Summary: Long have I worked on a fic that will not collapse on me, due to my lack of seeing things through? Yes...that was the problem. I have achieved a stable fic, and…uhh…here it is?
Disclaimer: I don't own…Well, look at what category it's in. That should answer your question…
/This is thinking. Most likely not going to really happen, but I may need it once I get a-writing. /
"This is odd speaking, perhaps empowered voice, whatever."
"A very loud or simply scary voice. Italics probably mean scary too."
Darkness…Night brings immense amounts of it, choking your eyes of precious sight, to some that can be as precious as the very air you breathe. To some, night and darkness brings terror, the dark itself, or simply what lays inside those shadowy cloaks, softer than velvet, yet colder than artic ice…
Then there are those who live and breathe those shadows, that darkness, learn to live it, learn what each shadow cast means, and even when all is bathed in that choking shadow, see as if it was noon, and maneuver through even a thick forest as if it was just a simple, wide hallway.
This was the clouded that night, everlasting darkness, causing the great plains of Sacae to look like a sea of tall grass, bathed in moonlight, with pools of impregnable darkness at your feet.
That was what clouded that day, that night. This was a night that something more vicious than war, more disturbing than mutilation, more disgusting than rape occurred…it was an event that scarred a beautiful country with blood, blood that once drunk, could not help but thirst for more.
It was a massacre, the massacre of the Sacaen Tribe, the Plainstriders. Moreover, while it was the first, it was most certainly not the last…and despite being the start of perhaps one of the most disturbing events in history, it has never been written in history texts. It had never been documented, never been spoke of. It was an isolated tribe, not very well known.
This made it the perfect target…the perfect start…this marked the rise of what would soon be a one of the most feared groups in all of Sacae…
The Taliver would rise this night, and soon, all would quail in fear at their bloodlust.
…Yet…
…I speak of this as if it was about to happen…
…That is a foolish lie…
…A foolish hope…
…Hope that you could stop this from happening…
…But you cannot…
…Let me show you…
Fifty Miles from the Sacaen-Bernese Border,
Year, Unknown
Month: March
Day: Unknown
Time: 3:00 am, Hour of the Devil
A cautious nose sniffed the air. Ah, yes, the fires were burning low. Light reflected of oddly pearly teeth, the teeth quickly faded out of sight, replaced by a bloodthirsty smirk.
"Only a few are awake, alert sentries…Sacaen's aren't foolish and placate like the Lycians." The voice was subdued, and came out like a hiss. A nearby head nodded, no faces could be made out in this darkness.
"I know. Still, even the greatest sentry cannot see that which is darker than night." There was no response to this statement; the man had not expected one. It was not because he extremely tall, or because of his imposing voice. It was because of his command, the aura of pure confidence, knowledge, and ruthlessness that rolled off the man like the shadow surrounding them.
Some of the dark patches around him nodded. The man put a hand to his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully. "We could easily burn them all down with their gers, but that would damage the goods…" The men around nodded, several grinning viciously, fingering sharpened axe blades in anticipation.
Their was the faint sound of a book cracking open, and then with a light snap, it closed. "Alright, we've go about 50 men, there are over 70 men and women to that tribe, perhaps 30 or 40 children. I know everyone has a bow, so here is what we do. I want you split into groups of 4…"
Soon, the plan was done. Small groups of fighters surrounded the portable Sacaen village, bows drawn. There were perhaps 12 sentries, several old, several young, but at least two were smoking out of pipes, their eyes thoughtful.
Their was a paused, an in a moment of quiet whistling, 12 men, five women fell dead. It was a sacrifice that had to be made; they were doing chores about the quiet village, and could not be let alive to sound the alarm. As they stalked closer to the dying fires of the village, the men were revealed for what they were. Bandits, men in sometimes-tattered clothing, dirty, but outfitted with surprisingly good gear and armor. Just as strangely, they had good teeth, a bit surprising.
The man who had commanded the host strode into the center of the camp, his dark robe keeping all but a long brown beard from view. The beard was about a foot long, and not altogether remarkable. No words were spoken, save a quiet chant from the tall commander as the bandits went to work on slaughtering the entire village. It did not take long for someone to screw up, and soon the sounds of combat, women screaming, and battle shouts to reach the tall man's ears. It did not affect him as he stood in front of the fire, quietly chanting.
"Nosferatu…" Was the final word chanted, and he extended his hands to the sky. His robe's hood flew back, revealing long, matted brown hair, and deeply lined eyes. His face looked like it was once handsome, but the deep lines, and dead madness that danced in those milky green eyes took any of that away.
The pillar of dark energy that emerged from the fire did not fly very high, perhaps 20 feet, before extending out, lashing out across the village. Several Sacaen warriors found themselves drained of life as runic symbols exploded across them. Some died; some were stunned and drained, as a bandit would then cut him down.
The Shaman himself was simply staring madly into the sky as the lifes energies he had taken replenished the energy he had expended to cast the massive spell, and he began to laugh, a hideous, insane laugh, the seemed to inspire the bandits, and cause icy balls of terror to enter the Sacaens stomachs.
As the last man was cut down, the women and children rounded up to sell into slavery, the man bent down, and drew a finger through the slick blood covering the hard Sacaen ground. "Let this be a warning to all of Sacae! The Taliver have risen, and we are invincible!" The cry, "TALIVER! TALIVER!" was picked up by all the bandits, and it only made the Sacaen women and children felt the reality of their situation increase.
This was the start of the Taliver, but just the start. I shall tell you more of the story later…but for now, I am tired, and must sleep. It was…trying…to tell you that story. It was, shall I say, difficult to recall.
And once you begin to recall something such as that, you begin to remember all of it. And it is a very bloody, disturbing tale…