A Tale of Broken men and Frozen Blades

By DaRumpyBurr

Scorching beams of light blazed across his back, sending bright flares of pain lancing throughout his body. The sun was a glaring beacon of misery; dry and scalding, it made every aspect of his world a living nightmare. Gluttonous waves lapped at his ankles, while a fine coating of powdery white sand clung unpleasantly to his skin. Overhead, the distant cries of unfamiliar seabirds echoed over the vast beach.

The man was completely naked, save for a pair of simple undergarments that chafed roughly against the sparse bit of skin that it protected. He lay unmoving for a long time, pressed against the sandy shore until he could take the unrelenting glare of the sun no longer. With an encumbered grunt, the castaway propped himself up with one elbow. Almost instantly, he was assaulted by a splitting headache that drove a thousand flaming knives into his skull. Fiery rays of light assaulted his eyes, encompassing his vision in an unremitting white glare. The man collapsed back into the sand with a sharp intake of air, struggling to push back the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. Every heartbeat became a struggle, every breath a war. After a moment of waiting out the pain and catching his breath, the man pushed against the ground once again. A hammer glanced against his skull with every pulse of his rapid heartbeat, and he almost passed out from the insignificant exertion.

The sun was intensely bright and searing hot; it threatened to boil him alive. The waves were too loud and the cries of the seabirds too sharp. Black spots danced across his vision like insects. The man knelt in the blistering heat, panting to catch his breath. Just when he was ready to collapse and let the sun slowly boil him to death, some primal instinct kicked in and he rose. The man staggered drunkenly toward the line of trees farther down the beach. One step. Then another. His feet started moving on their own. Twice he nearly stumbled, but managed to catch himself in time. If he fell now, he would likely never get up again. The pounding of the clashing waves eventually began to dull.

The castaway was within steps of the shade when he could not go any farther. His legs had grown weak and heavy, his head clouded. It would take every bit of his willpower to stay upright just a moment longer. His legs gave out beneath him and the man stumbled. As the ground raced to meet his head, he had one final thought: at least this isn't such a bad place to die. And then his limp body crashed into the sandy floor.

The man woke to a warm, slimy and unpleasantly moist appendage probing his face. He lifted his head, his eyes flaring open in alarm and he immediately flinched away. Perched on his chest was an enormous stark white wolf. The beast bared its gleaming teeth in a silent growl, its fangs just skimming his neck. The man stayed frozen in place. After a small eternity where neither man nor beast moved, the white wolf abruptly leaped off his chest and bounded into the foliage.

The man fell back against the sand, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Much to his relief, the splitting headache he had earlier was gone. After taking a moment to recover, he lifted his head to look at his surroundings and noticed that instead of the sandy beach where he had fallen, he was now under the shade of the trees that he had failed to reach. There was a suspicious indent that snaked along the sand starting from the spot where he assumed he had passed out and ending where he was now. The man had a few ideas as to who had dragged him under the shade but could not possibly fathom why. This mystery was still by far the least of his worries.

Before anything else, he would have to tend to his own needs. He groaned and sat up, looking himself over. A thin coat of sand stuck everywhere. He began to brush it off and cursed when his hand grazed against his shoulders. They were a tender pink verging on red, and excruciating pain flared up whenever he touched them. He could not see the back of his neck, but based on gentle probing that made him wince it was sunburnt even worse than his shoulders. There were blisters on his back and old, faded scars lining his arms. An inspection of his lower half revealed that his rough undergarments had chafed his skin raw. The man's wounds were all minor and they would heal eventually, but they would be a constant nuisance until they did.

The castaway felt sharp pain from his stomach as it rumbled. He had no idea when he had last eaten. The man stood up groggily and glanced around at his surroundings. He was sitting with his back to the beach. Closest to him and well away from the lapping tides, tall trees with thick trunks towered imposingly, shielding him from the sun. Grey and green moss clung to the bark while vines hung off thick branches. Where he was sitting, the sand had given way to dark green leaves that covered the floor. Interspersed amongst them were small bushes and skinny ferns that swayed in the wind. Upon closer inspection, he could see clusters of something small and yellow clinging to the shrubs.

The man approached with caution; this was where the wolf had disappeared. He paused when he was close enough to pluck one of the plump yellow berries from the fern. When he was satisfied that no great white beast was going to leap out of the brush to tear his throat out, he bent down to examine the berries. They were of a colour with the sun; bright and yellow, nearly as round too. They were smooth and soft, plump yet firm, with a fragrant scent that hinted at sweet, juicy insides. The man regarded the yellow berries skeptically. They were likely to be poisonous. It would be best, he decided, not to eat them just yet and return in case he could find nothing else.

The man stood and glanced down both lengths of beach. The two sides were nearly identical; no major landscapes or distinctive features set them apart. The man set off to the right, sticking to the shade to avoid the blistering sun. While taking his time along the vast stretch of beach, the castaway began appreciating the beauty of the mysterious land he had washed upon. There were strange trees with skinny white trunks and long green fronds all along the beach that he had never noticed before, shifting and swaying with the wind. A cool, pleasant breeze buffeted his face and tossed his hair. Sparkling blue waves gleamed as they gently lapped the shore. The sand was a pleasant, mellow white so fine that it shifted and cascaded with every footprint he left behind. Shadows danced over the vivid green grass, shifting and swaying as the wind tossed leafy branches overhead. From the jungle, he distantly heard strange bellows and low rumbling calls. Never in his life had he heard such queer noises.

Suddenly aware of every shadow in the forest, the man strayed a few feet farther from the trees. He was eyeing the jungle so intently that he almost tripped over the squawking fowl. Clucking indignantly at his feet was a huge plump bird that he thought to be a chicken at first. With a closer look however, the bird was considerably chubbier than any chicken had a right to be. Whereas a normal chicken would stand slightly taller than his calf, this bird came up to his thigh. It wobbled around on two unsteady talons, its ungainly head bobbing up and down. A pair of gawky wings hung limply at its sides, only flapping when it was startled by a leaf carried in the wind. Instead of having long and rigid tail feathers like most other birds, the beach chicken's ungainly rear-end finished in a cascade of soft white tufts. Its orange beak was smooth and round, curving to a sharp hooked point at the very tip. The bird was a dull pink colour, save for its tail, which was a faded white.

As the man observed the fat chicken, the bird turned so one beady eye regarded him curiously. After a few moments the chubby fowl ignored him completely and continued waddling down the beach in search of food. The man was reminded of his own hunger by a rumble from his stomach. Up ahead, a large flock of the fat birds were gathered, two dozen at least. They ranged in colour from green as bright as the jungle leaves to blue as cloudy as the sky above. None were exactly the same, though many possessed similar colourations.

As the man was debating whether they were edible or not, he noticed a pair of strange new creatures sticking to the shade on the outskirts of the jungle. They looked like two huge lizards. The beasts came up to his chest and balanced themselves on their hind legs. They had short, stubby little arms and quills that ran all the way down their backs and across long, thin tails. The bigger one had a scaly hide of dark grey-green while the smaller of the two was a light, mellow brown. The green beast had two big red crests on its head, and the smaller one had a similar pair but half the size and much more dull. Most noticeably however, were the two large frills that both lizards had on either side of their scaly heads. The man assumed that the two were mates, the larger one being the male, the smaller one female. Even as he watched, the male arched its head back and hissed, the frills fanning out. The female took up the call, hooting and replicating the pose.

Suddenly the male snapped its head forward with a snarl, jaw open and teeth gleaming. A blob of green liquid rocketed out of its mouth, straight at one particularly chubby chicken. The bird screeched when it was struck, flapping useless wings and staggering away from the danger. The rest of its flock scattered, clucking and squawking. Where the fowl was hit, feathers steamed and parted, revealing shiny red flesh underneath. The female lizard spat, striking the fat chicken on a plump leg and bringing the poor bird down.

The lizards were on it in an instant.

The bigger reptile leaped, clawing for the neck. The female was right behind, closing sharp teeth around its leg in a savage bite. With a fierce wrench of the lizard's head, the leg was ripped clean off, bloody tendons dangling from where it had been. The bird wailed in agony. The male finally ended its suffering by slashing a sharp claw across its soft neck, blood spilling over the already tainted beach. After the bird was dead, the two huge lizards began tearing at the corpse where it lay. The man shuddered at the gory sight but at the very least, now he knew the birds were edible.

The castaway edged down the beach, away from the fierce lizards and closer to where the flock had fled. He snatched a thin but sturdy stick off the ground, its end snapped to a sharp point. When he approached a bird it squawked and eyed him for a moment before returning to its previous activity of scratching for bugs in the dirt. The man took a moment to pet the bird on the head. It glanced up at him curiously as he plunged the stick straight through its neck. Blood sprayed across the beach. The white sand drank it up eagerly, turning a vivid red.

"Sorry friend," the man murmured as he lifted the spear. Its end was slick with blood.

The castaway hefted his branch high and started towards the shade, his trophy dangling limply by its neck. The deceased chicken's immense bulk dragged his spear down. The other birds gazed at him with dull, uncomprehending eyes and went back to pecking in the sand. By now the sun was nearly halfway in the sky. The two frilled lizards caught scent of the man's prize and turned to watch him, but made no move to steal his kill. If they were still hungry, there was slower prey to be found. The male hissed in warning when the castaway tried to enter the shade, so instead of risking a fight, he trudged away from the jungle.

The man needed wood for a fire. He was definitely not eating this bird raw. The trees here were spaced much farther apart than before, separated by a sea of greenish yellow grass. Ahead of him was a steep rocky rise, nearly twice his height with a scrawny patch of yellow grass adorning its top. There was a gentle slope that lead to the peak, opposite the side of the cliff bordering the jungle.

He climbed the gentle rise and looked around. Behind him was the beach. To his right the gentle hills rolled on, disturbed by the occasional tree. To his front was a small brook, bubbling from a hole in the ground, and behind that were more hills and trees. To his left was the jungle, mysterious, ever changing ... and still too close for comfort, he thought as he heard some strange bellows echoing from its darkness.

The man hiked back to the base of the crag, jabbed his stick into the dirt and knelt next to the brook. The water was clear and clean, a tiny sip revealed. He cupped his hands and took a few swallows. It was cool and did not taste strange so he was uncomplaining. The man splashed some water over himself to rinse off the dust and grime that clung to his body. The water felt cool and soothing against his skin. After washing himself down, the survivor lurched back to his feet and went to gather wood for a fire.

He peeled dried bark from a tree and pulled up a bushel of dead grass for kindling. On top of these, he piled small twigs and brittle branches. From a long dead tree he snapped off thick branches to lay over the twigs and from the jungle he dragged a few old logs. At first, the man attempted to ignite the fire by a rubbing a branch against bark but after yielding no results, he threw his hands up in frustration and kicked a rock as hard as he could. Only as the stone was flying did he notice its rusty orange colour. He snatched the flint from the ground and struck it against a smooth rock from the beach. It took a few tries but when he was ready to give up, the rocks flared and a spark landed on the dried grass.

The man cupped his hands around the flame to protect it from the wind. The fire spread rapidly once it had gotten to a decent size. Flames leaped from the thatch to the twigs and then up the branches, transforming into a massive blaze. When most of the kindling had burned away, the survivor threw a log into the fire and the flames swelled. He laughed and threw his hands out in triumph.

After he was sure the fire was sustainable, the man wrestled the beach chicken off his spear and laid it on a flat rock. First he severed the head with a few deft strikes from a sharp rock and then began the arduous process of plucking every feather from its body. It was long, bloody work and the man was thankful for the shade of the cliff. The sun was beginning to descend when he was finished.

The survivor re-impaled the bird against his spear and jammed it into the ground, at an angle above the fire. He leaned back against a smooth boulder and sharpened a nearby branch using a sharp rock. The stick was strong and sturdy, it came up to his shoulder and would be good at stabbing or throwing if he ever needed it. Up until now his only weapon had been the snapped branch he had found on the beach. He was glad for a new weapon. As he watched the fire and sharpened the stick, he began to think.

What was this place? Why was he here? How did he get here? He didn't know the answer to any of those. What was his name? That one he could almost answer; it danced at the very fringes of his memory, so familiar yet so strange. His life he remembered nothing of, or near as much that it made no matter. The man tried to conjure up his memories, but faces were blurry, conversations made no sense and places were dark, grey and distorted. And then his name came back to him in a flash: Otto Weiss.

"Otto" he said aloud to no one in particular, testing the sound of his forgotten legacy. The name still felt strange on his tongue. Otto. . .

He said it again, "Otto Weiss"

He frowned. It was hardly anything, but at least he had clung to one part of his old life. Otto, he kept repeating in his head, testing the sound of it. Otto. Was that really his name? Had he even remembered correctly? Otto. The name still felt strange but the more he repeated it, the less queer it became.

Otto glanced down at the roasting fowl to see a beautiful golden-brown skin, crisp and crackling. Grease dripped off the bird like sweat, sizzling and sputtering as the droplets were swallowed by the fire. Otto yanked the spit out of the dirt to let the bird cool. His stomach rumbled and growled, louder than anything in the jungle. After a few moments of temptation, he could not prevent himself from tearing into the bird. Otto ripped off a leg and cursed, tossing the meat from hand to hand until it cooled.

He bit into the crispy skin, grease dripping down his chin. The meat tasted heavenly. The skin was seared crackling and crispy, the flesh inside a tender pink. In no time at all, the only thing that remained of the chicken leg was a few bones tossed haphazardly to the edge of his camp. He pried a second leg from the bird, this one cooler than its predecessor. He attacked the morsel with the same ferocity as before, wolfing down the meat in savage bites. When he was finished, grease smeared his chin and slivers of meat clung to his teeth yet his stomach still growled ruefully, hungry for more.

He tested touching the body of the bird but snatched his hand back immediately, wincing at the pain. He sucked on his finger to draw out the heat. The rest of the bird was still too hot to eat, so instead Otto grabbed his makeshift spear and returned to the beach to spear another. His roasted meal was already massive, and more than enough to sate his hunger, but preparing a second for tomorrow would save the trip.

When he emerged on the beach, the sky was a dazzling pink hue. The two frilled lizards were gone, but now three corpses were sprawled on the beach whereas there had only been one before. The brutes liked chicken, Otto noted. He would keep his leftovers handy in case the beasts ever tried to molest his camp. There were still plenty of the fat birds waddling around though, and he speared one lightning quick. The others scattered in a haste, but Otto knew they would forget about this incident by tomorrow.

His fire was still flickering when he returned to the camp, though much smaller than before. Otto fed a handful of branches to the flames and drove his spear into the ground. The sun had vanished completely and everything beyond the fire was pitch black. If he had thought the jungle was unnerving during the day, it was terrifying during the night. Where the shadows had only swayed with the wind ever so slightly before, now they danced and twirled like demons, black and terrifying. Every sputter of his fire caused the darkness to shift. From those deadly shadows something unnerved him. Otto could not say what it was, though he felt a cold presence. Something... something watching him.

Otto shuddered and made to turn away from the jungle but some movement caught his eye. There was something moving slowly, ever so slowly towards him. It wasn't part of the shadows cast by his flames but some monster, he realized with horror. Some monster coming straight for him.

Author's note:

Thank you for taking the time to check out my work! If you have any comments, questions, concerns or criticism please feel free to leave a review. Every bit of feedback helps! Other than that, have a good day/night!

- DaRumpyBurr