heres part one for those who want to read it again (scroll for part 2):
*Death in the Cloudspine*
Chapter One: The Coming of the Dark
It's almost over.
Can you feel it?
Three straight days of fighting. Three days of hacking, slashing, twisting, chopping, and mutilating the minions of the dark. Three full days, and not an end in sight.
Not the desired end, at any rate.
The small force of berserks had been stranded in the Cloudspine at the onset of winter and the coming of the snows. They had managed to find a warm cave, filled with preserved vituals and water left behind by a considerably large Light force some years before. They had counted their blessings, rationed their food, and prepared to sit out the long and hard winter.
They had considered themselves lucky. Luck would have been if the cave had collapsed under twenty feet of stifling snow in their first week of captivity, thus ending their suffering early.
The winter wore on without end. Some died, many grew weak. A few men were considering whether to resort to eating the bodies of their dead companions, when suddenly, almost miraculously, the snow stopped.
A week later, the sun returned, and the snows and ice began to melt. Three days ago, those who had survived the winter, about twenty battle hardened men, ranging from their early twenties into late middle age, began preparations to bury their dead and depart for home.
There was one, called Sanvin, Bringer of Death, who had lost his brother during the winter. While others were packing up the few bits of food remaining, and filling canteens with the melting snow, Sanvin took to a small trail, wishing for time alone to mourn for his brother. The sunlight played fleeting games with the shadows cast by skeletons of trees, casting them on the path both before and behind young Sanvin-though strangely, the shadows refused to touch him, rather warping around and distorting themselves. The sunlight continued on through the trees, and flickered teasingly off the white of far off mountaintops, as if to light the way back to the home these men finally had hope of seeing again.
Sanvin began to sing an ancient tune of sorrow. Mournful melodies filled the morning air, and Sanvin became lost in his emotions.
Every berserk goes through a long and arduous training process. This training is designed not only to make one proficient as a warrior, but to hone the senses and to build a constant state of alertness, a state of perpetual readiness. This is why the berserks are so successful in battle-they are ready for anything that may come at them, and are rarely caught off guard.
Sanvin, in grief for his brother, let down this guard. He sat down with his head in his arms, and between mournful melodies and high notes of intense sorrow, his superb senses failed to pick up the approaching of other beings. Beings intent on his destruction.
When Sanvin looked up, he was surrounded. The Dark had reentered the Cloudspine.
Instantly, all sadness flickered away, and was replaced by ferocious anger and rage at being caught unawares. Every muscle of Sanvin's highly toned and perfectly prepared fighting machine of a body became tensed, and then relaxed, in unison, and then the machine charged, throwing himself at the circle of thrall around him.
But Sanvin detected the intruders too late.
He slashed in every direction. Bits of thrall flew through the air, legs were hewn off, heads were split open, blood covered the thin layer of snow remaining like a vibrant red carpet. And across this ever expanding carpet Sanvin raged, unrelenting in his assault, refusing to acknowledge that he had failed. Refusing to realise he should have never gone off alone, refusing to acknowledge that he had exposed his weakness. The piles of the dead grew. But more pressed upon him. For every arm he dismembered, three more axes beared down upon him. Still, twisting, turning, dodging, weaving, hacking, thrusting, parrying, slithering, he managed to avoid his enemies attempts at his life. But he had nowhere to run. He was in a circle of thrall hundreds deep on every side.
Still he bore on, never tiring, never resting, not for a moment. And, finally, as he slashed one of his opponents in half, he saw an opening behind. He ran wildly, fighting all the while, and the trail of undead that lay at his feet is uncountable. He broke through the circle, and ran for the trees.
He cared not what may lay in the brush, where he was running, or where he was running to, All he knew was that he had hundreds of thrall behind him, and he had to get back to camp. As he reached the brush, he was prepared for whatever horror may be waiting for him.
Out stepped a myrmidon. A lone withering warrior, silent and pathetic. Sinvin could hardly believe his luck. A single opponent? He laughed, and ran, preparing to disembowel the aged fighter with a single stroke.
He hadn't noticed the thrall behind him had stopped. Or that the myrmidon looked completely fearless in the face of such a mighty warrior.
He came within twenty yards of the myrmidon. Then ten. Approaching five yards. And directly behind the warrior was the forest, safety. Ten feet. Sanvin raised his sword.
It was then that a brilliant flash of lightning seared through the air, catching Sanvin in his left side and throwing him upon the ground. A fetch stepped into view, and smiled at the stench of burning flesh.
Sanvin, eyes wide with horror, edged away.
The fetch raised its hands.
Sanvin lept desperately to his feet and ran.
A flash of light followed him. The super powerful bolt of energy pierced the base of his neck, passed effortlessly through the skin, and hit the base of his brain. The stench of his own frying torso overcame Sanvin, as blackened, sizzling bits of skin flew into the air, sprinkling those nearby. He froze with the horror of watching his own body incinerating. If he had the time, he would likely have thanked the Gods that he died too quickly to feel the pain. His horror was great enough as it was.
Sanvin fell to the ground, dead.
The myrmidon laughed, and began to skin the blacked corpse for a fresh addition to the fetch's wardrobe.
The thrall horde turned, and continued marching.
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Death in the Cloudspine
Chapter Two: Fear
Sanvin's presence had not been missed.
The men were scattered in and around their hell of a camp, performing various tasks necessary for the repairing of body and soul. Many mourned the loss of loved ones-all had lost someone close to them in the long winter. Some rejoiced at freedom-taking in the sweet smell of the spring air, which carried the faint hint of grass and of coming rain...
The cave which had served as their prison was carved deep into the rock, extending back perhaps four hundred feet, with a high ceiling. In the center of the cave, it was at least the height of three trow. It had only one opening to the outside world, which was small-thus leaving the cave drenched in darkness. Through the winter, this opening had been completely covered by the snows, letting no man enter nor leave. The floor was fairly clean, constructed of smooth stone, dotted only sparsely by the occasional stalagmite pushing up from its rocky core. The walls were damp, and covered in various forms of mildew and mold. The cave was alternately freezing and stilfling hot. But the worse was the air-it gave one the distinct impression of suffocation. Heavy with the rotting flesh of those who had passed, it clogged the throats and nostrils of those dwelling within, slowly, ever so slowly destroying ones nasal passages, narrowing the windpipes, until one could barely stand the effort required to take a breath.
The men’s only respite from this slow suffocation was to painstakingly dig small holes through the snow covering the opening of their cave…but the frigid blasts of air accompanying these efforts soon led most to believe that suffocation was better than frostbite.
A small clearing occupied the space directly in front of the mouth of the cave.
Some wandered aimlessly through the woods, close to camp. They wandered slowly, with no purpose, finally letting through the grief they had repressed for so long. No matter where they traversed, a sad silence prevailed. They stopped and brushed away the thin layers of snow and frost, searching for the withered remains of wildflowers. The general consensus was to create a common grave for those who had died-it would be unreasonable to attempt to carry back all of the bodies. Perhaps, in some near future, they could return with their kinsmen to give their friends the burials they deserved. But not yet.
Suddenly, the silence grew. It deepened, darkened, it threatened the very hopes and dreams of those who suddenly cowered before its awesome power. The sun shrinked behind a dark cloud, casting a shadow over the world. All life froze.
One middle aged man, heavily tatooed, with shocking red hair stumbled backwards with a look of pure, shocking fear in his eyes. He landed in the arms of his brother, a tall, lankily muscular man who carried the Golden Syrex around his neck-rewarded for extreme valor in battle.
The trees grew in height, looming high into the sky like skeletons come to haunt the earth. The breeze which only moments before had carried the scent of growth and hope now took on a chilling tone. It froze the nostrils, and made one recoil with some undeterminable stench.
The cloud passed from the front of the sun, and light returned to the earth. The trees shrunk back into their comfortably familiar shape, the shadows appeared only where they should appear. A bird sent out its mating call, and the forest came back to life as quickly as it had stilled.
The stumbling army of dead shambled slowly through the pass, oblivious to hunger, thirst or weariness. Unbeknownst to both parties, there was one serious obstacle between the dead and the head of the pass...the berserker camp.
The dead marched on unnoticed.
