Dear Diary, I found who killed me.
It was a little house on the edge of the forest, in the western plaguelands. Nothing special, just a little house. A little yard, a little pen with some little sheep in it.
Inside the little house was a little bed, some little chairs and a little table. A humble, modest, unassuming house. A home to a simple soldier who was trying to achieve some respite from his wars and his fighting and his troubles.
I entered the property at night. I started with the sheep in their pens. Each one I silenced beforehand, so as not to alert the occupants of the house. I didn't care about alerting the sheep. Sheep are really stupid. You can slice the hooves and tongue out of one sheep right next to another one, and the unaffected sheep will just stare at you blankly…until it is their turn. And their turn always came. First I would cut off their ears, and their hooves, and cut out their tongues. Then, quietly, so as not to cause a fuss, I removed the skin, and then the internal organs. I may have been messy. The sheep thought so…until I took out their eyes.
I then laid the parts out in the pen, I made a little picture, of a face. My face, or, as close to it as I could get. Then I waited until morning.
Morning came and the owner of the house came out. His name doesn't matter anymore, just like mine.
He saw his sheep, and he panicked. He ran. He ran right into my trap. First I sapped him. Paralyzed his arms and legs and voice. All he could do was watch me wide eyed as I faced him. He didn't recognize me at first. Why should he? After all, I didn't look at all like I used to. But when I took out my old robes and put them on, I think he got some inkling. I think he understood then the magnitude of the mistake he had m ade. Either that, or he wondered why the dead man was wearing a dress. It's not important.
First I cut off all his clothes. He was going to face this the same way I had when I awoke, naked and alone. Then I cut off all his hair. All the while his eyes rolled back and forth. I could see his throat struggling to make some noise, some sound that would alert anyone to his situation. But I've learned a lot since I died about the language of flesh, and every time it got close to wearing off, I would reapply the pressure points that kept him still.
After he was suitably prepared, I started on his skin. Many tiny openings, to let the new spirit in. Entire vocabularies of violation. I cut the story of my life after death into him back, and his thighs, and his chest. Then I removed his fingers and toes. Slowly. I didn't want to damage them.
Then I took out his eyes. Not all the way, just enough to dangle, but till see. Then his tongue, and again, not all the way, just enough to be visible. After all, he needed a chance to reattach everything later. It would only be fair. But I had to make sure he suffered as much as I had. Otherwise, this would never work.
By now he was screaming - or trying to. It was a hollow sound. High pitched and breathy. I opened the hollows of his throat, to let more air in.
Then I waited. It took time for him to finally run out of steam, almost till dusk. He was much more resilient than I'd given him credit for. But in the end he quieted. I approached him again, and I could see he had accepted what was happening. He seemed almost eager now, stretching towards me as much as he could with the cords of his limbs cut like they were. And I understood, finally, that we were, at last, brothers.
I took my knives, and I rammed them into his eye sockets one final time. And he died.
I'm sure the Val'kyr will find him. I left the local apothecaries a note. Maybe one day we'll meet again, and I can tell him it's all okay. Maybe not. But my comrades and I are moving on to other tasks, and dwelling on the past isn't among them.
It was a little house on the edge of the forest, in the western plaguelands. Nothing special, just a little house. A little yard, a little pen with some little sheep in it.
Inside the little house was a little bed, some little chairs and a little table. A humble, modest, unassuming house. A home to a simple soldier who was trying to achieve some respite from his wars and his fighting and his troubles.
I entered the property at night. I started with the sheep in their pens. Each one I silenced beforehand, so as not to alert the occupants of the house. I didn't care about alerting the sheep. Sheep are really stupid. You can slice the hooves and tongue out of one sheep right next to another one, and the unaffected sheep will just stare at you blankly…until it is their turn. And their turn always came. First I would cut off their ears, and their hooves, and cut out their tongues. Then, quietly, so as not to cause a fuss, I removed the skin, and then the internal organs. I may have been messy. The sheep thought so…until I took out their eyes.
I then laid the parts out in the pen, I made a little picture, of a face. My face, or, as close to it as I could get. Then I waited until morning.
Morning came and the owner of the house came out. His name doesn't matter anymore, just like mine.
He saw his sheep, and he panicked. He ran. He ran right into my trap. First I sapped him. Paralyzed his arms and legs and voice. All he could do was watch me wide eyed as I faced him. He didn't recognize me at first. Why should he? After all, I didn't look at all like I used to. But when I took out my old robes and put them on, I think he got some inkling. I think he understood then the magnitude of the mistake he had m ade. Either that, or he wondered why the dead man was wearing a dress. It's not important.
First I cut off all his clothes. He was going to face this the same way I had when I awoke, naked and alone. Then I cut off all his hair. All the while his eyes rolled back and forth. I could see his throat struggling to make some noise, some sound that would alert anyone to his situation. But I've learned a lot since I died about the language of flesh, and every time it got close to wearing off, I would reapply the pressure points that kept him still.
After he was suitably prepared, I started on his skin. Many tiny openings, to let the new spirit in. Entire vocabularies of violation. I cut the story of my life after death into him back, and his thighs, and his chest. Then I removed his fingers and toes. Slowly. I didn't want to damage them.
Then I took out his eyes. Not all the way, just enough to dangle, but till see. Then his tongue, and again, not all the way, just enough to be visible. After all, he needed a chance to reattach everything later. It would only be fair. But I had to make sure he suffered as much as I had. Otherwise, this would never work.
By now he was screaming - or trying to. It was a hollow sound. High pitched and breathy. I opened the hollows of his throat, to let more air in.
Then I waited. It took time for him to finally run out of steam, almost till dusk. He was much more resilient than I'd given him credit for. But in the end he quieted. I approached him again, and I could see he had accepted what was happening. He seemed almost eager now, stretching towards me as much as he could with the cords of his limbs cut like they were. And I understood, finally, that we were, at last, brothers.
I took my knives, and I rammed them into his eye sockets one final time. And he died.
I'm sure the Val'kyr will find him. I left the local apothecaries a note. Maybe one day we'll meet again, and I can tell him it's all okay. Maybe not. But my comrades and I are moving on to other tasks, and dwelling on the past isn't among them.
