Grane – Day Two: Another End
Day Two – Another End
She carried herself westward, quenched by the witch’s own well. Living as she had, one could go weeks without food, but still merely days without water. The sands were calmer now, and visibility was high. The rare delight raised the huntress’ spirits, for trouble could better be avoided, and respite could be easier found. She moved at a steady pace that was neither run nor walk, an excited but controlled hurry along the furrows of destiny.
A peak came into view. A metal promontory in a sea of sand always marked the heights of a society now collapsed, but it also attracted societies of the present. Settlements often popped up in and around such structures. They bore the gift of shelter, the gift of landmark, and perhaps many more hidden gifts for those who braved the depths inside. She herself was not a child of such a place. Her tribe were nomads, traveling from one temporary settlement to the next. Such a past did her well.
She trekked towards the distant monolith, and a clearer picture painted itself before her eyes. Scraps of various cloth had been hung by the hundreds off the crumbled structure, propped up by poles of this metal and that to create shade and shelter. Grane knew where there was shade in the desert, there was often life. She soon learned herself correct as distant figures became apparent, bustling about the village under the scrap cloth canopy. She too was spotted, and figure motioned to figure and caused an excited stir among the people whom now hurried to group together in a mixture of fear and curiosity of the approaching huntress.
As she closed in, a small group of men stepped forward. They had makeshift spears made of various long thin scraps and implements, as well as plates of metal haphazardly fastened to their bare chests. The group encircled her, she pulled off her hood in hopes of being less threatening and nervously tugged on her single sleeve.
The men spoke panicky. Perhaps to her, perhaps to each-other, for the language was one foreign to Grane’s ears. This was odd, for though the many tribes she had met on her travels had spoken uniquely and strangely, they had always been intelligible with concentration. Not this, this wasn’t the result of years of independent development after a split. This was something else entirely.
Grane put up her hands and spoke of peace, but no one seemed to comprehend. The circle around her was tightened and spears jabbed threateningly at her back. The group of warriors guided her forward towards a mangled hole in the building’s peak. She was shoved inside by hands unseen and stumbled forward. A glance back revealed her captors watching from just outside. Turning back forward presented an elderly man flanked by two more warriors, these ones also adorned with bones. The elder and his elite guard, Grane could assume.
She took a few steps in, the unnatural smooth and solid of this man-made metal ground felt strange under her feet. She was in what seemed to be a passageway from one level of the structure to the next. She wondered how far down the stairs went before sand had broken in. The elder grumbled in the same unfamiliar language. Grane thought less about his words and more about the chair he sat upon. Wood. Very valuable to one such as herself. Met with silence he shouted an order to his men who grunted and lowered their spears to the ready. Grane opened her mouth to speak, but a far off noise first stole everyone’s attention.
A whir, or perhaps a hum. The sound was faint and distant, but ever growing. The ground shook and she could feel the whole village shudder in silence. Amongst the hums a choir made itself apparent. A thousand singing voices, desperate to be heard, the hymns of the faithful enchained by the grasps of the damned. If asked one would never find quite the words to describe it, but it wouldn’t be the oddest to call it beautiful. It was beautiful, graceful, and haunting. And then it wasn’t.
The choir morphed from song to scream and Grane could physically feel the ease sucked out of the place as the source of the sound became apparent. Under a blackening sky the village lost its collective mind and became as a scared batch of children. Grane stepped outside again, unabated. It had been so long since she had seen such a sight and heard such a sound, but it was one that never left her mind for a single moment. She had met the blight once more.
She walked a few steps, the chaos around her fading away into nothing but distant noises. The blight made its way through the villagers. It moved like a plague of locust, a black, shapeless cloud of countless independent organisms moving as one. Each time it engulfed a human, the screaming choir corrupted and morphed into a sound unable to be named by man. Each fell screaming to the ground only to be abandoned a moment later. The bereaved left behind stood up, and stood still. The blight was doing what it always did. A wicked cloud eating the very humanity off of the living.
The blight floated at ground level a few dozen paces ahead. A woman ran for life, pulling a young boy in tow. The mother, perhaps, looked terrified, the child simply confused. Without thought Grane raced forward, not to meet the prey, but to harry the predator. She met the family and watched as they turned corner down a tented alleyway. The blight flew mere feet away. Grane stood at the corner, sword pointlessly drawn. The object of her desires was so close, but she had no idea what to do about that convenience.
The mother and son stopped suddenly as Grane watched on. Against a covered steel bin, perhaps used to hold scrap, the teary eyed mother kissed her son on the forehead and whispered something unheard. She opened the bin and shoved him inside. He grasped out for his mother with a look of bewilderment as he fell back into the bin which shut above him.
The mother then ran past Grane and screamed, arms waving, taunting the blight away from her child. The blight moved with sudden ferocity and took from her what it could. It buzzed around its most recent victim as if planning its next move. She stood, stunned at the scene. What hubris she must have displayed in thinking she could stop such a thing. In truth she was no less helpless than the villagers around her.
The blight made its move and swooped up and then down, causing Grane to stumble back to avoid the thing. She continued to backpedal until the metal bin stopped her path. The blight rushed towards her at lightning speed. Grane lifted her sword, turned away her head and closed her eyes. This was how it was all to end, she thought. However the cacophony of the blight ceased, replaced again by a pleasant hum. She slowly turned back to where the blight once was and reopened her eyes. The sight shook her to the core, and all she could do was look at it, wide eyed and slack jawed.
A thousand faces smiled back. The dark cloud of the blight was a flood of ghastly faces. They faded and flickered, blended into one another and drifted about, but each one was distinctly unique, and oddly human. They looked morosely but peacefully at Grane. Men, women, children all watching her. It was intriguing, and all-together horrifying. A shiver went down her spine and she was unable to get her own legs to move.
Moments passed and the blight finally began to float away, resuming the previous task. Faces etched into her mind, Grane found herself chilled and lost in thought. What in the sands was the purpose of such a creature? For what reason had it spared her? The choirs screams became less frequent and the calm returned as quickly as it had left.
Grane stepped out of the alleyway and looked around. The blight was gone and only the bereaved remained. A whole tribe, dozens of lives, lost in mere minutes. The desert was never kind, but this was simply not fair. Grane had thought she would be fine experiencing the blight a second time, but it wrenched the gut yet again. Perhaps even more as age had given her better capacity to understand.
A metallic clang behind broke her chain of thought. She turned around as the metal bin lid struggled to open. She remembered the boy. The mother’s gambit payed off and the boy too was spared. Grane wondered if he wouldn’t have been better off the other way. Nothing good awaited him now. She approached the bin and opened the heavy cover. The boy tumbled out and fell to the ground with a grunt. He stood up and looked at Grane, grumbling something under his breath. She snatched at his both of his hands and lifted them up to examine his wrists. He yelled out and pulled them away. Nothing was there.
She had been told once it was where the blight sucked the humanity from its victims. True or not, it was fact that every bereaved bore a mark on the inside of one of the wrists. A dark, fingernail sized circle that looked as if it was drawn by an unsteady hand. Its purpose unknown, but its meaning clear. Unlike his bereaved mother, the boy had no mark.
He was a typical tribal scamp. A simple wrap around his waist and and cloth sandals were all that adorned his body. Grane guessed he was 9 or 10 years of age. He stepped past her and spotted his mother standing solemn across the way. He ran to her and clung to her legs. The vessel that remained simply stood, empty eyes gazing at the ground. He shook her and shouted, but he was never going to get a reaction.
Grane knew she should hurry to take anything of use and leave this place, but this boy complicated things. The bereaved are known for little but silence and stillness, but that is only the majority. When humanity is taken away, most lose all. However, a rare few soon become as animals. Perhaps those few had something wicked deep within them, perhaps the reaction wasn’t a reflection of the past soul at all. Grane didn’t know, nor did she care at the moment. She simply knew violence could break out, and violence is best avoided. The boy however would likely die should he be left to his own devices. Grane slowly walked towards him, pondering her future actions.
She stood next to him and placed a hand upon his shoulder. He looked at her, teary eyed, and said something with a soft and cracking voice. She wondered how to communicate with the lad, but that wonderment was soon broken. The day’s horrors weren’t yet done.
The mother suddenly changed her gaze. Grane mouthed “No.” She didn’t want to believe what was about to happen, but action had to be taken. The mother breathed in through the nose, eyes widening with mindless anger. Grane pried the boy from his mother and shoved him away. The mother screamed and lunged towards Grane. A sidestep and a kick to the ankle and the mother hit the ground. Grane switched the grip on her sword and thrust downward, running the mother through the back.
The boy looked on in terror as his mother’s body twitched violently, losing its life as Grane pulled the blade back out. She looked at the boy, lips quivering, wishing she had the words. That wasn’t his mother any longer, but what child would understand such a thing? He screamed and ran at Grane, burying his head in her side and pummeling her with closed fists. Grane stood silent, letting the boy take out his anger. Staring off in silence, she did her best to remain emotionless. Screams turned to sobs as the blows became slower and weaker. Eventually he dropped to his knees and released her. Grane placed her hand on her forehead and exhaled. She sheathed her blade and walked away, not wishing to look at the boy any longer.
Grane made quick work of the place, finding extra water and food. None of the other bereaved seemed to have gone feral, so upon remembering the elder’s wooden chair, she decided to spend the night holed up here, unwilling to miss the chance to craft more arrows, as well as makeshift rope and bandages from the wealth of cloth.
She roughly escorted a few bereaved out of the building, dragging them by the wrist and throwing them out of both shelter and sight. She didn’t wish to disrespect the remnants of those lost, but there was no gentle way to relocate them, and she couldn’t bear to look at them all night. Dead eyed onlookers make for rough sleep. The sun began to set as Grane finished making camp in the elder’s abode. Cloth burning in a metal vessel, she sat, roasting a relatively fresh lizard over the campfire. A quick meal before a night’s work.
A faint noise and a slight movement caught her attention. She turned to the entrance, hand moving towards her sword. The boy peaked inside, gasping and retracting his head out of sight upon seeing Grane notice him. She sighed and idly pushed her hair out of her eyes. The boy peeked in again and she motioned for him to enter.
Slowly he tip-toed towards her, seemingly unsure of what to make of this stranger. As he got close she lifted up the skewered and roasted lizard and moved it towards him. Reluctantly the boy accepted the offering. He sat down and bit into his meal, eyes still staring at Grane in distrust. Grane began cooking another for herself and time passed in silence. Belly full, the boy seemed more at ease. Still awkward and sad, but less frightened.
The two exchanged glances. Grane pointed at herself and stated her name. She then pointed at him expectantly. The boy tilted his head in confusion. It seems her communication had failed.
“Me Grane” she tried again, pointing at herself and then at him. “You …?” The boy scrunched his face and stared at her. He glanced from side to side and then his eyes lit up with understanding. He nodded and then spoke.
“Me Grane,” he said pointing at Grane. He then pointed to himself. “You Rock.”
Grane smiled and softly laughed.
“Why not?”
