#thrmir

[chroniclesofthrmir]

The Destruction of Fort Amntok

Even as I recount this, the air is strong with the scent of acrid smoke. After a night and a day's travel, my party reached the high walls of Fort Amntok, where we fled to after a giant monstrosity destroyed our compound. We journeyed without sleep, without nourishment, through mud and rain, driven onward by fear of the colossal primate horror that was surely hunting us. Amntok was a small settlement, a well-defended hamlet staffed by soldiers of the Legion. In their typical style of construction, it bore a tower at the four corners of its perimeter wall, and a sole portcullis upon its front face. When we arrived to Amntok, delirious and frantic, warning the villagers of a beast in the forest, we were delivered to the Legionary commander. He was a tall man, with broad shoulder that seemed fit to bear the weight of the world upon them. He understood our plight and believed our tale, preparing his soldiers for battle.

The armory of Amntok was stocked with blades and bludgeons, as any storehouse of the Legion would, but also crossbows and their bolts hence. The battlements seemed to bristle with catapults; a firm line of the machines pointed outward in each cardinal direction. The commander was a religious man; he believed that the beast, which he had named "Rhantoa" after the word for primal rage, was demonic in nature. In order to draw it out from the forest, he ordered the villagers to begin a seance for Saint Amntok, the holy Legionary figure who the settlement was named after. The last thing any of my party wanted was to encourage the beast to come closer, but the commander was convinced his plan would work. He would lure Rhantoa into the open fields surrounding the Fort, and release a hailstorm of rocks at its great shaggy mass.

In retrospect, I believe it was not the spectre of Saint Amntok which brought the beast to the gates, but the raucous cheering of the townsfolk and the great column of smoke from the prayer-pyre erected in the centre of the Fort. Its distant howling filled me with a cerebral dread. Instantly, the soldiers mobilized, sighting Rhantoa just south of the outpost. I stood beside the commander as the first wave of catapults fired their stone payloads into the sky. Perhaps two hit their mark, barely seeming to wound the beast. I saw a shadow flicker across the commander's face, as if a part of his soul had retreated from his body. He stammered an incantation to himself, before ordering the rest of the catapults to be wheeled to the south battlement. By this point, Rhantoa had noticed us. Though it was at least three-hundred paces away, I could sense its anger as it began to lope in our direction across the grassland. The catapults let loose another wave of projectiles; this time, the majority of the stones struck Rhantoa, one hitting it right on the snout. It shrieked with fury, and continued its slow approach.

For a split second, my thoughts flashed back to the night of Rhantoa's first attack - the blood, the screams, bodies mangled, limbs torn right off. This could not happen again, and it was clear that the Legion's catapults were akin to a boy throwing pebbles at a wild boar. It would only serve to enrage the beast further. The commander was silent for a moment, not even blinking, before he explained his new strategy. Polearms. He ordered his men out of the fortress gates, erecting long spears in the ground as if preparing to defend against a cavalry charge. To supplement his plan, he had soldiers on horseback approach Rhantoa with spears, to incapacitate its legs and slow it down further. The greatest impediment to his plan was the fear of his own Legionaries. None of them wanted to leave the perceived safety of Amntok, believing it to be sanctified against the "demon". The old man from my party flew into a rage, screaming at the soldiers until his voice was hoarse. He called them cowards, fools, and far worse obscenities, explaining in lurid detail the events he had seen at the compound. He instilled the terrifying truth in those soldiers, that the great stone walls of their outpost would do nothing against Rhantoa.

His speech kicked some sense into the men, who marched out onto the field, driving the long spears into the soil with equal use of counterweights, pulleys and sheer physical power. The horsemen went forth after their work was done, bellowing a war cry to mock Rhantoa's own in their moment of courage. The first of them loosed his spear at the beast's foot, right before he was tore from his saddle and bitten in half. The other horsemen began to falter, one being thrown from his horse in the ensuing chaos. Rhantoa lunged at another rider, this time twisting the stallion's rear leg off and leaving the poor beast bucking and spasming on the bloodstained grass. Rhantoa, now perhaps one-hundred paces from the Fort's walls, chased after the horrified horsemen with a predatory lust in its eyes. Its sick taste for blood had clearly been renewed after crushing a soldier between its jaws, and now it wanted more. As it drew ever closer, I prayed that the spears would stop its assault. At fifty paces, it reached the first line of defence. It seemed to trip slightly, the polearms sinking deep into its legs, splintering and working their way into its skin as it fell howling to the ground. The foot soldiers charged it with pikes and spears of their own, stabbing it in every conceivable part of its body in an attempt to bleed it dry. One of the Legionaries became too foolhardy, and was grabbed in Rhantoa's crushing grip, before being forced upward into its cavernous, dripping maw. Some soldiers ran, others sank their spears deep into the beast's flesh in a final attempt to kill it. I could only watch transfixed from the battlements as Rhantoa rose to its feet once more, spears jutting from various parts of its body, thick blood sticking to its fur in patches. I heard the wooden polearms lodged in its leg-bones snap like firewood as it continued its slow march, seemingly unfazed by the ungodly pain the implements must've caused.

I remember the commander yelling "Amntok preserve us!" and sprinting from the battlements into the village square. I followed him closely, hoping he knew of some secret passage out of the Fort before Rhantoa clawed its way in. The commander made sure the majority of his troops were inside the Fort's walls before he ordered the closing of the portcullis. The second set of polearms at twenty-five paces barely slowed the beast's approach. As a final strategy, the Commander blockaded himself in the Fort's church, frantically ringing the bell to get Rhantoa's attention. His soldiers were to hide in buildings and around alleyways, spearing the monstrosity before quickly escaping. It was the only conceivable way of bringing down the beast. I heard its howl, and then the unmistakable crumbling of stone as it began to tear the portcullis out of its gateway. With no weapon, all I could do was crouch behind a squat granary as Rhantoa strode into the fortress. It stampeded towards the church, swinging its claws at the tower and carving off a chunk of stone as it did so. Sparks erupted from the steeple, showering the thatched houses and beginning a thousand tiny fires within the hamlet. My vision was diluted with omnipresent ripples of white for minutes after observing the voracious ball of flame. As I stumbled between buildings half-blind, I thought about what I had just seen: Rhantoa conjuring fire out of its claws. The commander was right; this truly was a demon, and I had seen twice now the extents of its cruelty. It could not be fought. As flames licked at the thatched roofs of the Fort's cottages, I sprinted through the gateway and out into the fields, though not before scavenging some supplies from the gatehouse.

I walked for miles, finally hiding behind a wall-like formation of rocks until dusk. At that point, I snuck back to the ruins of Amntok, to see an even greater display of barbarity than the attack on my compound. It was clear that the gate had been somehow blocked by debris, trapping the soldiers and Rhantoa in the burning hamlet. Some soldiers died from the smoke, others were killed by Rhantoa. The unluckiest among their ranks were cooked alive in their armor; I could see where molten fat had bubbled out of their face-plates. Some soldiers made it out at the very least - their charred clothes and cast-down weapons littered the fields surrounding Amntok.

I do not know what to do know. My only possible sanctuary for miles has suffered the same fate as my first lodging. Rhantoa will very likely find me soon, reducing me to flesh and agony as he has done my brethren. The thought horrifies me.

[chroniclesofthrmir]

The Night The Compound Fell

It was barely an hour past midnight when I heard the explosion. At first I mistook it for an ambient crack of thunder, but then the howling started. Wretched, guttural shrieking, carrying through the stone corridors of the building. In those first few moments of primal fear and panic, I do not recall the exact transpiration of events, but I found myself in the courtyard. Torrential rain battered my shoulders, as if forcing me to my knees, making my hair slick and wet against my scalp. The far tower was in flames; violent plumes of orange-red erupted from shattered windows and cracks in the stonework, spouting black smoke from the caved-in roof into the night sky. The light from the inferno revealed an ungodly behemoth crouched amongst the partially destroyed west archway. I can barely find the words to describe that... monstrosity... even now. It was an abomination the size of a house, covered in fetid reddish fur that clung to its bulk like fungi to a tree trunk. Its obscene face was contorted into a masque of rage, with eyes like inkwells and a mouth bearing long yellowed fangs. It reeked of rotting flesh.

The compound continued to fall into the maw of chaos as the night continued. The buildings it was split between, the west and east wings, were grandiose constructions with high ceilings and ornate arches connecting their various quarters. They proved easy to navigate for the beast as it continued its massacre. The halls soon rung with the omnipresent sound of screaming, attenuated by deep howling and the rumble of falling masonry. Supposedly, it had destroyed the entirety of the west wing's archives, according to one poor soul I briefly spoke with in the main hall. His lower half, from ankles to pelvis, had been entirely mangled, as if some mad blacksmith had taken a cudgel to his legs. He expired soon after. The compound's guards, mostly hired blades from the region, took the main hall as a stronghold against the beast. They spread the wounded and dead across the floor, as many as they could carry out from the west wing before the doors were barricaded shut. Among the injured, those who were capable of speech beyond delirious babblings told horror stories. The beast had devoured at least seventy guilds-men, and in the chaos, a fire had started. I realized with dread that the survivors and I would have to abandon the main hall and flee into the east wing, otherwise the inferno would quickly creep its tendrils around our refuge.

None of the guilds-men of the compound were "mages". We were merely students of the arcane, men and women brought together by intelligence and collective intrigue for metaphysicks. We had no way to defend ourselves; the beast slaughtered anyone in its path, students, tutors, guards, even the cooks. Our defenders perhaps fared the worst, trying bravely to face the horror only to be struck down. One attempted to slash the beast's leg to incapacitate it - his blade was lodged in its disgusting matted fur, before his head was ripped off as if uncorking a bottle of monastic wine. The captain of the guard stayed in the main hall after the door had been broken down, in a final valiant effort to buy precious time for our escape. In full plate-mail, she survived the first blow from the monstrosity, though it sent her sprawling. It charged forward, forcefully grinding her under its massive palm. For a moment, I saw her liquefied flesh erupt in crimson streams from the cracks of her armor.

The night dragged on. The stone halls I knew so well, that had once been havens for knowledge accrued over centuries, were now transfigured into a labyrinth from which I could not escape. The cobbled paths were slick with blood, every room and every hall was strewn with dislodged stone and glistening entrails. Everywhere I looked I saw death; the bodies of my fellow guilds-men crushed underfoot, mangled into offal, torn apart like hogs at the blood market and disemboweled more voraciously than the cruelest of human tortures. At the fifth hour - the clock in the east wing's library remained miraculously undamaged - we conceived of an escape plan. With a length of rope salvaged from the guard's barracks, we would rappel down the outer wall of the compound and head northwest to a nearby town. They would surely have an outpost of the Legion there; perhaps properly armed, they would be able to kill the monstrosity. We clambered up to the battlements to execute our plan, although in a stroke of ungodly luck, one of the survivors slipped and dashed his brains across the rain-lubricated stairs. That left four of us, myself included. As far as I knew, we were the only survivors. The beast would've soon explored all of the east and west wings, and then it would come for us. I prayed to any deities listening that the high walls of the compound, designed to keep threats out, would serve to keep the beast in for long enough that we could escape. Finally reaching a suitable point of anchorage, the oldest of our group tied the rope around a merlon and descended into the darkness. A firm tug was enough of a signal for me to attempt the plunge next. My whole body trembled as I gripped the rope with both hands and feet, inching down to the forest floor, unrelenting rain threatening to weaken my grip. I reached a point where I could see nothing above nor below me. The barrage of wind and water against my skin and the harsh rope against my fingers were the only confirmation that I was still alive.

Finally, my feet sank into wet podzol. Once all four of us had escaped the hellish confines of the burning compound, the old man lit a torch and we began walking. My mind was set upon a single goal at that time: escape. I did not know the distance we would have to walk, whether we would need to forage for food, whether the beast would hunt us down or, conversely, whether it had perished in the flames. Our only objective for the rest of the night was to walk until we were far away from the remains of the compound, and the beast within.

All I know is that I escaped by sheer luck. That abomination is terribly hungry. Its lust for brutality and death was not quenched by the destruction of our compound, of that I am certain. If we do not evade it, I know it will come for us. It will kill us. And it will savor every moment.