Across the Rift

Just go with Eyeris's post minus Herbert having already been to the altar; keeps things running smoothly.

Torn Across the Rift

It's fine. The conversation happened far enough away to not make having it and not noticing Will weird. I think.

Torn Across the Rift

How about, we say that, Herbert went over and examined the alter, then walked back away from the alter in order to meet Ryann.

@Eyeris

Not entirely sure about this. Posting retroactively like that could lead to confusion and continuity errors, and maybe forced "uncharacteristic" behaviour in order to keep the continuum true. That being said, I'll go with it if it's part of your master plan. Unless necessary, I see no reason why Herbert couldn't just walk with or slightly ahead of the others.