Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

The forest soon became thicker, with the branches ahead casting long shadows and taking away from the charm of the present colors.

What was curious was that some of the branches seemed intertwined like something had done it on purpose to create shade, while whole tree trunks were stripped out of their bark as if tens of claws had furiously scratched at them. There were remnants of fibrous bark hanging here and there, but most of it could be seen up above, used to bind the improvised protection from the sun.

More and more small and large bones started making an appearance – all clean. Some were broken or carried marks of unsuccessful bites. Sunday didn’t like that. Why had the ghouls left their habitats? He briefly remembered seeing a few passages about that, and other than those in the swamp where rot was abundant, ghouls made homes close to places of death and killing – like the fallen lands everyone spoke about as if he was supposed to know everything.

Soon the terrain started shifting as well, and they neared a mound of earth. It was hastily made but still rose from the ground like a promise of death. It was much smaller than the ones in the swamp, but so were its owners.

However, in the gaps between the ever-thickening foliage, they could see many more rise out of the dug-up ground. Few of them stood larger than the ones made from the wild ghouls.

For a moment Sunday saw himself and Vyn from the side as if looking through eyes that were not his. The waking dreams had become much less of an occurrence while in the forest, but this one shook him. Sunday forced himself to retain focus and turned sharply to the side.

There it was – a ghoul. It was not small and starving like the ones they had so easily slain, even outnumbered thirty to one. Its skin was sleek and made of dark browns and greens. A swamp ghoul. Sunday met the yellow eyes with a mix of feelings and an urgent need to slap something. The creature stared back as if it understood him, and felt the same way.

It stood frozen, almost innocent in its curiosity.

Sunday’s thoughts were churning. His recent visions, strange gut feeling, and anger at it all were too much. The yellow eyes were calling to him, almost as if the creature was mocking his futile belief that leaving the swamp behind would let him get away. It’s impossible. I killed him.

More swamp ghouls came out from behind the trees and the darker depths of the forest, as if they had crawled out from the shadows themselves like the hound. Their number kept growing, but none came closer, nor did they exhibit any signs of aggression or worry.

Sunday loathed that silence. It was like a small death of consciousness, a pause in the course of things, an omen of danger that would be too much for him alone to handle. A precursor to bullshit.

“Sunday!” Vyn hissed through grit teeth. This was not a small group and even just a few of the larger swamp ghouls would be much more difficult to deal with.

The moths gave Sunday a sense of safety and comfort, but they were finite, and if enough of the smaller bastards threw themselves at them they would be quickly extinguished, like candles before a tidal wave. His soul was hurt too, and the constant ache didn’t help at all.

“Go! Now.” Sunday said and started stepping back. There was no need to remind Vyn a second time.

The ghouls followed slowly for a few feet, then stopped and watched the retreat. Sunday felt frustrated, foolish, and very helpless. If they rushed them now it would be a desperate fight, and who knew how many more of the monsters were crawling in the forest. Had Jishu’s death made them flee the swamp, or was it something worse?

There was no pretense from the ghouls this time. They did not treat it like a hunt or a game. The monsters didn’t snarl and they lacked the suicidal needs of their smaller counterparts. Were Jishu’s final orders affecting them still? Was Sunday not a target they could attack? It was possible. Too little was known about talents for him to completely write off the possibility.

More and more ghouls were joining the line-up. As soon as they couldn’t see them anymore, Sunday and Vyn burst into a slow run. The forest didn’t allow for a faster retreat, and pacing themselves was smart in case of other danger.

Sunday didn’t feel like he was running for his life. It felt worse. Like he had failed somehow and done something he shouldn’t have. Soon the world regained some of its color, as daylight broke through and lit their way. He summoned the map from time to time to make sure they hadn’t gotten lost. It had become obvious Vyn wasn’t capable of seeing the golden page, so at least that was good to know.

Apart from the remains of larger forest animals, they saw no more signs of the ghouls. Sunday wasn’t sure how long they ran for but at some point, he couldn’t hear Vyn following, so he stopped and made a sharp turn. The human was bent over, leaning on a tree and gasping for air far behind. Fuck, I forgot about that. There were many advantages to undeath, and stamina was one of the better ones.

“They’re not following us,” Sunday said more to himself and crouched next to Vyn. His friend was pale and shaking. His gasps were echoing throughout the silent forest and Sunday reached for the waterskin on Vyn’s side and brought it to his lips. He only let Vyn wet his mouth before pulling it away.

“You’ll drink later,” he said.

Vyn nodded and held his chest. Somehow, he gathered himself. “I’m fine,” he said almost imperceptibly. “I’m fine.”

Sunday stood up and threw a cursory look toward the trees. “Let’s go.”

It was a few hours later, just as the sun had mostly finished its fall from the sky, that they were nearing the empty woods near the village. Nothing had appeared to block their path. They hadn’t spoken about what had happened and while Vyn was certain to have questions, he was too tired to ask. Sunday estimated that their initial run had lasted for more than an hour and maybe close to two – an impressive feat for a drunk human. The fear of brutally being eaten alive had probably helped with motivation.

“We’re almost there,” Sunday said. The village was a few minutes away at most, as they were now threading on well-used parts of the forest. Traces of campfires and children’s games could be seen everywhere. His foot froze as he saw a figure.

It was a woman. A firepit was dug in the middle of the small clearing before them, and one of the trees surrounding it was particularly large. There were many letters and simple symbols carved in its bark and a simple swing hung from one of its branches. The woman was sat on it, humming and seemingly enjoying the last rays of light.

Sunday recognized her. It was the same one that had told them of the worshipper’s suicide and his words. She was different now though – there was no sign of her anger or sorrow, only unsettling serenity.

The two stepped closer and Sunday felt himself tense. He signaled to Vyn with his hand. He expected nausea or an itchy palm for some reason. The woman looked at them and her humming stopped. Instead, she smiled – an innocent enough gesture.

“You folk look like you’ve been through a lot,” she said and stood up.

“Yeah. We need to speak with everyone. The issue is much larger than initially thought,” Sunday said trying to act composed. He could feel it now. The unease. The disgust. It was creeping like the darkness of night, like a sickness that could end a city. ‘Make them think you’re in control, even if you’re screaming in panic,’ he whispered in his mind. Few things could rattle him anymore, but the strangeness of all the events was doing it.

“Oh no, that’s bad,” the woman said as they were talking of the most mundane topics and stepped forward. She was only a few feet away now and one of her hands was behind her back.

Sunday smiled at her and felt his vision focus. Vyn’s sword left the sheath – it made a noise this time as if his friend had sounded it out for him.

The woman was on him in the same moment and Sunday’s hand moved just as fast. As the slap was about to land a hand grabbed his and stopped it mid-swing with preternatural strength. He could almost feel the bones in his forearm give.

Her other hand rose and as Sunday saw the knife in it, he reached and grabbed her wrist in turn and called for the Smash Ball but the woman’s actions made his eyes widen and his essence stop dead.

The knife sank into her chest as he still held her wrist.

“Good,” the woman said and let go of him.

Sunday stepped back and watched in horror as she grabbed the handle with her other hand as well and started carving herself open. She made no sound and her eyes never left his until her own heart rested in her hand, beating in a quiet fleeting rhythm that echoed far and made the world pulse along.

“Smile,” she said, then bit into the heart and her eyes rolled back in pleasure.

Sunday gritted his teeth and hesitated. The woman was eating it as if it were the most delicious thing in the world. The whole thing lasted mere seconds as she furiously devoured the heart in a way reminiscent of a wild beast. And then it was the world that was painted red and still beating with the invisible rhythm of life. He felt the nausea become stronger than ever and heard Vyn gasp and fall to the ground.

“Delicious,” what had once been a simple woman from a village said. The word echoed in the now smaller pulsating world.

There was nothing left of the human before him. This was something else. The hole in the chest remained open and welcoming as it was a smile in its own right. The eyes were bloodshot and mad, and deep like the center of an ancient well. There was no water in the bottom, only deep engulfing madness.

And the smile that stretched the twisted face... It was not like Vela’s although there was something reminiscent of it. It was a joyous thing, not meant to terrify although it did. Pleasure, ecstasy, joy.

“What are you?” Sunday asked finding his voice. Whatever forces had sent him here had painted a target on his back for such lunatics. That, however, meant that he had the tools to deal with them. The thought was a foolish one, but it gave him confidence as he looked at the thing that had been a woman closer.

“A chosen of a God. A voice of a prophet.” It was a simple answer yet Sunday felt the world cry at the words. It was rejecting the being before him. It was denouncing it. It was raging that one of such filth would walk on the earth.

Sunday could feel the anger and it slowly took hold of him stronger than ever. What stood before him was a vermin that needed exterminating. Nothing else mattered at this moment.

It took everything inside of him to stop himself from lunging at the thing without a plan. As if a higher power was pushing him to do his duty. To fulfill a purpose. Sunday wanted to spit at that. No one told him what to do. Not even gods.

“What’s the name of your petty god?” he asked, despite himself.

The thing laughed, but there was no laughter. It could be sensed in the ground, the leaves, and the grass, as they all screamed in pain. “No names shall be given to one such as you. However, it is joy that we bring, and joy that we take.” There was a crack as something changed in the talking body. The voice became distorted, twisted, and wrong. “I know of you. I know what you are better than you,” it said.

“What do you want of me?” Sunday asked. Just as I tried to rip my soul out of my own body, I ran into this. He had taken control of the artificial anger now. It was a remnant of his time in the city. Lashing out like a puppet was for the other fools. He was the type of fool to mock the world and scream at it to fuck itself with his last breath, and he would do just that if it came down to it.

“To know you. To see what makes you special to be chosen. To find what makes you tick. Come, feed me your flesh, give me your eyes, and let me burn your bones and skin on the altar. Come, come, come! Make me stronger, slayer!” the thing screamed with its everchanging voice.

The body shifted and the sound of breaking bones sounded out. Elongated limbs and a grotesque frame crawled out by tearing the skin at the back of the corpse and showering almost milky blood everywhere. A twisting parasite made of corrupted bubbling flesh and a spine that was flowing like hot rubber. Bone and sinew formed its clawed limbs.

There was a hole in the chest where the heart should’ve been that was mimicking the wound the woman had inflicted on herself – the gaping hole that bled red and was shaped like a smile. The head was just a jagged mess of bones that ended in sharp edges made for goring.

“The touch is weak. Weak, so weak. You wouldn’t last a moment if this earth had value and if its children were worthy. This land is lost, fruitless. And you… lost little thing, away from the flock,” a voice escaped the jagged bones from an unseen opening. The creature stood in place but the voice bounced around as if the forest was an empty hallway. “Your brothers and sisters slaughter their way through the world and you hide here… Lucky, lucky. So lucky.”

It laughed, producing ringing as if there was a church bell all around Sunday’s head and someone had hit it. It hurt, but not enough to make him back down or flinch.

“Kneel?” the thing asked, tilting its head. It still stood halfway out from the corpse, not bothering to move further, “Kneel, give yourself up, and you will know power. An Apostle of Joy! Yes, an Apostle of Joy!”

Sunday remained unmoved. Without the artificial anger, his own had taken hold. He hated the city in the mists, and he hated whatever had brought him here. And he hated the thing before him. What if this thing was chosen by a god? What if it was creepy as all hell? Wasn’t he a corpse from space? Wasn’t he blessed? Wasn’t he fucking weird too?

“You want me to… pray?” he asked.