Threads of the Soul

It was difficult to tell when dawn finally broke, there was no beautiful red light bleeding into the sky nor were there any birds happily chirping their morning songs. Instead deep grey clouds flooded the morning sky, keeping the land below steeped in a depressing mood for the coming day.

Some might see this as a bad omen, or a sign of wickedness that this way comes, but to others this was just a normal day in Scotland. To see the sun was a rare treat indeed in these wet land dreary lands.

Curiously enough, this miserable blanket covering the sky seemed to form a perfect circle around the sky directly above the castle that sat atop the hill. Every other part of the city had clouds looming over it, yet above this centuries old monument there were nothing but clear skies.

One might even believe seeing the sun through this hole in the clouds was a real possibility. It was as if the mere thought of casting a single drop of rain onto the caste and its inhabitants was the most blasphemous act in the world.

Atop the walls of this weather immune castle, a multitude of crimson skinned goblins patrolled armed with makeshift spears, usually in the form of broken sign posts or sharpened sticks. The long, bloodstained hats they wore dragged along the ground behind them as they marched back and forth across the battlements, as if they were waiting for the rain to attack them.

One particular Hemogoblin was resting against his spear, looking up at the gathering clouds with utter disgust. He couldn't fathom why so many creatures would decide to drink something as wretched as water.

It was just so... ugh, clean. And it didn't even taste of anything either. Where was the metallic tang, the screams as you drew it straight from the source, the warmth of the drained life force as it slid down your gullet.

Why anything would ever choose that disgusting stuff, when they could drink delectable life-wine instead, was an utter mystery to this horrible little creature.

While it was contemplating the important mysteries of the universe, the goblin raised a hand to cover its gaping maw as it let out a long, muffled yawn.

Yet just as it was about to exhale this yawn, it found its airway suddenly blocked as fresh blood streamed down into its lungs, forcing it to cough and gargle on its favourite delicacy.

Snapping his eyes open, the Hemogoblin looked down in confused panic, only to see the shaft of an arrow sprouting from its raised hand. The arrow pierced through its hand, pinning it in place and making it unable to lower its arm, as it continued through its open mouth and erupted from the back of its throat.

The goblin stumbled as it gargled and choked, quickly beginning to drown on its own blood, before its hips hit against the battlements. With one hand still holding its weapon, and the other pinned in front of its face, the Hemogoblin was unable to stop itself from tumbling over the battlement.

Only when it was already in free fall did it finally realise it should have released its weapon, but by then it was too late.

The Hemogoblin tumbled through the air, yet as it felt the arrow seemed to lock itself in the air, letting the goblins body slide off of its shaft as it plummeted to the ground.

The last thing the wretched creature saw, before it became nothing more than a pile of broken bones and viscera on the ground below, was the arrow twisting itself in mid-air and flying off as if shot from an invisible bow.

As the goblin laid at the base of the castle walls, slipping away from the mortal coil with a broken rib puncturing its still beating heart, similar events were happening all throughout the castle walls.

All of their guards falling victim to the power of a dozen flying arrows. At the very least, some Hemogoblins were able to destroy a few of the arrows before they fell, but it was not nearly enough to stop the culling power of these wondrous projectiles.

By the time half of their guards had succumbed to their fates, the other inhabitants finally discovered what was happening and quickly sounded the alarm, calling out to each other in their lovely language that sounded like a dog choking on a bone.

***

Bob glanced over his shoulder at his father, who was currently standing in the back-lines with his head lowered and hand raised, as if he was conducting an invisible orchestra to play a wicked song of death.

Of course, Bob knew that this action was all performative and that his father could move the arrows with merely a thought, but he also knew why he was doing it. He might not understand the concept of a secret identity all that well, but he knew that it was important to his father, so he did his best to ensure the secret was kept.

More than anything in the world, Bob simply wanted his father to be proud of him. He wanted to be useful to his father, just like he had been in the beginning. He had worked tirelessly, partially because he didn't get tired, to ensure that when his father awoke from his cocooned state that he would be nourished and ready to show the world his majesty, and he had completed that task beautifully.

But ever since then, Bob had felt himself becoming less and less useful. When they fought the large beasts, both times, he was forced onto the side-lines and able to only watch as his father did all the work for both of them.

Bob wasn't a fool. He might have been born only a few weeks ago, but that didn't mean he was a complete idiot. He knew that it was a flaw within his very being. He didn't get stronger, he couldn't improve himself like the others.

When father transcended, he gained nothing. Not like his brother, the feathered one. Perhaps if he had been more useful up until that point, father would have deemed him fit to receive a gift as well. He had only himself to blame.

Even the mere puppets benefited from his fathers increase in power, leeching off of his energy to empower themselves and become better suited to house his soul, if he deemed them worthy enough to be inhabited by himself.

But Bob? Bob got nothing from any of it. He was exactly the same as when he first awakened, yet as the days went by he could feel his usefulness slip away more and more.

That is why, in the pursuit of purpose, Bob found himself in his current predicament. Standing on the front lines of the battle, shoulder to shoulder with others just like him, seeking power and redemption.

A shield in one hand, haphazardly crafted in limited time from shattered fragments of the Shelled Drakes impenetrable shell, and a spear in the other. Unfortunately, this spear was on the same level as the Hemogoblins, simply being a sharpened sign post pole.

Those beside him wielded similar equipment, while behind them stood a line of people armed with bludgeoning weapons, some of which were simply their fists for those with the right abilities.

As a crimson tidal wave, which was occasionally spotted with an artists palette worth of other colours, burst forth from the castle's gates and poured down the hill, Bob stood resolute.

He tightened his grip on the spear he had been given and hunkered down behind his shield, locking shields with his neighbours as they formed a poorly constructed shield wall. Yet even if it was amateurish, it was the best thing they had against the oncoming horde of goblins and enslaved beasts.

No one ran. No one cowered. No one collapsed. Each and every member of this shield wall stood tall and stood firm, for just like Bob each and every one of them was trying to prove themselves. Whether it be to a lover, a sibling, a father, or even just themselves.

So, when the first bodies of the crimson wave slammed into their shields, the wall stood strong. As if controlled by a single mind, every spear along that wall thrust forward in sync, piercing through their wretched enemy.

Some blows merely grazed their opponents, while others attacks struck true. Plunging into throats and drilling straight through their blackened hearts. As the crimson wave battered against the shield wall like the tides of the ocean, the humans continued the culling that the arrows had started.

Those behind the shield wall were not idle, however. Even if their enemies had yet to breach the initial line of defence, that did not mean they would sit around and wait for it, nor was that their purpose in this attack.

While the spears cleaved through the summoned bodies of the Hemogoblins, leaving nothing but a crimson puddle and a small, carved stone, it was the beasts that this line were here to take care of.

Making use of humans best trait, their adaptability, they had learned from their previous battles.

Whenever a beast clashed against the shield wall, instead of resisting and holding them off, the wall was intentionally allowed to collapse for the briefest moment, swinging open like a pair of doors welcoming the beast to the slaughter house.

Powerful hands clamped around the steel collars they were forced to wear, before they were torn off like paper. If the beast still chose to fight, even when released from soul searing servitude, they were quickly taught the error of their ways.

Fists, clubs, maces and staves rained down on these foolish beasts. Bones were shattered and necks snapped as they were held in headlocks. Teeth were scattered across the ground as organs, especially brains, were rattled within their meat sacks.

But most importantly of all, as these beasts were beaten and broken, hardly a drop of blood was spilled.