Spirit Requiem


"I want these as well, daddy." Her father looked at her lovingly and then followed her eager finger. The little girl was pointing at a set of platinum horse shoes, gleaming in the strategically placed torchlight in the shop. A hint of glee flashed in the shopkeep’s eyes but was immediately and skillfully hidden by years of experience. "Well these, young lady, are a display item but if you want I can summon a set just like this from the shiny, gleaming murkiness in the basement. It is there that I keep all my helpers. They would love to bring you a pair. All the Nydaar workers love their work."

A hideous groan. A dark and hideous groan that sent shivers down every runner's back. It hardly ever stopped but still they could not get used to it. They nicknamed it Nightmare. Not The Nightmare because that would have been too simple, too plain. Just Nightmare, as in general, because you never knew what it would throw at you. Multiple horrors, each with it's own crooked twist. Nightmare was an entanglement of gears, tubes and twisted knobs plugged into a huge larva. It was an odd machinery that usually produced swells of pity for those who looked at it. For those who saw it on a daily basis, however, it habitually gave them the formentioned shivers down their backs. And now it was groaning. The runners tensed, still panting from the last compilation, readying themselves for whatever it would spit out. Writers stood with pens poised over black plates, waiting to translate the sounds into something intelligible. All around was a seething, heaving mass of activity. Other runners straining to keep pace. Writers readying issues to far off places. Behemoths tugging huge crates and ragged gnomes operating complex machines. Sentinels from balconies, high up near the ceiling, barking orders, hurrying on the confused sprawl beneath.

The larva’s groan rose and turned into a wail, it jerked suddenly and and the sound split up and turned into a feverish pitch. This was clearly not a simple request for an ordinary item. This was something special. Silence. For a second the world twisted for a millionth part of a degree. Time appeared to slow down and then it seemed to be drawn towards the revolting thing in the centre of the underground caverns of Nydaar. The larva opened it’s maw and deafeningly blared words that none but the writers understood. They scribbled feverishly to keep up with the cacophony of sound and then handed each idle runner a plate. Some looked at them and went straight to work, thanking the gods that they got an easy part. Others stood still for a second, a worried look crossing their face. This order required them to deeper than they had ever dared to venture. No one knew what lay in the shadows to the west. And that’s where they had to go, apparently to get some spoiled little brat a set of gold engraved platinum horse shoes, a saddle made out of firespider silk, a bridle with just about every ornate stone in existence embedded in it, just to name a few of the simpler items.

They looked towards the entrance to the western caverns, deaf to the shouts of the sentinels above. Over the entrance, carved into the rock was the last meditation of someone long since forgotten. Some of the runners might die, pursuing the rare materials but there were worse things than death. Slaving at Nydaar was one of them, some thought. Taking a deep breath, and with a grim determination, one by one, they took off straight towards the huge shadowy opening. If one listened closely enough, the same words that were carved above the entrance could be heard whispered in the dark. Once I dreamt of death. But now it dreams of me. And only rats and rotting flesh can hear my silent plea. The runners grabbed torches from the wall, still gaining momentum and finally, in a full sprint, they vanished into the darkness.

tack tack

--Drekafluga--