4 comments on “Monthly Moment In Time: June

  1. Captain Darok looked the Forsaken hunter up and down, disbelief carved into his craggy face. “You want to go where?”

    “Wailing point.” The hunter was cold, his voice sibilant. “I will pay you handsomely.”

    “It’s not the gold, matey,” said Darok, as he eyed the Forsaken’s fat purse greedily. “It be madness to go in there. It’s haunted – ghosts, sirens and the like.”

    “Do I look like a man who fears the undead, sir captain?” asked the Forsaken, a hint of amusement in his tone as he looked Darok in they eye.

    Darok rubbed his chin as he looked at the gaping hole in the Forsaken’s cheek, showing old and yellowed teeth. “I suppose not. Well…” he extended his hand, “We have a deal… Mr…?”

    “Carrington. You can call me Carrington.” Carrington bared his rotting teeth in what could be called a smile.

    Darok tried not to breathe in the stench of death. “Right-o, Mr Carrington sir. Step this way, and me boys will settle you in your cabin.”

    “I merely need a place to store my belongings, Captain,” Carrington said, indicating his small pack. “My hound and I don’t require sleep.”

    Darok looked at the plaguehound, who stood as still as death by Carrington’s side, silent and eerie, nothing at all like what a real dog should be. But plaguehounds were demonic undead creations, they neither barked nor howled, and you couldn’t look them in the eye for long – much like his master. Staring into the eyes of death were too much for any living soul.

    …….

    The journey itself was uneventful enough. The seas were calm and nary a whale shark was to be seen. It was as if they were meant to get to Wailing point, and that was a chilling thought on its own.

    The crew kept a wide berth from the undead duo. At night they would stand at the rail, unmoving, staring out to see, their faces, or what was left of them, unreadable in the slivers of moonlight. Darok imagined that they wouldn’t even fear the rage of the sea – for Forsaken would probably not breathe, or so the rumours said.

    A small boarding party of 6, including Darok were to accompany Carrington into the caves at the base of the bluff overlooking Wailing point. Kornath and Regnar were easily bought with 2 gold coins, with a promise of the same when they returned, but the other 3 took a bit of convincing.

    As they stepped into the caverns, their lanterns held high, Kornath whispered to Regnar in orcish, in low secretive tones. Carrington couldn’t understand them, but he wasn’t surprised if they were plotting some sort of hit and run robbery and leave him penniless in this eerie cave. Lowering his hand, he made a gesture to his plaguehound, who abruptly turned and leapt high into the air, his jaws locking on Kornath’s lantern, and Kornath dropped it in surprise, swearing as he reached for the dagger at his belt. The hound tossed his head and the lantern hit the cavern wall, the light extinguishing as it fell with a clatter onto the slippery stones.

    “Grom’s BALLS!” roared Kornath, as he advanced on the hound, his dagger ready to strike.

    “You are unhurt,” said Carrington, his deep voice rasping in the dim light. “I still have my lantern. So you will just have to follow me.” And he headed further into the shadows. The hound padded silently back to his master’s side, and turned and bared his teeth silently at the angry orc, then followed Carrington into the enveloping shadows. Darok gestured angrily to everyone to follow and they all headed further into the cave, Kornath sullen as he sheathed his dagger.

    The sound of the wind wailing in the cave made the hair on the back of Darok’s neck. But the Forsaken seemed neither perturbed nor interested in the sounds, and seemend intent on following a path only known to himself into the cavernous maze.

    After what seemed like an hour, but was likely only minutes, Carrington came to a halt, and unshouldered the shovel strapped to his back. Kornath’s eyes lit up greedily as Carrington started to dig.

    “What treasure would ye be finding here?” asked Regnar, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

    “Nothing that would interest you, sailor,” replied Carrington, as he cast his shovel aside and started pulling dirt out with his bare hands.

    (to be continued)

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