A short tale of Atticus' visit home.
This story is not very well edited, so sorry for any errors. Special thanks to Amnesty for their input on the part with Hemomancy in it.
Three Days in Damarra
Day 1
The journey to Damara was swift. A trip that should take months was shortened to days thanks to the enchantments on the boat his Aunt had chartered. Still, he was thoroughly sick of the sea, and weak at the knees and joints by the land was in sight. They docked in Impiltur and took a carriage up the northern road to home, and within a tenday they’d nearly reached his lands.
The horses were exhausted before they reached the castle however, and a winter storm blew in from the north so it was deemed best by the coachman to stay a while at a tavern on the outskirts. Atticus didn’t object too much – every joint sang with pain from the bumps and potholes of the road, and his left knee was a symphony of agony.
Donning a large coat, he and the coachman staggered into the inn named ‘The King’s Arms’ and he had the coach man purchase rooms, beer and food.
The beer was too weak for his liking, but the food was thick, savoy and nostalgic. A bard sang in the corner, old songs of the homeland to a warm, jaunty beat. He leaned back in his chair, the weariness of the road overcoming him, he dozed in the newfound warmth and comfort.
His name awoke him, as the bard moving from song to tale.
"-Never to be seen again. Some say, Baron Stratlace would not just drink their blood, but bathe in it! To keep his self eternally handsome!’
The Bard was now leaning over, talking breathlessly to small group of children, who’s eyes were wide with fear and delight.
Atticus bundled himself further into his coat, keeping his gaze low, and glad for the large hat that hid his features. The stew and beer curdled in his stomach.
‘That’s enough, Heinrich.’ A rough voice from across the room called. ‘It does no good to speak of such things, not in these times.’
The Bard, who had been telling the tale, raised both hands in capitulation. ‘Sorry, Pavel. I forgot that your sister-’
‘Yes. You did.’ The man – a tall, young fellow with straw coloured hair and a hard face. One of the children ran to him – a girl of about six who shared his locks. He held her close.
‘Rumour has it,’ remarked the barkeeper, leaning over her counter, ‘that the Baron’s son is returning. Going to get married he is, up in the castle.’
Pavel spat, and muttered a blasphemous curse and the bard, Heinrich, shook his head dourly.
‘Poor lass.’ He lamented.
‘You think the son’s as bad as the sire?’ asked the barkeeper. ‘The Radiant Heart surely wouldn’t tolerate such.’
‘I think the name is bad enough, regardless.’ The bard replied, bringing out his instruments once more. ‘And the Radiant want to keep their lands.’
The food in Atticus’s stomach soured further. He pulled himself up and left the room just as the bard began to play once more.
He lay in his small hard bed in the cramped, cold room of the inn, watching spiders crawl in the across the ceiling, until night and nightmare took him.
Day 2
They left the inn next morn. Much would have been different later on perhaps, if in his sleep addled state Atticus had remembered to put on his hat, or if his knee didn’t hurt so much.
As it was his head was bare, and he used his cane, the top of which bore the image of a goat – the Stratlace family crest.. He only really took note of the stares from the innkeeper and the villagers as he got into the carriage. A few folk hurried back inside, the innkeeper closing the door of the inn quickly upon their departure. He thought he heard locks slamming into place.
His carriage rolled on.
The trip took them through the town, and Atticus found at least some pleasure in the sights of the restoration. Houses were better kept, men and women happier, children played in the street and all about members of the Radiant Heart lingered, aiding the populace or patrolling the streets. The gloom he recalled from his childhood had lifted it seemed. This was a happier land.
Little more than an hour away from the inn, they arrived at the castle. His aunt was furious and frantic, having expected them the night before. Worried perhaps he’d eloped, or been killed, or worse. He offered perfuse apologise, bowing and scraping as best he could.
She was a small woman, but forceful. Her sharp features and resonant voice reminded him of his father- difficult to say no to, difficult to resist. Her presence was ever a draw and a terror, though a manageable amount of each.
Priestess Magdel was there too – the balm to his aunt’s sore. His old nurse embraced him and held him close, murmuring how good it was to see him, and how very well he looked! Had he been eating? His breathing was so clear! Island life must suit him.
He found a smile for her, and agreed, though in truth he felt terrible. The old aches, pains and tremors returning. If he were on Arelith, he’d be out slaying monsters now – strengthening his hemomancy and in turn strengthening his body. But here and now was no place for adventure, or gallivanting, let alone blood magic. He stole a few moments to reminisce with his old healer and confidant, the brightest spot in this entire trip.
‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’ She murmured, her voice soft in his ear, tremulous.
‘Yes, I do.’ He assured her.
Then it was time for the ceremony.
Emillio hadn’t been able to passed him his wedding suit, so he was forced to wear his usual attire. A passable affair, clean from travel dust at least though he would have liked something with more flair, more fashion, less sombre. This was more fitting for a funeral than a wedding.
The ceremony was blissfully simple, short, and not too ostentatious. Getting a Tyrran priest had been easy – the Radiant Heart had plenty. Beyond his aunt and her husband, there were no other family members present. Priestess Magdel was there, and a few other of the Radient Heart whom he had known in his teenage years, all trying to be supporting and smiling, but each with concern and worry in their eyes.
Then there was his bride, Antigony. Standing by the altar, face forward and vailed by a long length of white satin. Her expression entirely hidden – she was a stranger to him.
He repeated the words he was instructed to repeat.
‘Bound together in law.’
‘True to each other.’
‘Balance each other.’
‘Until death’s parting.’
She did the same. The rings were exchanged. He raised part of her vail and gave her a kiss on the cheek, chaste as he could make it. Her body stiff and taunt under the beautiful dress she wore.
They sat down to dinner after. His appetite was little to none, and he could scarce taste the food. He picked at both it and small-talk whilst his now wife did the same.
Some small pleasure was found in sharing news with the other members of the Radiant. They were pleased with his success upon Arelith, and he was pleased with their work at home. The new crops growing, the people healing, new buildings being erected.
Then it was time for bed and he and his wife shuffled off to their appointed chambers.
Some small mercy that they were not in the grand chambers. His parents rooms had been burned badly in the fire that had finally destroyed his father.
Instead it was his old, boyhood room that had been chosen for their wedding nuptials. He’d scarce entered that place in the decade, and doing so resulted in a barrage of sense-memory, intense enough to make him hesitate at the threshold.
His wife moved on in past him. She sat stiffly upon the bed, her head down, eyes resting on clenched hands.
He stood there, wondering what to say. It occurred to him that he and his bride hadn’t exchanged words since their vows. Perhaps she, like he, could not think of what to say.
He glanced at his childhood bed – it seemed huge in his childhood, now it was a comfortable size for two grown adult.
More memories surged. Lying there listening to his parents, the shouting of his father, he screams and sobs of his mother. The dull thuds and wet slaps that eventually fell into pleading, then sobbing, then silence.
And other nights. Many nights.
The door opening. His father looming over him. The fear. The love. The helplessness. The cold-ice-agony of fangs biting into his neck, his wrists, his-
He shuddered and took a few deep breaths, locking the thoughts, the memories away. He knew then that even if his new wife, Antigony hadn’t been there, he’d sooner have slept outside in a thunderstorm, than slip between those sheets again.
‘You take the bed.’ he said to her. ‘I can rest at my desk.’
He moved to it, and folded down into the chair. A little small for him now, but it would suffice and he had slept at desks many times before. This one was familiar, it still bore the indentations and stains from hours and hours practising his calligraphy. He remembered his father leaning over him, his rich voice, soothing, praising. ‘Yes, yes just like that. You’ve got a good hand. Beautiful work! I’m proud.’
That thrill of delight, the rush of joyous blood to his heart, intermingling like oil and water with his hatred, filling his very veins and arteries with joy and dread oh his papa loved him he loved him he…
Atticus took off his glasses and lay his head down on the desk. If he tried, he could still smell the must of ink, of paper, the rosewater of his father’s perfume.
At last he fell asleep.
Antigony was gone by the time he awoke.
Day 3
Stiff and aching from another poor night’s rest he dragged himself to the dining room where he broke his fast with the senior members of the heart, including the Steward.
He was appraised of the recent news and the news was, for the most part, good. Harvests were fine, rebuilding went well, bandit activity was low as well. Some undead incursions from the wood – but nothing that the Heart couldn’t handle. The Steward enthused to him his idea of perhaps using the castle as a sort of training base for new members of the heart. Of bolstering their numbers and sending them afar, clearing up more of the messes that the Litch King’s rampage had caused.
Atticus couldn’t help but be carried along by the man’s enthusiasm. He found himself adding his own suggestions. He hoped his new wife would be amenable to all of this- but the Steward assured him that promises had been made from his aunt, and that they could handle anything Antigony had to offer.
Of the lady herself, there was no sign until mid afternoon.
Looking out of a window saw her walking in the gardens. Once filled with roses and decorative plants now it was mostly used for herbs and vegetables.
Now was the time. Now was the moment. To step away from the window, go down stairs, talk to her. Get to know her. Assure her that everything was going to be alright. Have a good, long conversation and lay everything out neat, orderly, efficient. Perhaps even gain a little affection, a little friendliness? Build a few bridges…
As he stared, she looked up, her eyes meeting his.
He slunk away from the window, into the shadows of the room and remained there.
Then it was late afternoon and it was time to depart.
His wife didn’t come to see him leave, but his aunt did. She kissed him on both cheeks and said she wished he could stay longer (she didn’t, he was sure) and promised to watch over his wife and his land (this he believed.)
He had a ceremonial escort out, the Steward – a paladin of Helm, old and careful, two younger members of the Radiant, who had not yet earned their full devotions and finally, to his surprise, Priestess Magdel.
She was bundled up in the carriage with him, her old bones making it the best option.
‘I’m not letting you leave without a good chat.’ she said. ‘I’ll come with you until the Impiltur boarder and get another carriage back. The town can spare me a little and I want to hear everything about your life in Arelith.’
He was happy to regale her with tales of Arelith, and for a little time things passed very pleasantly. The way she delighted in his progress, from his health to his new hobbies to his exploits gave him a curious feeling of hope, delight, that the feeling that perhaps despite all the setbacks, things were improving.
Just over half an hour into the journey the carriage stopped. There were voices outside, loud, raised voices. Through the thick wooden walls of their vehicle he could hear them say; ‘Tell him to get out. Tell him to face us!’
Another voice, a bit indistinct, that of his Steward. His tone softer, harder to hear, but the one reasonable, calm.
More shouting – not just one voice now but many. Magdel looked worried, frightened even. Atticus moved to twitch open the heavy curtains that covered the windows, wondering whether he should step out.
He had just unlatched his door to do just that, when there was a smashing sound behind him. He turned to see a flaming missile, a crude bomb of oil and fire careen through the other side of the car ridge.
Magdel shrieked in terror and agony as fire rained down around her, the elderly woman covering her face from the burning oil.
Everything fell to mayhem after that.
Atticus leapt over to the terrified priestess, doing his best to douse the flames with his hands and coat. The worst of the flames on her were out, but the rest of the carriage was alight, smoke swift filling it. He opened the latch of her door, and was in the process of helping her out when the door behind him swung open and someone grabbed his coat, yanking him abruptly back, and out.
He had just the presence of mind to grab his cane as he came tumbling out of the carriage, but had not the momentum nor movement to swing it before his assaulter slammed a meaty fist into his face.
A grisly cracking sound of ruptured cartilage and bone filled the air, blood filled the air, - his nose smashed by the blow. Pain lanced through his face, but so did adrenalin. He took the time to swing his cane and it connected, pushing his assailant away. A few seconds peace – he saw that he was on the outskirts of his hamlet, surrounded by a mob of men and – behind them, the wives, children and other onlookers. A mob and it’s audience.
Before he could follow through with his counter attack, or anything else, someone else was on him, a smashing punch to the jaw, another to the stomach. He flailed with his cane, connecting a few more times. Everything became pain, chaos and panic. There was screaming. Shrieking. Singing? A bold and merry song that he couldn’t make out above the howls of the mob.
‘Filthy monster!’ ‘Blood-Drinker!’ ‘Son of a whore!’ ‘Dhampire!’
‘Untrue!’ he wanted to protest, but his mouth was full of blood, and he was going down, falling into the dirt, feet kicking him, the sound of glass breaking as his spectacles were smashed. Yelling from his escort, struggling to reach him. So afraid. So afraid. So afraid.
Then he was being picked up from the dirt, as easily as flying – through blackened, weakened eyes he saw his assailant.
It was the blond man from the inn—Pavel, they had called him—his face twisted in a grotesque mask of hatred and fury. The shadows danced eerily across his features as he stood there, one burly hand gripping Atticus by the throat, the other clutching a long, gleaming dagger, poised to plunge it into his chest. The mob's frenzied howls filled the air. Somewhere, the Steward's desperate cries for peace were lost in the chaos, and Magdel's sobs echoed, her voice cracking with pain.
"This is for my sister, Stratlace scum!" Pavel spat, his voice a venomous snarl. The dagger descended, its deadly point aimed straight for Atticus's heart.
But in that instant, time itself seemed to fracture. The turmoil in Atticus's mind, the maelstrom of fear, rage, and despair, suddenly crystallized into something dark and unyielding.
And something within him broke.
His hands moved of their own accord, guided by an unforeseen fate. Magic surged from the depths of his soul, a primal, uncontrollable power that erupted outward in a devastating explosion.
Pavel's body disintegrated.
The next moments were a grotesque blur, as if reality had been torn apart and reassembled in jagged, chaotic fragments. Pavel’s bloody jaw soared through the air, severed from his skull. A lone eyeball splattered into the dirt with a sickening squelch. His entrails unravelled into the dirt. The shrieks of panic around him were deafening, a symphony of horror as men and women of the mob scattered, their faces contorted in terror.
A six-year-old girl, her tiny body splattered with her father’s blood, stood frozen in shock. Her mother, weeping and wailing, tried to shield her from the carnage, but it was too late. The child’s blond hair was matted with a gruesome tangle of viscera. Her eyes, wide with a fear so profound it had stripped away her humanity, stared vacantly into the abyss. She was more beast than child now, driven mad by the horror before her.
Atticus' pain has not been sated. A howl tore from his throat, a long, agonized primal scream that carried with it every ounce of torment he had ever known. It was a scream that embodied anger, pain, shame, loneliness, and hatred—all of it, released in one soul-shattering cry that echoed through the village like the death knell of an entire world. His dying world.
The mob fell as one, their bodies crumpling to the ground in a gruesome tableau. Blood oozed from their eyes, ears, and mouths as they writhed in final, agonizing death throes. The street became a river of blood, a macabre flood pouring from a dam that had burst deep within Atticus's soul. A knight, standing nearby, could only cry out in a voice high and shrill, like a terrified child, "Gods have mercy!"
But mercy was nowhere to be found. The world turned crimson, then black, then nothing. The void swallowed everything, leaving only the echoes of that dreadful, final scream.
When he awoke it was night and in a carriage once more. A different one, as it turned out. Magdel was there, running her hands through his hair – everything hurt.
‘It’s alright.’ She said soothingly ‘You are safe. Everyone is safe. Rest.’
He closed his eyes and tried to do as instructed, but low voices echoed through the gently rocking vehicle.
‘We’ll ride through the night, get new horses at the boarder, and get back by evening tomorrow. We can instruct the carriage to keep on as long as possible, get him to the docks quickly.’
‘But he’s ill! He needs rest and healing.’
‘He cannot stop. We cannot stay with him. We need to get back to the town to deal with the situation there. News like this travels fast, he may have half the country after his skin soon. He cannot stop.’
‘But-
‘This is for his own good! This way he has more of a chance. Let things die down, we’ll smooth it over, but he cannot stay!’
That was the last he heard before sleep.
A fever took him for the rest of the journey, and he remembered precious little of it.
Most of his wound healed, though many healed bad ly, his nose smashed against his face. His spectacles broken – and some bruises remained.
There was a vague recollection of getting on the boat.
Of lying in his cabin, covered in sweat and worse. Sipping water left at his bed side by a kind sailor.
The dreams were more vibrant and real than his brief waking hours, as his body fell apart around him.
A few days later, he had returned to Arelith.