Experiments with Life Essence (Or, Blood Makes More than Grass Grow)
Story by ZeHell-ScythefanToo
This is a fantasy-type short I had in my head for quite a long time yet didn't feel was worthy of getting out into text... Coincidentally, this turned out much more differently than the script went in my head, which involved less whimsy and a bigger focus on megalomaniacal banter. Oh well - I think I still captured the 'essence' of the matter regardless! And now to go back to feeling unworthy of all the work I put into a fairly large project (I've mentioned it again...) where the ending I've currently imagined sounds as if I wanted it to end that fast...
You can read this on my site (fancy reader) (plain text) or click the spoiler below...
Ye Olde Bloodworke
Grogginess stole in and out for the young man all strung up, leaving him unsure of where he was or who would have put him here; he felt lightheaded and prone to crashing back down to earth at any minute, his temples pulsing with increased ferocity the more he tried to think. So far as he could remember he was on guard duty just last night, patrolling the east wall as the knight commander told him to and spotting nothing out of the ordinary anywhere on the stonework under the cool, crisp summer air... He groaned as certain little details started to come back to him, filtering into his mind as he attempted to fish them, one by one, out of the thick, currently stewing soup of memories.
He remembered the stars above, the beautiful sight they had been as he gladly breathed the Lord's thankful night into his nostrils and sighed at the sight of the crescent moon. He remembered taking his steps down the walkway of the parapet and circling back, not meeting the other guard on the northern wall's round this time but most certainly anticipating him the next. He remembered pausing for but a moment to place his hands to the stones at the southern end of his walk, allowing his watchful gaze to wander just for a moment as the constellations aligned before him to create the sight of the lass he'd been thinking about all day...
Then came the unpleasant prick in his neck that found his head swimming instantly, his vision gone dark and his body unable to respond as he fell into a deep, undesired sleep... For all he knew, his 'last night' could have been any night ago by now, his awareness surfacing for only brief moments since then to dive again as his senses told him of unspeakable horrors he didn't want to listen to - sights he refused to see, rancid smells he declined to experience lest the amniotic headiness they induced knocked him out again. Inevitably, he always lost consciousness again soon after regaining it anyway, some deep, dark, terrible witchery cursing him to live an undead state... He didn't know what was going on, couldn't know until a brave knight stepped in and freed him from what terrible prison yet contained him. He couldn't help but groan again as enough startling pain to make him feel alive again seeped into his sentience, bringing to the fore his incredulity as he fought to ignore everything.
"Oho. I see you are awake, young guardsman. Do not attempt to deceive me yet by withholding your manly moans," a strange young voice spoke to him in his sleep, arousing him further as, one by one, he began to hear, to perceive, to know the basic facts of who he was and what was hurting. Who was he? Gods, a great torment befall his house lest he forget his moniker of Johann Canty - but then, he thought, he might have been too fortunate to recall even that. "Settling in well, I presume? For your precarious situation as subject, anyway. Don't attempt to fight anything, or you may end up fatally wounded in ways even I couldn't attempt to heal! Oh, I jest. There's nothing I can't do without the right time and materials!"
Johann couldn't even begin to fathom how to fight; first he had to fathom how to move, how to reply, and even how to open his bedeviled eyes. So it was true, he thought, he had indeed been bewitched - the younger lady who spoke to him just now of his perilous predicament possessed a voice sweet as silk, yet a tone dipped in evil. He tried to ask, 'Halt there, wicked hex! Who dares snatch up King Barlowe's guard on an evening rapscallion's romp and perform sorcery beyond the likes of honest men?' but another groan of his answered back, the strength to speak failing him along with the courage that he might ever break free.
"So you can't? That's rather swell, I should think. I would hate for you to rip my brilliant bindings apart! Albeit perhaps not truly in my league since they're fairly necromantic. Ah well! Common schools and close trades and whatnot!" The witch continued to babble as Johann did indeed fight to take control of his weakened body, failing miserably when strength betrayed him and refu
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