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The Curse of EichenLaub Village
Sep. 30th, 2011 12:07 pmWhen he first came to town, he was tired, bleeding, and a member of the army invading our country side.
He was first seen slowly dragging his body across the center of town, towards the fountain, leaving a thin rivulet of blood trickling back and forth across the cobblestones. Just as he had started pulling himself up against the brick work in an attempt to drink the water, the mayor’s eldest daughter ran to him and tried to help him, just narrowly beating out her new husband from reaching him. His intentions involved a shovel, and where much crueler.
Compassion won out against fear as we tended to his wounds and hid him as he slept.
…
He told us the story of how he broke rank and ran. He horrified us with stories of the Nazi General who lost his mind in battle, chasing ghosts and running from imagined daemons.
He couldn’t stand the crimes that were being committed at every town they came across. The shootings. The lootings. The rapes. Children used as target practice or temporary concubines.
He only wanted to go home. We only wanted him to leave.
…
A few days later word came to us from a local hunter that he saw the rest of them coming.
An armoured column. A massive army that outnumbered our village by ten to one. Enough bullets to kill us a hundred times over. Tanks and cannonades to flatten our buildings. Waist thick timbers and stone walls collapsing in moments.
We knew, without doubt, his presence here would have our fields salted and our history forgotten within an evening. There was nothing we could do. There was no running, being surrounded by steep mountains. All we had was an acceptance of our fate. We prepared to line up in the streets and quietly welcome our invaders.
He refused to leave. He begged us to listen to him. He had an idea. But there would have to be a sacrifice.
…
The armoured column announced its revival with the distruction of the bell tower of the chapel.
The Nazi war machine marched straight towards the center of our town, goose stepping in cadence as if it was a parade march. The General even took lead, as if this was the easiest of exercises.
Only a few moments into the village, the army immediately slowed. Every leader, every soldier, every horse felt the same hesitation. This town was not empty, but it was quiet.
A few more blocks in, the army slowed more, and mutterings of trepidation crossed the faces of the invading enemy.
The General, enraged, spured his tank forward with a small group and advanced ahead of his command.
Just before rounding the corner to reach the center of the town, the General himself halted the movement of his group. On a sheer brickworked wall in front of him was a sigil, a diagram, and a quote.
Alchemy and daemonic whispers, a secret power word written in blood 20 feet across.
The General, for the first time in his entire military career halted.
…
His face ran white.
Unable to face his impossible fear, the fear of showing a moment of weakness, he pushed forward in horror.
In the center of the fountain a body hung crucified, torn open with rough hands, the entrails tied in mystic knotwork. Giant swaths of blood and gore painted obscene grids and sigils that promised other-world summonings.
The medic and champlain ran forward, investigated, and came back with eyes haunted with madness that will affect them in later years.
“He was alive for all of this.”
The General started at the remains of his most trusted first Lieutenant, and one of his closest friends. The one man who was privy to so much of his most recent fears, the visions of the battle between the daemons and the angels. The weird symbols carved into the pages made of arabic flesh.
The General succumbed to the madness, and ordered his own suicide. He was dead in moments.
…
We watched the army retreat from the safety of the shadows in our basements and attics.
They never looked back.
Neither did we.
Our town survives to this day.
He was first seen slowly dragging his body across the center of town, towards the fountain, leaving a thin rivulet of blood trickling back and forth across the cobblestones. Just as he had started pulling himself up against the brick work in an attempt to drink the water, the mayor’s eldest daughter ran to him and tried to help him, just narrowly beating out her new husband from reaching him. His intentions involved a shovel, and where much crueler.
Compassion won out against fear as we tended to his wounds and hid him as he slept.
…
He told us the story of how he broke rank and ran. He horrified us with stories of the Nazi General who lost his mind in battle, chasing ghosts and running from imagined daemons.
He couldn’t stand the crimes that were being committed at every town they came across. The shootings. The lootings. The rapes. Children used as target practice or temporary concubines.
He only wanted to go home. We only wanted him to leave.
…
A few days later word came to us from a local hunter that he saw the rest of them coming.
An armoured column. A massive army that outnumbered our village by ten to one. Enough bullets to kill us a hundred times over. Tanks and cannonades to flatten our buildings. Waist thick timbers and stone walls collapsing in moments.
We knew, without doubt, his presence here would have our fields salted and our history forgotten within an evening. There was nothing we could do. There was no running, being surrounded by steep mountains. All we had was an acceptance of our fate. We prepared to line up in the streets and quietly welcome our invaders.
He refused to leave. He begged us to listen to him. He had an idea. But there would have to be a sacrifice.
…
The armoured column announced its revival with the distruction of the bell tower of the chapel.
The Nazi war machine marched straight towards the center of our town, goose stepping in cadence as if it was a parade march. The General even took lead, as if this was the easiest of exercises.
Only a few moments into the village, the army immediately slowed. Every leader, every soldier, every horse felt the same hesitation. This town was not empty, but it was quiet.
A few more blocks in, the army slowed more, and mutterings of trepidation crossed the faces of the invading enemy.
The General, enraged, spured his tank forward with a small group and advanced ahead of his command.
Just before rounding the corner to reach the center of the town, the General himself halted the movement of his group. On a sheer brickworked wall in front of him was a sigil, a diagram, and a quote.
Alchemy and daemonic whispers, a secret power word written in blood 20 feet across.
The General, for the first time in his entire military career halted.
…
His face ran white.
Unable to face his impossible fear, the fear of showing a moment of weakness, he pushed forward in horror.
In the center of the fountain a body hung crucified, torn open with rough hands, the entrails tied in mystic knotwork. Giant swaths of blood and gore painted obscene grids and sigils that promised other-world summonings.
The medic and champlain ran forward, investigated, and came back with eyes haunted with madness that will affect them in later years.
“He was alive for all of this.”
The General started at the remains of his most trusted first Lieutenant, and one of his closest friends. The one man who was privy to so much of his most recent fears, the visions of the battle between the daemons and the angels. The weird symbols carved into the pages made of arabic flesh.
The General succumbed to the madness, and ordered his own suicide. He was dead in moments.
…
We watched the army retreat from the safety of the shadows in our basements and attics.
They never looked back.
Neither did we.
Our town survives to this day.
