Soul harvest

Warning: Some gore and violence.

Introduction: A story written to depict Morgeth's reaction to the Burning blade orcnapping two members of her tribe, along with her son. Not listening to her chieftain, or anyone else, she ventured out to seek revenge. And, true to her nature, went to the wrong location. I wrote this because I wanted to explain the aquiring of the new warlock spells, without any rigorous training.





War has always shaped us. It is a part of our past, our present and our future. It inspires greatness, but it is also the road to our destruction. For some it is a way of life, for others simply a way of dying. We lose many things in war, both material and other. Sometimes we lose family, and sometimes - when we can not cope with the loss - we also lose ourselves. The void left behind can be consuming, but sometimes we fill it with darker things, and become that instead. Creatures driven by hatred, grasping only the vague notion of revenge. No longer seeing any truth, save for the ones written in blood.


It was if the wolf knew where its rider wanted to go, and needed little actual guidance. Its paws leaving deep imprints upon the dry soil as it confidently strode closer to the large keep. An ominous smell lingered in the air, one of old death and corrosive magic; a scar upon the very spirit of these lands. Desolace was, after all, the named home of many atrocities, such as the centaur; bastard children of earth and stag. But this keep housed a different kind of blemish upon this world: magic users fallen to the Burning Legion. In a way, they and the wolf rider were kin. But she felt no pity for them, nor did she grasp any other emotion apart from the senseless rage that had left her blind for such things such as honour and duty. Behind her laid broken promises, and his voice calling out for her to turn back. But all such things paled in comparison of what she had to do. Revenge had been the rhythm of her heartbeat, but now all she could muster was a desire for pain, and blood.

The wolf was soon abandoned, growling in dislike at her departure. It stood atop a small hill, watching its rider descend down towards the entrance of the keep. Even a beast could sense what was coming. Even a beast knew that no good would come from it.

The guards were many, confident in their numbers, their minds dulled by the drudgery of their daily toils. A lone banner twisted in the rancid wind, emblazoned with the image of a large blade, surrounded by a circle of flame. Many of the guards were orcs, but when the rider looked to them, they might as well have been mere ash spread across a vast ocean. They were nothing. As she slowly approached she could see their mouths opening; a greeting followed by an inquiry. They would not let her pass without answer. There was a brief moment, in which she realised how disgustingly unaware they were. They did not even know why she was here, and perhaps - in truth - she had forgotten as well, somewhere along the way. Regardless, the only answer she could give, was the only thing she could now grasp. The blade she thrust into the guard's abdomen meant nothing, so she left in there. Now they were awake, now they saw her. But could they truly see, why she was here? Blades were finally lifted, stirred from their slumber, and as she stepped over their dying brother, they ran towards her with murderous intent.

There was no such thing as a beautiful death that came to claim them. No poetry to describe the heroically fallen. There was only her simple gestures, drawn into the air, and the surge of fire that followed. She could no longer hear her own voice, it was as if she had put herself into the role of a spectator, as her body and spirit acted out its true nature. Despite it, she knew that when her lips moved, they spoke in no tongue native to these lands. Mortal shells, weighed heavy with flesh, fell to the ground. There they twitched and twisted, making death less of a horror, and more into a sweet, blissful release. The rider continued to stride forward, her feet eventually climbing the steps that would lead her into the very heart of their grand keep. Her robes had torn in several places, but the blood splattered across her frame, was not her own. It would be poetic in a way, to think that some vengeful spirit had blessed her in this venture, sparing her any grievous wounds. But as stated, poetry has no place here, and this particular carnage would inspire no spirit, not even a vengeful one. No, the only blessing upon her here thrived in her insanity, bound decades ago in a pact of blood, only the truly cursed and foolish would still cling to.

Rounding the first corner, she came across two orcs. One garbed in ornamented robes, the other crouched with blades drawn. Both their forms were perfect, each individually, and together they seemed unstoppable. But their eyes told no stories, their spirits emptied out and drawn thin. In the grand scheme of things, they held no importance. Clutching to the robed figure, was a small imp. Its small head, adorned with curved horns, lifted to let it peer at the visitor. Their eyes met, and the demon flinched. When it turned back to its previous master, it jumped, sending its body flying upwards, to climb up to the robed orc's face. The demon's hand shot forward, and its small, sharp claws dug deeply into the eye socket of the one it had served for so long.

The rider could not even relish their surprise, when she strode forward. She did not feel the faintest hint of accomplishment as she drove her second blade into the throat of the other orc. Her frame briefly pressed against his, pushing his back up against the blood, and as the warm blood poured down from his wound and onto her, her eyes briefly closed. She could only feel one thing - frustration. It clawed and gnawed at her insides like a worm gone mad, and in the end, it spoke to her. The satisfaction she sought was not found here, in these broken bodies. She would have to push on, to go on a much larger scale, to find what she was looking for. After all, a mother knows no limits when it comes to her child.

The overwhelming sensation of unfulfillment and frustration filled the rider to the brim. Eventually a wordless scream broke from her lips, echoing throughout the narrow corridors of the keep. She moved more swiftly now, her motions carefully followed by the curious eyes of a now masterless imp. The light of a few braziers illuminated her chosen path, and beyond a grand arch, was the main hall. In there they had gathered. In there, they were waiting. As she entered without hesitation, many robed figures got to their feet. Amongst them emerged one, wielding a staff decorated with skulls, to stand as their leader. His lips parted, but again, she could hear no words. In a way, it was annoying that he even tried. To think that his useless voice would be enough to relay any real message to her. The odds were overwhelming, and they all knew it. What they did not know, was that she cared little. The much larger blade, a sword fastened to her side, was drawn and in a crude, but efficient motion she cut into the leading orc, his lips still moving in their speech, but soon only twitching in disbelief. The dull, moist sound of intestines being spilled over the cold floor was the prelude to the angered roar the others mustered to their leader's decline. She embraced it.

Arms lifting from her sides, the rider let herself be consumed by the moment. As some rushed for her, ready to slit her throat, others began to chant. It was the latter that were served with the most disappointment. Where there used to be cones of destructive fire, and spells so powerful that they would send this lone creature to her death in the blink of an eye, there was little to be had. Their anger became replaced with fear, as they cried out to their demonic lords, begging them to give back the power they had taken for granted for so long. Because where they fell, she succeeded, and where their power was snuffed out, hers was increased a tenfold. Those that had launched themselves at her seemed only to reach her seemingly lithe frame, before wounds would appear over their flesh. Their bodies burst into explosions of blood and gore, like boils put under too much pressure. Eventually, even the spellcasters drew their blades, and joined in the fray.

The very first emotion to break through the rider's mirthless shell was surprise. It entered her mind shortly after the sharp metal of a dagger dug its way into her back. Her eyes widened in surprise, letting her view the orc in front of her all the better, as he - in turn - thrust a foot long sword into her chest. Blood began to fill her lungs, but in spite of this, the mustered enough strength to splutter an incantation. The magic itself seemed to still hold enough force behind it to send both orcs flying, shattering their spines against the stone made walls. And then it was just her, left dying amongst the dead, knelt down into a sea of blood and gore. Her fingers traced the blade of the sword, and with a pained screech, she pulled it from her chest. The warmth of the blood gushing from her own wound seemed almost soothing, all thing considered. When the rider looked out over the corpses spread across the hall, she let out a strained sneer in hatred. An echo throughout her mind told her that this had all been in vain; they had not given her what she wanted. But what did she truly want? Flickering images flashed before her eyes, of a child grown up and a mate, with greying hair, smiling proudly. They were the ones she had forsaken, for this, a brief surge of power and a carnage that had left nothing remotely useful in its wake. Destruction for the sake of destruction. She would be forgotten amongst these corpses, left to rot with the remains of these wretches.

And then, the whispers began. She could sense them, almost. Flickering spirits of those she had killed, reaching out for her in her dying moments, seeking to drag her down with them. She was blessed no more, but vulnerable, and in their dying moments, these warlocks and fiends mustered the last of their willpower in an attempt to drag her down with them. She screamed again, but this time not because of the frustration, nor the dagger now clumsily being pulled from her back by her own means. No, she cried out because she was indeed alone, in her demise. Still kneeling in the bloodied pool, the rider's head began to sway. She could almost see the spirits now, dark shapes in the corners of her eyes. Sneering, she reached for one, batting it away, only to feel it crawl to her skin, almost merging with her. The rider flinched in shock, only to literally feel the ultimate death of whoever the spirit had belonged to, as it was absorbed into her more powerful being. Furthermore, she felt the wound at her back burn, almost as if having healed itself slightly. It was wrong, she told herself. But at the same time, she was an inch further away from death, which also meant that she was an inch closer to him. To reuniting with the only orc who had ever had it in his heart to forgive her.

A choice was made, and as the rider leaned forward, she spewed up pieces of the blood had had seeped into her lungs, but she did so with a bewildered smile. Getting to her feet, the blood still adorning her chin, her arms lifted once more. By all rights in nature, this should have been her last, brave motion, because death seemed only a breath away. But as she rose, the rider reached out for the spirits threatening her - whispering vile, little secrets into her ears - and began consuming them. Their flickering, meek forms seeped into her mortal flesh, and through their power, the larger wounds that had punctured her flesh, A strong feeling of euphoria shook the rider, and as her hands lowered - all the spirits gone - she stood in silence. Moments passed, minutes, perhaps even hours.

Then she heard it, a voice behind her back. Low, growling even, but with a sad tang that spoke to her very core.

"Snarler.."