Short Story: The Ritual

We're not all about tactics, reviews and tutorials here at OB. Oh nononono, every now and then we go a little bit deeper. Taking our old tugger to the middle of the Sea of Creativity, we take a deep breath and dive in; plunging down into the salty depths, past the painting updates and guides that make up the flotsam and jetsam, through the shoals of poemfish as they disperse around us in a panic, and even carefully navigating around the incredibly blue podcast reef. Every now and then our feet touch the bottom of the Sea of Creativity and we dig up something a bit more special... A story!

I penned the short story below for Hawk's first story competition on the forums. I really enjoyed the challenge of penning a unique perception into the dark belly of the Resistance, and decided to unearth it and share it with you all! It also has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that we have zip prepared for today...

For those of you who aren't typically story readers, it's only 500 words long, so shorter than an average post. A tasty, salty, bite sized tale.

Hope you enoy!

The Ritual

A rhythmic chanting broken by the occasional jagged screech, reverberated around the cavernous bunker. The light provided by candles circling the battle tank cast hulking, flickering shadows of the beast along the walls. The thick, old, stale air had merged with the cloying, almost suffocating smoke from dozens of incense sticks burning.

Rancour stared up at his master in a mixture of fear and amazement. This was the first time his Warlord had allowed him into his Battle Bunker, and it was a great honour bestowed upon only a few of his most trusted servants. The boy knelt about 15 feet from the front of the great vehicle, holding a large, rusted cauldron of a liquid called Vitality. Rancour wasn't sure what the mixture was, only that it was a deep red, and that Jexer made it with the aid of his prisoners.

Jexer was hunched on the turret, moaning a chant in a guttural, old language whilst running his hands over the chassis of the war machine. The candles cast him in terrifying light, licking over his naked, tattooed body. Suddenly the chanting stopped.

“The Beast craves more!”

Rancour scrambled up off his knees, and half dragged, half carried the cauldron to the tank. Jexer nimbly jumped and rolled down from the top of the machine, and landed silently in front of his servant. Without saying a word, he plunged his arms up to the shoulder into the cauldron, and withdrew them quickly, sending goblets and slick lines of Vitality over the boy. Rancour sheepishly looked up at his Warlord and witnessed pure horror. He could see his face clearly now. The tattoos and crude surgery had masked all his original features and replaced them with that of a devil. His lips had been cut away, and teeth sharpened, and every hair on his body removed. Rancour jumped in fear as Jexer threw back his head and let out a cutting howl, which seemed to cause the bunker to tremble as Rancour did. Jexer was now looking at Rancour and smiled, his teeth resembling those of a shark.

“What's wrong boy. Does your master scare you boy?”

“N-no my Warlord.” Rancour stuttered. Jexer grabbed the boy by his jaw and pulled their faces close. Rancour could smell the metallic and sickly scent of the Vitatlity which smothered Jexer's hands.

“Well I should boy!” Jexer screamed “I am war. I am the vessel of His cause. I am Death!”

Tear's began to roll down the boys face as he could feel his mouth being crushed, before the static of a radio grabbed Jexer's attention.

'This is Commander O'Shae of the 5th Eden battalion. We are all go. Repeat, ready your troops.'

Jexer threw Rancour aside and grabbed the radio. Screaming in delight, he smashed it on the ground and bellowed;

“HIS PLANS HAVE COME TO PLAY, AS HE SAID THEY WOULD! TO WAR AND ETERNAL LIFE, TO RID THE PLAGUE UPON OUR WORLD!”