Writetober Day 19
Sling
“Father! Mother has been waiting all day for you to get home. She said you need to feed the pigs.” The young boy ran up to his father.
The boy was dirty, but happy. In his right hand he held a bucket full of dried corn and grain, his left arm was near useless as a fall the previous day left it tightly wrapped and nestled in a sling hanging from his body. He lived his days with his mother, father and baby sister, although his mother and father worried about having food on the table, the young boy had wild dreams in his head. He was going to be a knight one day.
“Father?” Worry grew in the boy’s voice as the usual greeting between father and son didn’t occur.
The peasant slowly walked up to his son, no expression on his face. A black mist seemed to creep from his mouth when he breathed. Beyond his son, the man could see his wife, balancing attention between laundry and a smaller child. The baby, who’d just begun crawling, had been expressing her extreme interest in travelling the world. Sleep didn’t exist in the family’s life. It was a quiet area, just on the outskirts of the village. Their small shack provided what they needed to live their simple lives.
“You look ill father.” The boy didn’t know the stench of death, even as it stood in front of him.
The man slowly knelt in front of the boy, allowing his son to see the corruption within his eyes. His blackened hands gripped the sling and slowly took the sprained arm out.
“Mother says it should be better by tomorrow night.” Cheer and worry battled within the son.
His father didn’t respond, instead he looked past his son as he began to wind the sling that still looped around the boy’s neck. Focusing on his wife, the man ignored the tiny scratches and fists that hit his arm in panic. “As you demand, Lord Vordmir.” Releasing the cloth sling from his grip, his sons body crashed to the earth, lifeless. The man slowly shuffled toward his wife and daughter, the corruption oozing from his pores.
Writetober Day 20
Tread
The ash covered ground crushed beneath the heavy steps of a broken man. Smoldering wood, stone and embers jettisoned plumes of black smoke in the evening sky. The quiet shack on the outskirts of the village was no more, in its wake, haunting screams from a terrified wife and mother. The footsteps continued, slowly forcing their way through memories and toys. The three bodies were left where they fell, allowing the fire to consume two of them in charred remains.
“What is your command my lord.” The voice was harsh, the man that spoke was emotionless, oblivious to the monster he was.
“The enchanter…kill him…” A black shadow fell on the ruined home. “His treasure will be yours…use it to kill the mother…” The shadow dispersed.
“Of course, Lord Vordmir.” The man that used to be a father carried his heavy feet through the woods that wrapped his smoldering home. The leaves and branches crushed beneath the corruptive tread of the man.
Writetober Day 21
Treasure
The enchanter opened the small ornate box and looked at what it held inside. He must have done it a hundred times that morning, each time breathing a sigh of relief after confirming the items existence. It had been four days since he sent Kyle, Michelle and Tom into The Wild, four days of anxiety. The old man was angry at himself for worrying, after all, he gave up hope long ago. The fact that he was worrying meant he had hope, and hope was for the weak. Had he become weak? The mage stopped and looked at his reflection in a dish of water.
“Why couldn’t I have been born a druid.” The enchanter pulled his skin tight to hide the wrinkles for a moment. “Just turn into a bear and walk deep into the woods.” He released his skin and frowned at the withered ancient man that stared back at him.
He checked the wooden box once more, Welton’s time was short, he knew that for certain. It had ended the moment Kyle went into The Wild. The house had changed, his exotic wares and curiosities were gone. Most of them were gifted to villagers he’d met during his life; the small remainder were stowed away to be lost at far reaches of the land. Welton laughed at the idea of him burying his items, like some pirate. It was a life he could have had, had he not been gifted with the feverish curiosity for the arcane that he had. Grabbing his staff, the enchanter took a moment to listen to the wind outside.
“The bell’s will sound your arrival.” The words followed the old man as he headed for the door separating the outside. He tucked the carved box into one of his robe’s numerous pockets and breathed deep.
Outside the tiny wooden hut that Welton called home, darkness loomed over, blotting out the sun’s rays. The cold wind that kicked up was fast and harsh, violently shaking the trees. The gloom welcomed the enchanter as he stepped outside, the frozen wind biting at his face.
“So, this is it. All these years, all these battles. You’ve come to end this at last.” The old man showed the fire of one much younger.
The howling wind cut through the trees, even more violently than before. The snapping and groaning of the forest crescendoed into an orchestra of destruction. Then suddenly, it all stopped. Stillness and silence enveloped everything surrounding the enchanter as a man emerged from the torn forest. His steps were heavy, his eyes were blank, the corruption flowed from his body in a rolling fog of black.
“You don’t even come yourself Vordmir!” The old mage shouted into the silent air. “You send your play thing instead!” Anger flashed across Welton’s face. To lose to some lacky would be a bitter end to the life lived by the ancient enchanter.
Welton rose his staff with a shaky hand and smashed it into the ground, as an ancient tongue left his mouth. The earth rattled on his command, stones and boulders ripped free from the ground and hovered around the corruption filled intruder.
“Truhro.” The word left Welton with force as the rocks impaled the peasant, crushing the area in anger. The enchanter stood ready, surely the battle would not be won that easily. Welton was incorrect.
A black mist formed behind the withered wizard, it thickened as a man began to take shape.
“How…” Blood gurgled in Welton’s mouth, blocking the sentence.
The peasant’s corrupt hand ripped away from Welton’s chest, blood pooling and falling to the earth.
“For Lord Vordmir.” The corrupt man stared into Welton’s dying eyes, his clenched fist connecting with the enchanter’s temple.
In pure fury, the man wailed on the helpless mage, bits of brain and muscle splattering on his blank, emotionless face. The beating didn’t stop, he was commanded not to stop. Corruption coursed through the man as he began pulverizing what was left of the enchanter that laid at his feet.
Finally, he stopped. There was no face left, no head, simply pummeled muscle and bone imprinted on the earth.
“The box…” A voice danced on the wind.
At the command, the man poked through Welton’s robe. His hands returned with a box, even splattered in blood, it’s ornate beauty still shown. He cracked it open, revealing the treasure inside. A quiet silver ring sat, nestled in its velvet bed within the box.
“The mother…” The voice eagerly surrounded the blood covered man.
The man slid his finger through the ring, at his touch the ring began to dull. It’s bright shine slowly receded as black surged within the metal. In moments, an obsidian ring replaced the treasure that Welton once held dear.
Kris Writes Worlds 
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