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To my adoring timekeeper,
I long for this war's end, and for the day when we can finally meet. Please stay where it is safest in the meanwhile. My whims are nothing more than a guard's last foolish wish. The siege here wears on, and our walls can only bear so much. The red haze permeating these woods grows worse by the day. I am afraid to admit that the Count's fury might have no equal. I wish I had better news to lighten your spirit as you have ceaselessly done for me. With how detached our outpost here in the Debious Woods is from Aljiba, we have received no word of the Belmont's journey. Our liberation will only be signaled by the castle's fall.
I pray, to whatever ears above that might give listen, that your soul will be spared from the hells being unleashed on us. Wherever you may be.
We see seldom few undead anymore. The nearby villages, long since reanimated, are giving chase to the survivors fleeing westward. Their hopes rest within the Borgia Mountains sectioning out this swathe of Transylvania. The three mountain passes act as a natural funnel to all except those who can fly. We have not the faintest clue as to what awaits them there. Not a single letter from the other towns have arrived at our fort. Not one. It may be that the Count's forces remain hellbent on killing us only. Or, as our captain so wonderfully describes, we are all that remain. I hope he is wrong.
We are to join the remaining refugees tomorrow morning. Yuta's Path seemingly ends at a river, our maps being several generations old helped us none with this, so we are to establish a chokepoint at the canyon pass. It had once been used to ferry reinforcements in from other settlements. That was months ago. The best of our militia have either left us for the bridge across the Yuba Lake alongside my brother or died securing our walls. It matters not, now. Another day and this very fortress will serve as our tomb. We possess neither the silver nor the holy water to ward off these threats any longer.
It all feels fruitless. So many lost their lives to hold the outpost, Galamoth. For the one hundred and fifty seven men who fell, we rescued twelve refugees in turn. What strength does that pay forward for us? I can not help but fear for my fellow men. Where have they gone? Countless towns and cities were silenced in a tide of flame. Surely some would have survived that. Blind faith, that is all this is. It is not my place to know. I can only pay the kindness owed to my fellow militiamen and ensure our mutual safety. They know not what turns inside me. But to you, I can pen the truth.
To even admit it here feels as if I am accepting my own death.
I am scared.
The Light remains out of reach for us commonfolk. It certainly refuses to listens to the plight of the Branded. But this was not my original intent with the letter. Ending things on such a dour note does you a disservice. There is little left to find joy in when all that I see dies by the day. Let it be known though, my secret, that your letters have been a brighter spot on the horizon than any sun breaking apart the darkness. We are so few in number now that hiding your correspondence is not the task it once was. Some still question where my letters vanish to, and where yours are delivered from. They even ask who or what you are. I tell them the truth.
I simply do not know. Perhaps it is best that way. Knowledge is far above my station. It is clear though that sorcery plays a hand in this. Be that as it may, I would sooner cut clean my tongue than oust you. A life of conscription is beneath you. You deserve a peace never to be known to us here in the forest. I must thank you for the time you have given me. Your attention, kind words, and understanding spirit will follow until I inevitably fall in my service. Do not worry for me. Nothing is ever beautiful because it lasts. These letters will join me in whatever hell my soul sinks into, protected by my devotion to you.
May we meet in another life. Your watchman,
Chamble Danasty
- - -
A rotting hand, fingers gnawed down to the bone, grabbed hold of Chamble's shoulder as he took aim elsewhere. A bombardier had been spotted along the ridgeline, his presence announced with the fiery deaths of four more men. The bolt went wide as Chamble whipped his weapon around. The wooden frame of his crossbow cracked from the blow, the rear end of the stock caving in the attacking zombie's head. It dropped without fanfare as if it'd been suspended in the air by now cut strings. Its last twitching moments were met with a leather boot. His kick was just strong enough to snap the head back a sharp ninety degrees, leaving it an uneven fixture staring up at the canyon walls.
Right on cue, another bomb landed a few feet away from a feasting gargoyle. Its prey, their baker who'd lost his arm and was screaming bloody murder, dug his remaining hand into the creature's wings as the fuse burned down. All Chamble could do was duck behind the mountain's rubble as the pass opening erupted into a fireball. A fine red shower rained down as the smoke cleared. The horde that squeezed themselves through the rocks made the remaining militiamen hesitate once again. They'd rescued only a single refugee since arriving here in the early afternoon. The remainder shambled in behind with no souls to part with.
Hundreds of monsters had come for the pass. Fresh faced and driven by their sole instinct to kill. Chamble's group were a dozen strong now. They'd lost their captain during the trip here, leaving him the sole voice of reason. Many of them itched to flee by this point. Chamble too wanted to live. Desperately. He'd yet to meet his kind messenger, wherever he was. But they'd potentially be dooming the rest of Transylvania if they let this army past. So all they had left to plug this hole were their own bodies and that of the denizens of hell. Far from a fair task, but they'd survived this long doing just that.
Chamble grimaced at the way his crossbow splintered as he loaded in a bolt. It hadn't even been his, not initially. The captain had been the only surviving Marksman. He'd probably be rolling in the ditch he fell in if he knew his "baby" was being used like this. Better this than the alternative. The skeleton bombardier had grown a hair too overconfident in its approach. Killing five certainly gave the impression that Chamble's lot were being routed. That, admittedly, was because they were. But no way in the hells beneath would he grant the bony bastard the pleasure of claiming that victory for itself.
His bolt shattered its sternum, causing its disconnected legs to keep running forward on the canyon wall and off the lip. It crashed into a pile of bones on the pass below. The lit bomb it had been holding fell front and center, taking care of their bombslinging and boneflinging problems for the foreseeable future. The shards that peppered them from its entire bag of explosive setting off at once only made them cheer harder. They had lost all sense of feeling beyond the adrenaline and the ringing. Gods, that ringing. From all sorts of bombs, quakes, magic, and everything else in-between that wanted to kill them.
They could breathe, if only for a moment. The undead were ambling up and around the various mounds of flesh. A slow wall of death that kept the remaining gargoyles grounded back behind them. For the time being. The Count's archers meanwhile couldn't shoot for shit. Chamble and his men had long since stopped taking cover. Skeletons made for pathetic bowmen. Chamble's brother thought it was due to the lack of tactile feeling in their fingers. No flesh. Just bones. Reed, the idiot that he was, even tried to leave some of his throwing knives out to see if a skeleton would use them. Reed had been promptly stabbed instead.
How he survived that was anyone's guess.
An arrow whistled by, clipping Chamble's cloak and punching another hole in it. One of many. But they were closing the gap a lot faster than he had anticipated. He pulled the frontmost soldier back, a young lad with a blacksmith's mallet far too large for him, by the hem of his tunic. He landed roughly on his ass and scrambled up behind Chamble. The rest followed suit as Chamble did a headcount. Eight. Either a few had deserted through an exit that didn't exist or Chamble lost more men in the blink of an eye. He desperately wished it to be the former. They looked to him for orders. Any kind of reassurance.
It was ironic, really. This was the most power he'd been granted as a Branded. His prior position as a town guard granted him few liberties at best. So now, with the others seeing him as something more than a sodomite, he found that he wanted none of it. His individual freedom was never worth the plague setting upon the countryside. He made do with the life granted to him before. He would proudly don the shackles again if it meant he never had to decapitate their reanimated captain hours earlier. Still, his orders were swift.
The pass wouldn't be flaring out for at least another ten minute walk. No space to maneuver. For once, he could make that work in their favor. Holding the point any longer was out of the question entirely. They would make the bastards pay for each inch of ground given up. Chamble lifted his weapon in the air with a shout, standing atop a nearby growing pile of corpses to be seen by all his remaining men.
Making himself heard above the approaching sound of a hundred wings took more effort than winching back a bolt. "Take fifteen paces back! Watch the skies, and don't let a single lout cut through this line! Bring down the whole damn canyon if you have to!"
Three more arrows soared by harmlessly. They'd missed his back by the grace of whatever hellish god took joy in this. The fourth, however, painted Chamble's hair wet. His crossbow clattered to the ground beside him as his left hand simply no longer had the fingers to hold it with. It took him a moment of looking at the spurting stumps along his knuckle for it to register. The pain was nothing more than a dull throb compared to the exhaustion eating away at his bones. Of course, what rotten luck. He wanted to scream. Hells below, he wanted to curl up and let the unending wave of rotting flesh consume him. But that'd be giving the Count another soul to claim. He'd sooner die on his own terms
He whirled around and rammed the jagged shards of bone left in his hand into an approaching ghoul's face. Twisting like one would with a spoon, he scooped out as much of its flesh as he could before retreating. Its body collapsed into the same heaps that served to block the passageway inward. By this point it'd be damn near impossible for a refugee to mantle past. Now they needed to tow the line. The display turned his men's look of horror into that of raucous awe. Their last spearman helped Chamble unsheathe his shortsword and stem the bleeding. Even in the chaos, they all got a laugh out of how shaky their hands were.
The fact that it took two men to draw a blade didn't bode well for their odds. The scout, a tired woman with fewer teeth than Chamble had fingers, offered a nearby rotting hand as a replacement. He made sure to take the time to extend its middle finger before chucking it into the approaching horde. He smiled just the same as his bandages bloomed red. They had been fighting and dying beside each other since the Count's war first started five months ago. All this was nothing new. Crass as their humor could be, not a single soul standing here would abandon the others now. Those with lives worth living fled long ago.
Staying to die or fleeing to doom the others, what did it matter? For all they knew, there wasn't a man left alive to judge them for it.
- - -
To my loyal watchman,
That day shall be sooner than either of us expected.
It pleases me none to know that this letter is one your eyes will never grace. It is far too late to disclose all that should have been said in this past harvest, but I will do so anyway. Eight months of our correspondence, bleeding into Dracula's revenge on your kind, and I have done nothing but play the part of a recluse and a fool. Circumstances here have grown beyond even my control. My inaction will be my undoing, I am certain. The Dark Priest, the overconfident charlatan that he is, has thrown open the gates to the Netherworld. The souls of the damned are returning back in mass from your militia's efforts and that of the Belmont's.
It will not be enough
I am unsure if Shaft is aware of just what clamors to be released within this realm. An open doorway is an invitation for fiends far stronger than I to step forth. Lords of Chaos that once bent the knee to Dracula's strength approach the gate with interest. If they were to escape, your soul would be forfeit for all eternity. It is for that reason I shall arrive in their stead. I am not beset by your weakness, but instead my own. I once had found myself content to watch your kind's struggles from the depths of the Netherworld. Your realm never interested me beyond a brief fascination spent within a desert society. No real power to be gained from it.
Their worship never granted me strength irreplaceable to time. Time, as much as it is a boon, is too my folly.
Each letter of yours, sent through my misplaced messenger's box that my servants should have never lost to begin with, has shaved off decades from my resolve. It is easy to grow complacent in the passage of time. My existence here in the Netherworld is one of unending patience. Though when I think of you now, I am faced with the unbearable tedium each second poses. An hour is a lifetime of torture when I would rather spend the fleeting minutes reading of you. Eight months. I have not been compelled to roam as mankind does in three thousand years. Yet eight months of you has my spirit writhing for a new life altogether.
My plan for the Netherworld will be set in motion regardless. For the time being, though, I find myself longing for a past you so once idyllically described. That of a wandering tradesman who planted roots in each town he helped build. Each word you have penned is forever seared into my memory. "My brother and I used to camp out in the fringes during the summers. The stars always shone down on us the brightest then. He would say that they were gems ripe for the taking if only we could figure out how to reach them. I was content with our meager wealth. We had each other, and that was enough back then. We were young, that is all, with no clue what awaited us a decade later."
If you assumed only you so diligently poured over these letters of ours, you are sorely mistaken. I have nothing but time to spend upon my throne.
I have grown weary of being alone. No sooner had I received your response than had I approached the gate myself. I aim to stem this flow for as long as I am able, despite the cost. Just the smallest portion of that which I had accumulated. A few decades of strength at most. It is a paltry offering in comparison to losing you. I can hope your loyalty is devout enough to survive the burden of what I am. We still know so little of each other. Perhaps, too, I am desperate for solace beyond the march of time. So if your soul has joined the count's denizens, I know exactly where to find you. I will ensure the eternity that awaits us both is spent in good company.
If you will have me, that is. Your timekeeper,
Galamoth
- - -
It was only by sheer human grit that Chamble brought his weapon up in time. Miracles would never fall at their feet. Their own corpses might though. A damned Minotaur. Of all the creatures to darken this canyon. It had charged a path through the barricade of bodies in an instant. Their shared confidence was drowned by shock, leaving them open long enough for the beast to cleave their scout in two. She was less than a foot in front of him when the axe met flesh and bone. There was no room to maneuver. Dodging was out of the question entirely. All Chamble could do was lift his blade up and brace as the blow found him next.
The viscera spraying across his face did little to help lessen the impact. His weapon shattered into a dozen pieces. The sword just barely deflected the head of the axe, but certainly not the force. Chamble was sent spiraling backwards hard enough to barrel over the two men behind him. The beast had knocked him clean off his feet. What little he could see of his world was a blur of movement and blood. Chamble wished he could've stayed in the air forever. When he finally touched ground on the canyon's rocky path, he could feel his skin chafe off as he rolled another couple feet. The smear left behind glistened in the sunlight.
Face pressed against the uneven pathway, Chamble grimaced when a flap of his nose gave way from the pressure. Shifting to the side with a pop of the cartilage. The adrenaline was nowhere to be seen. He'd been left with the faintest chill across his exposed body and the feeling of something pressing deep into his collarbone. Whatever fighting he'd been knocked clear away from faded into aimless noise. Even the pain was gone. The exhaustion. Chamble tried to push himself up off the ground when his arms finally twitched with the returning air in his chest. They shook far too much to keep him up for long.
He only reached high enough to see he'd painted the rocks beneath him red. Christ.
Chamble managed to tip himself over onto his side, facing the nearby canyon wall. The sun illuminated a fist sized chunk of iron wedged deep into his chest. Likely the biggest piece of his sword left. Of course it wound up in him. His brother would surely be laughing, the smug faced dolt that he was. Reed. Chamble palmed at his face to wipe clear his eyes. He did his best to ignore the gaps where fingers once met flesh, both missing sizable portions now. His brother was still out there. Somewhere. Fighting the same stupid bastards Chamble was and probably having a hell of a better time doing it too. Chamble needed to get up.
He needed to beat his brother within an inch of his life for wandering off to the Yuba Lake with half of their remaining forces
He needed to make sure his brother was still alive.
the planting of a spear turned his head back the way he came from. Only two of his men remained: the spearman and a wagon courier. They'd come to stand guard in front of Chamble as the horde flooded in through the newly made entrance. The Minotaur was muzzle deep in the scout's corpse, holding a leg in the air to bite at the meat in her calves. Its axe sat buried in the adjacent rock wall. It would not surprise Chamble one bit if pulling that weapon out was trivial for the beast. They had less than a minute before they would be overwhelmed. Simply not enough time to plan anything aside from the obvious.
The spearman, a young Branded whose name never saw the light of day, pulled Chamble up by his arm. Wrapping it around his shoulder, he shouted something to the courier as they hobbled in the opposite direction. Chamble thought it best that everything sounded so muffled now. They were likely thinking of the same tactic as he was: running. Three injured men stood no chance against a Minotaur alone, let alone one backed by several villages worth of undead. Their pace was crippled by Chamble's injuries. He was starting to grow pale from the blood loss. Each step weaker than the last. The courier never caught up with them.
There'd be no point in telling the spearman to leave Chamble behind. They would be dying together or not at all regardless. Not that Chamble even got the chance to focus on anything other than breathing. Another dozen paces and the spearman stopped completely. His head twisted back the way they came, eyes blown wide in terror, before looking straight forward. His legs didn't seem to want to cooperate anymore. He was saying something indecipherable. Scared. Chamble could just barely read his lips. "May light forgive us."
Chamble forced them both to spin to face whatever hell approached them. He would not be cowed by another Minotaur or some demon. Not even the relentless undead. They would have to pry his spirit from his cold dead hands. So he looked out across the blood-soaked pass they desperately held for hours, only to be struck by the same fear that'd seized the spearman. A freezing lock placed itself over his very soul. The realization that not even a hundred men could stop what was coming stole what little air he had left. The ghouls trudged on clueless to what awaited behind them.
The Minotaur, hands wedged deep in the courier's now removed skull, let go and stumbled back.
Towering over the canyon's entrance was what Chamble could best describe as wrath given form. Swaddled in tempestuous storm clouds foreign to the summer air, only its eyes were visible. Verdant green eyes cutting through the rain that began to pelt down from the sky. The very storm itself whipped around its form like the flowing curves of cloth, vaguely hinting at the deity heralding their demise. It had to be thirty five feet tall at least. It was larger than anything the Civilian's Militia had ever recorded, dating back to the group's founding numerous generations ago. Not even the golems that destroyed his city streets were comparable.
A colossal mace rose from the tempest, evaporating the rain with each bright blue pulse. Death. Surely this was what Death looked like. The bolts of lightning that shot off as it charged shattered the rocks they touched at blistering speeds. They were being showered in molten slag. Chamble took one look at the still relatively intact spearman before deciding that there needed to be at least one survivor. With what little strength he had left, he kicked the side of the man's kneecap. The spearman fell to the ground, with Chamble collapsing atop him as a living shield. Even if he truly didn't believe it would protect them from this.
He watched as the world whited out entirely. A single, blinding flash that Chamble's brief glimpse of left spots swimming in his vision. He buried his head into the man's back as he felt the earth give way. The canyon's walls erupted around them. He was pelted by shards of rubble, bone, and everything else unfortunate enough to be caught out there with him. He could protect his eyes, but not his ears. What little he could hear distorted itself, pressure building, before being popped with a warm trickle down his neck. The spearman beneath him was quaking, but who could truly tell when the very ground threw them about?
It baffled him, as the violence ceased and the dust settled, that he was still alive. Alive enough to experience this fear. He expected to be struck down any second. But no. The spearman still clutched at the stone with bloodied fingernails, and Chamble could still feel what little warmth he had left in his body sap away. He'd been spared a merciful death in exchange for one someone of his station deserved. Figures. His hands fumbled across the spearman's armor for a weapon. Anything, really. The cracked knife in the man's boot would work for now. Chamble slapped their head as he miraculously managed to scramble to his feet.
They got the message: stay down.
The pass was gone. No, this entire damn side of the canyon. Flattened into knee high rubble reaching far enough for Chamble to see the outskirts of the Debious Woods. The undead horde was nothing more than ash. The demons, skeletal bombardiers, gargoyles, and even the Minotaur had been completely vaporized. Only their dust permeated the air like a fog. Hundreds of creatures eradicated in an instant. Chamble wasn't sure if he should consider himself the luckiest man in Transylvania to have survived, or the unluckiest given what awaited him beyond the haze of heat. For while the storm had passed, in its place stood a man.
A head taller than Chamble, their moving form fried each errant speck that drifted towards him. He was less than a dozen feet away. Identifiably a monster now, his olive green hide rippling with impossible musculature. They only wore shingled plate on their shoulders and as knee guards. Gold bands struggled around their biceps, similarly just as gilded as his armor and the bangles above his clawed feet. A hefty metal belt hung on his hips. Ornate designs had been inscribed into it, accented by the yellow patterned loincloth. His chest, inhumanly broad, bore hide of a light grey similar to the reptiles native to Transylvania.
The comparison was apt, but only just, when his head came into view. His horned helmet, more of a crown than any form of defense, had been dropped to the ground. Beneath it was a large scaled muzzle. Much like the dragons the Civilian's Militia had hunted when the Count's war first started. Chamble found himself fixated on those teeth. Interlocked spikes, far thicker than fangs, that sometimes overlapped on the outside of the mouth. Their gums were naturally pulled back to keep them on display at all times. It gave the impression of a permanent snarl and one more intimidating than any beast.
Chamble pulled close the dinky knife, ignoring the weapon's shoddy condition in the hopes that his opponent would too. He'd not be able to stand for much longer but by the gods would he force this deity to claim his life first. Those same green eyes threatened the very air between them both. He watched in fascinated horror as the creature stretched its maw open. Wide enough to fit Chamble's head in, with an ashen grey tongue sitting inside like a slab. They didn't even need the mace being hauled behind him to kill Chamble. A bite like that alone would probably rend any armor into pieces.
His muzzle moved, vibrating as if speaking. There was no ringing for Chamble anymore. Only silence. The deity stopped and raised his mace to touch Chamble's chest with the flared end. A threat, clearly, as he repeated himself. Nothing. Chamble brought one trembling hand up to his ear and pulled it away, showing a fresh coat of blood soaking into his bandaged fingers. Or what was left of them anyway. His right hand clutched tightly onto the knife that'd sooner turn to dust than make so much as a scratch on the monster's hide. Chamble slowly twisted it in his palm, holding his ground.
Or at least until the spearman rose to his feet and pried the weapon from Chamble's fingers. He had stepped forward, a bewildered expression on his face that didn't match the life or death situation they had found themselves in, and began talking. Clearly not to Chamble even if he kept pointing at him. As soon as the mace was lowered, and it became clear that they weren't immediately going to die, Chamble felt the last of his strength flee him. Finally. He collapsed on the spot. The only thing that stopped his head from cracking on the rocks beneath him was a four fingered hand.
Being lowered down for once made for a nice change of pace, Chamble thought. That and the two sets of eyes that looked at him as if his life mattered. The spearman and the monster both crowded over him. Hands moving this way and that, pulling apart the destroyed leather tunic that clung to his cooling body. It'd been adhered to him from the paste his blood had congealed into. There wasn't much point in them trying. He wrapped a hand around the spearman's forearm and pushed. It was a pathetic effort, truly, and one that he was rewarded for with an agitated prying out of the metal stuck in his chest. Not from the spearman though.
Chamble pivoted his gaze over to their savior. His face was troubled more than any storm, and behind his eyes raged an inexplicable look of regret. Chambles tried, truly he did, to remember just what or who this could be. But in the encroaching haze nothing came to mind. He never knew any monsters. He certainly would've recalled something as vibrant as this. Equally as awe inducing as terrifying. Chamble wanted to ask. His mouth spelled out the words that he couldn't vocalize. He wasn't even sure the words were his own anymore or if he even knew how to say it. But when the monster reached into the thin chest satchel Chamble kept beneath his armor, three words came to mind. A trio he could feel vibrate out from his chest.
"Those aren't yours."
The contents weren't meant for them. They weren't meant for anyone but his timekeeper. He no longer had the strength to fight it though. He watched, eyes wet with more than just blood, as the deity pulled free eight months worth of flattened letters from the satchel. Holding them with hands that fried off the stains with each touch. Something seemed to change in their demeaner then. When he looked back at Chamble, they were all startled by the tear of his own. A small gleaming bolt swirled within an almost crystal-like shedding. It fell onto Chamble's arm like a jewel. The spearman brushed it aside to continue his bandaging.
The deity, meanwhile, placed the letters into a fold beneath his belt. Chamble barely even registered the urge to flinch when they brought their maw within inches of his forehead. Their teeth gently pricked at the skin around his face. They weren't attempting to bite him. Instead, they closed the distance and gently kissed the scarred brand seared into his hairline. All at once. he could feel his body twitching. His arms seizing as he clutched at his chest. Something was twisting inside him. The turning of a crank, but faster than anything his heart had ever dealt with before. He was taking in far too much air with each gasp.
Chamble thought he might be rupturing from the inside. The spread of warmth from his head downward told him otherwise, alongside the color returning in mass to his skin. The spearman leapt back in a panic. Not because of the healing magic coursing through Chamble's veins, but at something in the distance. What little of the world Chamble was once able to see bloomed outward. The sky finally began to lose its reddish hue and the darkness encroaching on the corners of his vision were chased away by bolts of white. Off on the most distant horizon stood proud the Count's castle. And, much like its pride, so too did it collapse in the most vicious of downfalls. The hatred visible in the monster's eyes as they looked onward reminded Chamble of the blackest of skies.
"A fitting end. May you all rot in the Netherworld."
It wasn't something Chamble heard. As his body pieced itself back together, his hearing proved incapable of returning alongside the rest. Instead the words came from something nestled deep within Chamble's own skull. Buried just behind the brand in his forehead. They had no voice to attribute themselves to. As Chamble stared at the creature in shock, the sounds began to resemble rain pattering out a beat along his spine. Finding meaning within it became an instinctual reaction, taking comfort in something he once attributed to nothing more than the weather's embrace. His own thoughts followed suit.
His mouth couldn't open, but the words struck out like a lightning bolt. No more complicated than breathing. "Have I been cursed?"
It made contact with something intrinsically whole within the deity, causing him to lose all interest in the castle's collapse. He promptly showered Chamble in the happiest of smiles. Yes, Chamble realized, that was simply how a god must smile. Maw agape, sharp teeth reflecting the sunlight, and eyes that looked as bright as a spring morning. The spearman was off cheering by his lonesome at the destruction taking place so far away. They both paid him no mind. Chamble was too entrenched in whatever this connection continued to be. Even more so as they continued to speak.
"Tis I who have been cursed, affected as I am by my own slothfulness. You've taken this connection into your being far sooner than I anticipated. Chamble, my watchman."
Watchman. The deity knew precisely what he'd whispered into Chamble's mind, surely, as he watched for a reaction with avid interest. The truth came not in waves. Instead, it struck just as violently as the swing of a mace. Chamble was flattened by it. Pulverized akin to the rocks he rested atop of. Even if he could speak, he'd be speechless either way. The name that had been so endearingly woven into his memory sprung forth without a care in the world. "Galamoth."
Galamoth nodded, bringing one of his large hands to rest against Chamble's cheek. Just enjoying the physical contact that they'd both longed for. No amount of long distance flirting and flowery prose would have prepared him for this. Chamble's body still shook far too much to lean against that hide, instead opting to push himself up onto his feet. Galamoth took no time in closing the distance. He'd been pulled into a hug that smelled of fresh rain. Chamble's thoughts spiraled out into a maelstrom. Far too much had happened in such a short span of time. Twisting in the hold slightly, he looked across the cleared horizon to where the castle once ruled.
The war was finally over.
His brother may still be out there somewhere
Hell, Chamble was alive!
His written paramour was some sort of tempest deity. More specifically, as his nethers reminded himself, a reptilian deity who was awakening some long since buried ambitions with a body like that.
The spearman, watching the way Galamoth so possessively clung to Chamble's waist, simply chose to walk past. Bumping shoulders with Chamble in an unspoken promise that they'd meet again. He had his own life to live now. They would never forget their time spent in the Civilian's Militia together. And, in turn, judged not what they did with their lives before, during, or afterwards. The spearman's brand made him a likely ally even without the wartime comradery. Chamble made a mental note to return back to the outpost later to see if any of the survivors from his brother's adventure returned. Hopefully in mass.
They both enjoyed the hold for a few moments more before Galamoth pulled back. It was enough space for his muzzle to rub against Chamble's scruffy cheeks. Almost like the mouser cat they used to feed in the early months of the war. What was the habit called? Scenting? Galamoth was far more aggressive now than he had been before. The force would've knocked Chamble down if he'd not been in such a vice grip. Despite the alarmingly sharp nature of those teeth, they never did anything more than poke harmlessly at the skin. Peculiar but not unwanted. The growl that left both of their chests shaking didn't escape his notice either.
Chamble pried himself loose and stepped away, an entire battalion of questions on his mind. He was overjoyed, albeit overwhelmed, to finally have met his timekeeper. He certainly wasn't expecting any of this. The nature of the Count's war came to bear. Galamoth pledged no loyalty to anyone other than himself. Chamble too, he supposed. The complete decimation of the army that once aimed to claw Chamble apart saw to proving that. But would he be staying? Or was this just another reminder that his penned romance was nothing more than a fancy stuck within a page's margins? Chamble peered over to the tearstone on the canyon floor.
"Galamoth, what do you intend to do now that we've met? I can see now that our talks of a life together might experience a...you sized hiccup."
"What I had set my heart out to do long ago."
A smooth, familiarly wax-stamped letter was gently placed into Chamble's left hand. Most of his digits there were missing but he had enough to clutch with. This was not one he'd read before. Galamoth stopped him before he could open it. Tilting Chamble's head up with the flat of his palm so they'd nothing else to stare at besides each other. Chamble could feel his face grow warm at the already loving regard cast his way. He'd grown so used to keeping such things buried in the shadows. To have this man, a monster whose body was a stranger but mind was a familiar friend, look at him in such a way? No point in fighting the rush that overtook him.
He was shivering from more than just his prior blood loss when Galamoth continued on.
"Our messages to one another were born from desperation and loneliness. We held onto each other's existences so desperately because for once our isolation could be slain. Much like the monsters that haunted your militia, and the cultists that pestered me. That threat has passed, and I find myself that much more desperate. The time I've spent with your eyes upon me is without equal when compared to the thousands of years that came before you."
"Oh you take yourself to be a charmer?"
Galamoth pressed another, softer, kiss to the brand on Chamble's head. He chose to linger there as he contemplated what to say next. All Chamble could do was try, and fail, to stem the emotional tide that drowned his every sensibility. This was a demon. A creature of the dark far more powerful than anything that'd walked these lands. For it to so willingly tether itself to a human should have strung up bells across a town's square and rung them all at once. If Chamble was a wise man, he'd see this for what it should have been: a claiming of a mortal plaything. Yet those letters, like the one he slowly began to read in his hands, confirmed the opposite.
This was a courtship.
"If you consider the truth, my feelings, to be charming, then perhaps my nature is to your tastes as well?"
And that, with the way Galamoth brought a splayed hand back to rest on his pecs, was a proposition. The devouring look that followed proved that tenfold. It shook off the remnants of exhaustion faster than the magic healing him could have predicted. Chamble tenderly tucked the half-read letter into his satchel before letting his own hands wander across that muzzle. Fingers catching on the gaps between those teeth, all incapable of making him bleed. He pried open Galamoth's maw slightly and grinned when the attention left the oversized loincloth below twitching. What better way to celebrate a war's end than to witness lightning striking twice?
"My timekeeper, you would've been perfect no matter what form you took. I lived each night on nothing more than the dreams of the man you'd proven yourself to be, thriving off your words like a love drunk fool half my age. It kept my bunk warm and my soul alight. So this? This temptation is utterly sinful~"
- - -
To my adoring timekeeper,
My deepest apologies for my continued absence. Your touch has not left my mind since I parted last week. I am unfortunately pressed for time, such as it is, so may this letter serve as proof that I am to return to you posthaste. My trip to the Yuba Lake was one I regret undertaking without you but I am eternally grateful for your encouragement to do so anyway. The roads do not offer themselves as tender company to your kind and the men who travel it are hardened from warfare. There are more survivors pouring out from the woodwork than either Juniper and I could have imagined. He is taking to all the talking well.
I think it suits a young man such as himself. Far better than seeing him with a spear in his hands, although a recent visit to an inn proved that he longed for another entirely. I hope he enjoys the company he finds in the upcoming weeks. These freedoms will be stripped from us before the upcoming winter comes and goes. Such is always the case. With you by my side, I do not plan to be around those who would shackle us for such baseless transgressions. Watching them try, though, would prove to be quite the sight. I wrote to Juniper that he will always be welcomed within our household. Hard not to see him as family.
Where he got that name, I am not certain, but he is educated enough to read and write it out. He will decipher the letter in time. The silence bothers me less than it should. When I feel the pangs of longing for the sounds of the underbrush or birds above me, I think of that resonance unique only to you. My rainstorm. I have never blamed you for the loss. Your apologies are unnecessary. If you had not intervened when you did, Juniper and I would have been among the corpses shambling down the pass before the Count's defeat. Thank you. Truly. In exchange for my hearing, I was given a new life and a partner I am to follow in this world and beyond.
The sigil you left overtop my brand has attracted its fair share of looks. I doubt we will encounter any scholars well versed enough in your history to identify it beyond the mark of an ancient. I must admit that it never fails to make me smile, seeing the brand covered by that reminder of your dedication. I know little about demons. From what tomes we have scrounged up at a few ruined chapels, mentions of these rites are fairly ominous. I suppose they would be if it had been done for control. Yet I was still able to walk away from our bed just the same no matter how much you growled and whined. The storm that overtook the fort that morning was endearing.
You should embrace your given flare for the dramatics. I doubt anything could conquer our first meeting, mind you, but still.
All this new strength and vigor is still taking time to adjust to, although you know all too well about that. I have yet to find a carpenter talented enough to make a bed to our tastes. I assure you that I am looking. We only encountered one group of bandits on our way here. Making an example out of one sorted them right as rain. Most of the people here are too busy living to even contemplate harassing another. At least those on the main roads. I refuse to let Juniper wander off on the backroads. The forests are ripe with the beasties that were liberated from the Count's control. No amount of good intentions can erode a creature's nature.
They are starving.
We have yet to be accosted by the Church. For that matter, we have not seen them at all. The Church and I never got along well to begin with. You remember the stories. Taking the brunt of their ire for my brother's sake never endeared me to their cause. Although speaking of which, I have some wonderful news! Our arrival at the Camilla Cemetery was a timely one. Within the hour, our campfire had been spotted by none other than that sorry sack of bricks himself! Reed survived the trip across the lake and the castle's collapse no worse for wear. I still grin thinking about it. Not only that, but he found himself a partner of his own.
Quite the coincidence! I suppose it was in our bloodline's nature to find the allure in the inhuman, as he has laid claim to a monster. They are a tad too spectral for my liking. Ghosts and armor do little for me. Our discussion on the matter was joyfully irate. I swear, I have never seen Reed pen so madly before. He always was one to strive to prove himself and his interests right by others. I love him for it. He may be sheepish around you though. It is quite the task to usurp the feel of your hide beneath my hands, and I wrote quite the spiel about it. It only comes naturally, after all, when you and I have spent as much time as we had narrating our lives to each other.
I ensured that Bastian is thoroughly devoted to my brother. I may have threatened to shatter that floating sword of his if he so much as nicked a hair on Reed's chin. It got the message across, I think! So the four of us are returning back to the outpost today. The wagon we commandeered from a former Civilian's Militia encampment will ensure my arrival in your arms before long. Try not to count the seconds. Although, if you are feeling particularly tenacious, perhaps you could find a way to clear out the collapsed wing of the fort? I would rather they not hear the sounds we make. Thunder during a cloudless night is typically considered an omen, my dear.
Both time and I march to the beat of your heart. Your watchman,
Chamble Danasty