Opening Chapter

This is the opening chapter for my 'Brogud' story. I'll be putting in some prologue shit in the beginning of the book, explaining the history to this point in a series of journal clipping-looking deals and maybe an epic poem written by an Elven Lord or something. What it will explain is that 35 years ago, everyone was chilling in their regular Fantasy-feudal world, the Orcs viewed as the savage boogeymen, and everyone warring with one another. Then a zombie virus hits, turning infected men into shambling hordes of zombies, and infected elves into fast-as-shit 28 Days Later motherfuckers. so everything is horrible during what is known as 'The Plague.' during this time, people start getting possessed by demons across the length of the land of Thegorn (the main story setting), and that makes everything really bad. These dark days continue, and as the factions of men, kingdoms of elves, and Dwarven Lords all start coming together to fight off the hordes of zombies, massive armies of more intelligent undead calling themselves 'The Putrid Legions' assault Thegorn from the mystical Haunted Forest in the southeast. these undead armies 'herd' the infected Zombies ahead of them, for the dead do not attack the dead, and use the darkness spreading across the land to strengthen them and nearly succeed in bringing the entire population of Thegorn to a prophesied euphoria of undying bliss, a 'Perfect Eternity of Undeath' to quote D&D. Just when all hope appears lost, and the now allied races and nations of Thegorn desperately trying to not get devoured and then resurrected as Undying Warrior-Slaves, a giant army of Orcs from the Northeast comes down, lead by the legendary living Orc god, Brogud, or the "Deathless One" as he is called by his people. Instead of raiding and killing everyone, as most people expected of Orcs, the Armies under Brogud succeed in routing and breaking the Putrid Legions utilizing their Orcish brutality and inner darkness to match the dark power of the Undead Armies. Under the leadership of Brogud, the newly created 'Commonwealth of Thegorn' is finally able to push the Putrid Legions and all the zombie hordes back into the Haunted Forest. However, the head church of Thegorn uses this to instigate a massive ethnic cleansing of sorts against almost every creature of magic or myth, grouping them with the Undead and instigating what is known now as 'The Purge.' After the Orcs build and man a massive fortress and vast wall to contain the Undead, Brogud's shame at being used by the church and Purging so many innocent beings to a hell that they did not deserve, the Living God goes into self-exile. the world has begun to heal, and the Haunted Forest has been quiet for 30 years.

Chapter 1-
-somewhere in central Thegorn-

Orson's day had been largely uneventful, busy no doubt, but uneventful as far as days go. Early in the morning he had tended his chickens, in the afternoon he had with his children while his wife tended to what was left in the Garden, an now as the cool of a late Autumn night began to descend, he busied himself with gathering firewood. The sleepy Autumn day was slowly drawing to a close, the orange glow of the sun drifting lazily beneath the mountains in the distance.

The shadow of night had just crept up to Orson's cabin at the top of a small rise, and already he could see his breath in the air. Inside, his wife worked on preparing a brace of rabbits that Orson had caught the day before, and the smell of cooking meat tickled his nostrils. The man grinned as he worked, savoring the simple life around him, the sound of his axe splitting logs into smaller pieces muffling the sound of his dogs barking momentarily.

It wasn't until he reached down to collect an armful of split logs that Orson heard his dogs at the bottom of the hill. Living this close to the forest, they always seemed to find something or another to bark at. Orson whistled casually for them as he turned to carry the chopped wood to his cabin. he placed the first armful of the evening next to his front door, and could smell the hot meal to come even stronger. the crisp scent of bacon wafted from the kitchen, and Orson fancied that his wife had turned out some beautiful concoction or rabbit and pork. With his mouth watering, Orson was rather reluctant to turn and gather more wood, but he knew that one single armful would not keep his family warm until morning.

So, with his nose fighting to travel towards the savory scent inside, Orson trudged back down the hill for more firewood. The quicker i get a good stack, he thought to himself, the sooner i can discover what Cassilda has prepared. At the bottom of the hill, his dogs remained where they were when Orson had first called them, having apparently not heard their master's nonchalant whistle over their own barking.

"Red, Hazel," he called for them, quickly gathering another armful of logs, "C'mon up." He tried to stack this armful a bit taller in his eagerness for food, and succeeded only in taking a few unbalanced steps up the hill before dropping the wood in a heap. Orson couldn't keep from chuckling at his own antics, and bent down to retrieve his fallen logs. As he did, however, something caught his notice.

His dogs had yet to heed their master's call, and more than that, their barking was becoming frantic, almost fearful. Orson again dropped the logs he had collected and peered into the gathering darkness. At first, he tried to pick out his hysterical dogs, wondering what could have gotten them so wound up. had a Bear or some other forest animal wandered out of the woods and spooked them? The dogs gave a sudden yelp and whimpered as though something were preparing to attack them, and Orson caught sight of them as they came bounding up the hill in a mad dash. they barreled past their master and disappeared into the woods next to the cabin, never once even slowing as Orson called after them.

The startled man then turned his gaze back down to where his dogs had so desperately fled from, nervous and fearful of what could have frighten his dogs so much. Movement in to dusk caught Orson's eye. a man was walking up the hill towards him. It was odd, however, for the man walked with the strangest gait, limping and stumbling up the hill with his arms hanging stiffly at his sides.

"can I help you ser?" Orson called out, inching slowly to his axe embedded in the chopping block. The man did not respond. He merely lifted his hands towards Orson and continue to stagger upwards.

Wrenching his axe free of the block and taking a step back, Orson yelled loudly and sternly, "Mister, i think it best if you just turn around an leave."

This time, the man responded.

He responded, though not with words. Rather, Orson could see the vague shadow of the man's mouth opening wide, and heard a deep-throated moan escape the gaping maw. Orson shivered and backed away even more, his heart pounding. As adrenaline pumped through his veins, Orson's awareness sharpened, and he became aware of more shapes materializing out of the twilight.

They came from all directions, each one wandering at him with an awkward limp. Shambling like tired drunks they approached, and Orson could hear their faint moans rising like a fetid chorus. Cold sweat engulfed Orson as he kept backing towards his cabin, the axe before him quivering in his weakening grip. As the sun dies, so the Dead shall rise. The mantra taught to him as a child born after the horrors of the Plague played in his mind. He prayed it wasn't so, almost hoping that they were just a band of drunken roughians, but the light from within the cabin illuminated those closest to him, granting Orson a gruesome spectacle.

Dead grey eyes fixed on him as broken, rotting hands reached out for him. Their wide open mouths dripped with dried blood so coagulated that it appeared black. Open, mortifying wounds that should have crippled any living man, caked with the same blackish-horror criss-crossed their bodies, not inhibiting their steady, hungry advance, and always the horrid moan echoed from their throats. This cannot be happening, Orson thought, this cannot be happening again. With each step the figures took closer to him, the haunting stories of the plague some forty years old bubbled up in his mind. He had grown up after the horrible wars of the Putrid Legions, after the horrors of the dreaded Zombie Plague, but his parents had been sure to tell him how fortunate of this he was, how lucky he had been to not have had to face the Undead, to live in the serenity after the Purge.

"No," Orson said aloud, not sure to whom, "no, the horrors are over... the horrors are over..." He prayed it to be true, pleaded with the gods that the atrocities of the past to be over and done, as everyone who lived hoped and pleaded, but there, reaching out to him were grim reminders, each one closing in on him with hungry, dead eyes.

The smell of burning pork snapped Orson's attention back to his family inside the cabin behind him. he walked backwards, unable to tear his gaze from the terror before him, and tripped on the doorstep of his home. The horrors are over, he thought again and again, unable to rationalize the grim truth, the gods are good, the horrors must be over... Finally wrenching free of the hypnosis of the impending doom, Orson rolled into his cabin and slammed the door with his feet. "Cassilda," he yelled to his wife as he stood, "grab the children and run for the-" the harsh stench of burning flesh cut his thought off.

A thin haze of smoke filled the cabin, and something behind Orson spat and crackled over a fire. Turning around, he was struck with mind-shattering horror as he gazed at what was before him. His knees gave way, and Orson slumped against the closed door, his mouth agape in silent despair, unable to breath, unable to think, unable to do anything more than to stare in morbid awe. the doom awaiting outside was paled to transparency against the shocking spectacle before Orson, for tied and stretched to wide, circular frames were the charred remains of what had once been two young children. "The horrors are over," he wept quietly, "the horrors must be over..."

"oh, sweet pea," croaked a brittle voice, "we horrors never left."

Orson's head lolled to the side in the direction of the unfamiliar and harsh voice, and nausea hit him as he laid eyes on what had once been his loving wife. she did not stand, but instead hovered several inches above the floor. Her head hung low and her long chestnut hair cascaded down in her face, a few strands fluttering in some ethereal wind. Fiery-orange eyes peeked out from beneath the chestnut cascade, piercing into Orson's very soul, and his former lover's lips cracked and split into a twisted, bloody smirk. She drifted closer to him, a knife clutched in her twitching hand.

"What's wrong my love?" she croaked before lunging with the knife in a blur of violent motion.

Orson never felt the blade, only a sweeping cold. the door behind him shuddered as the first of many rotting fists came pounding down, eager to gain entry. The horrors must be over, he sobbed in his mind, the horrors must be over.... The coldness grew eternal, and Orson never thought again.