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stragglewort · 5 years ago

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Sightless Through the Underbrush -- A bit of Fantasy Horror

Illuminated by stubbed candlelight, the good doctor sat over the artifacts of his work. His documents were assembled round his table, hand-drawn diagrams pinned to the fabric walls, dampening – pooling black ink against the canvas of the tent. Otherwise occupied he hadn’t bothered to move them.

It starts with fever, Ardolf wrote, ink scrawling over the paper, it does nothing to treat the fever but cause other symptoms to worsen. This was something the doctor was all too aware of. An awful nausea had churned in his stomach since before he’d traveled out into the Oxlant woods. He’d tried to keep himself busy enough to ignore it, but he hadn’t had any luck. He’d been holed up for days, quarantining himself away as far from human interaction as he could find (Which seemed normal enough for a researcher or a hermit, though it didn’t exactly help the business of a medical doctor). This was a week he had been dreading since the month shifted – he could keep himself upright before and after, but the days leading up-to were torture.

Nausea and headaches, body aches – hot and cold spells – the hunger. Those excruciating pangs of appetite that swelled while the days passed. He didn’t understand exactly why the transformation was at its strongest during the full moon, plenty of people had given him folk-lore and tall-tales, family rumors passed down from father to son. Most he’d spoken to assumed that werewolves were the embodiment of the ‘insanity’ brought on by the moon, a lunar sickness. He hated the name, he hated the whole idea – it was associated with witches, their rituals and spell-casting, how afflicted women would rave away the night of a full moon calling up their demons and imps! He’d treated those women in his career, men, even animals and pets on some occasion. For most of them, he’d decided the best medicine was a quiet room and a warm drink. Some simple comfort to cull the mass hysteria. Magic was true enough. It was this strange, mystical life that flowed through the veins of the world – but the ritual was almost always for show!

Too often most couldn’t tell the difference.

Ardolf had gotten himself as far out into the forest as he deemed necessary – out past where anyone of average intent would wander. He’d gotten so far out there weren’t even deer to watch, just the still leaves and chattering echos of insects. It was someplace far from the edge of civilization, the purposeful choice for a man trying to save others from having to suffer him –

So, it was understandably strange when he heard, from just the corner of his camp, movement.

After days of nothing but the nightly calm of the forest (at the most crickets and the scathing of beetles), bats or birds making their way through the brush – this specific movement sounded larger than any prey-like animal. It moved more carefully than any predator. If lycanthropy was good for anything, it certainly sharpened the senses.

The noise struck him with a nervous, awful feeling he couldn’t quite place.

His tent was well hidden in the brush, more of an effort against himself that when the moon did come – and he’d transform – he wouldn’t destroy his own things. But he hadn’t put much thought into hiding those things from others. He had assumed there would be no others. But as the sound grew closer it took on a clearly human tone. Footsteps, striding jolts against the soft ground and a mellow dragging. It could’ve been a hunter, though it made no sense for one to be this far out. Course, Ardolf could point out that he was there too – but it would be worrying if another person had come for any of the same reasons. Snuffing his candle, he sat alone as darkness overtook the inside of his tent. Waiting, straining to guess if the sound was human or otherwise. The upside to being so secluded was that he wouldn’t be near anyone he could hurt! The downside being that if something did show up, the closest help was about a day’s journey out through a windingly impossible forest. The Oxlant was no place for people.

This kind of thought he knew was just his nervousness, anxiety mixed with nausea – it could just as easily be someone lost – someone injured, even. Though he knew better than to sit in the dark theorizing.

His uneasiness tried to keep him in place, but he crept from his stool to the opening of the tent. The canvas panels were clipped together in the middle where he could just barely peer through the slit. The branches that obscured the view of his shelter did just as well obscuring the outside, too. He could see in-between them, barely, though his night vision was substantial it certainly didn’t help him much in the thickened arch of trees. But he did spot the creature he had heard and saw the thing it seemed to be dragging.

More honestly, creatures. Obscured, hooded figures holding dusty items.

They strolled through the undergrowth with their heads lowered; walking like they knew their way without sight. In unison a mass of these forms carried forward – a few held what looked like boxes, one dragged something large behind it with a rope slung over its shoulder. Another pulled in front of the horde, holding a beaten lantern. The light bearer held their staff tall, trailing an oil-lit light high on a stick in the same vain as a ferryman or hunting party trying to light a large space. The parade worried him more than he had already felt, the motionlessness of their stride – moving but static – and the tenseness they brought into the air as they passed. He wanted to close his tent and pretend he’d seen nothing.

His curiosity gnawed at him, but his common sense pushed to hold it back. It stayed back until his eye caught the form dragged across ground. It bumped, slid, and churned limply over the moss as it was carelessly hauled behind the strangers. Rays of moonlight slid through the overbrush, illuminating the forest in small beams. He squinted, looking closer and in these specks of strained light he saw tattered hands, bound feet, and the barely visible outline of a face. A person, whoever they were, being dragged through the dirt.

Magic was a true enough thing in this world, but most couldn’t tell the difference between the practical and the ritual. What a strong wizard could do alone in his study – a group of warlocks might dawn their robes, recite their enchantments, and murder an innocent to bring the same effect. Ardolf wasn’t magically savvy, but he was almost afraid he would witness what could be that needless kind of ritual.

Unclipping the folds of his tent, he pushed onto the moss – watching as the group wandered farther into the trees. He followed to the best of his own ability. The forest floor sunk under his feet, soil and plant life shifted loosely by his weight. It felt like cotton, a moist carpet that coated the ground. Though he had checked the area plenty of times, following these strangers took him out farther than he had ever gone himself. As they wandered, the grass and leaves turned dry and crushed under their feet. He struggled to stay silent, he wasn’t a thief or a rogue, he couldn’t sneak around like them either! He wasn’t confident, but the party paid him no mind every poor step or crushed stick he tripped up over. In the brush all he could hear was a rattling of trinkets, metal on metal from the boxes and lantern, and the tedious digs of a body in dried mud. But the strangers themselves didn’t make a sound. Wherever they set foot it seemed the wildlife faltered around them.

After days of camping he knew this forest was filled with all the tiny aspects of life: bugs and the crawling things that live where people don’t –

It didn’t just feel strange how quiet it’d become – it was downright unnatural. He hid behind trees; moving so slowly he could feel his heartbeat in his chest, hear every breath that left his lungs, with all the focus everything else he had almost overlooked how the forest was getting lighter. Moonlight seeped clearer onto the ground as the strangers floated into an opening. Carting out, the trees cut off abruptly, making way for roughed dirt tampered with splotches of trampled grass, yellowed and dead. It all seemed so brittle, so dry and old, nothing like the cold but vibrant life that flourished in the rest of the Oxlant. He hid behind a horde of bushes, watching while the people slid into the center of the small clearing. Behind them as they went about some business of setting and organizing their boxes, he could see an altar. It was just a few feet from him – rock, stained with browns and reds, a formation built up in an almost organic shape, like it was pulled up from the ground instead of carved from chiseled brick. The smell hit him first. It was sour and metallic, the odor of old blood – dried against the rock. He was close enough to see the colors of it, brown tinted stone, layers of a bloody, aging crust topped with something more recent. The stench pulled at him, he hated it, but it churned this gnawing pang of appetite in the pit of his stomach.

He knew it was a bad idea to put himself in any sort of dangerous situation so close to the full moon. He knew, though it wasn’t the ‘night of’ he would be tormented by the beast’s clawing, whining from freedom, for action. He’d prepared himself to spare the few trees or so that might’ve gotten in his worst half’s way – but he hadn’t prepared for anything like this. He would’ve had to battle with himself to stay quiet if it wasn’t for the jarring scream that bellowed from the party, faltering into the empty woods.

The bundle they dragged, a woman, had finally woken up. She shrieked, the sound echoed off the trees and without semblance of hesitation one of the strangers lifted and forced her onto the alter. She fought against them with a mindlessly panicked kind of determination. Ardolf rose, just barely, from the bush. If it were all to go as south as he feared it would, he knew he would never forgive himself if he just sat and watched.

While the few who surrounded the alter fought to keep her in place, it proved in-vain as her thrashing struck the lantern they had set so close to her face, knocking it onto the ground. Oil scattered over the dirt and flame followed, a monstrous fire flashed over the clearing. Though the light only lasted seconds, the men hissed and hid from the blaze. One of them, in a stilted anger, grabbed the woman by her head and covered her mouth with a scaled, wry, hand. She fought against him, but as his fingers dug and pierced her skin her struggling slowed. Her fight turned weak and the cries that deafened the world faltered as she fell backwards into what might as well have been a coma. Ardolf wasn’t sure what kind of magic or poison he’d just witnessed or what it was for, but he knew for certain this person was alive – and that if he didn’t act, she may not stay in that same state for very much longer.

The strangers, content their sacrifice was properly taken care of, motioned away from the alter. Some snuffed the flames that remained and the others formed around the boxes they’d set elsewhere.

With their backs turned, Ardolf crept into the clearing.

Chattering. Like what he’d been hearing days ago when he entered the Oxlant. It was unnoticeable before, but the closer he came to the men the better he could hear their insectile prattling. Something high-pitched and scathing, scratching, whispering unintelligibly among themselves. Their clamoring cut through the suffocating stillness and ran ice down his spine – as much as he wished, he couldn’t move any faster. He shifted, as quietly as he could to the alter. The waft of blood and oil sifted into the air – retching up his nostrils – in his stomach came this boiling of disgust. Though the realization hadn’t gone unnoticed that his mouth started to water. Pushing any straying thoughts to the back of his mind, he focused on attempting to grab the woman. With all attention turned away from him, he lifted her from the alter and tried adjusting her weight over his shoulder.

There wasn’t much to adjust.

She felt so thin, her papery skin barely felt like flesh, he was afraid if he moved her too much it just might rip. His heartbeat drummed; it overlapped the ambiance so loudly he hadn’t noticed the insectoid chattering go quiet. A shadow, tall and unwavering fell over the structure. He saw the shift in the light and against his neck a moist warmth surpassed the coolness of the forest. He hesitated before turning, finding inches from his own face an abomination.

Where one should’ve seen another man’s eyes, seen the sockets and bone that normally made up expression – he only saw bulging skin. A translucent, membranous layer coated above pools of oil; sacks of gelatinous fat held in place with grease. Ardolf was thankful he’d been born strong-willed, otherwise he was certain he might’ve fainted. He was already almost there. In the sockets of its face, murky blacks and blues swam under the transparent skin. There were no pupils, no irises, no whites, but the eyes themselves – the things that overtook the creature’s face weren’t hollow. Instead, he found himself staring into two bulging pockets swollen with liquid – a viscous solution that filled a sack.

Not just as a medical man or man of science and research, but as a human being in a world where daily he saw the outcomes of magic in man and beast alike – Ardolf had never seen a creature like that.

He didn’t move, didn’t breathe with the thing just inches from his face. He’d assumed they were men when he saw them from his tent covered by the hoods and the dark. But they weren’t even close to human – at least they weren’t anymore. He could see where there were once cheekbones and the markings of a mouth, grown over by the translucent skin that held the everything in its proper place.

In his stomach churned the same painful lycanthropic gnawing – it shifted up his organs – a surge of primal horror that threatened his composure. He knew that if he were to turn, his options of escape of would be limited. The most hopeful of these was the thought of tearing the creatures into shreds of grease and bone, somehow convincing himself to turn back to a man, and escaping with the woman. But even with his optimism Ardolf knew how impossible that would be – what was the use of putting in danger the exact person he had come to help?

It would have been stupid. It was stupid.

#original writing #horror #dark fantasy #cliffhanger #sorry about that #doctor #Ardolf Greymouth #Greymouth #short story #original story #story #writeblr #fantasy #werewolf #werewolves #monster #body horror #stories

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stragglewort · 5 years ago

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The Journal of Doctor Ardolf F. Greymouth -- “Road to Haartmill”

Photo by: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Guercino (Giovanni Francesco Barbieri) (Italian, Cento 1591–1666 Bologna)

15th of Larholm, 49th year of King Bareris D.W

Olond’s shipping us off to a new place, Haartmill, a little hamlet up north that’s been ransacked by a monster horde. I swear that’s the third city this month reporting some kind of beast-related incident. We haven’t had much time to restock, but Olond has us racing to leave. It must be urgent.

The kid spreading the news said it’d be a few days trip by horse from where we are. Everyone’s so antsy to move out, I have a strong feeling we’ll be gone in record time.

17th of Larholm, 49th year of King Bareris D.W

We’ve been traveling for a few days – the air gets thicker the farther into the forest we go. I can see the Haartmill on the horizon, just a little speck in the distance. To be honest I’m not completely sure if it’s the same city we’re looking for, but this in the wilderness I can’t imagine there are too many.

Lassit has been a lifesaver – she’s the one thing keeping us ‘city-folk’ alive. The mountains were tough growing up, but nothing like this. I’ve tried to help her hunt, Divines know Finaster doesn’t plan on it, though I’m afraid I’ve been more of a drawback than an aid. Truegust took pity on me and took over, I obliged. I can admit that where I may not understand the orcish-way of medicine, she’s a great hunter.

We’ve all gotten closer since Borlond, but she and Lassit have become inseparable! it’s nice to see everything finally coming along – we’ll do better out in the field this way.

18th of Larholm, 49th year of King Bareris D.W

I always knew magic had plenty of bits-and-bobbles, but for a temporary camp I’d think you wouldn’t bring out the whole of a lab. Maybe I’m not fully understanding of it. I’ll admit that my upbringing wasn’t exactly magical – in the most literal sense – so I’ve been trying to learn what I can from Finaster. He’s a royally trained medic, most barely get the chance to learn from such a person, let along work with them – he’s fantastic! But I would be lying if I said we didn’t grate on each other from time-to-time. He relies almost too much on his magic, I’m trying to be open to it, but I’m just not finding it in me. I should try harder.

Lassit, Truegust and I nosed around a bit – we all overheard something we couldn’t quite make out, Lassit said it sounded like wildlife. Maybe there are bears out here? The closer we get to Haartmill the more active the forest gets –

Divines, I was expecting something bad but –

We found a mound, a pile of deer – they’d been mauled – attacked by wolves from the looks of it. It was gruesome. I’ve seen hunting parties before, I know things need to eat but these poor animals were just torn apart. Finaster didn’t do too well hearing about it, neither did Olond. Apparently, he’s used his spells and predicted there’d be a storm coming in.

I wouldn’t trust Finaster with many practical things, but I know enough to trust his predictions. Olond’s told us to settle in for the next few days while the storm blows over, we don’t want to get caught without a roof in the middle of whatever it is Finaster’s guessed at.

….

Night’s drawn over and those sounds have returned. They’re closer now. Scratching, running, it’s an animal no doubt – many if I’m not mistaken. Lassit and I are both awake listening for them, though there’s still nothing directly outside. To our best knowledge we’re safe.

To make matters greater, the storm’s come in – winds like you wouldn’t believe and this freezing rain, it’s only in short showers, but it’s freezing.

Note to self: Waxed canvas tents are worth the money.

19th of Lar. 49th year of Bareris

Lassit is out, she left to search the area but there’s things outside, things in the camp.

They’re huge, I don’t know if they know we’re here – the three of us of us are in this tent but I’m the only one awake. I’m afraid to move, I can’t tell if they’ll hear me.

They look like wolves, but – there’s the outline in the canvas, the moon’s lit them up, it’s bright – they seem too large though, they’re loud – grunting and breathing – I can hear them breathing.

Our weapons are in the supply tent, we’re doctors for the Divine’s sake – we don’t usually need them –

They’re wandering the camp, there must be at least three of them; Gods what am I suppo

----

Something’s happened. I can’t remember.

It’s soaking wet, I don’t know what day it is.

I’m freezing.

The things did something, I don’t know – the camp is ransacked, but I haven’t looked. Haven’t moved. Everything hurts, I don’t want to move, but I can’t hear anyone.

It’s daytime, I think. Trees block the sky, hard to focus – may have hit my head.

If dead are found, send our bodies to the capital. They will know what to do with us. Get to Haartmill.

----

Couldn’t find anyone living – Truegust, Lassit, or Finaster – they’re missing. The things must’ve taken them.

I looked at the camp, found Olond. He’s dead, like the deer, he looked like the deer. All mangled and torn apart.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, I don’t know how to resurrect;

Finaster could, he knew how but –

I don’t know where he is, I should’ve listened better. Learned more. But his stuff is broken I don’t know where to look.

…

Left the camp, started walking – took some of the rations and what I could find of my things, but mostly everything was broken. I don’t know how to help Olond, I just need to find the others.

I must find the others.

They need to be in this forest, I just have to look.

May have hit my head, am dizzy – but I can’t stop.

----

Shoulder hurts.

There’s a wound spanning over it, over both regions. I didn’t realize it was there. It might be infected.

I need to clean it, but I don’t know where anything is.

It burns – hurts to write.

----

Bitten. I’ve been bitten.

Can’t move. Can’t walk. I’m afraid the wound is infected. Feels like grippe – tried to break the fever but it won’t –

The fever won’t break. Used an aconite remedy but I can’t keep it down.

My hands are shaking, can’t hold pen still – keep spilling my ink.

---- Larholm, 49th year of King Bareris D.W

I’m coming back to my senses, but I can’t tell what’s happening, never felt an illness like this –

I can’t sleep but when I do, I’m no more rested than I was before; I’m so hungry but nothing’s making me full – not the rations, they taste like sand. I’ve lost consciousness more than once, found myself yards from the camp – tired – always so tired.

Those wolves are here, I can hear them, see them. They keep sulking around. I can smell them even, wet dogs, but they’re not closing in. They’re watching me.

I’m afraid.

--- Larholm, 49th year of King Bareris D.W

The wolves that attacked us, they’re out there – I saw them creeping in the shade. I was stupid, I couldn’t control myself and saw red. I acted brashly. I ran after them.

It’s no wolf I’ve ever seen. The beast stood on two legs and even hunched over it towered over me.

It should’ve killed me, I was there, it’d already taken everyone else but –

We looked right at each-other, I saw directly into its eyes, but it just sniffed the air and growled, laughed –

It laughed at me.

---- Larholm, 49th year of King Bareris D.W

I didn’t know where I was before, but now I’m very lost – for days I’ve been going in and out of consciousness, trying to keep myself awake but it just won’t stay. I blacked out and now I have no idea where I am.

My things are scattered, armor, clothing, strewn everywhere –

There’s animals around me, dead, they’re all dead. I’m covered in viscera.

I want to think I was attacked, want to think those wolves are somewhere laughing at me, but I know that’s not true.

I know it –

I don’t feel hungry anymore.

---- Larholm, 49th year of King Bareris the Dragon Whisperer

I made my conclusion the moment I saw the bite, but I didn’t want to believe it – I’ve been in denial. It’s silly of me, looking at it now – I know what I’ve caught, I know what those wolves truly were, I should’ve been more careful.

How could I have been more careful?

I’ve been acting foolish, wandering around a forest without a single thought in my head. I’m surprised I haven’t died yet. Anyone acting like I’ve been wouldn’t even survive learning to walk.

I want to apologize to them, I couldn’t do anything but get tossed around like a doll – Why did I survive? What good came from it? I was the one learning. I have nothing for the world yet. but I’ve let them, these people with more knowledge than I could ever fit in my lifetime disappear while I did nothing but be ill.

I’m not letting them disappear without purpose.

I’ve spent my life helping others cure sickness that crippled and killed – they spent their lives doing the same and this is just another one. Just another illness, a disease, something to be cured –

Lycanthropy, in whatever form it may take is just another condition.

I’m a doctor – I’ll be damned if I let it ruin me.

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mossworth · 4 years ago

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OC Portraits - ArtBreeder / Sketch

I've recently been playing around with ArtBreeder and ended up with a heck of a lot of character designs. Instead of letting them catch dust in my files, I'm gonna' throw them here.

__________________________________________

𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡

Ardolf Greymouth - The kindly doctor turned lycanthrope. He's desperate for a cure - I mean, it's just another sickness, right? He's a doctor, finding cures is what they do.

Roald Greymouth - The middle son of the Greymouth clan. Roald is a fantastic diagnostician, and a dedicated, dedicated brother. So much so, after his brother went missing, he played detective and tracked his whereabouts halfway across the continent.

(Sidenote: He's like 13 in the drawn versions, but the ArtBreeder portrait is him as a present-day adult)

Þorir Greymouth - The youngest brother of the Greymouth clan. The surgeon extraordinaire - not yet introduced, but in the works!

Ms. Amare, the Lady Knight - This one actually is actually just a literary version of @sr-newhorizons's D&D character (for the same Curse of Strahd Campaign Ardolf started in!) She also put the ArtBreeder picture together. Go check her out!

She's been mentioned in a few stories, but had a proper speaking part in A Little Warning

Feek - the ever-changing man Ardolf only ever knew by one name. He's secretive, even for a warlock. He's only really been mentioned in the background, but I plan to bring him up a little more in the future.

#oc #original character #oc art #oc portrait #portraits #artbreeder #sketch #character designs #writer #writeblr #writblr #art #Artbreeder is a heck of a program I swear #fantasy #fantasy oc

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stragglewort · 5 years ago

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Greymouth -- “A Little Warning”

Picture by Christy “Goldenwolf” Grand Jean, 2010 - https://www.deviantart.com/goldenwolf/

________________________________________________________________

It was an all too familiar feeling, waking up and knowing time had been lost. From night to morning, Lycanthropy had a great way of destroying his sense of exactly how much time had passed.

But this time around was different. There were witnesses.

It took a bit to realize he was even alive, let alone that he had turned. Some guards or bandits, whatever they were, had ambushed the party. Obviously servants of the land's lord. With their blackened iron armor and stench of undeath, their loyalties were unmistakable. But he only remembered them confronting the group, rising from the shadows and cornering them. Fighting wasn’t his forte, sure, but he usually managed to do it without the help of claws or teeth. He just knew that this lapse in memory had something to do with the full moon that was then barely a day away.

But something was different. Usually after turning he would wake to all those tell-tale things he'd become acquainted with: the ache in his joints from the beast's stretching, the nausea, the hunger. All those he'd accepted as a truth of living.

It didn't take long to realize that he actually felt quite… content.

A shot of panic blew through his already exhausted body. The realization, sharper than any arrow speared him. "…Amare?" He called out to the paladin whose face he could barely realize. If it wasn’t for the fact that she was so close, he probably wouldn’t have been confident enough to ask so specifically. The second understandable words left his mouth, the second she realized he was awake, she bolted upright and shot to grab him. Whether that was something worried or angry – he couldn’t tell. But her hesitation and fallback were more than enough for him to regret ever wondering. At this point he’d only just started traveling with these people – they’d gone through so much together in such a short time, he knew he’d have to tell them about his condition at some point or another –

He only wished it hadn’t been so soon. So sudden. And so completely out of his control.

She responded, though his hearing failed to catch as he found himself distracted by their makeshift battlefield. There was blood, no doubt, that he could smell. Though he couldn't see any bodies. Reeling back from transforming, his senses where always heightened. Touch, smell, hearing – never sight, though. Everything was so blurry – shifted to a foggy grey that took his vision like cataracts – he couldn't tell what was what. He knew there were people standing around him – he could smell and feel their anger, their fear. He hoped it was just the fight that’d shaken them so much. Amare was unmistakable, though, with her bright green tunic and yellow trousers he could spot her from a mile away. She said something again he didn't quite catch, though he knew it was directed at him.

"...Okay?" She ended, kneeling to his level to catch his full attention.

He stared at her bewildered. She’d gotten close enough he could see the worry that tracked over her face. At least – at least – it wasn’t anger. He prayed to whatever god could hear him at that moment it wasn’t. The woman's peppered hair fell in locks past her neck, unkempt from the combat. But that was nothing he could focus on. As he stared, all that came to his mind was the bittering taste of blood left on his tongue. It was sweet. Awfully, horribly delicious. It made him panic. He pulled himself away from the woman with no real logic over why – it was just that the pungent, viscous sour that coated his mouth terrified him.

The woman, taken aback by the weary man's sudden jolt went through with her original idea and grabbed him by the shoulders. Reassuringly – though sternly – pinning him against the tree he was slumped on.

"No…” He shook his head and pawed at her hands weakly – “Please – what happened?" The words finally came to and fell fluttering from him incomprehensibly. "Wh- what did I do? What did I do?" He knew the taste, could smell the metallic pang off his own breath and a-thousand ideas flew through his mind over what or who it might've been from.

"Ardolf, calm yourself."

"Wait, wait –“ He counted Amare, he counted the wizard – Feek. He saw the rogue who’d gone to picking at those lumps of metal and dark he knew were bodies. What he didn’t see were the two little ones they’d taken in after a mishap with some hags in a bog. He loved those kids the second he saw them – he needed to make sure they were okay – and the moment his thought became his own again, they were the priority above every other blasted thing. “Ms. Amare, please, where are the children?" He knew to the horrible beast that two defenseless sacks of meat would be more than palatable. He tried to move from his spot against the old twisted bark of whatever tree he’d taken – but Amare held him down.

She hadn’t exactly hesitated but any time between question and answer was torture. "The children are safe." She said. Her voice was stifled, held back and angry. Oh, she was angry. But as she looked over the horror in the doctor’s face – saw the budding tears at the edges of his tired, shadowed eyes, she softened.

“Thank you – thank you – oh, gods – thank you.” He muttered, slurred and tired, but whole-heartedly genuine.

Amare curbed what was usually a firm, strong tone of voice for something softer. He appreciated the effort; his ears were ringing in a whistle – something painful – and her newfound softness helped break the tune. "Ardolf, what was that?"

“Do I have to say it?” He wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a joke. It felt like one, but no one laughed. He didn’t even laugh. Just sighed and looked up at the brimming dawn sky just hoping the moment would end.

Her hands curled into his shoulders involuntarily, it was a bit painful. She forced down what terrified anger vied to boil up to the surface and spoke again, in a mimicked cool. “…Why had you not told us?”

“Gods… I –“ His voice came out in a scathed whisper. “I wanted to – I was about to –“ He shook his head. “Did I hurt anyone?”

“No.” That, though, was an obvious lie – they both knew that much. Amare, in all her good graces, wasn't the best liar.

"Who did I -"

"No one, Ardolf. No one you should worry over."

The words struck him. The truth from someone else's mouth. He appreciated the newfound honesty, but it didn't hurt any less to hear. “Feek, Austere – they’re alright?” He relented to the tree and fell back into it.

“Stop being a doctor for just one second!” Amare laughed, a bit shaken, but lighthearted.

“But I –“ He started to interrupt, but she shushed him.

“Ardolf we’re fine – you’re the one whose bones we could hear breaking from a furlong away! I’ve heard of wolves but that was a show all on its own –”

He blinked. It was all he could do for that moment as he watched her worry and anger melt into something joking. Whatever worry she had in her own mind, she’d managed to diffuse. He just had to do the same for himself. “A furlong?” He asked.

“I don’t even understand how you could fit all of that into all of you.” She motioned, exaggerated.

He laughed. Mostly out of confusion, sure – and by the gods it hurt to do – but he had no control over it. Short, breathy chuckles left his throat and things almost felt… better. Just better for that moment and that moment alone. He heard Austere yell from the other side of the field with something or another about how, for some reason, the undead guards had pouches of gold. And that, coincidentally, the party now had new wallets. He looked back at the rogue, over to the wizard who’d been eyeing him but had said nothing, and lastly to Amare. The paladin. Who read the confusion like some petty poet’s scroll.

“You’re not shunned, Doctor –“ She started, letting him go. “Just a little warning would be nice next time, yeah?”

He laughed. “I had thought the very same thing.”

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Another Ardolf one-shot! I swear he’ll get a full, proper story at some point or another. By this point quite of bit of his stuff is more in concept! Ideas that end up getting thrown to him because, man, he’s a fun character to write. This one’s set a bit before the Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Staff™. In the future he might get some stories sans-party, so if he ever ends up alone for some reason - know Amare and those folks are all alive! They’re just subject to a non-existent timeline!

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stragglewort · 5 years ago

Text

Greymouth -- “A Brother In Need”

Picture by - New York Public Library, “Berthalda in the Black Valley” by Rackham Arthur, 1912. Public Domain - edited ______________________________________________________________ Roald had found himself in plenty of strange places while looking for his brother. It was where he ultimately ended up that really surprised him, though. It'd been too long since they’d spoken. The eldest son of clan Greymouth had become an absolute black sheep. Years without communication or not, that was nothing like him. It never was. Not the one who almost abandoned success to ease their mother's worries. Not his brother who he'd seen time-and-time again practically pasted to the bedside of the sick even their own father, the village’s one proper doctor, had even given up on. No, his brother wasn't the kind of man to cause worry (or better yet isolation) without good reason. It took Roald long enough to piece together where he’d gone in the first place – between his scattered hints and vague landmarks the whole effort felt impossible:

"The mountains here are beautiful." said one, "But the nights get terribly cold." it might counter. "I'm days out from the capital!" He might've hinted, "But I don't believe I'll visit -". With every new letter it looked like his brother moved a country’s distance. He’d pass through cities and comb over roads but would never tell exactly where he'd stopped to rest his feet.

Roald was clever, though, and more determined than Ardolf was vague.

After too long had passed, he took up the breadcrumbs his brother dropped and followed them to a forest - Very specifically, to the Oxlant woods.

A shadowy grove of thickly leafed, ancient trees with ground carpeted in a fine pad of moss. Roald could only think of the times when Ardolf would drag him to the peaks of Sol-Øluden, their village holed up the cracks of old mountains, and lay on the stone to sleep under the sun. He never understood what was so attractive about sitting on dirt to watch the sky, but when he stepped foot over the icy boarder of the forest, he found himself wishing for nothing less.

It seemed to pull the life out of the air, to stagnate it – every breath tasted bitter. The people of the village warned against him trekking into the woods, they whispered stories of beasts that skulked under the trees at night. Tales of how one wrong step equaled to miles of misdirection! But Roald was never one for superstition. Their claims of an averagely tall doctor who moved through the town and disappeared himself into the woods was enough for him to excuse the warnings as friendly advice.

It was the last place he'd think to look for his brother. Ardolf never liked forests, he always said they were too crowed. Pretty, but crowded. But everything Roald had led him to Oxlant.

Every while or so when Ardolf would pen home, no matter how wide or far out he’d gone, some of them would always lead back to that specific forest. If that wasn't it, he had no idea where else to look, and Roald wasn’t one to admit defeat.

The hike was worse than he could've prepared for. He was a doctor and a surgeon, not a ranger – but in that case, neither was his brother. That was the whole reason he decided to go after him in the first place. if he was having issues there’d be no doubt Ardolf wouldn’t sympathize.

Though the moss on the ground was soft, the soil felt frozen. It made it feel like he’d been walking on acres of stone. His feet went sore after the first few hours and his vision failed him past that – between the lateness of the night and the shroud of trees, it came to be unbearably dark. Even in the spots where the full moon peeked through the leaves. He'd decided to camp for the night like he had plenty times before. He built up a linen tent, put stones around a pit he dug with his hands for a fire, and prepared a lined border around the camp of twigs and other crunchy, noisy, but unnoticeable things. He wanted to make sure if the villagers were right with their stories of 'monsters and beasts', be they mice or giants, he'd hear them coming.

And as the night went on, after he'd settled to sleep, he certainly heard something.

First was the howling that echoed off the closely grown trees. He was a light sleeper anyway, and stirred him near instantly. It sounded like a wolf, loud enough to be many, but singly voiced. Secondly the howl was accompanied by a heavy thudding sound. He listened as paws or feet beat against the ground, something bulky that sunk into wood and soil. The descriptions the town's men gave him raced through his mind. They’d warned of elemental beasts, of faeries and animals, but none of them mentioned anything about wolves!

Bears, yes. Deer, elk, and spiders the size of elk, sure. But not a single mention of wolves. Could it be a dire-beast? Were there even dire-beasts in the Oxlant woods? He debated over if it’d be smarter to stay put or move, but the decision was made for him –

The pouncing grew louder as he heard whatever had overtaken the forest charge into his territory. He could hear the thing's claws scrape at the icy earth before the racket of leaves, twigs, and other noisy but unnoticeable things breaking reached him. Roald held his breath, bit his tongue, and kept motionless in the center of the small tent. He could see the silhouette of the beast projected against the fabric from the light of a few flickering embers still alive in the fire pit.

It was massive. Absolutely massive.

He hoped it was a trick of dim light and poor shadows – but it almost looked humanoid. The figure of the creature, which had come to a complete stop outside of his tent, was bipedal. Large and muscular with the outline of an animalistic snout at its head – but it stood on two legs as upright as any man. Though, its back was hunched. He heard it sniff at the air as a low, throaty grumble escaped its mouth –

“--man.” The beast snarled, the words barely recognizable, filtered through fangs and a muzzle. Of all the monsters the townsfolk warned him over, how did every one of them fail to mention this one? But his thoughts were cut – the creature bellowed a blood freezing and pained, grating howl before it fell to all fours and crept towards the tent. He heard stone crack as it stepped over his fire pit and smothered the embers under its foot.

His vision died with the cinders.

All he had left was the sound as it circled his tent and sniffed at the air. He could hear a second noise clatter between the animal’s footsteps and his own frantic heartbeat. The sound of metal. Something tough that clinked against the beast's hide. Roald knew the dangers and he hadn't neglected to prepare; he had a bow and a small blade. It was nothing he thought would be terribly effective against whatever demon was in his camp, but it was all better than being unarmed. He moved slowly and tried to muffle his hands while he reached for the bag. His fingers barely scraped the latch before he was startled by a beastly growl – it could smell him, but he wasn’t sure how well it could see.

The bag was cleanly organized, like everything Roald owned. Even in the dark it didn’t take much to find the crossbow. He tried, in vain, to steady his hands while he fumbled to get a bolt set in the flight groove. The creature didn’t seem to recognize the sound, thank the gods – he took a hold and sat for a second, listening to the animal. He wanted the monster to make the first move. He wasn’t willing to cause a fight he couldn’t win if it was going to leave on its own volition.

But he realized it only got closer.

It crept, almost hesitantly. He had to close his eyes to focus on the noise; there wasn’t much space in the tent for him to move. The upside being there wasn’t much space for the creature to skulk. He fixated on the position of the bow, on where his hands landed on the wooden body, and traced where he could hear the beast’s steps with the point of the bolt. His focus did nothing to slow his heart. He’d almost come to think it was going to leave him alone, but his optimism was never so spot on. With all hesitation gone, the monster tore through the threshold of the fabric. Roald pulled at the levered trigger, letting a steel bolt fly from the end and with a weighty thud as it landed in flesh.

The creature, with undeniable anger, cried out in pain.

Roald still couldn’t see, but it didn’t take eyes to feel its frenzy and anger surge. Its cries turned livid and the beast clawed in random directions. Again, the realization of how small his tent was came to mind. The creature’s talons were sharp and thick, it trapped Roald in the middle of a swing, and he was thrown to the side. The only thing that broke his fall was the linen of the tent as it collapsed around him. A familiar warm spread of blood overtook his senses, it had torn through his shirt and cut into his side. He was too panicked to feel it at first blush – but he couldn’t help but think over how sore it’d be in the next hour. If he could even make it to the next hour. Still on the ground he could only roll out of the way in the darkness. The forest was pitch black; nothing to tell him where he needed to go or how far. He never liked to admit defeat, but he’d dropped the bow somewhere between the animal’s claws and the ground. It was obvious, he couldn’t deny, when he was outmatched.

Roald struggled free from the linen and threw silence to the wind as he scrambled to his feet and ran. The creature gave chase. Without light he found himself bouncing between trees as his shoulders scraped and feet caught on thorns – he struggled to hold his balance, even worse he could hear just perfectly how close the animal was behind him. He'd obviously taken it by surprise with the bolt, but it collected itself all too quickly.

Hope, though, was just in sight –

Between narrow passages of wood and vine he saw the slightest peak of light shimmer through leaves. Moonlight. He ran for it and almost fell headfirst into a small clearing while the creature careened through tree and bush alike.

The clearing, it seemed, used to have guests. It too held a camp – this one ransacked and destroyed. He had a good idea over what might've caused the chaos, but he didn't have time to worry over strangers. He came to his balance the moment the creature popped into sight. It was dim, but he could see clearly the whole of the monster under its patron's light. It was this hunchbacked hybrid of wolf and man, polished chains rattled from its neck and arms, and its eyes glowed a crystalline grey in the light that – as odd as it felt to think – raised a strange sense of recognition. Now in the whole of the moonlight he saw why it sounded so hurt. Not only was his bolt firmly planted in its shoulder, but its fur was matted with blood and scars of its own. Whatever it was doing before finding Roald, it wasn’t successful. It growled between aggravated breaths and stood up again to eye the young man – almost contemplating. It acted frenzied back in the camp, but at that moment, if he really thought about it, the creature almost looked confused.

Something, there had to be something more he could use. Surely whoever was there before him had to have something prepared for themselves? Who else even decided to camp so far out into the forest? He scanned the mess: a ripped bedroll and a rattled firepit – a bag that'd been torn open – papers lined the ground in shreds as plentiful as moss, and –

A mace. An iron mace tossed haphazardly to the side.

He wished he could appreciate it more, but the situation wouldn't allow. No, this was a very specific mace – one he truly recognized, one he'd seen a million times before.

The mace he saw was the same brandished-iron tool his brother used to carry at his hip. The papers, now that he was paying attention seemed to piece themselves together in his mind. Notes and anatomical documentation destroyed by brutal claws and ground water. He knew whose camp this was, it’s what he'd been looking for – but that was not the state he wanted to find it in! Something overwhelmed him – anger, grief, he felt sick and the pit of his stomach churned. For just a second he was afraid he’d vomit. He bolted, instead, for the weapon and gripped it tightly. It was heavy and made him wonder how his brother was able to stand keeping it on his belt. But it was his brother’s. The heirloom mace that couldn’t have belonged to any other single person in all the blessed land. Looking back, Roald would readily admit how silly and dangerous is was of him to do what he had done – but it truly seemed like the worst had come. For all he knew his brother was dead and he was staring at the murderer, at the monster who did it. Roald charged the creature and swung the weapon haphazardly.

If his anger hadn’t destroyed any-and-all ability he might’ve had, his uselessness with heavy armory did the job. There was barely any strength to the swing.

The metal hit the monster nearly where he had shot it just a minute before and it whined out scathingly to the forest. It swung back at him in chaotic but suddenly restrained bursts. One overshot, and instead of hitting, got its arm caught against the handle of the mace. Roald, at that moment standing so close to the creature noticed another thing. The chains weren't just idle decoration – no, the skin under the shackles was blistered, almost burnt.

Silver, he assumed.

He pushed back the animal’s arm and caught a glimpse into its eyes. Instead of the frenzy he'd come to hate – he saw a kind of reluctance.

“Roald –“ A yelping, wolfish cry etched from its snout and took him by surprise. That was his name, no doubt about it. Even through growls and barks, that was most certainly his name. The monster staggered back, but refused to retaliate. Instead he watched as it shook its head and reeled away. One clawed hand grabbed at its shoulder where the mace had broken skin and it lost its balance, falling onto a hardened oak tree.

It was fighting itself, writhing and howling at the sky.

Roald didn't think he hit it that hard. He knew he hadn’t. Bellowing from the creature he heard the ever so specific, so exact sound of breaking bone. The beast cried out as its form started to meld and boil, its shape faltered as its whole image began to shift, remolding itself. The fur shed and its claws shrunk back into place, the howls morphed in tone to something almost human-like.

"No – no more." An exhausted voice cried out. As the evidence of the creature disappeared, all that was left in its place was the limply downed form of an averagely tall man in tattered clothes. A crossbow bolt jutted firmly into his shoulder. Roald stood stunned for some seconds; he wasn’t sure if he could even believe his own eyes. Maybe a trick of the light or some sort of hallucination brought on by blood loss?

But the man he saw never wavered. The hallucination he assumed he was having never faded.

The mace fell from his hands as he watched the beast he was so sure killed his brother shift and change into a shape he undeniably knew – "...Artie?" Roald's voice cracked under some incomprehensible weight. "Artie is – by the gods – is that you?" He didn’t notice the tears well up in his eyes until they obscured his vision. He’d come to the forest with the expectations of the worst. That he’d find his brother mauled by monsters, captured by bandits, find him murdered, or not even find him at all!

But that.

There was no way he could’ve ever imagined enough to prepare himself for that. He gave no time for an answer before he charged and fell to his knees, meeting eye-level with the man. "Roald, I – I’m sorry –" Ardolf tried to speak but his voice failed out on him, the words caught dryly in his throat. Roald grabbed him by his shoulders before he loosened his grip when his brother winced. They sat silently, neither knew what to say or how to say it. Instead their confusion came out as soft, shaky laughter.

"Artie." Roald choked between teary hiccups and loose, confused laughter - "You never mentioned this in your letters.". ________________________________________________________________

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stragglewort · 4 years ago

Note

Uncommon OC Questions! For Ardolf: 1, 2, 14, 18, 33, 38, 45, 50 For Martin: 4, 5, 10, 15, 20, 21, 36, 49 And 25, 41 and 43 for both! ＼(＾▽＾)／

Whoa, that’s a lot. You always know exactly how to pander to me. I’ll do my best! These are probably going to be some pretty long answers, though.

________________________________________________________________

First up, Ardolf:

1.) A little-known talent of your OC?

Hm, for Ardolf? It would probably be his ability to work with children. Like, if he had been in a modern setting, he probably would’ve gone into family medicine or pediatrician work. Though he’s not a terribly charismatic person, he is pretty soft and fatherly and has high-key adopted nearly every child we’ve come across in the D&D campaign I use him as a character in.

Otherwise? Whistling. He’s really good at whistling.

2.) What trait does your OC like best about themself? (Eyes, guitar skills, random bird facts, etc)

He’s extremely proud of his practical doctoring skills. Though he’s learned healing magic and divination now that he’s gotten older and wiser, he grew up in the Greymouth Clan – a house of human doctors and surgeons that almost specifically worked with hands-on medicine. Give him some bandages, some leaves, and a bit of elbow grease and he can patch you just as well as any spell! (Though maybe it’ll take a bit longer. He really just wants to be as helpful as possible, even after he can’t cast anything).

14.) Happy birthday! What kind of present would your OC want?

Anything from the heart! It could be a song, a poem, a letter, or even a neat looking rock. He hasn’t celebrated his own birthday for years and just the gesture of someone remembering would probably make him tear up. Had he been a bit younger, freshly baked sweet or herb bread would’ve been his jam! That’s only changed in the recent years because, you know, lycanthropy makes eating that sort of thing real difficult.

18.) Something that makes your OC laugh without fail? Carved pumpkins, gourds, and really anything that has a face when it probably shouldn’t.

Like, a goofy face? A scary one? A half-baked monstrosity that could barely count as a Jack-O-Lantern? Doesn’t matter, it’ll get him every time.

33.) A song that reminds you of your OC?

There’s too many to choose! Probably Kind Folk – instrumental by Kenny Wheeler and Brian Dickinson, Secunda by Jeremy Soule (from the Skyrim soundtrack), or The Bygone Days from Porco Rosso. Kind of just dependent on the scene!

38.) Random thunderstorm! How does your OC react?

He’d probably around and watch it go by. The thunder gets a little uncomfortably loud, considering his hearing is all lycanthropic, but something about rain and a nice mist reminds him of home at the times when he’s farthest away.

45.) What kind of self-esteem does your OC have?

A very poor one!

Though he does try to keep his chin-up, as he’ll say, the first word that would pop in his head to describe himself would be something like ‘monster’ or ‘creature’. Though his lycanthropy is something he wasn’t born with, and he’s spent a good portion of his life fighting against it, he’s begrudgingly settled on the idea that it’s a part of him he cannot control. And that tends to be a bit of a bummer sometimes! Though he tries to, he has a very difficult time separating the wants of the curse with his own – and though he’ll say he and the beast are two different beings (and ultimately, he’s right) he worries, deep down, if that might not truly be the case.

50. What is your OC’s happy place?

On the top of a mountain somewhere – close to his family – close to his friends – watching the clouds of morning mist roll across the peaks. Mostly anywhere safe, warm, and together with people he cares about.

________________________________________________________________

On to Martin!

3.) Is your OC good at keeping secrets?

Hahaha, no.

He certainly tries! But if he gets off on a nervous tangent (which is about 60%-85% of his dialogue) he has a tendency to overshare. Quiiite a bit.

4.) Your OC’s worst habit?

He cannot keep quiet. Half of the time he’s speaking, he’s usually not even sure what he’s saying! But boy will he say it. And he’ll say it in staggering, stuttering bulk. See above.

10.) Would your OC prefer to live in the city, the suburbs, or the country?

He has no idea. The suburbs?

A close-knit community, nice, quiet, everyone-knows-everyone and that means everyone knows who he is and maybe they’ll use that to catch him off guard.

The city?

So many people that he’d be faceless, could be safe! But also very, very unsafe. Notoriously unsafe. Wait, doesn’t he live in a city? If something happened would authorities even have time to help him? What if there’s so many people that they gang up on him? Hold on.

The country?

That’s isolated, safe, lovely – but what if it’s so isolated that if something bad happened no one would hear him calling! What if his neighbors were strange and odd, then what would happen? He’d be stuck with them! And the land prices!

If he’d have the choice, he’d probably live in a Minecraft house. On peaceful.

15.) Something that grosses your OC out?

Ironically, considering he’s a vampire spawn, blood! He’s super, extremely squeamish and cannot stand the stuff.

20. An obscure/ridiculous fear your OC has?

Honestly if you talked it up right, you could convince this poor man to fear anything. I cannot pinpoint just one. (Though high-key, reality television. He knows it’s usually fake, but what if it wasn’t? What if someday he’s just trying to watch TV or go grocery shopping and all of a sudden a camera crew shows up Truman Show style? Horrifying.)

21.) Does your OC have any type of disability, whether it be mental, physical, etc?

Mhm. Overarchingly he suffers pretty majorly from Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder (something that I plan to cover/work with pretty majorly in the stories) and Generalized Anxiety Disorder (something he had been working with since before the whole vampirism thing). After the vampiric attack/turning, he also has some unnamed disorders he’s working with (I, as the author, have applied them as symptoms of his pseudo-vampirism, and didn’t want to apply real-world diagnosis to avoid some really poor misguided diagnostic attempts!) such as a whole lotta’ paranoia and general poor-coping with being a half-undead. He also has some pretty major ticks (specifically an eye twitch he, for the life of him, cannot get to stop).

36.) Your OC’s favorite fashion era? (20’s, 70’s, etc)

I’d say 90s grunge. But that’s kind of a stretch, and probably more of an excuse to not futz with his hair and wear clothes three times his size.

49.) Your OC’s most prized possession?

:･ﾟ☆✧ The friendship he creates with the other Ghoul Parade protagonists :･ﾟ☆✧

In his apartment (which, mind you, is extremely cluttered and it the apartment equivalent of that Pepe Silvia picture) he has a small battery powered waterfall set up on what used to be his kitchen counter. It has a frog at the top that spits water into small pots that then pour into each other, and if he presses a button it’ll turn on some very soft LED lights. That. That is one of his most prized possessions.

29.) Someone does something awful in front of your OC. How do they handle it?

That depends on what sort of awful we’re talking about. He instinctively wants to help – to really help – and will go as far as putting himself into a hypothetical (or literal, who knows!) line of fire if someone’s really in danger. Though smaller things, in more everyday situations, he usually finds himself freezing up.

________________________________________________________________

And now, for both!

41. Does your OC like/make puns?

Yes. Absolutely. Without a doubt.

43. Your OC wakes up with a coin super glued to their forehead. How do they react?

Ardolf would probably spend the whole morning trying to pry it off, before either succeeding or just giving up and asking one of his friends to help. To which they’d probably have no better luck. He wouldn’t be angry with whoever did it! More just kind of flustered until ultimately laughing it off.

And Martin probably wouldn’t notice for some time (he doesn’t really keep any mirrors in his house. He can very-well see himself in them, but something about the connection they have to vampire lore makes him uneasy) and wouldn’t notice until someone pointed out. He’d then drop everything and take hours trying to figure out how someone got into his house to put a coin on his head. Why they did it. What kind of coin it was. If it was really, actually a coin. All to probably learn that he somehow did it himself in some freak minor mishap. Yes, that’s absolutely what he would do.

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