Lurking in the Marshes #8

It was late at night. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale glow over the sleepy town of Morthal. Striding toward the bridge that led into the marshes, Alva greeted the guards with a sweet, practiced smile.

They waved her off with easy familiarity, their minds dulled by the late hour and her charm. Over time, she had made a habit of wandering into the swamps to "pick nightflowers," and by now, the guards had long stopped questioning her late-night strolls.

Alva smiled to herself, the memory of how easy it had been to win over the town's men playing in her mind. Not long ago, she had been a simple village girl, dreaming of a life beyond Morthal.

She had often fantasized about the day a bold, handsome Nord would sweep her off her feet, whisking her away from this dreary town to a life of adventure. But fate had introduced her to Movarth instead—a Breton man, full of charm and mystery.

She had met him on a moonlit night, just beyond the edge of the marshes. He had captivated her with his exotic allure, his smooth words, and a gaze that seemed to promise everything her heart desired. That night had ended with a kiss beneath the stars, a moment that had sealed her fate.

By their second meeting, Movarth had given her a gift that far surpassed the fleeting thrill of romance.

He had bestowed upon her the gift of vampirism, opening her eyes to the true blackness of the night and the intoxicating allure of blood. He showed her the world in shades of red and shadow, promising her eternal youth and power—if she would do his bidding in Morthal.

And so, the scheme was born. Movarth had instructed her to enslave the town, to turn the men into cattle for their feast. Alva's mission was simple: use her beauty, her wiles, and the dark power now coursing through her veins to enthrall every capable man in the village, anyone who could raise a sword against them, and turn them into pawns to take control of Morthal.

Her charm had always been a tool she wielded effortlessly, but now, with the vampiric blood running through her veins, it had become a weapon far more dangerous.

Tonight, however, Alva wasn't heading to the swamps for flowers. The flowers were a convenient excuse, a lie to mask her true intentions. She was meeting with one of Movarth's followers, an old, weathered vampire who had been hiding in the swamps, to report that she was ready to begin her work.

Over the past month, she had carefully observed Morthal, noting who could be a threat and who might be useful. She had charmed the men who mattered, learned their habits, their weaknesses.

The air grew damp as Alva made her way deeper into the swamps, the soft glow of Morthal's torches fading behind her. The sounds of the marsh—croaking frogs and the whisper of reeds—were the only company she had now. Her boots sank slightly into the mud, but she moved with a grace that belied her inhuman nature, her senses heightened by the darkness.

Finally, she reached a small, secluded clearing deep in the marshes, where the moonlight barely touched the ground. A shadow moved from behind a cluster of trees, and Alva recognized the figure immediately. It was Wilford, a gaunt and pale vampire whose age showed in the hollows of his face, though his eyes still gleamed with the hunger of the undead.

Wilford's eyes flashed with annoyance as Alva approached, his voice sharp. "You're late," he said, stepping toward her. "Movarth is growing—"

His words were cut off abruptly as the ground beneath him erupted in light. Magic runes, hidden beneath the earth, flared to life. Wilford had no time to react before a wall of flames engulfed him.

His shrieks of agony pierced the night, filling the air with the stench of burning flesh.

Alva froze, her mind racing, uncertain of what had just happened. The entire situation spiraled out of control too quickly for her to comprehend. Before she could make sense of it, a shadow detached itself from the surrounding trees. A figure stepped forward, wielding a thin, glowing sword that gleamed ominously in the moonlight.

With terrifying precision, the figure—a young man—swung his blade in a single, fluid motion. Wilford's head separated from his body, his form disintegrating into dust before it even touched the ground. All that remained was a pile of clothes and his sword, gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

Alva's heart pounded as she stared at the man who had just beheaded her fellow vampire. The ease with which he moved, the calm confidence in his every action, and the cold, calculating look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know—this was no mere hunter.

He was dangerous, and he had prepared this ambush with meticulous care.

Panic surged through her, but she kept her expression calm. She knew she wouldn't stand a chance if she tried to fight him here, not with runes hidden beneath the ground, ready to spring their deadly traps. She needed to escape. Now.

But Erik, as he was called, seemed to have already anticipated her next move. He smiled, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Your friend there just stepped on a fire rune, one of many scattered around the area.." he said casually, nodding toward the spot where Wilford had perished. "You yourself were lucky enough to get here without triggering any of them. But the question is, will you be so lucky again?"

Alva tensed, eyes darting to the ground around her, fear creeping into her bones. How many runes were there? Was the entire clearing rigged? Every step could be her last if she made the wrong move.

Desperation flared in her chest. She had no choice but to fight. Her body tensed, and she spread her arms wide, her nails elongating into sharp, deadly claws. Her lips parted, revealing long, predatory fangs. She hissed, a feral sound that echoed through the quiet night, trying to muster the last remnants of her strength.

Erik chuckled, a low, mocking sound. "That's right," he said, taking a step forward, his glowing blade steady in his grip. "Rather than risking it in a minefield, why not try to kill the 'mere mortal' standing before you? That's definitely your best chance at survival."

His taunt gnawed at Alva's already frayed nerves. She lunged at him with terrifying speed, her claws aiming for his throat. But Erik was faster. He sidestepped her attack effortlessly, his blade flashing as it cut through the air.

Alva barely avoided the strike, her instincts saving her at the last second. She twisted, landing a few paces away, breathing heavily. Her eyes widened with fear and frustration. This wasn't a fight she could win. Erik wasn't just toying with her—he was leading her exactly where he wanted her to go.

Her mind scrambled for a way out, but the reality of her situation was clear: the only way to escape was through him.

Alva's body tensed as she prepared to strike again, knowing that her survival hinged on taking down the man before her. But Erik, calm and composed, waited for her next move. She lunged, her claws aimed directly for his face. Erik parried her with effortless precision, his sword deflecting her attack with a metallic ring.

In the blink of an eye, he swung his blade low, severing her right arm at the elbow. Alva's scream tore through the night, but she pressed forward, determined to sink her remaining claws into his flesh. Erik sidestepped again, his movements quick and deliberate, and with a smooth stroke, he cut off her left arm at the shoulder. Blood sprayed, staining the damp earth below.

Alva staggered, her balance thrown off, but her eyes still burned with rage. She bared her fangs, intending to bite him, to tear into his throat with what little strength she had left. But Erik was already anticipating her desperation.

With a calculated step, he ducked beneath her wild attack and brought his sword down in a brutal arc, cleaving one of her legs clean off at the knee. Alva howled in agony as she collapsed to the ground, her movements becoming frantic and erratic. She crawled on her remaining limb, snarling curses at him.

"You're a monster!" she spat, her voice trembling with fury and fear. "You'll die for this!"

Erik simply watched her, his face impassive as he circled her fallen form. Alva tried to drag herself away, but it was futile. With a final, merciless slash, Erik severed her remaining leg, leaving her writhing in the dirt—nothing but a torso, her once-beautiful face contorted in pain and terror.

"Still think you can fight?" Erik asked, his voice cool and detached.

Alva screamed in frustration, spitting venomous curses at him, calling him every foul name her mind could conjure. But Erik showed no emotion, only a hint of disappointment as he knelt beside her.

"You're stronger and faster than me... alas, I was too naive to think I could properly test my swordplay against you," he said quietly, raising his hand. Two drops of blood formed at the tip of his index finger, gleaming darkly under the moonlight. The drops hung in the air for a moment before freezing solid, transformed into sharp, crystalline projectiles.

Without a word, Erik flicked his finger. The frozen blood droplets shot forward like arrows, one piercing Alva's forehead, the other burying itself in her heart.

Her screaming stopped abruptly as her body convulsed. A second later, her flesh and bones crumbled into dust, leaving only a pile of ash where she once lay.

Geri, who had been watching from the shadows, finally emerged. He sniffed at the pile of vampire dust with interest before pulling back sharply, sneezing as the ash irritated his nose.

The small crogi let out a displeased bark, then turned his back on the pile and lifted his hind leg, releasing a stream of urine onto the remains.

Erik chuckled softly. "That's just going too far, you little devil," he said, reaching down to pick up Geri, cradling the small creature in his arms. The crogi wagged its tail, satisfied with its defiant act.

With Alva's ashes disappearing into the swampy ground, Erik turned his gaze toward the marshes ahead. "Now I just need to deal with Movarth," he muttered, starting toward the heart of the marsh. "Then I can finally leave these goddamned swamps behind and never look back..."

With Geri resting in his arms, Erik ventured deeper into the night, the oppressive silence of the marsh swallowing him whole, muttering as he went.

"Goddamned mud... it gets everywhere... and these crazy mudcrabs..."

...

Erik suddenly halted his steps at the entrance of Movarth's lair, the mouth of the cave carved into the face of a craggy hill, its darkened recesses beckoning like the maw of some long-forgotten beast.

Geri bumped into his leg and stumbled back, letting out a bark of protest. Erik ignored him, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of activity.

A single dead tree stood in the distance, its twisted branches a skeletal reminder of the desolation around him. Two braziers flanked the base of the tree, flickering dimly despite the daylight. The flames seemed to form an eerie guide toward the cave, like a beacon for the damned.

"So this is Movarth's lair," Erik muttered to himself, his lips barely moving. The familiarity of the place tugged at something in the back of his mind, but his memories of it were blurred and fragmented. He remembered its general location, and the manner of enemies inside, but nothing beyond that.

"Whatever," he sighed, dismissing the thought. "Detect Undead."

A soft glow enveloped Erik's hand as he cast the spell, and his eyes narrowed as the black auras of undead began to reveal themselves. Several dark shapes moved beneath the ground, deep within the cave, lingering in the shadows. Vampires, undoubtedly.

The sun was already up, so they would all be inside, safe from the light. Erik smirked—if one or two happened to be outside and managed to avoid him, it wasn't his problem. He was here to destroy the coven, not to hunt every last straggler.

"No point wasting any more time," he said, snapping his fingers.

In a swirl of purple magic, Helrath and Surtr appeared beside him. The two towering skeleton warriors stood silently at his command, awaiting orders.

Erik's gaze turned toward the cave, and without hesitation, he strode toward the entrance, the skeletons trailing behind him with the soft clank of bone and metal.

The interior of the cave was damp and unwelcoming, the smell of decay clinging to the air. Erik found himself standing on a wooden platform that creaked beneath his weight, attached to a narrow set of stairs leading deeper into the torch-lit cave.

The flickering light danced against the stone walls, casting long shadows that seemed to slither like serpents.

A sharp hiss drew his attention downward. At the base of the stairs, large frostbite spiders lurked in the darkness, their eight eyes gleaming with malice as they skittered along the ground. Their legs twitched in anticipation, venom dripping from their fangs.

Erik's lips curled into a grim smile. "Spiders… yes, it's all coming back to me..."

Erik patted Surtr's shoulder bone, feeling the heat radiating from the skeleton's fiery veins. "They're all yours, big guy," he muttered with a hint of amusement.

The red glow in Surtr's eye sockets flared brighter in response. Without hesitation, the fiery skeleton leapt over the railing, landing on the cave floor below with a resounding thud. The impact echoed through the cavern, drawing the immediate attention of the frostbite spiders, their many eyes locking onto the towering undead with a mixture of curiosity and hunger.

Erik chose to take the stairs instead, watching quietly as Surtr advanced, his footsteps leaving scorched prints in the dirt. The fiery veins running along Surtr's bones pulsed, the heat from his body intensifying as he approached the two spiders. Their fangs dripped with venom, and their legs twitched in anticipation of their next strike.

True to their nature, the spiders reacted first, each spitting a stream of venom at Surtr in a synchronized attack. The venom, thick and green, sizzled and evaporated into wisps of steam long before it could make contact with Surtr's fiery bones. The heat surrounding him was too intense, turning the venom into nothing more than a harmless mist.

Erik smirked from above, noting how the spiders seemed undeterred by the failure of their initial assault. 'Brave, or just too stupid to understand they don't stand a chance...' he mused, continuing his descent down the stairs, keeping a careful eye on the battle unfolding below.

The spiders hissed loudly, their long, segmented legs clicking on the cave floor as they charged Surtr in unison. One of them bent its legs, launching itself into the air, fangs bared and ready to sink into its fiery target.

Surtr reacted in an instant, his flaming hand shooting up to catch the spider mid-leap. A sickening hiss filled the air as the spider's flesh seared upon contact with Surtr's burning grip. The creature thrashed wildly, its legs flailing, but Surtr's hold was unyielding. Without a word or hesitation, the fiery skeleton opened his mouth, and a wave of scorching flame erupted from within, engulfing the spider entirely.

The creature's shrieks echoed through the cave, but they were quickly silenced as Surtr pulled the spider's body apart with ease, tearing it into two charred halves. He discarded the remains like they were nothing more than scraps, the blackened limbs collapsing in a heap on the ground.

The second spider, perhaps driven by some instinct to avenge its fallen kin, lunged at Surtr with terrifying speed. But the skeleton was ready. He met the creature's charge with his own, catching it in midair just as he had the first. This time, he slammed the spider into the ground with brutal force, the dust stirring from the impact.

Surtr lifted one of his feet and brought it down on the spider's head with a bone-crushing stomp. The creature's body convulsed violently as its head was obliterated, the blood that splattered out evaporating before it could even touch Surtr's bones, hissing into steam as it made contact with the intense heat.

Erik chuckled softly, finally reaching the bottom of the stairs. "A bit too showy but not bad at all," he said, shaking his head in approval. The stench of burning flesh lingered in the air, though it was already dissipating thanks to Surtr's flames.

Geri, who had been watching the entire fight while walking alongside Erik, scampered down the stairs and sniffed at the smoldering remains of the spiders. The little corgi took a bite, only to spit it out immediately, letting out a low growl of disdain, and backing away, clearly unimpressed by the charred remains.

"What did you expect? It's a dead spider..." Erik said, stepping past the fallen creatures and deeper into the cave. Behind him, Surtr and Helrath followed without a word, their skeletal forms blending into the shadows of the cave.

...

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