Darius ignored the barb. Steeling himself, he met Vergil's gaze squarely. "They will return in three days," he said, his voice heavy with dread. "Creatures unlike anything you've ever faced."
A flicker of genuine curiosity sparked in Vergil's eyes, momentarily replacing the usual indifference. "Unlike anything?" he echoed, a slow smile spreading across his face. It wasn't a pleasant smile, more like a predator savoring the scent of fresh prey.
Darius continued, his voice low and grim. "They are... not alive, yet alive. They feel no pain, they bleed no blood. Conventional weapons have little effect." Despair tinged his words, a negative to his usual stoicism.
Vergil's smile faltered slightly. The description sent a jolt through him, a disquieting echo resonating deep within the not-so-forgotten corners of his past. But the details remained frustratingly elusive.
He locked eyes with Darius, his voice losing its earlier indifference. "Tell me more," he demanded, a newfound urgency flickering in his eyes.
"The crawlers," he continued, "That's what we call them... or at the very least, the weakest of their kind." He recounted the early days, a time smeared with the memory of easy victories. The first attacks were like swatting at flies, their crude blades finding purchase on the creatures' unnatural flesh. Yet, a chilling shift had occurred. The steel that once cleaved flesh now struggles to, leaving the abominations unharmed. Panic had settled in, a suffocating shroud replacing the initial bravado.
Vergil, ever the pragmatist, cut through Darius' narrative like a surgeon's blade. "What does it want?" he asked, his voice devoid of the usual indifference.
Darius, momentarily taken aback, blinked. "It... it demanded tribute," he stammered, surprised by the healer's sudden urgency. "At first, a monthly tithe of valuables. We gave what we could, hoping to appease it." He paused, the bitter taste of betrayal clinging to his words. "But now, even that seems insufficient."
Darius' words were left hanging in the air, damp and oppressive like the mist rising from the waterfall.
Relief, a primal and unexpected sensation, washed over him. This wasn't an unstoppable force of nature, or some ancient evil, one that pricked his memory. This was... an amateur.
A flicker of understanding sparked in Vergil's eyes, and a smile, unsettling and predatory, crept across his face.
"A novice," he muttered under his breath, the smile lingering, a predator recognizing a less evolved hunter. It explained why his past had clawed at the edges of his memory, why the village's plight resonated with a chilling familiarity. This enemy, this tormentor toying with the region, mirrored something dark, deep within Vergil.
Darius, oblivious to the storm brewing behind Vergil's eyes, simply nodded. He saw the relief, the slight easing of tension, but the reason remained a mystery etched on Vergil's now unreadable face. A strange silence descended upon them, a silence charged with unspoken understanding. Both men, from vastly different perspectives, acknowledged the enemy's act for what it truly was: a cruel, twisted game. A game Vergil knew all too well, a game he'd played himself. He stared at the cascading water, the once peaceful melody now a discordant echo of the monstrous act he'd conducted in his past.
"You said three days?" Vergil asked, pinning Darius with a gaze that seemed to pierce through the warrior's weathered facade.
Darius, startled by the shift in the healer's demeanor, could only manage a curt nod. Vergil's next request, however, sent a jolt of surprise through him. "Bring me one of those creatures when they attack again," Vergil said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Darius bristled at the command veiled as a request. Despite the simmering unease Vergil caused, the desperation gnawing at Darius made him swallow his pride. He cleared his throat, preparing to explain the futility of such a request.
"Those creatures…" he began, his voice low and grim, "Our strongest warriors can barely slow them down. When dawn approaches, they…" he hesitated, a shiver tracing its way down his spine, "they simply… disappear."
A pang of regret, sharp and sudden, ripped through Vergil. He could have dissected one of these creatures, understood their weaknesses.
He clenched his jaw, the frustration twisting his features into a grimace. He could analyze from afar, yes, but the true understanding, the key to exploiting their weakness, that required a scalpel, not a magnifying glass.
Vergil's obsession with the creature grew with each passing day, a consuming fire that burned within him. The creatures Darius spoke about, had captured his imagination, igniting a desire that he could not suppress. A taboo that he kept hidden deep within his soul.
Darius had begun to notice Vergil's preoccupation. His once stoic demeanor had given way to a restless energy, a constant churning beneath the surface. Darius' keen eyes had observed Vergil's frequent absences, his late-night wanderings, and the strange, almost hypnotic way he would stare into the distance.
One evening, the last before the incoming attack as they sat by the village's central fire, Darius confronted Vergil. "What is it that you seek?" he said.
Vergil met Darius' gaze. He knew that he could not reveal the truth, not yet. He had to maintain his deception, to keep his secret safe. With a forced smile, Vergil replied, "Nothing, Darius. Just a passing thought."
Darius remained unconvinced, his silence a heavy shroud. He sensed that Vergil was hiding something, a secret that might threaten the safety of the village. But for now, he could only watch and wait.
The sun, a bleeding wound in the sky, spilled its last crimson light across the ravaged village. Long, skeletal shadows stretched from every hovel, mimicking the fear gripping the soldiers' hearts. Darius, his weathered face grim, barked orders, overseeing the last-minute preparations. Every man, every woman capable of wielding a blade, stood shoulder to shoulder in a line of desperate hope.
Meanwhile, Elara, the village's young leader, coordinated the civilian evacuation. Her voice, usually strong and steady, cracked with suppressed anxiety as she ushered families deeper into the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the village. The pungent scent of fear hung heavy in the air, a suffocating blanket that threatened to steal their resolve.
Suddenly, a figure burst through the wooden doors leading down to the tunnels. It was a young runner, his face contorted in panic. "Sir Corvus!" he gasped, pointing a trembling finger back towards the healer's quarters. "He's gone! His room… empty!"
Elara sprinted through the twilight, the village bathed in an ominous orange glow from the dying sun. Each ragged breath fed the cold dread coiling in her gut. The frantic shout from the young runner echoed in her ears: "Sir Corvus is missing!"
She skidded to a halt before his makeshift quarters, a flimsy hut hastily constructed amidst the ruins. Panic warred with a chilling suspicion that gnawed at the edges of her mind. Had Vergil, the enigmatic stranger who promised help, revealed his true colors? Had he, on the eve of their reckoning, abandoned them to face the encroaching nightmare alone?
With trembling hands, she pushed open the flimsy door. The interior was spartan – a makeshift bed, a rough wooden table, and a few scattered medical supplies. But what chilled her to the bone was the emptiness. The bed was untouched, the sheets unruffled. No sign of struggle, no hint of where he might have gone.
Had he vanished of his own accord, or had something far more sinister transpired? The question remained unanswered, a suffocating weight adding to the already oppressive atmosphere. Elara's gaze darted around the room, searching for any clue, any sign that might unravel the mystery of Vergil's disappearance. But there was nothing. Just this unsettling silence, broken only by the pounding of her own frantic heart.
The memory of Vergil's unsettling smile earlier that day flashed unbidden in her mind. A smile that did little to dispel the gnawing suspicion that had taken root. Was their healer a savior or a wolf in sheep's clothing? And where, in the heart of this impending battle, had he gone?
A guttural growl, low and primal, ripped through the twilight, shattering the fragile peace. It echoed through the village, sending shivers down spines and quickening the beat of every heart. Then, a flicker of emerald fire pierced the growing darkness – the telltale glint of the creatures' eyes.
From the abyss, bizarre figures materialized. Grotesque parodies of humanity, they shambled forth, their forms a twisted patchwork of muscle and sinew. A clamor of makeshift weapons – rusted blades, jagged spears, scavenged tools – glinted in the dying light. The village held its breath, a collective gasp before the storm.