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Kronsphere

Prologue: The Captive

By K.H.A. WassingPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 8 min read
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There weren’t always Dragons in the Valley. But with spreading rumors follows spreading radicalistic behavior and soon the town of Carriton Valley was flooded with factions of witch hunters. These Dragons were not the leathery, winged beasts of legends rather the title the more ruthless factions in Carriton called themselves.

“Do you think we actually got one?” said the man through lips slick with mutton grease. He walked alongside his companion down a cobblestone back alley where vagrants lie about and sometimes have the audacity to ask for spare gold.

“Calm yourself Harvin,” the companion said, “we’ll see for ourselves but yes Polten Creed reported that he captured it earlier today.”

The man named Harvin nearly leaped with joy at the other man’s words. Harvin looked nearly as foul as the bums that lined this side street. Especially in contrast to the man he walked next to, who was clad in a military grade dress coat and matching canvas trousers. Harvin’s ill-fitting pants were in tatters at the calves, and he only ever wore a sailor’s vest, which could barely close over the girth of his swollen abdomen. In fact, it was only the man’s exceptional fatness that set him apart from the starving beggars who were threatening to wither away.

“Come now,” The well-dressed man said, ushering Harvin around the corner of the ever-winding maze that was the side streets of Carriton Valley. “I don’t want to miss the interrogation,” he said. The man tried to hide his blood lust from betraying his stone face by instinctively thumbing the dragon insignia pinned to the lapel of his overcoat.

Harvin didn’t seem to notice the other man’s failure to conceal his crazed look as his own excitement flooded over him and he blurted out “Do you think it’s an actual Helonaught, Geffrum?”

Geffrum spun on Harvin, pursed his lips and through gritted teeth said, “Would you shut up.” Harvin’s excitement temporarily waned until Geffrum’s shoulders relaxed. Luckily Harvin’s uncontrolled outburst was accompanied by an empty alley. Geffrum was sure they weren’t overheard so he let the matter lie. Harvin hadn’t planned it that way but things like unexpected luck seemed to follow the fat man.

“I think this is the place Polten said they were taking it.” Geffrum pushed a creaking door inward and entered the building. All the doors in the Carriton Valley slum looked the same to Harvin, so he didn’t know how Geffrum could tell them apart, but he wasn’t about to second guess the thinner man. He pushed himself inside as the door swung closed after Geffrum.

Inside, there was a set of stairs immediately heading downward. Harvin could hear the faint sounds of a thump followed by a whimper and excitement washed over him once more. If it weren’t for the smaller man’s patience, Harvin would have let his weight take him down the stairs at a much faster speed than their current pace. When Harvin and Geffrum reached the bottom of the stairs they paused for a moment on the landing, just in front of a second door. The thumps and whimpers had grown louder with every step down and were reaching a crescendo when Geffrum pushed the door ajar.

Squinting, the torch light caught both men off guard as they spilled into the room. Letting their eyes adjust from the pitch of the staircase and night sky before that, they blinked away the new flickering brightness of the room.

Polten Creed stood, holding a long piece of fabric with one bulbous end dangling near the floor. His back to Harvin and Geffrum, they could just make out the figure of a woman who had been manacled to the stone wall behind Polten. Rags jutted out from under the woman’s shackles, padding her wrists from shredding into ribbons. The creaking of the hinges demanded Polten’s attention and when he saw his friends, the thin-lipped olive-skinned man cracked a smile big enough to show off his gapped front two teeth. “What kept you?” he said to his approaching companions. “I’ve almost broke her,” he raised his free hand to the woman against the wall.

She had her head down, dark red hair vailing her face causing Harvin to wonder if she were pretty or not, at least her clothes had been stripped off. Her large breasts hung heavy from her chest, nipples erect, reacting to the chill in the basement interrogation room. The finer hair on her pubis, legs and armpits didn’t match the dark amber mop on her head, usually the sign a woman dies her hair. This one probably used blood melons to achieve this unique look. Which was ironic because just as Harvin was starting to admire this woman’s body, he heard Polten explain to Geffrum that his interrogation tool of choice was a blood melon inside of a stocking.

“It doesn’t break the skin,” Polten was saying, “hell it barely leaves bruising.” Polten handed the blood melon stocking over to Geffrum before asking, “Neither of you have any open wounds, right? These Helonaughts can use any amount of blood and if the wound is big enough, they can drain a man in seconds.”

Harvin didn’t believe the man whenever he went on like this. His claims seemed ridiculous, plus who even knows if this… this thing even is a Helonaught. There was no living record of one, they were things of lore, and this just appeared to be a random lady. Harvin’s excitement was starting to dwindle having seen the woman, but he double checked his own body just the same. Worst case, they could just rape this one like all the other supposed Helonaughts the three of them captured throughout the years.

Geffrum went to work beating the poor thing, all along asking questions. “What is your name? Are you a Blood Mage? What atrocities have you perpetrated?” Every question accompanied a swing from the blood melon that made a sickening smack, followed by a deep thump with each contact. The woman was openly weeping when Geffrum swung the fruit flail down onto the crown of her head with a furious vigor while screaming “TELL US THE TRUTH YOU EVIL WITCH!”

She appeared to fall unconscious from the blow when a faint voice squeaked, “The truth?” The men looked around the basement chamber and their wide eyes made contact with one another. They resigned to the fact that the voice must have come from their prisoner when she raised her head slightly and turned her hands palms towards them. On her palms were hundreds of small cuts, the same markings fables tell of Helonaughts inflicting on themselves when they’re learning their craft.

The small voice asked again, “You want the truth?” Instinctively all three of the men strained their ears and took a step forward, curiosity getting the better of them. “My name is Euryliea Storm,” she continued. Polten grasped the stocking made weapon from Geffrum and took another step forward. “The rumors of the Dread Fist’s return are true, I am a Blood Mage, a Helonaught.” Polten was even closer now but Harvin and Geffrum stopped dead in their tracks, terror rising in the two men. Harvin lost control of his bladder, piss spilling down his tattered trousers. “Atrocities? This, I am not guilty of.”

“She’s lying.” Polten said while reaching a finger under Euryliea’s dimpled chin. Torch light flooded her perfectly sculpted cheek bones, full kissable lips, and doe eyes with a hint of fury rising in their depths.

Euryliea was muttering the same inaudible incantation over and over as she stared daggers through Polten. He leaned forward, hoping to hear what she felt so important to keep repeating. His ears were tickled by her lips as she echoed her silent mantra until finally Polten Creed deciphered what she was saying.

“I could use a blood bag.”

Geffrum yelled out “NO!” startling Polten and Harvin. When Polten Creed turned his neck to inquire about Geffrum’s outburst, Euryliea sunk her teeth into his face, ripping Polten’s ear and cheek from his skull. Blood cascaded from the wound, dousing Euryliea and the surrounding walls. With a flick of the hand, Euryliea commanded the blood to a different direction, in one fluid motion the blood conformed to her needs and fully encapsulated Geffrum before igniting into a ball of flames. Within moments the charred remains of Geffrum collapsed, the Dragon insignia clattered to the stone ground below.

Harvins paralysis finally gave way at the site of his dead and dying companions. Euryliea reached out to use more of Polten’s blood. The blood obeyed her command, streaming from the gaping cavity in his face at a rate inhumanly possible. Euryliea formed a long thin ligature with the blood, slinging it around Harvin’s leg, tripping the big man.

Polten’s body flushed pale as the last drops of blood drained from his husk, occupying the rope now dragging Harvin at a level with Euryliea. She forced him to loosen her shackles. Free, Euryliea grabbed a nearby blanket and wrapped it around her nakedness. She gestured a hand towards the door, started to make for it and said, “Come blood bag, I’ll be needing you.” Harvin looked at the other two members of the Dragons, one hideously burned, the other emaciated and drained of his life blood, he was left with little choice but to capitulate. Though, not before thinking to himself, I guess luck doesn’t always follow me after all. “Good blood bag.” the witch whispered into his ear as he whimpered before obeying, knowing his true fate. Harvin was Euryliea Storm’s pet, reduced to nothing more than the blood she implored to manipulate.

Adventure
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About the Creator

K.H.A. Wassing

Kyle Wassing (He/Him) is an aspiring author who lives in Minnesota with his wife Jess and rescue dog Cooper. When not writing dark and ominous horror short stories, he and his wife enjoy recording their comedy podcast Passive Aggression.

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