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Squib Ep.36 - Submission

ButonflySep 10, 2019, 1:05:58 AM

(Start at the beginning here)

The swim away from danger had served its purpose but ironically and despite being back on land, Herule found himself in deeper water. The foul sickness that now walked the swamp had consumed the land. The dead walked and with it the sorcery that permeated the air felt all the more present. Herule might have appeared a simple creature but even if it were true, it would not have lessened the effect the pervading evil had on his senses; on his very soul; if anything it made it that much worse. Despite being so accustomed to the swamp’s earthen nature, to its acrid waters, thick mud, aged trees, and deep roots, and being surrounded by all of those things now, he couldn't help but feel in a foreign land. He did not like it, not one bit, and to make matters worse, he could feel the presence of something stalking him.

The goal had been to make his way back to Squib, track down Bandana, chastise them both for their foolhardiness in progressing without him to protect them, and reclaim the pilfered powder he knew all to sourly the wretched Goblin had pinched. So many points of business with which to bring order, and none of it at all important now that Herule ran fearfully for his life.

A malevolent power was now upon him, manifest in physical form, closing in from the East, while to the West, a wall of various undead creatures mulled on the boundary to the Grove. It wasn't clear what had paused the monstrosities in their march. The land here was some of the best the Silkwood had to offer. Hardy packed soil, very little pooling of water, wet only from the long bout of rainfall, and full of tall strong trees as hearty as the best found anywhere in the swamp. No natural land barriers impeded the undead in their movements, nor was there any intelligence present amidst them stopping them with called commands. They had simply stopped without reason, as if repelled by some unseen force. It didn’t take much for Herule to surmise a matter of authority was at hand, and that somehow whatever power the Dryad possessed was at work in barring the undead from her domain. It was a nice idea, that sanctuary abounded somewhere in the swamp, and that there lay a place Herule could free spare himself the insult of something so unnatural. Yet there in lay the problem as, standing between him and the very relief he craved, was a small but imposing force of unnatural terrors.

“My life is cursed,” Herule hissed, doubting himself as he peeked out cautiously with his back pressed to a tree. It wasn't the zombie horde to his front that bothered him, busily distracted as they were with their forced stall. Rather it was what approached behind that gave him cause for concern. Imposing, dark, malevolent, a creature of dread. He had caught sight of it from a distance as he scouted for a way out of this mess, and though the thing had not seen him it became aware of his presence. Slowly but surely it pursued him ever since, and slowly but surely it narrowed their gap. Deep intelligence set it aside from the other cursed beings that now plagued the swamp, wrapped in a heavy skin of metal that covered it from head to toe, it wielded a heavy blade that stretched much of its height, and beyond the slit in its helm appeared what Herule could only describe as a dark void that swallowed the light. With it along seemed to go all the hopes and dreams of anyone caught staring, which to Herule seemed worst of all.

“Curse this Lizardman’s curiosity for looking!” Herule chastise himself, thinking not so much of his predicament but the soul sinking sensation he’d experienced when doing just that.

“Where is your courage, blue-sscale!” The voice of his ancestors, of his predecessors, of his parents, and those who reared him rang with one voice in his head. He was not raised a coward but a warrior, and his pride for his people demanded the honor be upheld. It wouldn't do to be stalked like a small, red blooded, fur covered rodent, skittering through tree roots only to inevitably be devoured. “If I am to be thought of as pray, let me take advantage and become predator instead.”

The thought was bold. It was appealing. When he returned home to tell of this tale, his audience would be enrapt. His warrior brethren would be jealous and eager to seek out such deeds of their own, while the females would all be aswoon and curling their tails about his feet. How he would preen, standing tall above his contemporaries, dominant and in full glory. What he could achieve returning with that dark head and helm of this foe tucked tightly beneath his arm.

“His death would be my making.” Herule balled his fists and squeezed until his leathery knuckles changed to a light green.

The trail he’d left had become the Death Knight’s, making his approach predictable. His pace had been slow, methodical, meaning he wouldn't be far behind. Herule saw that as an opportunity to set up a place of ambush, somewhere his quarry would be facing the wrong way, where Herule could spring from in surprise and land a deadly blow.

Hoisting a heavy tree branch well suited as a natural club, Herule dashed from tree to tree in a semicircle, doubling back the way he’d come until his path lay conveniently parallel with his own tracks. There he waited, pressed into the fold of an ancient gnarled tree, the lengths of which provided a keen spying hole through an array of chaotically tangled branches. It didn't take long, only a minute for the Knight to wind his way through the trees. Slow, heavy footsteps marked his coming, following the trail without any sense of urgency. Herule watched him as best he could, studying his gait, looking for obvious weaknesses, wondering at the strange nature of this nightmarish being.

He stepped closer, inching toward the ideal moment, soon to walk past so that Herule could leap from behind. Only the Knight stopped a step shy of that, turned his head to face Herule, seemed to stare straight through the meshwork of branches that formed Herule’s peep hole and into the watchful eye of Herule himself. The air caught in Herule’s throat as his quarry released a long heavy breath, the sound distinctly audible as it curled off the grate of the Knight’s steel helmet. Herule felt caught, trapped between the void that was the Knight’s gaze and the thought of abandoning his plan to flee again.

“Herule is no coward!” Herule thought, summoning his courage and swinging his club over his shoulder to rouse himself to battle. He let go a hoarse warcry, bound from behind the tree in a few mighty steps, and brought the club swinging high and heavy at the Knights head. Slow to move, somewhat off balance, the Knight rose its forearm to catch the blow but the club came too high to stop, crashing down the length of his metal vambrace to smash heavily upon his pauldron. The club met the earth with a cold thud while in the same instance the Knight drew his sword and swung it wildly with one swift motion.

Pulled forward by the weight of his own attack, Herule ducked beneath the blade and launched backward with his weapon in tow. His blade now in both hands the Knight advanced, the reach of his arm and the length of his weapon far exceeding that which Herule with his club could produce.

The Knight swung again, the club still dragging on the earth, the tip of the steel passing before the Lizardman’s chest. Herule bound back with force, bringing his cumbersome weapon behind him for another swing. He ceased his retreat, readying his weapon and swinging it as the knight stepped in to press his attack.

The wood of Herule’s club met the sword's edge, the blade wedging itself and being torn suddenly away. Herule’s grip faltered under the unruly weight, the jarring twist of the top heavy club tearing at the wound still healing on his hand. He relinquished the weapons, both becoming useless as they wrapped each other in a cruel embrace.

Unperturbed by the loss the knight pressed his assault, his gauntleted fist swinging suddenly for Herule’s head. It caught him across the jaw, sent him reeling sideways, his head a spin with his senses utterly jostled. He’d never been hit so hard in his life and the reality didn't line up with what his eyes were telling him.

Herule recoiled, launching a haymaker from the wide arc which caught the knight by surprise. It struck his helmet, caused a loud clangor and left a dent in the edge of the steel. It also hurt like hell and, to Herule’s surprise, barely sent the knight to swaying. The Knight’s head straightened, he raised his fists ready to dole out a beating.

“Submit!” The knight demanded, his voice a low rumble full of graven tones the likes of which Herule could understand, oddly.

“Never!” Herule hissed before launching himself bodily at the Knight once more.