StoryTellerMan
10-23-2008, 10:10 PM
Eighteen years. Eighteen years since the day I saw my father torn to pieces in front of me, his head disembodied and his legs and extremities mounted on stakes around our home. I cannot overcome it. No happiness fills my life, my wife asks me what is wrong, I cannot give her a truthful answer. I ask Auros what is wrong: He gives no answer. I ask all the Gods, mine or others, if they can relieve my suffering--none answer. I call out to the darkness, the abyss, the nothingness. As if I am falling and I cannot hit the bottom of whatever crevasse I've fallen into. I cannot take my own life, it would leave behind my children, and my wife, that is a fear above this.
I remember when the Mahirim came. They came with their packs, their ragged teeth, their fur that shined in the moonlight, their teeth that gleamed like ivory, and their eyes that blazed like lanterns. Orks came with them, mounted on their horrible pigs, their haunting screams ringing out as they tore my cabin down. My father tried to fend them off, killing two mahirim in the process, but eventually they pinned him against a wall, and his innards were spilled in front of me. They tore his stomach open, his skin never seeming to stop pumping blood out. He cried and he wept as they disemboweled him, and when he finally stopped crying, and his blood ceased to pour out, his face white from the loss, they scattered his body parts upon stakes and around my cabin. I was forced to watch, the green hands of an Ork holding me so I could not look away. I tried to move, but it only laughed in a horrible voice. The Mahirim circled the area, lighting the forest around my house on fire and howling in joy. How could any creature dare call themselves decent after doing such acts? All because we were humans, and we were living on the border of Morak. Then, suddenly, they left as quickly as they had arrived from the darkness of the night, like ghosts of the wild, being absorbed into the scenery in a matter of minutes.
My mother was taken as a slave, my brothers were spirited away by two mahirim riding stolen Aerdin cats, and my sister was left with me. She was too young to make it--she caught a fever, and even as I tried to cool her by fanning my hand upon her face, she could not stop burning. It seemed as if the fires that lit my house ablaze that night in October had spread to her soul, and wreaked havoc upon her body as well. Her pain was evident in her facial expressions, her eyes squinted and tearing. Her mouth formed incoherent words, that I answered with "Yes, you're going to be alright.". I tried, and I tried, but even after feeding her tea from willow twigs, her fever did not stop. Eventually, she cooled, though she lay dead on the ground, wrapped in a blanket--my only possession after the fire. I carried her around still, hoping she was sleeping and exhausted from the night's turn of events. I did not know I carried a corpse until the next day, when I noticed she did not breath.
It took half the morning hours, but eventually I dug her a suitable grave beneath the outreaching arms of a juniper tree. I placed her in her grave, she would eternally rest here, so I blessed the spot many times with prayers to Auros, praying that her soul would be taken care of in whatever heaven she went to. Then, I placed her gently in the grave, as if she were still alive, and covered the hole with dirt--using my hands to scoop up the earth.
There, I swore a blood oath, an oath unbroken, an oath that would be passed down to my children, and their children. I swore no Ork or Mahirim would be left standing before my line ended, before my family ended. Every day is a struggle for me, every day I march out into the wilderness to kill Orks and Mahirim, and every time I begin to believe my quest cannot possibly be finished, I remember: I remember the look of my father's face that was mounted on the stake in front of my cabin. I am disheartened from my quest no longer. I feel my heart burning away every day, consumed by my goal as I reach towards it, my fingers outstretched, trying so desperately to reach. Each day, a small part of me dies as I am consumed, consumed by a heart of fire.
I remember when the Mahirim came. They came with their packs, their ragged teeth, their fur that shined in the moonlight, their teeth that gleamed like ivory, and their eyes that blazed like lanterns. Orks came with them, mounted on their horrible pigs, their haunting screams ringing out as they tore my cabin down. My father tried to fend them off, killing two mahirim in the process, but eventually they pinned him against a wall, and his innards were spilled in front of me. They tore his stomach open, his skin never seeming to stop pumping blood out. He cried and he wept as they disemboweled him, and when he finally stopped crying, and his blood ceased to pour out, his face white from the loss, they scattered his body parts upon stakes and around my cabin. I was forced to watch, the green hands of an Ork holding me so I could not look away. I tried to move, but it only laughed in a horrible voice. The Mahirim circled the area, lighting the forest around my house on fire and howling in joy. How could any creature dare call themselves decent after doing such acts? All because we were humans, and we were living on the border of Morak. Then, suddenly, they left as quickly as they had arrived from the darkness of the night, like ghosts of the wild, being absorbed into the scenery in a matter of minutes.
My mother was taken as a slave, my brothers were spirited away by two mahirim riding stolen Aerdin cats, and my sister was left with me. She was too young to make it--she caught a fever, and even as I tried to cool her by fanning my hand upon her face, she could not stop burning. It seemed as if the fires that lit my house ablaze that night in October had spread to her soul, and wreaked havoc upon her body as well. Her pain was evident in her facial expressions, her eyes squinted and tearing. Her mouth formed incoherent words, that I answered with "Yes, you're going to be alright.". I tried, and I tried, but even after feeding her tea from willow twigs, her fever did not stop. Eventually, she cooled, though she lay dead on the ground, wrapped in a blanket--my only possession after the fire. I carried her around still, hoping she was sleeping and exhausted from the night's turn of events. I did not know I carried a corpse until the next day, when I noticed she did not breath.
It took half the morning hours, but eventually I dug her a suitable grave beneath the outreaching arms of a juniper tree. I placed her in her grave, she would eternally rest here, so I blessed the spot many times with prayers to Auros, praying that her soul would be taken care of in whatever heaven she went to. Then, I placed her gently in the grave, as if she were still alive, and covered the hole with dirt--using my hands to scoop up the earth.
There, I swore a blood oath, an oath unbroken, an oath that would be passed down to my children, and their children. I swore no Ork or Mahirim would be left standing before my line ended, before my family ended. Every day is a struggle for me, every day I march out into the wilderness to kill Orks and Mahirim, and every time I begin to believe my quest cannot possibly be finished, I remember: I remember the look of my father's face that was mounted on the stake in front of my cabin. I am disheartened from my quest no longer. I feel my heart burning away every day, consumed by my goal as I reach towards it, my fingers outstretched, trying so desperately to reach. Each day, a small part of me dies as I am consumed, consumed by a heart of fire.