John Beckett

Tainted Steel

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. There weren't always hordes of fowl-twisted creatures marching under their decaying wings. There weren't always the corpses of valiant knights lining every inch of this desolate place; glistening red of their blood drizzling from once vibrant green blades of grass. Once this opening between massive giant mountains was the entrance to the most bustling city in the kingdom. Now, littered with death and evil, it was nothing but a prelude to the inevitable terror and woe to come. Nightfiends, sadistic monstrosities of a hellish plane, had torn through to our world, snuffing out all embers of life just as countless elven prophecies had foretold. We should have listened, but instead we claimed ignorance, embraced safety in our knights and magic, this we would all soon regret; nothing now could save us. Mindless they march forth, decaying flesh forming terrifying raptorial tissue that protruded their hideous forms and trailed behind their unnatural hobbling; with each rot-infested step groans of monstrous agony escape their demonic faces of sagging skin. Each one, held together by different combinations of grafted appendages, clambered over the crimson-soaked steel of their recent victims, their unruly form reflecting from the glistening sea of gore they had birthed.