Post by anarchyangel on Feb 28, 2006 20:26:19 GMT -5
This is sort of an epilogue to a few short stories I'm thinking of working on. It hasnt been edited just yet, so its kind of rough, but Ill find some time to do that soon. Until then, enjoy and any comments are appreciated.
*Paradise of the Damned*
In my clan they say that when men die they go to paradise. That their ideas of a perfect world become their own reality, and that it is in that reality that they shall forever stay. Forever in peace, forever in comfort. For many, I suppose this is true - but for me, it is not. I was a berserker once, a tainted one of my kind; I have spent a lifetime killing innocents until now: my own death. The only times I ever found peace were in my moments of greatest destruction...
Thus... now there is no peace for me. Now, there is only eternal war in purgatory. Ages upon ages for me to try and redeem myself for my sins by insurging against the very gates of hell...
*************************************
I remember dying on the battlements of the human city named Eberrus; a mercenary kingdom that was warring with hordes of corrupt zealots from the North. I was being paid to fight for the armies of mankind but it was definitly not for the city or the money that I trully fought. The only reason I was battling was for the rush of anger and malice that comes with being a berserker - the uncontrollable fury that all barbarians are capable of but that few ever give in to.
It is a blessing and a curse to lose ones self in the whirlwind of battle; to be unthinkably strong and to indeed actually be unthinking as the fighting begins. To be a berserker means to let go of all inhibitions and become a savage like the first mighty warriors once were. To become the wild, fearless opposite of the tame, weaklings called men today.
But losing clear judgement also comes along with becoming the berserker. The moment a barbarian unleashes the beast within is the moment that instinct overcomes all sanity. And the sanity doesn't come back until hours after the last enemy has died, or until the barbarian dies himself.
It is because of my lack of judgement that I died.
On the warfield that day, choked with corpses and smoke, I was out of control - hacking through limbs as if they were strings with my bastard sword. Blood drenched my skin, sticky and red, and it was matting my hair into ropy dreadlocks as I carved down enemy after enemy - sometimes even friend. I remember snarling in pleasure at every arterial splash that followed up one of my attacks; remember roaring in anger everytime an attack managed to surpass my defences and nick my flesh.
I took a reckless moment to let out a scream of praise for the earth I was wreaking havoc upon. In my mind, I was in a heaven of black clouds, red rain and screaming angels.
But that heaven suddenly seemed a lot more hellish when I felt the spear drive thunderously into my thigh and snap, leaving an ugly splintered length behind. My berserk fury seemed to drain out from the bottoms of my steel tipped boots as the red hot pain shot into me. I barely managed to stay on my feet as I turned and staggered towards the zealot who had wounded me.
My attacker was clad in pitted, steel armor and he grinned cynically at me as he drew his weapon; a jagged longsword with a scarlet pommel; A mark that he was a sergeant in the army I was facing. Gritting my teeth against the throbbing agony in my hip and thigh, I forced myself into a defensive stance - something that I was unused to since I had been under the offensive mindcast of the berserk for so long. I was not prepared for the speed and tenacity of my foe as he lunged forward, his sword feinting and clashing against mine.
The force of his blows pushed me back a few torturous steps; my own attacks slowing down as my strength bled out from me. I think I knew then as a dimness began creeping into my eyes that my time had come to die. Quite a shitty ending if you ask me - I remember thinking that as my sword slipped from numbing fingers to the ground. The next second I simply saw, heard and felt the jagged blade of the zealot as it slammed, screeching and horrible into my chestplate - stealing my last breath with a harshness I had not known existed.
And as that last breath died inside me, so did my last coherent thoughts fly away; their remains soaring fitfully into the red ether where I would be reborn into a new battlefield; the one between heaven and hell known only as Purgatory. The paradise of the damned.
*Paradise of the Damned*
In my clan they say that when men die they go to paradise. That their ideas of a perfect world become their own reality, and that it is in that reality that they shall forever stay. Forever in peace, forever in comfort. For many, I suppose this is true - but for me, it is not. I was a berserker once, a tainted one of my kind; I have spent a lifetime killing innocents until now: my own death. The only times I ever found peace were in my moments of greatest destruction...
Thus... now there is no peace for me. Now, there is only eternal war in purgatory. Ages upon ages for me to try and redeem myself for my sins by insurging against the very gates of hell...
*************************************
I remember dying on the battlements of the human city named Eberrus; a mercenary kingdom that was warring with hordes of corrupt zealots from the North. I was being paid to fight for the armies of mankind but it was definitly not for the city or the money that I trully fought. The only reason I was battling was for the rush of anger and malice that comes with being a berserker - the uncontrollable fury that all barbarians are capable of but that few ever give in to.
It is a blessing and a curse to lose ones self in the whirlwind of battle; to be unthinkably strong and to indeed actually be unthinking as the fighting begins. To be a berserker means to let go of all inhibitions and become a savage like the first mighty warriors once were. To become the wild, fearless opposite of the tame, weaklings called men today.
But losing clear judgement also comes along with becoming the berserker. The moment a barbarian unleashes the beast within is the moment that instinct overcomes all sanity. And the sanity doesn't come back until hours after the last enemy has died, or until the barbarian dies himself.
It is because of my lack of judgement that I died.
On the warfield that day, choked with corpses and smoke, I was out of control - hacking through limbs as if they were strings with my bastard sword. Blood drenched my skin, sticky and red, and it was matting my hair into ropy dreadlocks as I carved down enemy after enemy - sometimes even friend. I remember snarling in pleasure at every arterial splash that followed up one of my attacks; remember roaring in anger everytime an attack managed to surpass my defences and nick my flesh.
I took a reckless moment to let out a scream of praise for the earth I was wreaking havoc upon. In my mind, I was in a heaven of black clouds, red rain and screaming angels.
But that heaven suddenly seemed a lot more hellish when I felt the spear drive thunderously into my thigh and snap, leaving an ugly splintered length behind. My berserk fury seemed to drain out from the bottoms of my steel tipped boots as the red hot pain shot into me. I barely managed to stay on my feet as I turned and staggered towards the zealot who had wounded me.
My attacker was clad in pitted, steel armor and he grinned cynically at me as he drew his weapon; a jagged longsword with a scarlet pommel; A mark that he was a sergeant in the army I was facing. Gritting my teeth against the throbbing agony in my hip and thigh, I forced myself into a defensive stance - something that I was unused to since I had been under the offensive mindcast of the berserk for so long. I was not prepared for the speed and tenacity of my foe as he lunged forward, his sword feinting and clashing against mine.
The force of his blows pushed me back a few torturous steps; my own attacks slowing down as my strength bled out from me. I think I knew then as a dimness began creeping into my eyes that my time had come to die. Quite a shitty ending if you ask me - I remember thinking that as my sword slipped from numbing fingers to the ground. The next second I simply saw, heard and felt the jagged blade of the zealot as it slammed, screeching and horrible into my chestplate - stealing my last breath with a harshness I had not known existed.
And as that last breath died inside me, so did my last coherent thoughts fly away; their remains soaring fitfully into the red ether where I would be reborn into a new battlefield; the one between heaven and hell known only as Purgatory. The paradise of the damned.