《I am Just a Farmer》 Waking up in Strange Places The air was cold and damp, the quiet drops of water heard here and there as moisture from above penetrated through the depths and found their way into this old and forgotten grave. One of those stray drops are what startled a young man to a beleaguered if partially awake state, the cold already bringing him up but the sudden splatter of cold hitting his nose and sliding into his airways to trigger a coughing fit certainly helped. Everything was stiff, from his muscles and skin to his clothes, as if he had been flash frozen then slowly thawed out here in the dark. His hacking cough did little to ease the tension in his body but soon he had it under control. There were no fires to light up the darkness he was in, but there was the dim glow in the old runes etched into the stones. Where he sat up from and slowly stood on his feet was a little shrine where whoever built this shrine no doubt laid their honored dead. If this was where the cultists had dragged him after they... whatever they did to him, they certainly didn''t make it look as creepy as he thought they would have. It was a downright nice looking place, the statues though melancholic were calming in their own right, a quiet acceptance to them as they watched over the dead. He didn''t remember anything like this being around New Tristram but then again he lived a quiet life as a farmer without seeing much of the world beyond. A maelstrom of emotions swirled inside Rumford as he realized where he was. I should be dead. A corpse or a pile of ashe to make sure I wouldn''t rise again to hurt those I tried to protect! He began to pat himself down in a panic looking for things out of place. His militia armor was bloody, but usable if only just barely so. The beleaguered man thrust his hand into one of the holes it had and rested his hand over his heart. He let out a sigh of relief when he felt the beat that proved he wasn''t some cursed creature with a half life. He looked to his armor once more and gave it a bit more than a cursory glance. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. It would turn aside a rusty or blunt blade but a good arrow wouldn''t have much trouble taking him down, the broken metal made his armored vest good for little more than decoration. Over this he still wore the thick cotton coat his father had given him, now stained with a deeper red than its fading dye. Likely from his supposed death. He didn''t have his helm, so his short brown hair was free for all too see with a few scars here on his head from his childhood antics. His scarf, a deep blue and of silk, the only thing of possible value he owned was still in good shape thankfully, a gift from his mother who had long since joined his father to drink and be merry with Akarat and his light. Gloves, with heavy iron to protect the hand and wrist but leaving the fingers covered in only leather to keep them free and flexible. They had seen better days but they were holding together better than his vest. pants were just the simple things he signed up with the call to arms was sounded, brown durable leggings with little to note that slid into the bulky boots of heavy leather and iron plates to protect his shins. He was happy to not have woken up naked all things considered and even better he still had his short sword. Good, now I can swing it like a mad man against all manner of creatures that hide in dark depths like these. Here''s to hoping I don''t become some giant spider''s food or worse. A gloved hand went up and softly rubbed the blue scarf around his neck, as he tried to get his thoughts in order. I.. I need to make it outside, see if I can get my bearings. With my luck I will run into the bastards who put me here. I hope the town is still in one piece! With one foot after the other he forced himself into the choking blackness, his only compass being the soft glows of mushrooms and the chiseled stones that let him know he was still in something made by man and not a cavern formed by the Maker¡¯s hand. As he walked he still ran his gloved fingers over the scarf, the simple action keeping him calm in the winding maze of these catacombs. There were rows and rows of dead, some in coffins of wood or stone, others just wrapped up in what was once clean cloth but time and decay had changed that. He didn¡¯t like running around this place after his previous experiences with the dead so the sooner he was out of this place the better. If only that wail hadn¡¯t echoed out from deeper within. Following That Scream Rumford was seriously questioning his sanity. Why go towards the unknowable darkness just to figure out what that oh so wonderful crying was coming from? What good would come of it in this place? He certainly hadn''t forgotten all his recent experience with crypts and graves. Experience that made this decision to go deeper nothing short of terrible. Still his boots carried him forward with his sword out to one side, hazel eyes open and alert. Maybe I wasn¡¯t the only one who woke up here? I really hope this is one of my comrades from the gate and not some witch looking for her next meal. I doubt I would taste any good. Still, I am a captain, and I have a duty to those under me like Daltyn did to me. He took another deep breath to steady his nerves and trudged onward. The crying was getting both louder and quieter at the same time, some moments it would pick up and others it would drift out. This prospect was more than a little nerve wracking considering it meant one of two things. He was getting closer or it was on the move. The fact that it could easily be both wasn¡¯t calming either. The former captain took painstaking care to ensure his steps were quiet or at the very least not kicking every rock and bumping into things on his way through the cold, dark halls. His eyes had finally adjusted to this place after walking around so long, able to see the bends of corners and not be completely blind when he didn¡¯t stand close to the curiously glowing mushrooms or one of the magical runes that seemed to decorate this crypt. Some of looked like abstract faces and others were hands clasped together or held together in prayer. He hoped it was to ward off evil and undead but with his past experiences he knew not to rely on it. Akarat provides much, but a man¡¯s trial was his own so he could learn and grow. Perhaps that is what this is? He had a final test before Akarat would allow him to see his family again. The thought was oddly comforting even as he waded through this maze like crypt. Then he noticed something far less so. The crying had stopped. No longer in those winding halls he was now in a large space, rows and rows of columbaria, housing graves of those of importance or wealth though Daltyn was not really in the position to argue for either side. The ceiling above glittered with glowing mushrooms, a harsh half light given to most of this place, but here there were lamp posts along the paved stone pathways. He had only seen graveyards this extravagant in well off cities like Kingsport when his grandpa needed a young lad with a strong back to help him lug some goods simply unavailable in their small town. He didn¡¯t get to see it up close, only after crossing a bridge and seeing it from over the edge. The reality that something else was definitely here left him disconcerted in spite of seeing the lavishly decorated graves up close. There was a soft grinding, the sound of something being dragged, then a clang sent ice up Daltyn¡¯s spine and kept the man in place. Heavy metal was being dragged on the floor and as he slowly looked back he saw what exactly was being so noisy. An axe grimey with dubious things being being pulled with each shuffling step by something that was clearly once a man. The cloth around its emaciated form was haggard and rotted much like the corpse, the stench easily enough to make one scrunch their nose, but the sharpness was closer to the chemicals that the coroner kept in his lock box for preserving bodies more than it was putrefaction. Perhaps that was what this was, the risen corpse of some long forgotten noble only to be recounted by this descendants in the general, formal way of saying how long back their bloodline goes. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. He took a deep breath, kept a strong grip on his sword and- what? The shambling creature kept coming and coming but then it took another turn, down a different path. Daltyn quickly looked around again, seeing nothing but graves and the lamp post he stood next to, the thing shining brightly upon him. His colors weren¡¯t the flashiest and the metal on him could use a good polish but surely that creature wasn¡¯t that blind? Did¡­ did he smell like one of them? Well he could definitely use a bath but he did not believe it was quite that bad. Whatever. It was probably a fluke, and now without that crying to follow he had lost his previous objective. Wandering through a giant tomb wasn¡¯t exactly his forte. As a matter of fact he wished he was back on his farm, before the Khazra got agitated and began laying waste to everything. He shook his head to keep himself from getting lost in poisonous thoughts.Not too soon either as he heard that tell tale shuffling grind but there was something new now in the distance, the clanking of chains. With a firm grip on his sword he kept to the side of the path, another undead coming up and clearly having Daltyn in its sight but paid him none of what little mind the creature had left. By Akarat¡¯s Divine Shawl how can it not notice me. That¡¯s it, Grandpa didn¡¯t raise a smart boy but he gave me a spine. He moved in brusquely to catch up with the undead and shoved it with fear-infused might. The thing went sprawling far and skidding a bit on the stone, what air it could hold in its decaying lungs coming out in a weak groan. It almost looked pitiful as it struggled to get up, and when it finally succeeded as Daltyn looked on from a now safe distance behind a large gravestone, it shambled on as if nothing happened. Okay, either the restless dead here aren¡¯t a hostile sort, which is doubtful since the few I¡¯ve seen and avoided have a tendency to carry weapons, or Akarat really REAALLY favors me. Neither of these options seem likely to me, I am just a farmer. He took another deep breath and stepped out, looking for more of these undead as he listened for the chains again. When more undead came, seeming to be a bit more populous he further tested his luck. He stomped his boots like he was a wildebeest, holding his sword so tight if it were a chicken¡¯s neck those bones would have snapped long ago as he walked straight past another walking corpse. Again nothing happened. He could have sworn he got a quizzical glance at another he tested this on. But surely they were not intelligent enough to be confused. Then again his cousin made the mad Khazra look like geniuses, but still the undead weren¡¯t the sort you attributed to intellectual pursuits; just fodder for nefarious means, minions of evil and darkness. Though he was still on edge he managed to walk past the undead with only one or two doubletakes. Now some that followed him gave him concern, but in time they all went their own way in their mindless patrolling. He had to find the source of the dragging chains, perhaps some poor soul was trapped in here with him. He could use the company and these shambling corpses weren¡¯t much for conversation, just groaning and smelling terrible. They didn¡¯t even care when he nabbed a few small things off them, usually a coin purse or loose jewelry. One of them even had an odd key on them. At least he would be rich when he left this place. Making Terrible Decisions Maybe it was just the general stench of the undead and a life of fertilizing fields that had dulled his sense of smell but he seriously needed to get his nose checked if he had to come right up on a pile of bloody corpses to actually react. At least he assumed it was a pile of corpses. Much of it was mangled meat and bone but whatever was killed here was not of man. Or at least not all of it. Sure he could see some undead here and there both feasting on the rot or obliterated in the fighting but that rib cage was too long and there were some scales here and there. There were even some large fangs and he was sure that large twitching eye with a slitted pupil didn¡¯t belong to a man at least. Chains clanked again and he saw a large scaly arm twitching. He sighed softly and cautiously stepped around the undead. Whatever this thing was, it was obviously kept here against its will, perhaps as sustenance for these corpsemen. He had half a mind to lop off the heads off the ones in here but his wits told him otherwise. He wasn¡¯t perceived as a threat to them, and even if he could slay a few of them, he was no nephalem. Hordes of undead could kill him as easily as the next man. Best he could do was get out of here now and let others know of the dangers of this place, perhaps help true heroes with this work. There was another jangle but he paid it no mind as he crouched down, trying to hold onto the meager contents of his stomach as he tried to find anything of value. After a bit of digging he found it to be some sort of serpent thing. It was by far the largest snake he had ever seen at first but as he stepped around the piles of putrefaction he found that they weren¡¯t all from one being but multiple of the same species. Some looked like a masterful melding of man and snake, torso and up moderately human with arms and strong shoulders but the head of a snake, some even hooded while the lower half, or three quarters more like, was all snake. The few fangs and scales he could grab that weren¡¯t bent seemed like a nice little souvenir to him. Better than lugging around a skull at least. Some of these scales were a bit difficult to pull off. And where those fangs getting bigger? He didn¡¯t think he could be frozen in fear again after dealing with the undead but the face of an angry snake baring its fangs. With a shaky voice and hand still upon its bloody head he spoke, ¡°Sorry I uhh.. I thought you were dead.¡± He slowly pulled his hand back and it hissed loudly, the wrangling of those chains coming back up. Though the muck covered up some of this creature it was clearly chained up like the others, even a heavy band of something around its snout. Daltyn quickly looked around in fear as he noticed the other undead began to take notice. He let out a hoarse whisper, ¡°Hey stop they ain¡¯t finished eating and something tells me they like it when their meat wiggles so stop squirming so much!¡± Why did he even care? This thing was probably some mad beast prone to murder men in different circumstances¡­. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. It seemed as if the snake man understood, though prone and chained to the floor it stilled and the curious undead went back to their eating. It flicked its tongue in mild irritation as Daltyn moved around the reptilian creature, messing with the chains in a much quieter manner trying to either break the chains or find the lock. He still had that odd key on him but he doubted it would work, the little thing looking far too fancy for this¡­ lock. He frowned softly as he saw how the lock looked farrr too fancy for these grimy chains. ¡°No¡­ it couldn¡¯t be. This¡­ this is just¡­¡± He quieted himself and pulled out the key. There was a incredulous click as the lock popped and he slipped it off. Caught off guard at the mere chances of the stars aligning for this little thing he didn¡¯t quite react fast enough to grab the chains that had begun to slip off the serpent in a loud metallic chorus. Soft groans quickly called out, some standing up slowly, others jerking over to look at a very nervous Daltyn. ¡°Uhhh¡­ its fine guys just go back to your¡­. Lunch? Midnight snack?¡± He tried to wave them off, shoo them away, like a nanny the kids didn¡¯t fear and was just as successful. Thankfully the serpent was smarter than the farmer, but whatever plan it had in mind it didn¡¯t quite tell the man as it suddenly yanked him off his feet and slithered away with him screaming. To this day he swears they were manly screams. Interlude: Serpents Sorrow Humans. They are a dangerous species. Mother and Father always warned us to be wary of them. Not of their swords and magic but of their mind and mettle. When one meets a Sierrask they know within seconds of what to expect of us. There are those of us whom do not fit the mold as well as others but we were not molded by chaos and blessed by order as humans are. Some laugh in the face of death, others grow furious and fight, and the rest flee. To vary wildly like they do from one another seems more a curse than a blessing but they make do as is evident in my people¡¯s expulsion from lands we once called our own. However this is the nature of our world. It is but a grand coliseum, we mortal races fight and die in the hot sands stained red for our own spits of land to call our own as our gods throw down blessings and condemnations for their own benefit. I am not as devout as I should be, especially as my tribe¡¯s Xar¡¯ja but my doubts are my own and I stand proud regardless of the truths my memories. These memories however aren¡¯t all burdensome, they have given me much needed wisdom and guidance for us in our time of need like now. My people had needed a new place to live and these ancestral memories of mine had shown me of a place we had once called home when our race was strong. In reality the place we had found was in ruins, but a simple outpost of a long fallen empire. To us nomads, weary of travels and finally finding a place to call home it was a treasured sight. We came to it two dozen strong and barely a third of that as warriors but this place was enough for us. If only I had known the dangers that surrounded it. Barely a fortnight since we settled in we were besieged by undead. First it was stragglers, a few here and there wandering too close for comfort. Then slowly but surely they began to funnel in, their shambling steps having too much purpose for coincidence. We sought to purge this filth before it consumed us, our strongest shields staying behind while the sharpest spears went for the heart. It wasn¡¯t difficult to find where they were coming from. Though dangerous, the undead were not a problem for those use to traveling unseen. So few creatures ever bother to look up when their feet are planted on the ground and these stalactites make for excellent traversal. We are no strangers to hardship, scales and muscles do not grow strong in times of peace but death itself halts growth entirely. Once we found this city of undead, a tomb of forgotten families belonging to the most arrogant of races nothing went right. The restless creatures converged on us, some no longer shambling but sprinting for us like a starved spider about to be upon its next meal. Thankfully whatever reanimated their flesh was not contagious though a bite from a corpse was still a nasty thing. They kept coming, always finding us like moths drawn to a flame. We lost Karse to leapers, one catching his tail and the rest falling upon him like flies in his momentary distraction. Ulma was next cleaved in two from a giant mound of flesh, an abomination stitched together from many creatures to make a monster of meat and madness that hefted an axe of sharpened bone. Fire could only do so much against such a creature even with my magic so we ran. It was only Zralen, Iad and I left. We knew going in we weren¡¯t going to have a simple way of it. We just hadn¡¯t expected to take losses so quickly. When we heard the lamenting wails we understood how out of our depth we were. We had stumbled upon The Sorrows. It was but one lonely creature but it was enough to send chills up my spine. Once this thing was a powerful knight and clad in gleaming silver armor and crimson cape on their back. Now it was covered in rust, red stains of the lives it had taken and cloak frayed from both time and travel. Worst of all was the large green blade it carried, etched with necrotic runes and embodying the power that they held. Just being in its presence made one feel helpless and sluggish, as if one had given up and resigned to die with nary a peep. The morose creature sniffled, its back tense and shoulders shaky in its eternal lamentations. My brothers told me to run, Khol and Xur rushing forward to keep the Weeping Knight at bay. I had come because I thought my treasured knowledge could help them dispel whatever evil resided here. I was not meant to fight like they were. Khol, scales blacker than a starless sky, was the fastest of our group and his furious strikes showed it. He held a spear and it danced with the grace and training he was taught by our elders. It bobbed and weaved, teasing the eye with slow and hypnotizing movements before striking fast and hard. Xur was encased in red as temperamental as he, always hot headed and ready to dive into the thickest of troubles had the twin blades gifted to him from his father. Where Khol¡¯s movements where methodical and precise Xur was savage and instinctual, these two were the embodiments of the argument regarding practiced skill vs raw talent. The point was moot however, as my god had shown me our futility. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. [Analyze] [Partial Failure] Kadicus The Unyielding Class: Weeping Knight Race: Elf Subtype: Undead Level: ??? Status: Despair II, ??? Xur of Nuirik Class: Blade Dancer Race: Sierrask Level: 17 Status: Despair III Khol of Nuirik Class: Sentinel Race: Sierrask Subtype: Lesser Sierrask Level: 19 Status: Despair III Xar¡¯ja Natala of Nuirik Class: Seer Race: Sierrask Level: 6 Status: Despair III, Greater Paralysis Greater Paralysis. I couldn¡¯t tell them even if I wanted to. Not only was this enemy so far above us I couldn¡¯t see his basic strength I had shamed myself by falling into its trap. The runes underneath me had flared to life when I tried to back away. Weeping Knights were meant for slaughtering lesser creatures, those that ran could not. That¡¯s not just what my status told me, but my cursed memories did. They fought furiously, yelling and spitting insults at the knight in our tongue, a foreign hissing and guttural thing to those who were not blessed by our god of balance. Then I heard the quiet voices of my ancestors, others who had an end as abrupt and brutal as the one coming to meet me. Heads were up, chins high in pride, their voices told me to calm my heart and witness their bravery. As Xar¡¯ja it is our burden to carry the memories of those before us and both Khol and Xur were worthy of a death not left obscure by time against an enemy just out of their reach. I prepared myself as well, reciting the chants one granted to the dead and dying to have them return to the great light and be reborn again in the great dark. Khole was weak from blood loss, the many cuts he had acquired were finally catching up to him. Each thrust of the spear was slower than the last. Xur had also lost a blade, the claws still gripping it tightly even without the arm attached to it. Still they fought the Weeping Knight, we didn¡¯t have the choice of coming back in failure, others depended on us. The lunge was too strong, Khol over extended himself and tarnished gauntlets latched onto the polished wood. Xur rushed in to save him and got that same spear for his trouble, the knight having shoved the spear out towards the serpent trying to save his comrade. Khol didn¡¯t even have the time to roar out in rage before that glowing green blade lopped off his head, the black scales glistening in the glowing lamplight for a few brief moments before rolling off into the shadows. A screech of pain and sorrow emanated from the knight, as if it was the one who had just lost its brothers. I will see you soon. Its steps were coming closer and yet I could not move. Still the thing sniffled, wiping away nonexistent tears from its faceplate as it dragged the sword with it. Those gauntlets were cold as they came around my neck and yet my heart was calm. If I didn¡¯t have the memories of my ancestors I doubt I would be this accepting of my death. I could see it draw up magic, a miasma leaking from the black slits of its faceplate, forcing me down and to drink it in. My mind grew hazy and I let myself be taken into the darkness.