Lord of Sins: Rebellion

Part One:

Era of Darkness

Chapter One:

The Smell of Corpses

    Fire.

The smell of smoke filled the air along with the fogged clouds of choking, black ash of burning trees. There were shouts, followed by the crashing of steel. The whoosh of igniting flames only grew louder, and the fires burned higher. Late in the night, something crashed and brought the shower of glass, then came the blossoming roar of a gaseous explosion.

The tickles of magic accompanied each of these sounds, and so too did the screaming and panic. Figures ran in the darkness of shadows, black and purple monsters of iron and death. Some of them ran on limbs of metal and flew on wings of steel. They passed silent judgement on any and all that they saw.

    Others in flowing cloaks strode through the blossoming flames as if they were the masters of the flame. The fires swirled around them, parted at their passing,  and burned alive all those they wished to die. The thud of the monsters feet on the ash coated soil and rubble was stilled only when they found another victim to burn.

A great splintering crack filled the air suddenly, and one of the homes of an older district started to fall as the raging blaze ate away at the structure and the foundation, reducing its stability until the giant could no longer hold its own weight. The flaming trees nearby tottered as the sea of flames battered them, feasting on the wood and slowly growing larger.

    The doomed giant groaned and creaked as its foundation gave way, sending the old house toppling to the cold ground in the center of the small village, fanning the blaze of others and sending a shower of sparks high into the night sky. The crash of old wood and metal and the roar of the fire briefly drowned out any other sounds.

There were other figures as well, tall and proud they stood, fighting off the great monsters with the magic and battle skills that had been passed down for generations. Ornate arrows rained down over the monstrous creatures, and one by one they fell away.

    The guardians fought like a mist, striking out in surprise, and fading away before retaliation could come. Though even as skilled as these warriors were, even they were beginning to be overwhelmed by the monsters, and their bodies too were soon consumed by the rising flames.

Other noises were audible to the ear, as well. Screams of birds, the whimpers of animals that lived in the villages and forests, all now trapped or trying to escape the fires that consumed them. They were paid no attention by the monsters, as the monsters assumed the small beasts would die just as the humans would.

    Some softer, more pleading voices called out over the crackling fire, searching for loved ones, friends, village elders, or even the spirits of those moved on themselves. Many of these voices were suddenly silenced, cut off or simply turned into panicked screams as the metal monsters found them, their blades drinking deep of their life blood.

The corpses were defiled and thrown into the roaring flames, as if they were table scraps being tossed to a hungry hound. The scent of burning flesh, wood, and the bite of arcane magic was nearly overpowering as the attacks progressed. The remaining villagers who could do so would retreat, fighting through the choking haze to get to the one place they thought was safe.

    A sinkhole lay near the edge of the village. A perilous path ran along the cliff walls down to its depths, but it remained as the only possible salvation from the monsters in the village. The shadowy forms of the village inhabitants fled, rushing down the trails and along the rocky walls that was never meant for such hurried movement. The monsters ran behind and flew above, continuing their hunt, slaying those they found, burning everything before them to ash.

As the monsters advanced on the sinkhole, the earth itself screamed out and died in their wake. The very life of the land was seeming leached out.  The monsters were not concerned with those fleeing for the illusion of safety that the deep crater seemed to provide, but instead continued to ensure that none would remain as they passed by.

    The sinkhole was their destination as well.

The flying monsters harried the cliff path, ripping a few villagers from the narrow trail and sending them hurtling to their deaths below, no regards for age or gender. The attacks urged the survivors onwards, causing a larger uproar of panic. The escapees stampeded quickly, knocking others to the side, sending their own to their deaths as they all fled.

    A small handful of villagers made it to the bottom, and began to race through the lush growth of the surrounding forest towards their goal. They darted through the white ash, falling like snow past rivulets of water and ornate pools blackened by soot and blood.

The massive roots of their last sanctuary stretched wide in the crater, and many used them as cover as the unearthly steel javelins and spears fell down among them from the sky above, ending the lives of even more refugees, until only perhaps a half a dozen few or more survivors remained. The tiny group of survivors rushed on, seeking to shelter themselves in the temple nestled deeply in the great roots of a tree’s base.

    The towering trunk of the great tree rose up even above the lip of the hollows in which it resided, giving the feeling that the tree was a sleeping giant ready to awaken. It was the holy oak, a shrine and a beacon to its people, a place where the spirits gathered. It was the Yggdrasil, the world tree. The god of all the forests whose seeds were told to have produced all life in the world.

Those remaining few were allowed to only stand back and watch as their god slowly burned to the ground.

The demons were already there, cursed weapons hacking away at the massive hardwood, rending limb and root alike until the punishment was too much, even for the ancient giant. Slowly, it began to topple, collapsing and splintering as it fell, the old wood unable to withstand the strain of collapse under its own weight.

Through it all, a younger man stood back and watched from the lip of the basin. His skin was as dark as the blackest night, and his eyes redder than the blood spilled at his own words. A black glove covered the scars of his left hand, each one as if they had once held flames hotter than those that now devoured entire villages.

    His cold, crimson red eyes with no hint of remorse watched the carnage below, the flames dancing in them. Around him bodies of now dead villagers hung from trees like the most macabre scarecrows in a darkened field. The man turned his head slightly, as if taking notice of the one watching him, the black hand raised as if it were reaching out to his observer.

    That man was the Lord of Sins.