Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

Sunday scrambled out of the way. Two white moths came into existence and faced the darkness, pushing away at it. It made sense for light to combat the dark. It was not very effective though. The cold dark was quickly overpowering their weak presence, but it won him a few more moments.

The vampire lord reacted differently. He was defiant against the shapeless horrors that grabbed and lunged at him. His movements were lightning and thunder, breaking the air with such speed that Sunday was sure the only reason he was alive was that the vampire had been reluctant to really kill him.

All of that didn’t matter, as Lord Versum was quickly overwhelmed. His sword, which too was made from true silver, did little to nothing against darkness and what dwelled within. His speed was the only thing keeping him alive, but his suit and flesh were torn at and broken, and where his body had been quick to regenerate before, now it struggled.

This was no hound and the one Sunday had helped was gone from the corner. He hadn’t noticed it leave. The darkness was something else that defied the game of cat and mouse Sunday was going to have to play each time he stepped onto the next rank of power.

And of all things, because he had healed a hound? It hadn’t been out of the good of his heart, but to use it as a tool against the vampires. The whole mess had gone way out of his control from the very start. Then again, for all his tricks and schemes, Sunday had to admit that it was in line with his character. Random bullshit was his defining characteristic, and no matter how much confidence he had in the experience stemming from his upbringing, it was falling short in this new world.

He shook his head. It was strange thinking of such things when oblivion was just a step away, slowly creeping forward. The dark creatures had abandoned their previous suddenness of movement. It was not like he had anywhere to run.

Omen of Duality activated again and this time he summoned a white and a black moth, and just like he had done a few times already to heal his soul or destroy the laughing horrors, he willed them to become one. Life and death together.

The grey moth that smoothly appeared seemed more effective than ever and for the first time, the darkness flinched. The soul moth ate away at it and pushed it back a bit. It was still not enough to fight back. Sunday saw a flash of movement and a bloody and sorry figure appeared behind him. There was little remaining of the vampire’s former glory. He was little more than a bloody husk now, with his flesh bare and torn, and his eyes terrified and vicious.

“What is this?! What have you brought here?!” Versum hissed.

“Fuck if I know,” Sunday replied, pouring some more essence into the spell. He still had an essence, but going all out with the moths was ensuring even more trouble down the line.

He was stuck. Even if the soul moths could push away at the darkness and defeat it, it would probably take all of his reserves to do so, which would leave him defenseless against the vampires. And they were bound to seek reparations and answers. He was certain more were coming soon.

It was then that something he had dreaded every single day of existence happened again. This time it made him want to laugh. I’m favored by the dice, motherfucker! He thought.

A buzzing static filled the air and everything slowed down.

A sound of tearing overpowered the strangeness of chaos for just a moment though. Then something shadowy and cold broke away from the darkness, ignored the gray light of the moth, the presence of chaos, and the screaming vampire, and engulfed Sunday before his talent could whisk him away.

***

Snowy peaks bathed by the light of a broken moon. Tiny snowflake crystals glittered like billions of small lights and allowed one to see far, despite the night’s veil. Biting cold wind rustled the tops of snow-covered evergreen trees and the howls of strange beasts echoed through the hills and valleys of the frozen landscape.

And just at the summit of a towering hill was a hunter’s lodge made of wood. Its door was slightly ajar, but no light of a burning hearth nor a welcoming hand extended through the crack. It was only darkness. Physical and thick darkness.

Sunday took a shaky step and looked around. Pieces of flesh and clothes littered the small patch of even ground he had appeared unto, contrasting against the pristine white of the snow. Remains of the torn-apart vampires undoubtedly. He saw parts of a face and eyeball, and he recognized the make of the clothes. Some of their jewelry could be seen among the bloody remains. He bent down and picked up a signet ring. A thing of gold topped with a dark stone he didn’t know the name of. It felt real enough in his hand. Was this death? He had certainly been allowed a better passage than the bloodsuckers.

Had he fallen due to his arrogance and foolishness? He had been confident in fighting the second hound – It would’ve been difficult, but it wouldn’t have been impossible. However, … this was blatant cheating. Being thrown around like that sucked.

His foot sank in the snow as he decided to walk toward the lodge. There was no other path for him. Even his dead flesh was weak against the coldness of the place and without shelter, he wouldn’t last long. He would’ve found it beautiful if not for the lack of stars and the shattered and twisted visage of something that had once been a moon that had no place in the sky. It was like a broken porcelain plate upon a dark canvas.

There’s not much else to do but face the music and dance, I guess. I wonder, will I have to fight again? Will I be given yet another chance?

Sunday’s essence was quickly filling up as if each of his dead pores was taking in the cold air and drinking hungrily from it. It took minutes for his soul space to become full and brimming with strength, and for his spells to rejoice. There had been no need for art or anything else.

He steeled his resolve and walked toward the lodge. The closer he stepped the more the wind pushed at his front and the more the lodge seemed as if it was made for giants. From behind a corner of it, where shadows were as thick as cream, something came out. The eyes of a hound met his own, making him momentarily pause. It was larger than any before it and the sense of danger it gave him was beyond anything he had known.

And yet, the current him held no fear. The hound watched him calmly as he trudged through the snow to meet the one hunting him. It was such a strange situation it almost felt like a dream. Perhaps it was a dream. A nightmare of someone’s make.

The door cracked ajar as he reached the shallow snow before the steps leading to the porch and his foot froze, refusing to take a single step forward. A hand covered in beast skin pulled at it and opened it fully, and out of the cold darkness came a bearded giant man. A being. It was more akin to facing a god, rather than anything remotely human. The eyes were as cold as winter’s chill and his chest was bare and scarred like a canyon.

His eyes bore into Sunday and the wind picked up strength, almost whisking him away from his place beneath the steps of the lodge. Sunday tried to speak, but the sheer weight of the gaze was enough to stop his frail body from cooperating. His soul seemed frozen and his mind refused to cooperate.

Was this who he had been fighting against? The master of the hounds?

“UNWORTHY!” the man slowly proclaimed. His voice spread through like a heat wave, pushing back at the cold wind and making the snow crystals tremble all over. Snow rained from the pines and the low growls of a myriad of hounds came from the shadowy corners and crevices of the peaks.

Sunday trembled. His instincts for self-preservation had taken a back seat lately, be it due to all the pressure and various developments, or because the half-living nature of his body was catching up to his mind and affecting it. He knew he hadn’t been at his best.

Now all came rushing back like a bullet train and he felt himself fall backward in the snow. He wanted to live. He wanted to grow. That hadn’t changed, but something else had. A realization in the deep recesses of his soul that promised the coming of a permanent change.

“Who are you?” he asked. The words came out on their own, without him prompting or forcing them out. The giant didn’t react much but his cold eyes glistened dangerously at the question. Yet another hound came and rubbed itself against his leg while staring Sunday down like a meal. An eternal winter came and went before the giant responded.

“THE HUNTER,” he answered simply. This time the words made the sharp wind pick up again and frost quickly found its way onto each of Sunday’s hairs. His fingers were already numb from the cold and he couldn’t stand up even if he wanted to. All he managed was a weak nod.

Once again, the buzzing of static filled the air, and the little color breaking the monotony of snow and night was sucked away from the world. The Hunter raised a hand and the world stilled. The static lessened, but didn’t retreat.

“FOR YOU? NEVER.”

A sigh.

An arrogant laugh.

The sound of a quill scarring a piece of parchment.

A drop of something dark fell upon the snow and blossomed like a flower, while the buzzing of the world continued. Was it ink? Was it wine?

Sunday felt his vision swim and he almost sank into another bout of sleep when something rocked his head and brought him back to consciousness. His cheek stung, but there was no one else around.

The Hunter frowned for the first time, and the world reflected that. He thought for a long time while Sunday basked in the warmth of his stinging flesh that seemed to chase away the frost and tried to understand what was happening. Fighting for one's life should’ve been a simpler affair.

It felt like powers he couldn’t comprehend were arguing for his continued existence. He was just an object whose fate was being decided by others.

Finally, the Hunter nodded.

“I ALLOW IT.” he turned to Sunday and his face twisted in disgust as if he had just stepped into a pile of excrement. “THREE DAYS. ALONE. A DUEL.”

The snow rose and swallowed Sunday in the next moment.

He blinked and found himself shaking. He was back in the room where the darkness had cornered them. The bloody vampire was still behind him, looking around warily.

A concession has been made. A deal has been reached. In three days, you shall fight for the right to continue your favored existence. The Hunter despises weakness, and he despises pity. A champion should not run, nor cower, and use others as a shield. Most of all, a champion should not aid his enemies.

Prepare well, young wretch, for the hounds are endless.

Three days? Sunday could feel the world fall into focus. The terrifying and all-consuming presence of the Hunter still lingered and made him wish this was all but a bad dream.

“Is it gone?” Lord Versum asked from behind. Sunday turned sharply. The vampire’s flesh was regenerating faster now, but it was still a long way off what it had been capable of doing before. Without much thought, he grabbed at the gray moth still fluttering before him as a shield and slapped it straight into the face of the vampire, making it burst.

The short screams that followed alleviated some of his fears and frustrations and as Lord Versum’s head became nothing but dust and the body fell headless to the side, Sunday sighed in relief.

The sound of movement drew his attention and without thinking he picked up the vampire’s blade and clutched at his own. The hunger inside of him was stronger than ever.