The Bringing of Death
Mirg Repaer, adorned in a cloak of shadow, teems with the void of abysmal darkness secreting from his presence with each step he takes. The roots of shadow spread from Mirg’s steps as if a foul affliction desecrating the land.
But the affliction was cast upon the land already, and not by Mirg.
Eons of lifetimes have ended by the sharpened cull of Mirg. Yet, these past two years have been a genocide of notoriety. The hand of night is no longer the final call. The dead rises.
Mirg appears to those at the end of their times, unknown to those yet still among the living and unknown to Mirg. His existence is constancy of murkiness, traipsing from one death to the next. Mirg can no longer recall a forgotten existence…if there ever was one. Death is his home, and his home has been taken from him.
Death is no longer final, which leaves it without meaning. “Existence without meaning is…what?” Mirg thinks to himself. Those still breathing are fighting the dead, Mirg is expected to bring those that fall to the blade, “But why should I?” He battles with himself.
Mirg answers to a voice in the darkness. Seldom does it speak, rare are instructions. Simply the expectations to end those who have come to their end. “Should I challenge the dark, what then?” He inquires internally.
The dark holds you. You owe to the darkness.
The voice echoes in Mirg’s head, and it becomes clear the voice in the dark can hear Mirg’s thoughts.
You are the Bringer of Death.
“I should still be expected to call forth to darkness those that are at an end, when the end has not truly come?”
You will bring death to those whose time has come.
The darkness hisses.
“If I am to be the Bringer of Death, then I should hold to true death. I go forth now to the lands of men to purge this filth from the world. In order for humanity to die, they must be saved.”
The voice in the dark falls null, an emptiness fills Mirg as he realizes what he must do. He musters the darkness to his call and sits as an embryo to the dark as it carries him to the greatest homestead of man left standing since this unrepentant curse befell them.
The day sets to end yet and a siphon of darkness spawns atop The Last Wall. It is the last line of defense that separates the living from the dead. They amass in substantial numbers, they are more nimble and agile in death than in life, strength of unknown limitations. This fortress holds a fleeting hope for humanity, and the Bringer of Death appears before them.
“To be surprised in these times is a pleasure I have lost.” Duncan, the leader of The Last Hold says to Mirg as he approaches him on the wall, looking out to the fire-scorched earth surrounding the walls and the vague remnants of vegetation scattered about the wasteland that has become humanity’s final hold.
“I have come so that you may have death, as It is, this one gift I have to offer has been taken from you.” Mirg exasperates with an exhausted sigh.
“You have brought death to us, then?” Duncan smiles.
“The death you were meant for, not the meaningless rot that has be laden upon your shoulders these past years.” Mirg’s head rises, and Duncan sees a light green glimmer in Mirg’s eyes, surrounded by an insurmountable void.
“Then you would help us dispel this afront to death, so that we may die in peace?” Duncan pointedly asks.
“Aye.” Mirg groans as he unsheathes his sharpened scythe and a glimmer of the red sunset in the distance strikes the blade with piercing blindness to those near him. “I am the Bringer of Death.”
“How?” Duncan pleads. “Tell me, and it will be done.”
“I command the night. When the shadows rise, we meet them.” Mirg turns to the setting sun as the shadows begin to reach for the wall.
“They are stronger in the night. We have limited vision.” Duncan reluctantly coaxes Mirg.
“I am he who brings death. With me at your side, you cannot meet your end until I deem it so.” Mirg reassures with a hardened tone that sounds besetting of battle.
Night falls. Those behind The Last Wall number less than one-hundred, and the dead’s numbers far exceed them. Duncan signals to open the gate and the low roar of concretion echoes through the ears of all the living as the doors of stone slowly open by the turn of hand.
The dead comes. A barrage of rotten moans rings through the night, flames from torches guide humanity in the desolation of darkness and Mirg watches as his haunt approaches him, side-by-side with Duncan.
“They are stronger than we are.” Duncan’s teeth struggle to stay their chatter and he attempts to hold a stoic strength in the eyes of a harsh end.
“Step into my Shadow.” Mirg groans with a burdened throat as he pierces his scythe into the barren land beneath his feet. Shadow splits from the tip of the blade and surrounds everyone within the torchlight. A strength imbued by death himself courses through them as they wield the power of night.
The pace of the dead quickens, and the steps become heavier as the ground shakes beneath them. Mirg raises his blade and wields it with both hands as he prepares to rip through this broken scourge.
Suddenly, the fires dim, and then fail.
You are the Bringer of Death.
- The NFT Author, for Quin