Darc Volsung Nightmares

Sigmund’s Sword cut through the air and embedded itself in the training dummy; Rage and anger burning furiously in its wielders’ eyes. Splinters leaped from the wooden victim, fleeing from the relentless flurry of blows. Occasionally, barely more than a whisper escapes the wielders’ lips. “Followers of Lex.” Each time the phrase is uttered, it contains more venom, is filled with greater ire.

The “cogs in the machine” event weighed heavily on Darcs’ mind. He couldn’t help but draw parallels between these abused, porcelain creatures and the disfigured, corrupted, and mangled abominations that drove him from his home. As he struggled to reign in his own emotions, he was barraged with a surge of external feelings. Anger, pain, despair; these foreign emotions flooded him. Shockingly, through sheer mental power Darc resisted the urge to give in to the emotions, both the invading and natural. As the incident came to an end, the imprinted emotions lingered. They were not – are not – his, but regardless, they remained, tormenting him, amplifying his feelings of rage.

During his training, he heard a faint commotion. To his chagrin, the old mystical woman, Gamma, was found dead, brutally murdered. A tragic event overshadowed by the intense rage that seethed inside of him.

Shaking with exhaustion, Darc lowers his weapon. Sweat pours off his body, as he struggles to catch his breath. After a time, he plods towards his room, in a futile attempt to get some rest…

Standing in my family’s courtyard in Darn-Mittel, I smile. The walls glisten vividly, the windows emit a faint glow, and I…feel warm, I feel safe. I peer through a window to see my brother Voyd, as a child, with an expression of utter merriment on his face. He’s painting. Hope wells up inside me as I dash towards the door. When I enter the parlour, he turns and looks at me. With a growing smile radiating from his face, he beckons me over to view his newest painting. As I take a step time seems to slow; something’s wrong. Voyd’s face becomes gloomier as he turns his easel display his canvas. My stomach twists as I see a collection of porcelain-white figures with a black tar-like liquid oozing from their red, soulless eyes on a crimson and black, swirled backdrop. I stare at the painting in revulsion. The “dolls” turn to face me mechanically, seeming to come alive from their two dimensional birthplace. As their eyes lock with mine they inelegantly step off the canvas, brandishing jagged blades at the ends of their arms…I run.

Hurtling down the corridors of my family’s manor, I hear the dolls pursuing. Eventually, the sounds of pursuit begin to fade behind me. I keep running. Eventually, I see a figure standing in front of me. I sigh in relief when I realize that it’s my sister Peage. A voice in my mind begs me to run, tells me she’s dead, the voice pleads with me… I ignore it. She turns and smiles at me. As she raises her arm to wave, it suddenly snaps backwards at an impossible angle. A painful, confused expression crosses her face as her, already light, complexion pales. Before I can respond, black goo explodes out from her eyes, nose, and mouth, engulfing my field of vision.

Abruptly, I awaken in a forest, sitting upright with a jolt. Looking around, a sense of peace fills me; maybe its relief…this place is familiar, I love this place. This is where we first met, where we shared our first kiss. “Darc, are you okay?” a voice rings out from behind me. Tilting my head backwards, I see her, my first love. Her flowing raven hair impossibly reflects the few beams of light that reach her through the treetops. I stand up and rush to her, quickly embracing her, eager for a comforting touch. We kiss. While my hands stroke her hair and face, she changes. Her silky hair begins to stick together and harden. Her soft cheek begins to feel slimy, like it’s melting in the hot sun. I open my eyes and pull back from the kiss, alarmed. A doll-like figures stands before me, appearing to cry in agony, beseeching me for assistance I cannot render. Her hands morph into serrated blades as she stares at them, appalled. I can’t move; I am powerless. I stare and watch as the life slowly drains from her eyes, being replaced with a desolate red hue. She thrusts her blades into my chest. The world becomes black, except for the disturbing image of her lifeless visage, now burned into the black.

Darc jerks awake, miraculously suppressing a scream. Tears coat his face, sweat collects on his brow. Still shaken, he dons his armour, grabs his sword, and begins the short walk back to the inns’ courtyard. It’s going to be a long night…

Darc Volsung Nightmares

The Chronicles Of Severance JamieHalle Darc126