Mist Over The Interchange

Remember I said I wanted to step away from the gothic/cosmic horror and surreal fantasy¹?

Here’s some more surreal fantasy.

Kedge

¹ In case you were wondering, I class both Deimon and the Cedge Mythos² as cosmic horror. Dream Ascendancy isn’t really anything properly yet, but it will be a slightly surreal space opera. I’ve also been working on some werecreature stuff (modern gothic horror – it’s solely for a tabletop roleplay, it won’t be gracing the blog. Probably) and Aether³ (the surreal fantasy that I’ve put a load of offline work into).

² You’ll learn why soon enough, I know it’s not particularly cosmic with what I’ve posted so far.

³ Not sure if that’ll ever reach the blog yet. We’ll see, eh? It’s quite nihilistic⁴ in the end.

⁴ Everything I write seems to be.

Mist Over The Interchange

A masked figure stood on the edge of the hall on the mountain, his white tiger furs ruffled in the cool highland breeze. Men on horses galloped down the ridge, below the cloudline and out of sight towards the Station. The sound of bamboo pipes sang around him, and for a time he considered peace. For a time it seemed as if the combat was far away, and rest finally awaited him. That time would be short lived. Battle and ferocity was his purpose, and his blade cried out for more blood. How long had he been here, watching? He did not know.

In a schoolyard full of ghosts, a woman in uniform chewed a lollipop. Hazy figures shifted in and out of one another, wandering aimlessly, oblivious to anything going on around them. Did they have lives? Or were they just puppets to Zammerann itself? Just who was running this show, anyway? Eyes fixated on the lost spirits, the woman too knew struggle beckoned.

This is a dark place, a cage surrounded by fire and smoke and calamity, and the men that spar there are pain itself. Defined by whips and constraint, these fighters revel in sadistic delight, and for them there will never be enough screams.

Here, in a darker cage, weapons clash in a climactic duel. A man with scissors for hands and a grasping mask writhes in glee, dancing around a robed figure armed with sword and shield. Here, lunacy meets stoicism in combat to the end. Here, the fates of minds will be decided.

Far away from this, a lady in the garb of a medieval entertainer and equipped with a behemoth sword slays men in suits, her weapon cleaving right and left and with each swing turning these mannequins to the dust from whence they came. She has been fighting them for time now, and the end is not quite in sight, but if the Interchange wills it allies will be drawn to the bloodbath.

We return to the masked figure on the edge of the hall on the mountain. Another man has joined him, boasting a mighty cleaver and wrapped up from the chill of the highland breeze. Their swords clash, and with swipes, stabs and kicks the mask is broken. The men have the same face.

Below, over the Interchange, the mist turns to storm clouds and lightning of every colour cracks the sky. The war continues.