#Mar got slayn by a four year old

[halforc-mercenary]

Scary story prompt: A four-year-old half-elven boy sits and stares at you as he waits.

Send “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark” for my muse totell your muse a scary story or an urban legend.

A heavy frown draw a long line betweenthe Halforcs thick eyebrows, as she looked at the small boy at theother side of the campfire. Around them the merchants and othercivilians she was accompanying as a guard  were as busy as bees in abeehive at preparing their camp for the night : „Listen, Child,aren´t you a little too young to listen to scary stories?“

„Just tell him the story, Girl…somaybe the brat will let us sleep“, the other guard grumbleddisgruntled from where he was laying outstretched on the ground on asimple bed of firneedles,  with his Helmets Grimme pulled ungainlyover his eyes, to get at least a little sleep before he and Mar wouldstart their guardshift during the night.„Thats nothing a child should hear!“,Mar pinned her ears back and growled at the other guard like aannoyed dog, but the other ignored her simply.With a grunt the young woman turnedback to the little boy, who still waited, quietly, his eyes round andbig and…. very persuasive. By the Light!, she thought as her earsmoved up and down almost panicky, What am I ? A Mercenary or a Mousethat let itself soften up by two big round eyes?!

Apparently the Halforc was a Mouse.

She stood no chance against thosebig round eyes, she noticed, as she eventually started to talk:

„Did you know, child,  that the people in myHomeland are usually burned after their death? At least when you arenot a Yarl who thinks they are better than everybody else andtherefor your corpse should rest in a grave for so called Heros torevive you to become a mindless massmurderer.“,the woman scoffedand thought of-Oh No, no , no , no!Heshould not be thought about, not his face thatresembled her own with the hook nose and the dark freckles, not hisloud laughing or his broad hand that ruffled throughher own hair as if she was his little sister and not his youngercousin. Because thinking about him would also meanthinking about his dark skin that had turned ashen in Undeath, itwould mean thinking about his usually warm laughter that had in theend sounded like a part of his spine had pressed against his throatfrom inside, it would mean thinking about that it had been heraxe that had crushed his skull eventually:

„….but the normal people areburned after their death and the ash is either spread in the sea orput in a urn to be buried under a small heap of stones forremembrance. Its more pragtical that way, more pragmatic.For beforethis tradition People were buried under big barrows and that was toomuch work to do, because there could always come a foesttroll or aogre to attack you, when you are in the middle of preparing a burrowand then the burrow would have become the grave of two people. So itwas far more pragmatic to use a simpler burial methode.“TheHalforc looked with a frown that could almost be worried at thelittle Halfelf sitting next to her, but then she forced herself toremember that this was not her child and therefor she had no right tobe worried for him:

„The other reason to change theburial tradition, beside pragmatism, was fear. Fear that those whoare dead could return to the living when their body is still intact.“As they did eventually. Eventually when all the urbanlegends and tales had turned to truth that had held reality in astranglehold with rotten, bony hands. First during the third waras they clashed against Thoradinswall like a stormwave of rottenflesh.

Then, years later, on the other side ofthe great wall, as a Prince who killed those loyal to him to bringthem back as his Forsaken. Those loyal tohim,  just like-Oh No, no, no , no!He should not bethought of, he should not be mentioned, he should stay away until hecould reach with his rotten fingers into her nightmares. As her sleepwas the only time when he was able to crawl out of the far away placein the back of Mars head, where she had locked away him and thememory of his freckled laughing face that was to smiliar to hers.

„Fortheir are so many stories of the old days, when the Dead returned tothe living and always they end bad, for the Dead can bring no joy tothe living and the Living could not give what the Dead long for. After all the Dead can no longer feel warmth or joy or love, because all theycan feel is the cold grasp of their graves. And this was also thereason that when someone dies, the family of the Dead would putstones in the doors of their houses for seven days, for when the Deadwould walk again in search of what was once their own- Warmth, joy,love- they could not enter their home again, until their gravefinally calls for them after seven days.

Thisalso happned when a man with the name Sinfjotle died. He was burriedin a burrow and his family, consisting of two servants, his wife andhis unmarried Bother, returned to their home to put stones in theirlonghouses entrance. But when the night came and frost started tocreep over the mountains and over the fields, Sinfjotle  woke upagain. He was greeted by a dark place, where he lay on a bed with his shield and sword by his side and pots full of butter, corn, honeyand milk. But he did not wanted those gravegoods. He wanted hisfamily. So he stood up again and walked out of his burrow, over themountains and the fields, towards his old home just to finde the doorblocked with stones. But Sinfjotle wanted the warmth and joy andlove of his family as he had known when he was still alive. So hetried to move the stones away, and when it did not worked, hescratched over them until his nails broke and his flesh started to ripof his cold bones. However, the stones did not moved and when thefirst rays of the sun started to sneak past the mountains, Sinfjotlehad to return to his grave over the day. But this was not theend.“

Evening had  started to wrap them in darkness, the working people around the Trio by the campfire was slowly swallowed by the approaching darkness like by a eager mouth.

“Inthe next night Sinfjotle once again woke up and wandered over themountains and the fields to find once again the door blocked withstones, stones that still beared the scratchmarks of his fingertipsthat were this night already worn down to the hard, cold bone. Butthis time he was greeted with the voice of his wife, a voice so sweetit was enough to make him cry, if he would have been still able tocry.´Asbirg!´, Sinfjotle called out with a scratching howlingvoice: ´My Asbirg! Open the door for me, I need your warmth and yoursmile! Please, please! Let me in! Please, my Love!´

Asbirgwas a smart women and knew that there could not come any good fromthe dead, but at the same time she had a tender heart and the howlingand crying of the man she loved sitched through her ears like coldneedles. She was alone in the house, for the Servants and her goodBrother had fled  in the morning after they had all heard the lastnight full of the sounds of Sinfjotles bones scratching over thestones. Accordingly there was noone else who could stop her when thewoman removed the heavy stones from the door. But the one who wasstanding at the other side of the door was not her husband, with a warmsmile, the dark hair and the warm, dark skin.  But it was a corpse, who wasnot able to smile for smiling and joy was for the Living only, andwhos hair was thin and brittle, and whos skin was skin cold and as pale as hisbones underneath. Sinfjotle hasty stepped inside the house thathad been once his home, to sit down by the fireplace for the gravescoldness was still hoding to his limbs. He asked Asbirg to bring imwater and Food, but when she did so, he drunk two buckets full ofwater and ate a whole pot off stew, but the thirst he felt and thehunger that ached in his guts didn´t go away. For eating and drinkngwere joys only living could have. And even thought he sat so near theflames of the fire, that the flames started to lick over his cloth,he coud not feel any warmth, for also warmth was only for the livingand the grave was cold. ´Asbirg´, Sinfjotle called outeventually, thirsty, hungry and so very, very cold: ´Please my Love,please hold me in your arms lik you used to! I feel so cold!´

AndAsbirg, the smart but tender Asbirg, sat down beside her late husbandto lay her warm arms around him.

´ButI am still so cold…´Sinfjotle then said and held her tighter.

Thewoman huffed a little, for the mans cold hands stitched through herlayers of cloth like needles.´Husband,´she said, shivering: ´Not sotight please…´´But I am still so cold…´Sinfjotle thensaid and held her tighter.

Asbirggasped quietly, for this embrace was so different from what sheremembered was when her Husband had held her when he was still alive.

´ButI am still so cold…´Sinfjotle then said and held her tighter.

Thewoman started to squirm in his grasp, her bones ached under the corpsestrong hold.

´ButI am still so cold…´Sinfjotle then said and held her tighter.

Asbirgstarted to yell as her bones started to brittle.

´ButI am still so cold…´Sinfjotle then said and held her tighter.

Andthen there was a

CRACK!“

Marsaid the last word out loud, so loud the guard who had seemed tosleep jumped up from his bed of pinefirs as if he had been bitten by ainsect. With a calmer voice she continued, after she watched theother guard sitting back on his bed: „Sinfjotle nolonger held hiswarm wife in his arms but a corpse, who was very fast losing thewarmth he had longed for so much. So he waited and when the lastspark of warmth had leaved Asbirg, she opned her eyes again and handin hand, cold to cold, they stepped outside in the frozen night tosearch for all those precious things they have lost: Warmth and Joyand Love, all those things that only belonged to the Living and whichSinfjotle and Asbirg could never have but which they would never stoplonging for.“Those things even he had never stoppe longing for, even when-Oh No, no, no , no!He should not bethought of,not the warmth of his arms around her, not the joy he had brought when he had told her the stories of his Soldierlife, not the love he had made her feel when he had kissed her forehead. But she did thought of him She alwas thougt of him. And the memory lay around her throat like a icecold hand and pressed,pressed,

pressed!

Mar looked down at the child, wordlessly. Then she stubbornly wiped her gloved hand over her eyes and turned back to the campfire: „That was the story. Do not complain when you can´tsleep tonight, child.“

@brashtide-menace​