id: 603 name: Aaaaa author: MothAnon date: 4th January 2022 text len: 13073 views: 16 >to slay a Valkyrie, what does one need? >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 "Valkyrie," it's how they all warn me with the same old legend >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 more >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, and was willing to cut even the devil's throat to get it >for 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 toughest of whalers choose to swallow their own 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? drown in those dreadful tides… >and pray you don't meet anything too horrible on the way down... >such is the nature of the Deadfront. >which is why the world here is a color like sickly feldgrau gone to rot >why the mud here clumps together like the sand at low tide >and why the trenches here stretch like an ouroboros into infinity >an endless no man's land. >rife with the horrors of a Void that sleeps under the water of shell holes >as though they too find comfort dwelling within the smears of an industrial past long since forgotten >an Endless Well. >which is why that out of all the legends, this one scares me the most >because I think it might just be right. >for whenever I stand upon the edges of the shell holes here, I can feel a strange force tugging at my soul like a gypsy reading a dead man's palm >you can even hear it in the wire. >in how it creaks with anticipation when you grow close; humming in the wind, and singing a melody akin to the first notes of a shell passing overhead >one ever present, but never heard, yet still carried through the fog like a message >is it meant for you, or is it meant for me? >no one knows, no one even dares whisper the notes >only the wire does >for sometimes you can even feel it whispering its song right in your ear as you try to cut through it >so amused by how you desperately try to fight the inevitable >leaving you unable to do anything but hesitate, because the way it stings your cheek is always so warm to the touch... >almost pleased... >it's a sensation even worse than that of a bullet bouncing off your helmet >to the point that one is almost thankful when the wire's song is lost in the cries of those caught in its ghastly cradle >for it's a haunting tune, and 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 of how one day soon >all that will be left of me? >will be a pile of brass upon the ground. >just smoldering from the neck. more devoid of soul than I am of spark or slug. >and how everything will be just fine that way... >because… I-I trust it to be. >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 to unleash such a force upon the world >is it wrong? >I carefully peek over the top of the crater, unable to spot the handful of soldiers that must be cleaning up anyone who wasn't able to retreat >is it evil? >because I can hear gunshots. >or am I simply responding to the call of the Void? >I slide down the wall of the shell hole and kneel before the water >because they're getting closer. >I quickly unhook the powder horn marked a green cross from my belt and try to calm my shaky hands >for there is no room for error when summoning cryptids >especially with how close the Deadfront is to the Endless Well. >meaning the measurements must be precise. >and the offerings specific. >with the first one being bone for body >a horn of whale bone. >the second being for the journey over the river Styx >two gold coins. >the third being meant to curry favor >a glowing Void flower, with every petal intact. >and the fourth being something to help start the engine of the coming war machine >an offering of blood. >and if it tastes like the one who summoned it... >I quickly push the thought from my head >hesitantly draw my trench whistle >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 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 >the Valkyrie'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, yet in great amounts is a storm of steel screaming in the wind >necrotic tar perhaps? >the monstrous 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... >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 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 >and one gifted with immortality within the twin monuments that affix a mountainous sniper shield to the Valkyrie's helmet, bolted to its skull by force >so all that's left beneath the blinding scale of the giant's stahlhelm >is its 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 >for such things are beneath it. >and so for this blind war giant 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? >for has it already begun to recognize the sound of my racing heart? >after all, who's to say that an 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 sure the ripples are only coming from the chaos on this side of the Void >I gingerly peek over the top of the shell hole once more >where the Valkyrie has already crushed everything in sight, including that roving group of enemy soldiers, simply by entering the battlefield >I can see one of their broken helmets on the ground... >and it's this first taste of blood that prompts the Valkyrie to venture deep into the heavy fog for more >where it will hunt >hidden like a whale under the ocean >so oftentimes, all one can catch are but glimpses of its true size in the passing flashes of artillery >like thunder after lightning… >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 Valkyrie. >but maybe I won't need to? >the Valkyrie already is heading in the right direction anyway >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... >for 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? >how I don't even need to be following the Valkyrie, to know if a friendly battalion fleeing en masse is my fault or not? >for if they're too busy running for their lives to even care about the green cross stitched on my shoulder, that can only mean one thing. >that the Valkyrie must have stumbled upon their positions on its way through the battlefield… >friendly fire be damned... >which is why I wonder, that if the green cross is the universal symbol for arcane warfare, and if at any other time the soldiers might spit and curse merely upon seeing it >shouldn't they then know exactly which "tar hand" to blame for what just happened, and how to do it? >or really just do something more than… 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 simply just don't care anymore? >and can only wonder why I'm running in the wrong direction… >which is why you can imagine my shock when I ran into the only other soldier not in full 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 looming Valkyrie 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 >one of those 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 passing through >if only for a moment. >before they realized that the tracks were far too wide and deep to be from that of even the heaviest of tank groups >and what terror they must have felt, when they finally beheld the dreadful visage of the Valkryie on the horizon... >the mysterious craters having come from the tank treads welded to the bottom of its boots >for traction >I desperately try to shake the poor soldier awake, urging him to follow his friends >but his pupils are too misshapen >and there's already tar seeping from his pores >too far gone >so all I can do is leave him >and continue running after the Valkyrie. >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 >eyes wide and rifle ready >for to be stationed in the Bergunn sector, is to be stationed against the world >where there is no sector to fall back to, much less the privilege of "falling back" >because if Bergunn were to fall, the world would have to have fallen first >