Messenger
"This is a message from Lord Nergal. 'I await you on the Dread Isle.'"
The evening sun's rays cascaded through the narrow windows, illuminating the bare, plain walls of Castle Ostia. But the calmness of the orange evening sky was not felt inside the castle, where the bright color of blood was far more prominent. The sound of war cries, spells exploding, arrows flying and the harsh ring of steel reverberated across the halls as morph and man were locked in a heated battle. Morphs lined the halls at nearly every corner while humans attempted to retake the fortress. Spears pierced through both armor and flesh, blades slashed in deadly arcs, claming lives on both sides.
Above the chaos of the battle, a figure stood behind the endless rows of pale-skinned, golden-eyed beings.
He stood at the entrance gate of the keep. A dark cloak covered the majority of his body and a hood left only his face uncovered. He clutched a longbow with his left hand and a quiver hung from his belt. His golden eyes darted left and right, searching through the melee.
"This is a message from Lord Nergal. 'I await you on the Dread Isle.'"
His master had created him, crafted his very existence. He served his master. He did not question why or what his master ordered him to do. He only obeyed.
He was what his master had called a "morph", a being brought into existence by man. He was told he was nothing but a tool for his master's purpose, something to be thrown away once it no longer was of any use. But he did not care. His master wanted him to accomplish a task, and his only desired to fulfill his master's wish.
He was here for his master. His commands were simple. He was to be a messenger and nothing more.
"This is a message from Lord Nergal. 'I await you on the Dread Isle.'"
The tide of the battle seamed to be going in the human's favor. Morphs silently charge toward the areas which the humans held only to be cut down with expertise and precision. But for ever morph that fell, 2 more came to take its place. Yet, the humans continued to fight and prevail against wave after wave of relentless onslaughts.
His master had warned him that the humans possessed a strong will and should not be taken lightly.
Will…what was will? It was a concept foreign to him. What did the humans possess that allowed them to fight against such odds? He did not care, nor did he desire what they had. His will was his master's.
"This is a message from Lord Nergal. 'I await you on the Dread Isle.'"
A battle cry caused him to focus on a red-haired man breaking through the lines of morphs nearest to him. The man's broadsword struck left and right, cleaving down the crafted beings like a scythe to wheat. At last, the swordsman broke through the last line and charged towards the bowman.
Flipping an arrow onto his bowstring, he took a quick sight and shot at the sword wielder. The mercenary simply leap to the side to evade the projectile. Within a second, the man resumed his attack.
The morph fired again, but anticipating the man's jump, he quickly readied another shaft. With inhuman reaction and accuracy, the messenger shifted the bow to the left and shot the mercenary in the torso the instant the man's feet touched the ground again.
The man crumbled to the ground with a grunt.
"This is a message from Lord Nergal. 'I await you on the Dread Isle.'"
Turning from the fallen swordsman, the bowman found another target. She was only a girl, crouching in a corner, clutching a magic tome with trembling hands. He could see her sweat-plastered, bright green hair and that her eyes were closed in deep concentration.
Drawing up his bow, he aimed and let an arrow fly. The missile flew straight and true, like a screaming in flight as though proclaiming death. But death would not find the crouching mage today.
If he could have felt surprise, the morph would have as a grey blur seamed to materialize from the shadows mere inches in front of the girl at the last possible moment. With the dull flash of two blades, the shaft was cleaved in three.
Without a sound, the girl's rescuer landed. The morph's eerie golden eyes met with the crimson haired, grey clad man's brown eyes.
He recognized that face- a face of a traitor. But he was not here to bring judgment. He was here for another goal, another purpose.
"This is a message from Lord Nergal. 'I await you on the Dread Isle.'"
Without warning, an arrow impacted onto his shoulder. Rotating his head to left, he found a young woman. Her long, green hair was tied in a ponytail and she was clad in traditional Sacean dress.
Instantaneously, he recognized her. He knew who she was.
He felt his constructed heart skip a beat. He had fulfilled one of his master's wishes. He felt a rather strange feeling, as though nothing else mattered except what he had just accomplished.
His launched another shaft from his bow at the Sacean, who was occupied with loading another arrow. Without taking her eyes from her task, she gracefully leapt to the side and brought up her bow to shoot.
Another shaft joined the first in his arm.
"This is a message from Lord Nergal. 'I await you on the Dread Isle.'"
The morph quickly set up another shot when the sound of something large rushing towards him forced him to divert his attention.
Turning, he saw a heavily armored man mere feet away barreling towards him with a large axe. The gold eyed messenger quickly snapped a shot at charging man without a thought. He was too close to miss.
The arrow, however, bounced harmlessly off the axe wielder's armor. He had no time to reload.
The man's axe cleaved through the sniper's armor like paper and smashed into the morph's stomach.
His heart skipped another beat as he recognized the blue haired Ostian. Once again, he felt a rush of what he though was emotion. Another had heard his message!
He staggered back, the axe still imbedded in his torso. He could feel his blood flowing from his wound onto his clothing, rapidly forming a dark stain.
The world was starting to spin and he was losing the ability to focus. Mustering his strength, he drew back his bow and delivered a heavy blow to the Ostian's face.
The armored lording cried out in pain and lost grip of his axe.
"This is a message from Lord Nergal. 'I await you on the Dread Isle.'"
It was strange. The morph could not understand what caused the swordsman and the axe wielder to fall. The wounds he received were far more serious than those inflicted on the two. Yet, he was still able to remain standing. Was it pain? Pain…he felt nothing more than the blade of the axe, the arrowheads in his arm and the blood that flowed from the wounds. Perhaps his master did not give him the ability to feel pain?
The wound was fatal. He was starting to feel dizzy and his legs began to give away.
No! He couldn't die yet! He had to live; one had yet to hear his message! He planted his bow perpendicular to the ground and wrenched himself up with both of his arms.
It was a wasted effort. The morph fell too his knees once again as a thin, elegant rapier blade pierced through his armor and all the way through his chest. Blood began to flow from the corner of his mouth as he turned to view his assailant.
At last! The red-haired man was no other than the Pherean lord. Had he heard his message? Did he understand? Of course he did, he must have.
The darkness devoured his vision until he could see nothing. He could feel nothing, not the wounds he received or the floor beneath him. This was death, he knew that. But he did not fear death. His master's will was fulfilled. His master would be pleased.
Was this contentment? Was this…happiness?
He would never know.
"This is…a message…from…Lo…rd…Nerga…"
He was only a messenger.
I was reading through a few support conversations one day and I came up on Canas and Renault's A support, which Canas states that he believes morphs have souls. Then I though, "What about that sniper morph who could only repeat one line over and over again?" Then the idea for this story popped into my head. Hope you found it intresting.
Talren