The final Blow

My body trembles with adrenaline as the clamour of the battle-weary meadow is filled with the metallic scream of metal striking metal. A sudden sense of hopelessness surrounds me, as visions of death and decay flood my restless head.

It Invokes me to give up, drop my spear, and finally rest in their embrace, the entrancing dance of the trees around me worm their way closer and closer to my soul, trying to swallow me whole. They fill the air around me with the earthy scent of rotting limbs and soil.

The only way out is death.

I have to give up.

I am helpless against him; all I can do is watch while he rips me limb from limb.

All these thoughts, all this doubt simply flashed in my soul, eating away at my defences.

A swift and abrupt thunder, capable of shaking the very foundations of the forest, startled me wide awake, its flash gifting me the sight of Ciaphas, realizing I had been taken in by Mudlark's evil enchantment.

''How, exactly, are you still alive?''

I questioned while attempting to keep my hand firm and deflecting another of his blows with my spear as he dragged me farther behind him toward the blood lake. His magic was truly sinister, invading my mind slowly, edging me to give up, or even worse, kill myself.

Mudlark grinned, exposing the numerous wounds all over his body that were gushing pus and a blackened liquid that was crawling with flies. Half of his body was already surrounded by a horrible dark aura, making you wonder how he was still alive.

'' Charming an Awakened indeed is hard,'' he playfully replied, finally revealing his red-coated head.

His skull resembled a devil from children's fairy tales that parents used to tell to frighten their children to sleep, and his hands were as white as a gravestone that had been long converted into a twisted combination of bone and flesh.

My ears were overwhelmed with the dripping sound of flesh touching the ground, and my nose felt assaulted by the foul smell of rot and decay, which completely overpowered any traces of the familiar earthy scent I was always welcomed with when I entered the woods.

The tip of my spear was chipped away as another dagger, this one covered in a black essence, wormed its way onto it before being deflected once again, along with my will to keep fighting.

A banshee-like shriek burst out of his skeleton-like neck, prompting me to shield my ears while rapidly withdrawing towards one of the stones Ciaphas was brutally knocked out.

The bottom of the death-infested clearing was smeared with grotesque fungus, and the fetid stink of the blood-soaked meadow flowed up to the dark shadows between the trees.

The suffocating atmosphere and deteriorating air offered the ideal environment for those who worshipped the darkness rather than the light. I could see him grasping his skeleton-like hands in the gloom. The bones shone like woven steel steeped in coal. They were ghostly eyes filled with hatred, seeking to eat on my tired soul and use me as its next meal.

The fight did not proceed as planned. Even though I had managed to strike him once or twice, giving him some damage, things were looking bleak for me. My opponent was far too powerful, wicked, and lethal. I locked my gaze on the man who was attempting to murder me. He had the ghostly eyes of a monster, shrewd and sly. They were enraged as I raised a fatigued spear arm to defend myself.

They appeared to be tundra-cold and ruthless, two pools of icy, blizzard-white. He laughed at my state, bringing with it a sense of embarrassment and death.

He motioned for me to strike him and talked with an odd, guttural accent. The fucker was taunting me. His effort at a whimpering voice was ridiculous. It was frigid and echoed like a banshee wailing, stifling my throat as he wanted to provoke me.

It had a gravelly texture, as though stones were rubbing against one another. His voice complimented his eerie stare and rot-worn body nicely. He had teeth that looked like fractured tree roots, more like fangs than teeth.

His crooked and deformed nose was covered in hanks of his fly-infested hair. He had slender legs that were formed like crescents. He had skin the colour of a winter moon, so it stood out. One of the characteristics of a dark arts practitioner is decay and grease. I attempted to break his skeletal jaw with my spear's broken tip but to no avail.

I noticed his lopsided grin as soon as I understood he was as strong as the mutated bear I fought earlier, probably stronger.

I was aware that I wouldn't last for very long. I was battle drunk and utterly exhausted. When he raised his dagger for the last blow, it was almost a relief. I waited while squinting my worn-out eyes, waiting for darkness to engulf me before the sound of thunder piercing the flesh brought me back to reality.