The Great Shaqtus

The beast within the Darkness of Featherwood Hollow continues to haunt our village. Castleton, once the home of the mightiest tribe this side of the Margrist River, has lost much of its strength due to the numerous deaths.

This hideous thing! This awful monstrosity! How do we recover after last night’s bloodbath?  Two thousand young stripling warriors met their demise at the claws of the Great Shaqtus.

The bodies of the dead lay charred, dismembered, their pieces scattered across the valley floor. Those that survived still weep for the lost. Many of our widowed mothers lay draped over the corpses of their children. They stood no chance at escape.  Hearing the cries of those who still lay injured as I walk amongst the pieces will haunt my dreams forever.

As I lay down to try and sleep, the beast's red eyes pierce what should be my tranquility. Ten inch claws rip at my sanity.  Blood stained cuticles sicken even the most sadistic of hearts.  All hope is lost as my spear thrusts, yielding no cries from the creature, such a helpless dream.

With a new dawn the shimmering crimson catches my eye.  The life-sources of the spirits scattered across the valley rise with the morning sun.  Families still cry as they burn their loved ones.

Eleven seasons and twelve full moons have passed since the beast’s arrival.  There has been ten thousand speculations of the beast’s origin, and yet no consensus of the truth.

It started without warning.  At 17, I never expected something like this to happen. Catastrophe struck. Nature’s fury pummeled the ground all around my twin brother as a single, powerful blow sent his lifeless figure sliding across the ground. My infant sister’s cries filled the night, only to be abruptly silenced. The last thing I remembered seeing from my place of hiding was my mother draped across Hydra’s back as it left a deep trail to follow into that wicked forest.

As scared as I was, there was nothing I could do but follow. It was my mother, I had to save her. Though scared, I slowly crept from my hole and hurried down the Hydra’s path.

Fear struck my heart as I contemplated the task ahead. It was not an option; it was fate, destiny even. It was difficult to keep up with the creature as the dim light of the moon lit the rough terrain.

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You shall travel to the lands of the Ice King…

You shall travel to the lands of the Ice King…

You shall travel to the lands of the Ice King…

You shall travel to the lands of the Ice King!

Mosley stirred wildly in slumber on the cold floor of his prison cell made of ice. The Wisp of Song’s melody screamed the same thing over and over, mocking him and progressively getting louder as his muscles thrashed, reacting to the nightmare.

The last five nights had been nothing short of heinous. He had been maliciously beaten, tortured, and tirelessly questioned on so many occasions for an answer he would not reveal.

The Ice King’s frozen warrior, relentless, his chilly form perfectly shaped as any man’s, continuously harassed Mosley, probing for the secret the Isorian King swore had to be hidden inside the wolf’s mind.

The Frigid Commander screamed. “Get up Wolf! You can sleep once you have given me the location of the Tear. There will be plenty of moments for your eyes to remain closed once your soul has ascended to the Gods. I give you my word... I will personally see to it that you receive a quick death once the Tear rests safely in my possession!”

Mosley struggled to lift his head from the dingy-colored ice floor of his cell. Drool hung from the end of his matted, fur covered snout, forming ice cycles as his breath billowed in front of his dark eyes. Slowly his vision cleared as he found the commander’s form. The warrior’s armor, made of magically crafted ice, left quite the impression.

What was left of Mosley's strength failed and his head once again found the floor, making a shallow thumping sound as it did. The wolf knew what was coming next, and with a weakened voice responded while fighting for control over his clattering teeth. “I… I…” he sighed. “I’ve already told you I don’t know where the Tear of Gramal is located. I've been trying to find it myself. I cannot tell you something I don’t know. Allow me to speak with Clandestiny and I’m sure this...”

The icy commander’s frigid boots stomped on the floor beside Mosley’s head. He reached down, grabbed a frosty handful of hair on the back of the wolf’s neck and jerked. He responded while holding all of Mosley’s weight with his arm stretched horizontally to the floor, as if the weight of Mosley’s body had no weight to it at all.
 
“Why would the Queen wish to speak with a mutt? No one else in the kingdom knows of the Tear’s disappearance, but yet, you show up asking questions about its importance and want to know of its secrets. You have knowledge, wolf, and I plan to beat it from you!”

Mosley searched his soul for strength and, somehow, managed to growl defiantly. “What I know… only your Queen will hear. I won’t talk with you about it!”

The icy blue fist of the commander’s free hand balled up. “We shall see, mutt… we shall see!” Mosley’s howls filled the depths of the icy dungeon as the clubbing began.

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