At the Del Fenwickian border, 413 days after a wizard cursed the REALM…
Current Version:
From the ridge, the Villager tent city spread itself over the land like a rag of canvas abandoned by a beggar. Like a spreading fungus across a spoiled loaf of bread. “Like an irregular growth that really should be checked out by a skin-doctor.”
“Sir?”
Captain Glover frowned. Similes and metaphors had always been his secret vice, one that he was usually able to keep from spilling out of his head through the highway of his mouth. He would have to be more careful in his image-spinning moments. As careful as a cat with its paws stuck in—no, this wasn’t the time. “Private.”
“Sir?” asked Private Vishman. He was an eager lad, with hair like straw that a cow had half-eaten but then spit out for being too green, and ears as big as—no, there he went again.
“Retrieve the prisoner. Have her brought here. I want to see this.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Vishman saluted and sped back toward the garrison, Glover mused about his own early days in the military, when he’d been full of piss and vinegar, as the popular saying goes, which had never made sense to Glover as a metaphor. A full bladder certainly didn’t mark you as angry or ambitious, and consuming large quantities of vinegar would only make you nauseous. Being full of piss and vinegar would be a terrible distraction in battle. It would be functionally equivalent to say that a young soldier is full of poop and olive oil, which would be of no use at all.
By the time Glover had worked through the benefits and detractions of being full of piss and vinegar, poop and olive oil, lymph and mayonnaise, spinal fluid and barbecue sauce, and several other variants, Vishman had returned with three guards and the Villager woman they’d shot down from the sky.
Major Bluebelly had called Glover paranoid for ordering his sentries to target bats flying across the border from the Villager camp, but as Glover had suspected, one of those apparent bats was a Villager in disguise. The arrow shaft, like a wooden stake, had transformed her back into human form and, even now sticking out from the bandaged wound in her hip, a bit of arrow kept her from transforming back. For added security, he’d had her wrapped in strings of garlic bulbs to keep her weak and passive.
“Now there’s no garlic to flavor my bread,” was all that Major Bluebelly had said, because the man had all the vision of an opossum at noontime with its head wrapped in—no, this wasn’t time.
“Belinda,” Glover addressed the vampire. “Your compatriots have been desperately negotiating the terms for your release. Unfortunately, they have nothing to offer that the Regency could possibly want. Your transgression was a violation of our treaty, and our mandatory redress is the liquidation of your camp.”
“Liquidation?” she asked.
“A euphemism,” Glover explained. “The tents will be burned, the people will be killed, and the land will be occupied…but of course, we’re not going to actually render any of the solid matter into liquid form. That would be overkill. So perhaps it’s more of a hyperbole than a euphemism after all?” Glover’s mind spun at the idea of a word that could be both an overstatement and understatement at the same time.
“Captain Glover, please, I beg you,” said Belinda. “All I was trying to do was to bring some food and comfort to the children. Punish me, if you have to, but don’t punish anyone else. You can’t do this!”
“Of course I can.” He pointed down at the tent city. “The refugee camp has no guards, no weapons, and no defensive structures of any kind. While I have warriors, archers, siege engines, and a veteran cavalry. Your little canvas encampment is a fuel-soaked torch, and my forces are the bonfire. By the end of the day, I’ll have added the entire REALM to the glory of our Regency.
“The land is cursed,” Belinda reminded him. “I wouldn’t wish our curse upon anyone, even the likes of you.”
“Then it’s a shame,” Glover concluded, “that I’m just superstitious enough to hunt vampires while drawing a line at wizard curses. Private, relay the order to launch the assault.”
“Yes, sir,” said Vishman.
While the vampire struggled ineffectually against her bonds, Captain Glover watched his forces encircle the helpless camp. By previous agreement, a fence surrounded the tents, keeping its residents contained. There would be no escape. There would be no survivors. It would be like firing spears into a barrel of minnows. It would be—”
The clouds above glowed with green and red sparks. Columns of light pierced the cloudbank, burning the ground around the camp like fingers of flame, turning the Del Fenwickian soldiers and their horses instantly to ash. Glover gripped his ears and doubled over as an unearthly whine filled the air. It looked like—it sounded like—it felt like—Glover shook his head, at an uncharacteristic loss for imagery. “What is happening?” he asked.
The vampire stood over him. Her bonds had come free, the guards had fled, and the garlic bulbs were all shrugged off behind her. “Your eardrums are bleeding,” she noted, licking her lips. “Kind of gross, I know, but the smell is invigorating.”
“You did this?” Glover asked. “What is going on?”
Belinda shrugged. “I have no idea.”
A flying vessel emerged from the clouds. It floated over the refugee camp, covered in colorful lights. It boomed with a loud but high-pitched voice. “This is a message for Dave Mopsman. Message begins. Dave, you have been designated as Wordler 414. The crows have been detained, so we’ll be assigning Champions until further notice. Message ends. That is all.”
The vessel spun back upward into the clouds and disappeared.
Captain Glover looked out on the plain, surveying the perfectly intact tent city surrounded by the charred and smoking remains of an entire Del Fenwickian army. “I don’t understand any of this.”
Belinda gave him a piteous look. “You should have been more superstitious.”
Web3 Draft:
- Listed on OpenSea
- Listed on Rarible
- Pinned to IPFS
Revision Notes:
To be added.
