A Wolf with a coat of Darkness – chapter 2
I do not own ASoIF/GoT or Warcaft/WoW
Rated M for everything wrong with the Cult of the Damned and the Scourge (including but not limited to cannibalism, human experimentation, murder, rape, slavery, torture, sadism)
They were kept in the open clearing through the whole night, none of them really speaking. Sansa made conscious efforts to not look at her hands, still as red as they were hours ago. Only now, there was some of her own blood as well. So disgusted and frightened she was by her own actions that when she was furiously scrubbing herself, she unwittingly tore wounds in her hands with her own nails, trying to remove the blood from them, only to add new one to the mix.
Surprisingly, one the cultists came and tended to her new injuries, wrapping her hands and lower arms in bandages but not before applying what she assumed based on the smell to be alcohol. This caused her immense pain, but the red-head stopped herself from yelling, taking it as a penance for her actions. A small first step.
Sansa was unable to get any sleep that night, a sentiment shared by almost all of her surviving companions. The younger girl was hiccuping and sobbing through the whole night while the dark-haired woman did too in the beginning, though eventually she did fall asleep. The only one not bothered was the young man who almost immediately surrendered to dreams, not a sign of bother on his face. Sansa focused on the young girl, keeping her company and physical presence, whispering words of encouragement to her, both in an effort to distract and convince herself. It was shortly before sunrise that the child fell asleep in her arms,
Having remained awake through the entire night, Sansa found to her own horror that she gotten used to the undead all around her, in her own strange way. No longer was she in a constant state of panic, though whenever one got too close, she did feel her heart begin to race. In the beginning, her unblinking eyes remained locked on the prone form of her victim, but when the night darkness obscured his form did she finally turn her head away.
Red. Red was all she could think of when the girl in her arms fell asleep. The dark crimson against her pale hands, the cuffs of her pale-yellow dress become rustic in color. She folded them in on themselves, exposing her arms up to her elbows if only for her to not have to look at them and their accusing color.
In whispered breath did she ask her father and mother for forgiveness, the girl too ashamed to even mention the gods, lest they bring their wrath on her now cursed soul. She did not know what to do. Always was she taken care off and for the moment, she did indeed simply sat and await her faith. Her mind briefly wondered to what that cultist had said. 'Serve in life or in undeath. Welcome to the cult.'
Just what did he mean by that? Surely they were not going to make her one of them? There was no way she would do that, nor did she know any magic! Despite herself, when the sun finally rose Sansa once again tried to look at the body of the fallen knight, yet to her horror, it was no longer there. 'They had already taken him!' she noted in both fear and anger. A few hours after the sun had risen and the morning mist finally clearing from the surrounding woods did the cultists begin to approach them again. Fresh fear gripped at her anew every time one got close. They gave them a piece of hard bread, not that Sansa touched hers. The girl found herself unable to eat anything, feeling hunger yet not been able to eat at the same time, less because of the stale, hard, bug-infested bread and more so because of her actions and situation. She vaguely noted that the boy once again displayed no hesitation, devouring the bread in a few swift bites. Sansa would be lying if she said she did not feel fear from him. He showed eager readiness to kill, as well as the ability to do so, him and his opponent been the only ones that actually fought.
It was the dark-haired woman that finally forced Sansa and the young girl to eat, saying they needed their strength, now more than ever. Unwillingly Sansa began to eat the tasteless piece of food, but not before methodically cleaning out the bugs to the best of her ability, forcing down the biles that threatened to rise with each bite at the though of eating bug-infested bread. Surprisingly, she found herself cleaning up the bread for the little girl as well before returning it to her, encouraging her to eat as well, the three women staying in a semi-circle on the ground together, away from their fourth companion.
Not long after 'breakfast' the four watched in morbid fascination as a new cart pulled in. their heart began to race as a new group of captives was brought forth and lined up in a row just as they were. Been not that far away, they were able to hear what the cultists spoke.
"Bah! These are no good! Half of them are at death's door, the rest are too old! What good will these do? Tell bedtime stories in a rocking chair? Useless…." Said the head cultist, moving up and down the row of prisoners. Sansa was relieved that there would not be forced to fight as they were, though she also resented it. Why were they getting away with it, but she did not? How was that fair?
They separated a skinny man about the same age as the dark-haired woman. That man looked sicked, coughing occasionally, his face appearing sunken.
"Give him a potion and some food. If he survives, he goes with them. Put the rest away."
And unceremoniously were the rest of the prisoners shoved and tossed into the large metal cages while the man was brought to sit down with them. Just like most of the people around, he looked resigned and tired more than anything, his black hair receding, his beard unkempt.
Time seemed to drag on and with morbid fascination did Sansa observed the activities around the camp. A lot of time was spent looking at the undead themselves, how they stood unmoving for hours on end, the only indication of them been active been the glow in their eyes. The cultists, on the other hands, constantly tended to some task or another. Some tended to the many prisoners, others endlessly practiced reanimation, raising a corpse, then dismissing it, then raising it again and so on.
But truly, the gut-turning ones were those by the tilted table. They would constantly go back and forth between the blob of flesh on the table and the many piles of bodies around, carrying body parts back and forth as if one was picking out an outfit to wear from a wardrobe. This lack of respect for the dead was so sickening to Sansa, yet she found herself unable to turn her head away. The few times that they actually settled on a piece did she look closely with a critical eye as they tried to stitch them together, a small, distant and currently very deeply buried part screaming at them for doing it wrong.
A blind Arya could have done better stitches.
Thoughts of home overwhelmed her. Right now, she would give her soul even to see Arya. She tried to draw in some inner strength, telling herself that her little sister would have faced these challenges head on and spat in their faces and thus if she was able to do so, then so was Sansa. That she should fight, resist her oppressors. And yet, she remained seated on the ground, doing nothing, Each time she thought about resisting, her eyes went to the many piles of bodies all around them or worse still, to that…abomination on the table.
Her brooding was broken when a cultist sat down on the ground opposed to them with a pile of empty papers, an inkwell and a feather. Sansa remained frozen in place at the sudden intrusion, observing just what was about to happen, her wide eyes taking in every details as the cultist, a young, cleanly shaved man, methodically arranged the papers and inkwell before looking towards the older dark-haired woman.
"Name?" he asked in an even voice, devoid of any emotion save maybe boredom. It took some time for the woman to respond and through glaring eyes, she finally returned.
"Tiffania Smith." The man in turn quickly scribed down the information.
"Any talents, abilities or strengths?" looking at him in a weird way, the woman responded:
"What does it matter? You will just kill us off anyway. If not today, than tomorrow!"
Sighing, the man answered.
"If you do as you are told, you won't be killed. Now, make this easier for everyone involved and simply answer." Grinding her teeth, Tiffania said:
"Cooking, cleaning, sewing. I guess I am good with numbers. I can ride, if that counts."
Writing down, the man looked up and said:
"It does. Now was that so hard?" a glare was his only answer.
Turning to the little girl and adopting a surprisingly caring, almost elder-brother-like voice, he asked.
"And what about you little one? What is your name?"
"M-M-Myranda." She whispered out without looking at him.
"Hmm, that is a beautiful name. And family name?"
"…Moore"
"Is it with two Os?"
"I don't know… I can't read…" mumbled the girl.
"It is now. Tell my, Myranda, can you do anything special?"
"I don't know…"
"Surely there must be something?"
"…"
"Please, I must set down something and it must be correct, lest it will be bad for the both of us." He half said, half pleaded, Sansa looking up at the man and wondering just what he meant at both of us. Was he an unwilling part of all this just like them?
'They are probably honorless monsters. I doubt they care for their own.' Reasoned Sansa.
"I tended to the chickens back home… and sometimes helped cook…" the girl wondered aloud, slightly frightened at the light threat in the last statement of the cultist.
"Cooking…..Good with animals….." mumbled the cultist as he wrote down.
The man's bored eyes turned to Sansa expectingly.
"S-Sansa Stark." She found herself saying before she can stop herself.
"Well?" he asked after writing her name down.
"I can read … and write! I can stitch things. I-I-I can do numbers." Her mind raced, trying to come up with more things. If they were so interested in what they can do, maybe been able to do more things would mean she would not be killed.
"I can…I can ride! And dance as well!" the man scoffed at the last thing, but wrote it down nonetheless before suddenly pausing, his quill still touching the paper.
"What are you, a merchant's daughter?" he asked while looking at her up and down, noting her fine, if messy dress. A glimmer of hope entered Sansa's eyes. Maybe she would be treated better if they knew the truth!
"My father is the lord of Winterfell!" she said before remembering that she was in an unknown land. "He is a high lord!" a raised eyebrow was her only response as the man wrote down.
"Noble." He mumbled as he scribbled, popping the B. And unceremoniously, he moved to the last of the group, the man standing away from the three women.
"Craig Cohen. I can hunt, track, skin, kill, cook."
"You all can kill, buddy, that is why you are here and not over there." Said the cultist in a flat voice.
"She didn't!" the now named Craig protested, pointing towards Sansa and fear gripped her. It was a half-truth, in a way. She held the dagger, but the knight impaled himself. It was funny, really, how to him she did not, but to her, she was a cold-blooded killer, a criminal and sinner of the lowest rank.
"She counts…" responded the cultist, getting up from the ground. "Besides, she is more useful than you are."
A shiver ran up Sansa's spine as Craig glared at her, the girl turning away to avoid his gaze.
They were kept on the ground for a few more hours before suddenly been forced to stand up and move towards one of the carts by several undead. She managed to hear the head cultists grumbling to an underling of his as they both walked towards them.
"They have to go now. If we delay any further, they will have our heads."
"But sir, the quota i-"
"I know full well the quota, but if we delay, it would be worse! YOU will make sure the next batch covers the missing numbers and then some more!" the head cultist paused, turning to his underling before jabbing a finger in his chest.
"YOU!"
Turning swiftly back forth, the head cultist suddenly adopted a happy voice and spread his arms wide.
"Ah! There you are. You are finally off to your new life! You must be happy. Congratulations, congratulations! Oh, to be an initiate again…" he became distracted for a moment.
"Into the cart, up up!" he ushered them.
Moving to the side of the cart as they got up, he gave the cart driver the papers with their information.
"Drop…Craig off at Andorhal. The rest go to Caer Darrow." He instructed, scanning the papers for the necessary name.
Moving to the back again, he looked at them, his eyes smiling as he said:
"Tobias, the gifts!"
"Ugh-" said the cultist that was accompanying him.
"The gifts?" repeated the leader again, looking to his left at the man there.
"They are back over there…" responded Tobias.
"Well? Go get them!"
"Honestly…" muttered the leader as he shook his head before looking up to the people in the cart. "Please, don't end up like him."
A few moments later did Tobias return with four indistinct sacks before handing them one by one to the head cultist. Reading the crudely scribbled text on the side did he pass them on methodically to each of them, Sansa noting the text: Boy, Woman, Child, Red-head.
"Now, of you go!" he waved them off as the cart pulled away from the camp, two skeletons falling in line with it dashing what little hope of escape brewed inside Sansa.
For a few minutes until the camp disappeared from sight and sound did Sansa stay unmoving, clutching her gift tightly. It was surprisingly heavy and somewhat hard. It was Craig that became interested first and opened his only to look strangely into it before scoffing and closing the bag. Unable to contain herself, Sansa did too open it and was sorry that she did.
Tears welled up in her eyes as her breath became dead in her throat. Staring form inside the bag were the lifeless eyes of the knight's head. She remained in shock, unable to move or even close it. The two other females looked at her and her reaction before Tiffania opened her own package, a sorrowful, grief-stricken expression settling over her. The older woman managed to regain her senses quickly enough to stop Myranda from opening hers even as tears ran down her face.
After a few moments, Sansa managed to close the sack, yet she found herself unable to drop or toss it. Instead, she simply held it, staring at the close sack, unmoving.
"Ah, I see you opened your gifts!" said the driver, looking back at them even as the cart moved.
"Don't go tossing them like some idiot did a few days ago! That would be disrespectful, now! Your first souls!"
His hand dropping down, he lifted a staff with a skull on its end.
"I still have mine! Say hello, Jacob!" the cultist looked expectingly at the skull, as if it would really speak.
"He says Hi." He finally intoned before turning back forth.
"Don't you worry. You will all fit just fine…"
Sansa could do nothing but wonder just what perverse dream was she in when a severed head was considered a gift. Anger and guilt overtook her. Anger for been forced to do it. Anger at herself for going along with everything so far. And guilt. She was alive, yet that man was not. All because of her. She could do nothing, but bow her head down, her forehead touching the sack and in barely a whisper, she begged.
"I am sorry…please…" yet there was no sound save for the rhythmic noise the wheels made upon the cobbled path.
Darkness took her as she was finally overwhelmed by everything in the past two days or so. She awoke when the cart made a violent jerk what must have been hours later. She noted that she had fallen asleep, bend over and cradling the sack with the severed head to her chest. Disgust momentarily overwhelmed her at the morbid action that she had done, sleeping with a head in her arms, but her eyes quickly scanned her surroundings.
The sun was going down and she had awoken when the cart made a violent jerk when it touched an arched bridge. Looking forth over the shoulder of their driver, she vaguely noted that Craig was no longer with them. Yet her relief was short lived. Up ahead, over the bridge that they were on, stood a ruined fortress on a hill in the middle of a lake. A memory came back to her from earlier today, of what the head cultist had said to be their final destination.
Caer Darrow.
The looming fortress slowly became bigger in size, Sansa noting with morbid fascination that over the entry archway stood a gibbet with a skeleton inside. That skeleton was on fire, acting as a macabre, perverse lantern.
As they moved further in, with surprise Sansa noted that there were plenty of buildings within the walls, lights flickering within the windows. Stopping at the second level within the fortress grounds, their driver said:
"Get off and wait here." Before he too did jump out and went to a nearby house.
An annoyed, scantily clad woman came out a minute or so later, examining what Sansa realized to be their papers.
"Not that big of a selection…shouldn't there have been more?" she accused, not looking up from the papers.
"Well, mistress, you se-"
"Shush, dear."
"Now, Sansa Stark!" unwittingly, the red-head took a baby step forth, her head bowed.
"My, you are a pretty one. Read, write, numbers… can ride as well. Hmm, and a noble? My, oh my." She licked her lips, sending shiver down Sansa's spine.
"We will try you for a necromancer or infiltrator." She said before switching to the other two papers.
"The elder one is not that bad, but nothing special… the younger one knows nothing, but is a child so there is plenty to learn…decisions, decisions…" mumbled the woman, Sansa feeling as if they were a livestock been inspected before a slaughter. She felt the Myranda reach out and grasp her hand, the girl partly trying to hide behind her.
"Tiffania goes to the kitchen. One of our cooks recently…took a fall into a cauldron." She giggled at her own joke. "Off you go, now! There is dinner to prepare for hungry students! Tomorrow we will see if you have any other…proficiencies" snapping her fingers, a ghoul came and led Tiffania away, the three sharing a desperate look.
"Now, about the child." Sansa felt Myranda's hand tighten her grip, causing her to look down towards the scared face of the little girl.
"I-" Sansa whispered out, but no one heard her. The scantily clad woman and their driver discussing in hushed whispers, pointing with open hands to the nearly blank paper of the girl.
"I can-" Sansa whispered out again before swallowing hard.
"I can teach her to read." She finally managed out, still a whisper, but this time it was heard by the cultists.
"Come again?" asked the woman after a pause. Uncertain for a moment, the red-head answered.
"I can teach her to read." her voice coarse from the little use it had gotten over the last two days. She was unsure what prompted her to do it. Maybe she did not want to lose another familiar face in this nightmare of a reality. Maybe some older sister instinct overtook her. But the damage was already done.
"Can you now? Questioned the woman, stepping forth with a raised eyebrow.
"Girl…Sansa was it? Almost everyone here can read and write. This is a school." She paused with a deadpan. "But, if you want to waste your time, so be it. It would be your head, in the end, if you slack of with the rest of your studies."
An evil smile was suddenly plastered on her face.
"She is now your charge. She goes wherever you go. She attends the same classes as you. She takes the same tests as you… but if she fails… so do you."
Sansa was shocked at the statement, fear gripping her. She wanted to save Myranda from an unknown fate but it would seem she made things worse for both of them. She knew nothing of necromancy and magic as a whole, yet now she had to both teach herself and another, all the while teaching the girl to read and write.
"Now, little miss teacher." Interrupted her anguished thoughts the cultist woman. "I expect you and your pupil tomorrow morning here, before the sun rose."
Casually dismissing them with a wave of her hand she turned back and headed towards the house.
"Sleep tight and don't let the ghouls bite!"
The carriage driver remained with them, a sudden look of pity on his features. Shaking his head while looking at her, he spoke in a friendly voice:
"Find yourself a house somewhere to sleep. Most of the inside one should be taken, but there always are new…vacancies." Looking back towards the main gate of the fort, he continued.
"I would suggest outside, near the lake shore. Usually the houses there are free, most people dislike having to walk so long each day back and forth. Plus the smell of stale water…Ugh…"
"Best of luck you two."
And the horror continues.
Thank you for reading
Cheers.