Fierce joy and endless hunger swirled between him and the wolf that rode his soul as they relentlessly tracked the fleeing horseman over war torn, frosty terrain. He rode until his sturdy northern destrier had blood foaming from wide, flared nostrils, then leaped off and gave over to the wolf who ran tirelessly after the fleeing mortal…getting closer and closer. At last he came to a tumbled down old keep whose last remaining tower jutted upwards into the night sky like a sword hilt whose blade was buried in dead flesh.
Undead roamed the tumbled, neglected grounds, and the old man waded in, giant two handed sword slashing as he put them back down for good. The ghosts however…they were another thing entirely. Each wore the face of someone from his past. Each confrontation was a weeping figure of the long dead come to haunt him again, each wounding him in ways a weapon never could. He found in the siege of a thousand faces that he was not as immune as he had thought he was, and grief ravaged him, bleeding a soul that had become a dark shadow of what it once had been.
He howled and cried out and sobbed as he swung his enchanted blade, cutting the silvery misted forms and feeling the resistance in his blade as if he cut through flesh. Here he faced his demons and they were the innocents he had murdered, and those who had trusted him to lead whom he had failed in his casual sacrifice of their lives- all in the name of vengeance. Slowly they took their toll, stabbing at him with icy cold fingers, tearing away at him and a tide of death washing over him…the futility of lives lost unjustly before their time.
And as the anguish consumed him, the ghost of the man he had once been awoke and saw what had been done out of grief and loss, and the regret of it all was a stunning blow that dropped him to his knees and he wept as the tide of spirits washed over him and all became darkness as he prayed for death to any who might hear him.
He woke to the silence that can only be found in the eternal winter lands of the Nord, where only wind and the crackle of ice break the quiet of deep nights. He opened his eyes slowly, the twin moons peering down at him in aloof curiosity, the crisp spattering of tiny spinning stars like jewels in the blackness of the void.
The sweat on his body had frozen to a thin sheet of ice and the cold seemed to radiate from his very bones as he slowly came to his feet. He groaned at the ache of abused muscle and the slicing pain left from ghostly fingers. The ghosts had vanished and the mounds of slain zombies had gathered snow that disguised much of their individual horror; the winter dusting leaving them just another misshapen pile like the fallen stones of the ransacked keep that radiated from the broken tower.
Slowly he moved to the keep drawn by a cold blue light burning at the top. The wolf seemed far away, subdued somehow, the connection faint. Axel took the stairs inside, boots scraping against frosted stone, echoing loudly with each step. For the first time he could remember, he did not burn for this kill, and his soul was conflicted as he came like a reaper to end yet another life that had done no injury to him.
At the top he found nothing but a boy huddled against the stone wall, his back to the old Nord, arms clasping his own knees to his chest as if desperately seeking warmth. Axel felt nothing…no stirring from his beast and he stood there, arms hanging at his sides, sick to death of the killing. A sconce had fallen to the ground, an ice blue flame burning from the top. He knew this was not right but could not summon the energy to react to the mounting sense of unease. Instead he sighed, reaching down to right a splintered, half burnt chair and sat down with a deep exhalation of breath.
He knew this was no boy, and that he had been tricked.
“Well. Get it ‘oer with ye evil thing. Ye drew me here a’purpose. Have done, a’ready.”
Slowly the dark haired child turned his head to look back at the old Nord. A secretive smile curved pale lips and black, soulless eyes glistened in a white face. Slowly the haunt stood and faced Axel. “Oh, it is over already Old Wolf. You already chose. I’m afraid your prey is in another castle. Instead my Prince takes yet another you love from you…and you will be too late again. Always too late. Poor Axel.”
The figure vanished, leaving the Nord there alone at the top of the tower, the distant echo of laughter buffeting his exhausted spirit. It was a moment before he understood, and a schism of anguish jolted away his weariness.
“Wulfran!”
The chair went crashing as he got to his feet abruptly and raced down the steps, driven by panic. Not again…not this time….the lad would listen and wait for him…he would not have taken on the vampire alone…
And the wolf raced across frozen tundra, prayers cast into the void that he would get there on time.
guardianwulf 