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post #7 of (permalink) Old 06-07-11, 05:53 PM
gothik
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The Idol


Word Count: 963


My wife has died.

There was no ceremony; there was no great priest of Morr standing over her grave giving her the blessing to enter the god of the deads realm.

My wife had died as a traitor and a heretic to the Emperor and the gods of this world, oh the neighbours had come around expressing their horror and their sympathies, proclaiming their innocence in the whole sordid affair.

I listen to their procrastinations and I nod my head politely, a word of thank you escape from my lips but it does not touch my eyes. My beloved Anja had tended to their sicknesses and their petty colds.

She had brought many of their children into the world but, she had refused the advances of that fat bastard up at the tower and that had been her downfall. She had followed Shalya without fail and without recourse.

A few coins here and there and promises of wealth and prosperity and suddenly the grateful sheep do as the burgomaster say. Rumours began of her copulating with unnatural powers, making deals with the dark gods to get the results she required and finally the witch hunters came into our small village, with witch hunters come fear.

One by one, for fear of getting the zealotry that is Sigmars witch hunters encroaching on their personal affairs, the cowards bowed down to the burgomaster and did, as he wanted.

My wife was tried and convicted and burnt at the stake with me unable to do anything.

My wife has died and soon they will all die too.


For weeks I wander the forests outside the village, planning and plotting, each morning at dawn I leave and return at nightfall, ignoring the pitying looks and the sorrowful shakes of the head.

I have letters from my grandfathers’ archives that speak of an idol, buried by the long dead warrior kings that once ruled this land during the time of Sigmar. The story went that before Sigmar conquered these lands they were ruled by warriors of great renown, strength and power, warriors that could call upon the gods for revenge against their enemies when a great harm had befallen their line.

Following my grandfathers paperwork to the letter it is the ninth week before I find what I am looking for and then under the full moon of Moorslieb I start to dig, at the foot of a diseased and dead tree.

It takes me most of the night to dig down, I am not an old man but this is a job for two men not one, and even with my youth it takes me a fair while to dig. Finally my shovel hits something hard and setting it down I kneel down and begin to smooth away the accumulated dirt and grit.

It is a plain box, made of some sort of metal. I have never seen anything like it and the writing along the side is alien to me, but I know that my grand fathers papers will enable me to enact my revenge.

My wife is dead and they will soon learn the price of my anger.


The box is sealed shut but with some prying and poking I manage to finally open it, the rust flakes away like iron sand. It is not easy to do but one I am in I knows that my revenge will be complete.

I take the wrapped idol from its housing and reverently unwrap it. As I clean it up I see before me a knight, or at least what looks like a knight. The paint has all but gone but the features are still visible.

Made of stone, carved and whoever created this must have taken many painstaking hours to create such a lifelike individual. I set it to one side and rifle around looking through my grandfathers’ notes but to my frustration I cannot find anything to aid me in my plans.

In my frustration I cut my hand on the edge of the box and it stings so much that I am waving my hand around. Some blood lands on the statue and before my cursing eyes my blood is soaked within the statues shield.

I move towards it and place my blooded palm around the entire statue and waited. I try to clear my mind, the way my Anja would do when she was praying to the goddess for divine inspiration but all in my mind is revenge.

The sane side of my mind tells me that this is what my wife called contagion magic, magic that is passed from the emotions of another through to an idol or object to enact their desires.

My wife is dead and all I care about is revenge.


Now I can only watch as my body, transformed into image of the knight slays the inhabitants of my village, I take pleasure in hearing their screams, I bathe in the bloodlust that enriches my senses, the scent of destruction wrought by my own hand.

I save my wrath for the burgomaster and make him watch as I rape his wife and daughter. I slit his throat from ear to ear and neck to sternum. All around me the contagion of my wrath flies through the village like an unchecked storm and when it is over it is only then I realise what has become of me.

I am an avatar of grief and an being of destruction, I am driven by my urge for revenge against the gods who forsook my wife in her hour of need and those that would serve such folly of fools.

My wife is long dead and I am an avatar of chaos undivided, they call me Contagion.
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