Chapter 2
Fading sunlight and supernatural fire glinted off of the emerald encased within the hilt of the stranded knight's longsword. That was the extent of the knight's equipment's cosmetic appeal, aside from the green and red sashes woven into his armor. The emerald-hilted sword was recognition for his rank and accomplishments in battles for the Kingdom of Narema, bestowed upon him by some young, smug noble of the Rose Court. The sashes were merely identifying pieces of fabric on the battlefield, to one who'd seen plenty of battles.
The knight stood up, rolled his back and shoulders to cause his armor to sit a little better on his frame, then sat back down. As he did so, a ghostly individual bearing a delicate Eastern blade and a tattered cloak appeared suddenly, directly across from him at the Bonfire. Captain Falathor Birch held his breath as the phantom woman became somewhat more corporeal, seeming to spring into existence through pure force of will. The phantom did not seem concerned with him; rather, she seemed quite focused on a private matter.
Just as suddenly as the woman appeared, her form seemed to blow away, as if composed of dust. The confused warrior stared for a few more moments, mystified. He'd heard tales of these ghost warriors throughout the land, but had dismissed them as the typical superstitious blathering of lazy troops. He made himself conscious of his breathing again; a warrior must not exhaust himself through improper form, he reminded himself. The Captain would never admit to a soul how nervous the apparition had made him.
The knight slumbered, sitting upright in his armor, until the wind blew a certain way. His gray-blue eyes shot open, full of intensity and readiness, casting his vision to every possible approach or previously-noted areas an assailant could hide behind. Once satisfied there were no dangers around, he dozed off again. The next several hours blurred together as he rested his weary body at the very first Bonfire he'd ever seen. It was exactly what he had imagined it to be when hearing of it initially.
Two months before, the Rose Court's nobles had informed the Captain of the mass desertions of soldiers from both the Kingdom of Narema and its consistent enemy, the eastern country of Dae Guiren. They were fleeing in ever greater numbers to the neutral southern country/continent, Moryn, for the past eleven months. His royal mission was to enter the rogue state with a small force of his choosing, and decisively end any fomenting insurrection against the Crown.
The Rose Court had assigned the mission to him, as what he'd privately chided was a reward for being away from home for so long. He had also noted the curious lack of standing orders for any sort of return mission after whatever insurrection needed to be put down, was put down. As one of the elite knights of the Kingdom of Narema, he was compulsively loyal to his King and country, and took the orders the second they were given to him.
Not two weeks after arriving on the shores of Moryn, his troops had deserted him as well, all venturing off in separate directions one innocuous day. While the abandonment was at once infuriating and depressing, Captain Birch held fast to his loyalty; though he may not speak out against, nor interpret upon the wills of his Lords, they were still the rightful rulers of his country, and he was one of their most trusted knights. He meant to return home with that same reputation.
As one lesser noble had put it two months ago, his mission would be completed with the highest honor to his Lords and Ladies in mind, or it was off with his head. Falathor had nearly lost his bearing at the declaration. Since he was a disciplined warrior, he merely smiled and stared at the fool, unblinking, until the court quieted enough to hear the pitter-patter of liquid dripping about the noble's dainty slippers. The uproarious laughter at the noble's expense was sufficient in dissipating the Captain's vivid daydream of pulverizing that high-birthed forehead into the rose mosaic made into the floor of the Court.
Falathor awoke as a juvenile swine sniffed at his face through the open visor of his steel helmet. Falathor's surprised grunt and sudden recoil caused it to squeal pitifully and charge away. His eyelids fluttered sleepily as the cause for alert departed. "Of all the creatures on this accursed Earth..." he muttered. He allowed the irritation at the young pig to pass, reminding himself that he had not slept for two and a half days. All the guard duties normally spread between multiple soldiers were Falathor's to perform.
The knight's trek preceding the discovery of the first Bonfire had been wrought with mystery, upon reminiscence. While he was relieved he'd been given respite from his travels, he could not comprehend, not matter how much he furrowed his brow, how he'd managed to find this particular Bonfire. Mentally retracing his steps revealed that he'd progressed towards the Bonfire in an unnervingly direct path after losing his companions. He could not remember what inspired him to traverse the exact path he had, but it had proceeded well for how long and aimlessly he'd ventured.
The area in which he rested was an expansive, dead corn field. It was not an ill-kept farm, in fact, it looked like it had only stopped being used recently. The Bonfire's flames, as the knight had eventually gotten around to testing, did not burn dry materials, nor produce ill effects if he directly interacted with it. All the flames seemed to do was emit a pleasant warmth and cast light. When Falathor shook the sleep from his eyes and stood to stretch, he felt rejuvenated. The following hour in which he practiced his combat maneuver drills brought high morale to the lone knight. The years of combat drills had helped keep him alive, he knew, and for the first time in months, his body's accumulated wear and tear did not bother him.
He finished his routines and went about polishing his gear, taking care to remove any hidden bits of rust forming. The farm he'd noticed before, just a short walk from his position, was being silhouetted by the setting sun.
The clouds in the northeast came from the sea between Dae Guiren and Moryn. Falathor felt a sense of longing he didn't particularly care for while marching away from the Bonfire, but made it to the farm house and barn in short order. He removed his longsword from its sheathe as he came near the barn doors. He removed his helmet and pressed his ear to the barn door; there was movement inside. Not purposeful or violent movement, but some sort of shuffling about. He could distinguish three seperate beings within the barn; one large, fairly clumsy creature, and two smaller, more careful ones. He knew better than to allow that assessment to be fully trustworthy.
He stuck the pommel of his sword into the space between the large wooden doors and wedged it open enough to get his fingers into. He placed his sword in the fingers of his shield hand, then pushed the door to make it swing outward from the barn. He replaced his sword and fell into an ambush stance just to the side of the opening.
The two Hollows he saw meandering out of the barn had little to no purpose in their movements, nor an apparent goal. They simply wandered past, perhaps not noticing, perhaps not caring that he was there. Both Hollows were adults, a man and woman, both bearing pathetic tatters of what had once been homemade farmer's clothing. The Captain determined that these two were almost certainly "touched", but not immediately violent, and calmly watched as the Hollows wandered into the dead corn fields. They did not stray far from each other, which gave him pause. The ones he'd met so far in Moryn were either utterly dispassionate and inert, or violent and insane. Yet, this was the first time he had seen Hollows seeming to form companionship. He speculated that the two were husband and wife, and were simply used to being near each other.
The Captain found himself staring at the Hollows far longer than he meant to. His thoughts had drifted while watching one Hollow dig holes in some meaningless pattern, while the other ripped dead corn cobs off of the stalks, tossing them into a loosely-defined pile nearby. He chastised himself for being inattentive, shook off the nostalgic sadness that he'd felt creeping into his consciousness, and turned to survey the inside of the barn.
The very moment his eyes began adjusting to the dark corners of the barn he'd stepped into, a great beast of a horse charged out, clipping Falathor's right side and knocking him down. One hoof slammed Falathor into the dirt and left him winded, leaving a dent in his chest armor. The chest piece's strips of regal green and red fabric were all torn away by the horse. Captain Birch rolled himself out of the path of further horse stomps.
As he had anticipated, the horse did nothing but sprint into the distance after knocking him down; he understood that a cornered animal will be ferocious as long as it thinks it is cornered. He lay in place for a short time, measuring his breaths and remaining as motionless as possible so as to not attract the beast's ire. The horse barreled through the fields at top speed, seemingly in a direct path towards the female Hollow. Falathor felt concerned as the horse sped towards the woman. He wondered, would that horse react at all to something that resembled a human it once knew?
The horse emitted fearful neighs, yet did not seem to change course or speed. Falathor's eyes widened, and he brought himself to a kneeling position as he watched the event unfold. His breath slowed as the horse's powerful limbs tensed up and fired, followed by a mighty leap over the crouching, digging Hollow. Not entirely sure why he felt relieved at the sight, the Captain chuckled a little as the Hollow regained her posture enough to express generic frustration at the creature's interruption.
"You know, I wouldn't mind paying to see that again! Maybe you Hollows aren't so bad, eh? Good to have some kind of company these days," Falathor made himself say. He entertained the thought of himself electing to stay on that very plot of land and starting anew. He and whatever living beasts remained within the barn, as well as the two relatively harmless Hollows, could defy the trappings of their previous lives and simply start anew... he could make it happen, he mused, if he wasn't so stupidly loyal.
The idea reminded the Captain that he had not fully explored the barn, yet. He pushed the more pleasant thoughts away, then readied his sword and shield. The portion of his chest on which the massive horse had stepped on was already very bruised, he knew, but he remained grateful that none of his ribs had been broken. Drawing in breath too rapidly produced a slight pain, but nothing he couldn't will himself to ignore in a fight.
Though the sun was barely visible on the horizon, the opened barn doors let in enough light for Falathor to observe the features inside. In the barn were 4 horse pens full of very old hay, droppings, and empty water troughs. The horse pens were the first section past the door; beyond that were smaller pens sectioned off by rotting wooden fences. From memory, Falathor knew what other animals should have been in those pens. He wordlessly opened one rotted pen gate after another, paying witness to a form of death which had always horrified him. The sight of the mostly skeletal, deceased creatures filled him with both deep sorrow and rage; without a moment's hesitation, he tore each of the swinging pen gates from their hinges, smashed every rotting piece of fence he could see, and when there was nothing of the sort left, he smashed his shield into a roof support beam. The dull thud seemed to caution everything around the knight into silence, before the telltale creaking told Falathor to evacuate.
The Captain winced away the pain in his chest post-vicious shield bash as he sped out of the barn. The ominous creaking continued, and the barn itself seemed to sway, but Falathor couldn't be sure if it was because of the biting eastern wind, or his own actions. He cast a malicious glare at the two Hollows working the fields, silently wondering if the two had neglected their animals before they'd been Hollowed, or after. Far past them, he noticed a curious dimming of the Bonfire. This was enough to slow his murderous advance towards the Hollows, and also enough to make him forget why he'd gotten angry at them in the first place.
The wind did not increase in intensity, rather, it seemed to slow and quiet, though the biting cold remained. The orange-red tinge of the sun on the horizon had not changed, yet an unsettling fog seemed to fall over the area. The Bonfire's flames, the Hollows in the corn field, and the tracks of the retreating horse all seemed slightly out of focus and dark, as if being seen directly before losing consciousness.
"What hellishness doth the Curse bring today?" Falathor complained, wondering if his eyes were failing him. In a span of a few moments, the Captain felt a revereberation through his form that was not physical in nature, yet seemed to press upon his heart and mind. It forced into his thoughts, and even what felt like his very soul, an awareness of mortal danger. It could not be pinpointed, it could not be silenced, it simply came into being as an urgent whisper.
Black Phantom Lenture, Blade of Grief has invaded your world!
Beads of sweat formed on the Captain's neck. His muscles tensed reflexively as he peered into the fields for any sign of life. He noted the movement of the runaway horse within the trees; he tracked it as he sought to identify additional threats. The male Hollow retrieved a pair of heavily rusted blades lying in the dirt; gardening shears brandished as weapons, reacting to an unseen threat. The female Hollow grasped and lifted, to Birch's surprise, a rather large scythe with a layer of dried blood upon its edge. Falathor bit his lip as he recalled the foolish thought of tolerating the Hollows as neighbors.
Both Hollows charged into a section of the woods resting upon a hill. They bounded over the hill, bellowing unidentifiable fragments of speech at their unseen enemy. Their roars intensified briefly, followed by the clang of metal upon metal. The Hollows seemed to have struck whatever it was, as only distant pings of metal could be heard. After a few such blows, a clearly resounding rupture of a makeshift weapon could be heard, followed closely by what sounded like a tree falling upon the Earth. Falathor had to listen as closely as he could, while simultaneously jogging towards the Hollow's previous location, to hear the death throes of both of the Hollows.
One brave swipe. Large impact. We've got a berserker! Falathor noted. He crested the hill overlooking the scene in time to see the horse dashing in from the right, dodging trees and pointedly moving towards something near his position. He cast a look straight ahead to see a burning shadow of a creature that resembled a man. It bore immense armor that was composed of absurdly thick plates of unknown metal studded with chunks of stone. Falathor looked upon the apparition's weapon and chuckled. It was a joke weapon, he thought, suited for terrorizing inexperienced soldiers on the field. It was a great sword bearing a hilt also apparently meant to terrorize; it was adorned with thick, black shards of metal with no consistency in size or shape. It appeared meant to horrifically injure any who drew too close within the reach of the blade. The weapon reached nearly the length of another man standing atop his own shoulders.
"How is your weak little heart going to keep up with all that gear?" Falathor mocked. In response, the phantom turned its weirdly paternal gaze upon him, shifting its entire body towards him into a mocking gesture of its own. It stretched its arms parallel to the ground, bearing the massive sword's weight in one hand. The phantom, arms still outstretched, stepped towards him, daring him to strike.
Captain Birch reflexively turned to his soldiers, ready to caution the newer troops not to try taking the full force of a swing from such a sword with their standard issued shields, unless they felt like breaking their arm that day. He found himself finding the "right" things to say to motivate his brothers in arms to battle, trying to inject the right amount of humor and practicality to his words to reach them, before it dawned on him that he was alone. Falathor chided himself for talking to ghosts, gripping his longsword and shield much more tightly.
The phantom stomped up the hill, careening its blade about with violent abandon. Falathor gauged the phantom's immense swings, trying to find an opening. The phantom held little to no regard for its own life; it swung its massive blade in any conceivable way to destroy Falathor, mindless of its own position or defensive capabilities. The phantom seemed to be entirely confident on winning the battle through overwhelming force. While sometimes a viable strategy, Falathor knew that one-on-one, only a truly skilled or lucky opponent would benefit from such a brazen approach.
The phantom cleaved its sword through two young trees adjacent to Falathor's position. The knight sprinted towards another cluster of trees, and threw a handy, nearby rock at his opponent's less-than-fully armored groin. The phantom seemed to take this baiting personally, as it charged towards him, fully giving itself to blood lust. Falathor profoundly enjoyed seeing such passion in his opponents. He enjoyed dueling other warriors, no matter what banner they pretended to fly under.
The phantom came within striking distance. Falathor eagerly jogged towards it, weapon raised, then rolled under the horizontal swipe of the massive blade. As he recovered from his forward roll, he swung his sword into the forearm bearing the blade. His sword struck the least armored portion of the phantom's wrists, but it did not falter greatly. Falathor intentionally left himself open for another strike, not dodging, but catching the momentum of the blade with his shield and propelling it yet further, causing the phantom to overreach with its swing and turn away from himself. As the phantom attempted to guide its weapon into another huge stroke, borrowing from the momentum of the previous swing, it spun around. Falathor silently thanked the phantom for being so eager to kill him, then stabbed forward where he presumed the phantom's neck artery would end up.
The phantom spun into almost the position he'd been hoping for, but stopped short of a self-killing movement. Even past the curious mask it wore, Captain Birch could sense a short moment of horror in the phantom's breath. The phantom backed off a step, uncertain. Falathor closed the distance and performed two attacks at once; he shattered the phantom's mask with a powerful shield bash, and thrust his sword into the space between the hefty armor protecting the phantom's neck and shoulders. The phantom's body reacted in very much a human way. The phantom sank forward, and it's strength waned.
The phantom's face became visible as the fragments of the odd mask it had been wearing fell away. Falathor stared into the phantom's eyes as he sank his regal blade deeper into the chest phantom gasped and dropped its weapon, which cascaded harmlessly down the hill. Falathor held his blade in place as he tried to decipher the phantom's expression during its final moments. It simply glowered at the knight, not showing any obvious intention or emotion.
The blank expression perplexed the knight enough to compel him to ask the phantom, "What did you hope to accomplish here?" The phantom's glare lessened slightly, and its lips moved, yet not a word came. "It's not enough for you that there are demons, nobles, and Hollows out to slay what they can. You wish to force this miserable world to remember you through violence?"
"As if you're any different..." the phantom whispered. Its corporeal form dispersed in moments, as if the wind had blown it away. In its place was a tiny jade hair ornament. Falathor pretended as if he knew anything about jewelry craftsmanship as he inspected the item.
"Looks pretty nice. Why'd that big lout carry around something so delicate?" Falathor wondered as he inspected the piece. He noted the rudimentary scratching of a name on the hair piece: Krissael. It sounded like a Naremian name, yet not of any lineages he'd heard of. On the ornament was a very old, very rudimentary carving of a stick figure family. The mother and father's figures were each crossed out with a single jagged line, as if each had been inscribed in error. Falathor did not pay this much attention, but the depiction of the siblings caught his curiosity. The middle and youngest sisters were unmarked, yet the older brother had been deliberately scratched out. Falathor held the jade hair ornament close to his face for a while, no longer inspecting, but simply wondering who he would meet who would care about such a thing. With a remorseful sigh, he opened the provisions sack he'd been carrying around and placed it inside. "I don't like to think that whoever spent so much time on you isn't going to see you again. I'm going to find whoever cared about you, and return their possession. I promise this," Falathor heard himself say. "When that happens... maybe I'll put this shield and sword away for good. Maybe I'll retire... be a farmer for the rest of my days, with some young..."
Falathor stopped talking to himself, once the realization hit him. He could not remember whether there was anyone who cared if he came home.