id: 599
name: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
author: MothAnon
date: 30th December 2021
text len: 16129
views: 16

>what does one need to kill a valkryie?
>the bones of a whale?
>the gold of an empire?
>the bite of a thousand shells?
>it's a question that I've asked myself a great many times by now
>for not even the old salts can give me a straight answer to it
>all they can ever offer are silly superstitions and pigeon religion...
>but what scares me most, isn't how they all tremble at the mere mention of the word "valkryie," it's how they all warn me with the same old legend
>it's the one about how this had all started in an old mill on the river
>one that had lain dormant for decades, quieter than a shadow in the night
>until one fateful day
>when smoke had begun to rise from its solitary stacks once again
>prompting a quiet request from the townsfolk not just for help, but for every chaplain that could be spared
>Every. Single. One.
>only then, could they ever have a chance of weathering the horrors to come
>and what horrors they would be...
>for the Saint of Barbs had finally come to collect her due
>already having cut the devil's throat and stolen his horse 
>because surely, only the infernal galloping of his steed could make ripples felt all the way down river 
>otherwise... 
>such quaking could only be from the Saint herself, just milling about in those hallowed halls…
>a thought to make even the hardiest of whalers choose to swallow their won harpoon whole over fighting such a "thing"
>steel rod and all. 
>for the dark magic of old is to shadow puppets, as the dark side of the moon is to the Endless Well 
>so for the moon to turn and open one eager eye? 
>what can one even do, but drown in those dreadful tides
>and pray you don't meet anything too horrible on the way down
>but worst of all, is how I think the old salts might be right. 
>because whenever I stand on the edges of the shell holes here, I can feel a strange force tugging at me, like a gypsy reading a dead man's palm
>but perhaps it's simply the nature of the Deadfront at play
>an endless no man's land, damp and gray with the horrors of a Void that likes to sleep under the water of shell holes
>where even the wire seems to creak in anticipation when you grow near
>ever so amused by how anxiously you cut through it, desperate to avoid its inevitable sting
>because the way it does so is always so warm to the touch...
>almost pleased you've come all this way... 
>it's a sensation even worse than that of a bullet off your helmet
>to the point that one is almost thankful when the wire's hum is lost in the cries of those caught in its ghastly cradle
>for it's a haunting tune, one that I can't help but shiver like a child lost in the rain upon hearing
>it's just so patient...
>like it's trying to soothe me with the knowledge that very soon all that will be left of me will be a pile of brass upon the ground, smoldering from the neck
>more devoid of soul than I am of spark or slug
>just another will-o'-the-wisp, doomed to wander the endless trenches 
>only to be forgotten in the next storm of shells, like early morning dew, or the blood that dries upon the wire 
>brass and barbs... they will outlast us all, I know it to be true.
>because if it isn't?
>then I fear what lies at the center of the Deadfront, even more than the Saint of Barbs herself 
>even if she is the hand that rocks the cradle
>a Valkyrie. 
>so is it evil to unleash such a thing?
>I desperately crawl towards a shell hole
>praying that none of the bullets flying over head find me 
>all I need to do is to get to the bottom of the crater, to the waterline
>and once the last bit of wire is cut, I quickly throw myself into the shell hole
>my life flashing before my eyes as I slide down the muddy slope, unable to stop myself
>only to be saved by a finger of barbed wire that grabs me by the back of my collar like a strict caretaker
>it's not my time yet
>I can play next to the water, but I'm not allowed to swim
>I quickly unhook the powder horn marked with a green cross from my belt 
>and try to calm myself, for the measurements must be precise
>there is no room for error when summoning cryptids.
>first comes a careful sprinkling of whale bone
>bone for body
>then two gold coins
>for both ways over the river Styx
>next is a glowing Void flower
>meant to curry favor
>and last comes a bit of blood
>it doesn't matter whose, just that it's enough to warm the engine of the coming war machine 
>but if it tastes of the one starting it... 
>I force the thought of out my head
>the angry demands to surrender from outside the shell hole are getting louder, closer
>I draw the trench whistle from around my neck with shaky hands
>and pause 
>see, I was a musician before all of this
>I made children's music boxes during the day
>and moonlighted in any jazz or big band orchestra that would take me 
>I was in love with the swinging mood of champagne nightclubs and fine dress shirts like nothing else
>Valkryies were just tall tales from Nordic folklore to me back then, and bombs... bayonets... they were something to read about in the newspaper, dreadful things used in a world far, far away...
>but then one night, when I was waiting on the platform for my train home 
>a man tried to rob me, who knew just how to use the sound of the passing Army train to cover his footsteps 
>but more importantly, he knew when to give up 
>because before I knew it
>I had been thrown onto the tracks 
>and oh how I wish I had a whistle back then, something to cry for my sake...
>because just like that on night
>a great plume of smoke and steam erupts before me now, the sheer volume of its deep blare shaking me to my very core as it mirrors the call of my trench whistle
>the Valkryie's reply
>one of few things that can silence an entire battlefield, an entire world, like it's nothing but a bad memory 
>for even when I lay there on the tracks, helpless
>watching this armored behemoth speed towards me with such indifference
>there was no sound
>there was no scream 
>and there was no way to stop it. 
>there was only the terror of being eclipsed by something much, much bigger than you. 
>the kind whose bright, all seeing eye doesn't even notice you raising your arms to protect your face 
>something like that doesn't matter to it
>the reverberations...
>the withering heat...
>the machinations of something scales beyond...
>that is what lying before a speeding train is like
>yet somehow, in my final moments, I was saved 
>and was pulled from the tracks by a firm hand that's only grown more familiar with every passing day 
>the very same that explodes forth from the smoke before me now. 
>and whose terrifying scale forces me to cover my mouth to protect it from the oily "something" that drips from its exposed flesh
>is it sweat? is it blood? 
>I cannot say
>all that I know is that it's a sinewy "something" that shifts and runs like a liquid able to pour itself, yet in great amounts is but a storm of solid ash whispering in the wind
>necrotic tar perhaps? 
>the monstrous pale gray hand clamps down on the earth, threatening to shake the entire world to pieces with its horrible strength
>already having wiped out an entire line of trenches as though they were nothing but folds in a blanket 
>without even meaning to...
>and where to those far away, the birthing plume must look like a burning oil well, or some kind of undersea vent opened by a terrible earthquake
>and one that is only getting bigger...
>for another hand explodes into being to raise an even greater storm of bone ash 
>causing me to gasp for air as I cower in its shadow, knowing what comes next 
>an ascension of golden wings
>whose rise conjures an intense rumbling from beneath like that of a great hussar army at full charge 
>a moment immortalized in the twin monuments that affix a mountainous sniper shield to the Valkryie's helmet, bolted to its skull by force 
>so all that's left beneath the blinding scale of the giant's stahlhelm is their permanent war face, tightened to a grimace with vises similar to that of a war horse's mouthpiece
>yet still unbound by any concept of honor, treaty, convention, or alliance
>such things are beneath it. 
>so for this blind leviathan to finally rise to its full height before you.
>for it to batter you with its winds until you can't hear yourself scream.
>and for it curiously lift your helmet to inspect your face as its first "target." 
>is there no greater terror?
>has it already begun to recognize the sound of my racing heart?
>after all, who's to say its empty mind can't ring with familiar echoes... 
>such things are why I rest for a while after summoning the Saint of Barbs 
>until the tainted water beneath me is calm
>and until I'm certain the ripples are only coming from the chaos on this side of the Void 
>I gingerly peek over the top of the shell hole, where the Valkryie has already begun to be obscured by the heavy fog
>it's like a shroud to it
>so oftentimes, one can only catch but glimpses of its true size in the flashes of passing artillery fire
>I try to ready my kit
>but my hands won't stop shaking
>I keep flinching from the rumbles in the distance 
>not at all ready for the next part
>commanding the Valkryie. 
>but maybe I won't need to?
>the Valkryie already is heading in the right direction anyway
>away from the muddy flats and towards the tree shrouded fort in the distance
>I climb out of the muddy shell hole, careful not to slip and break the heavy music box on my back
>but even if I wanted to run, I can't...
>because the longer the Saint of Barbs stays on this mortal plane, the more dangerous she becomes
>her bloodlust knows no end. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------

>does it say anything about me?
>when I come across an entire battalion of soldiers fleeing en masse, and can't look a single one in the eyes?
>when they're so busy running for their lives that they don't even notice one of the enemy moving opposite their ranks
>and if they do notice
>why is it that all they do is stare?
>is it because I'd be crushed all the same if the Saint of Barbs were to suddenly turn around?
>or is it that they just don't care anymore?
>and simply wonder why I'm running in the wrong direction
>for no sane man would ever choose to head in the same direction as a Valkryie
>so maybe they just think I'm already beyond the help of a bullet... 
>which is why you can imagine my shock when I ran into the only other soldier not in retreat 
>who after climbing to his feet, continued to stand frozen; seized by a terminal awe
>his eyes wide and hands trembling, woefully unable to do anything but stare
>stare at the towering Valkryie in the distance
>the instincts of both fight and flight having been blasted from his fragile mind like doves from an early morning sky 
>yet still among one of the "lucky" ones
>who had been manning a position that the Saint of Barbs merely had strode past, not through 
>with an even fewer still perhaps lucky enough to have avoided its war path altogether
>leaving them to think that the chaos was merely from some tank battalion raising hell
>if only for a moment
>before they realized that the tracks were far too wide and deep to be from even the heaviest of tank groups
>and what terror they must have felt, when they finally beheld the dreadful visage of a Valkryie on the horizon...
>the mysterious craters having come from the tank treads welded to the bottom of its boots, for traction
>I try to shake the poor soldier awake
>desperately urging him to follow his friends, to flee
>but his pupils are too mishappen
>and there's already tar seeping from his pores
>he's too far gone
>so all I can do is leave him
>and continue running after the Valkryie.
>again, one of the lucky ones.
>which is why you have to believe me
>when I say that while I can command such a terrible power
>I take no pleasure in it. 
>because some of these days, it even keeps me up at night
>the fate of the unlucky ones...
>for even now, they must be still sitting pretty in their trenches 
>comforted by the privilege of being stationed in a quiet sector of black forest, far from the chaos of the mud flats
>where the only action they'll ever see is the occasional scare of tar pigeons nesting in the birch trees 
>practically leave with pay 
>but that's exactly what's stuffed their ears with cotton
>because now all they do when they see the sudden storm of birds on the horizon
>is scoff at it
>a threat not even worthy of getting up for 
>because what does it matter?
>if it strays any closer, just call for some artillery from the fort 
>it's probably just some scout party knocking their heads on the trees anyway 
>but then the soldiers would start to feel something in their bones, a strange rumbling like that of heavy shells falling in a slow one-two pace
>making them wonder who called for a pair of siege mortars instead 
>only to realize that the fort's cannons are still quiet...
>driving a hesitant search for rifles once the shaking finally became too much to ignore
>they'd even wake the more veteran soldiers, who would quickly raise an eyebrow and warn that the noise doesn't sound like any kind of direct shell fire they've ever heard 
>and how it's more like that of a creeping barrage
>one that shambles across the earth...
>smoking with a wrath beyond that of any artillery... 
>causing a great anxiety to spread like wildfire through the trenches
>especially with how the trees in the distance have begun to sway like a great tide is coming in, each growing barren before their very eyes, as though they were poisoned by gas
>with a few soldiers even asking if anyone else smells something sweet
>and out of all the countless peeks over the top and into the fog
>it would be the officers who would see it first. 
>causing them to drop their binoculars and abandon their men in a mad dash to the nearest field phone
>or to the nearest tunnel, to save themselves
>because even if they were fast enough to make it to their dugouts, the only thing they would find is dust pouring from the ceiling, with any hope of communication with the fort lost in a mysterious hum of static 
>a dreadful sound...
>and one only bolstered by the first screams of horror at something massive moving in the fog
>something so horrible that not even the snipers are quite sure where to aim, for most have already pulled their heads from their scopes in shock
>it's like trying to aim at the moon... 
>especially when the Saint of Barbs' grotesque war face finally explodes forth from the mist like a nightmare from a child's closet
>and begins to shamble towards them
>stumbling like a new born
>but definitely not a human one. 
>it's at this point that many would notice the Valkyrie's titanic flensing knife
>which it drags itself like a burden, gouging new trenches in the earth before their very eyes
>causing warbling accusations of cowardice to break out all up and down the line 
>with all order lost the instant the cannons began to open fire 
>for the Saint of Barbs is blind, not deaf
>and is a nigh unsinkable ship at full sprint... 
>to a level that all those in the trenches can hope to do now is struggle towards the tunnels, whose bunker doors have already been shut by those inside in an effort to escape the Valkyrie's wrath
>for the walls have already begun to crumble merely from its approach
>and a few have collapsed entirely... 
>which is why I wish a special mercy upon those who stayed behind to hold the doors shut 
>for I cannot even begin to imagine how cold their blood must turn when the pounding suddenly stops
>how deafening it must be when the Valkyrie comes to a sliding stop through the first line
>and how terrifying it must be when it starts flensing the rest with its impossible strength 
>where even if on the off chance their bunker doors weren't blasted open with tons of debris?
>the only thing left unbroken in their minds
>would be a shuddering entropy.
>dripping from their ears
>and from under the door...
>so from where I stand, watching from a distance
>I can see that despite how viciously the fort pummels the Valkyrie with shells
>it probably won't be faring any better