HOME | DD

Description
Drakeom is called upon to tell a story; and without entirely knowing what to do he comes out with the only known account of the creature known as the Soul Reaver.

Darkness clung to the ground, the old village was silent but to the wind. Eerily it blew through the empty houses; moaning as it cut through the broken wooden shutters; screeching at the old door hinges as they screamed before a life ending bang, only for the wind to blow it open and repeat again and again. The village wailed at its own pain, but as if it ominously knew of what was to come.

The kid sat in the lee of the church entrance, under his thread-bare tunic he could feel his ribs sticking up through his flesh. He didn't want to know how many he could feel, how long he had gone without a scrap of food; too long was all he knew. The cold racked his body, sending shivers through his bones and the flesh that was slowly turning blue. Footsteps crunching through the nearby snow took his thoughts away from himself, making him look up with meek eyes at the strangers. The taller of the two men had a gun on his belt, somehow it seemed to emit the sense of a divine mission, or perhaps that was because there was a holy cross hanging from his belt next to it. Carefully he tried to slink back into the darker shadows of the arch, knowing that someone like him should not be in this man's presence until he was allowed to be.
"Is this the parish of Bunting Nook?" the man asked, his English was accented. The child nodded, then watched as the man walked up to the church. The younger of the two strangers followed some steps behind, as if he were some apprentice or underling of the elder; but the child watched as the younger man followed, eyes seeing the short broad sword that was strapped to his back. With a final crunch of snow his thoughts turned back to his starving state.

As he followed his father through the gravestones he stopped, turning to look back at the entrance arch. The blond kid was no longer sat there, he didn't seem to be anywhere. Something in the air made him aware of the silence of the place, his fingers straying to the pommel of his sword in his apprehensiveness.
"Charles, are you coming?"
"Yes father." He stayed for but another second, convincing himself that the problem was not here right now, before trudging up to the door of the church.

In his eighteen years, Charles had seen enough to make him question his own belief in God. Sitting in one of the pews he looked up at the cross as he waited for his father. His own broad sword rested across his lap, for it was impossible to sit when it was sheathed; it had been a long time since he had let it out of his grasp or sight, its very presence felt like protection to him. He'd probably need this sword to deal with whatever the problem was in Bunting Nook, but until his father got back he would not know what had troubled the village. Instead of praying he watched the few locals that were in the church, the few that had decided to brave it out to their place of worship when there was something killing them off in droves. Even though they had braved it, fear was still in the locals' eyes; this wasn't the first time he had seen such an emotion throughout a community. So what was it this time; werewolf, vampire, rogue mage, assassin? His fingers drummed on the sword blade, his prayer to himself, hoping that he could deal with this problem before too many more innocent lives were taken. A door close to the altar opened, and out came his father and the reverend. Standing he slung his sword over his shoulder, re-sheathing it, and went to him.
"What are we dealing with father?"
"That's what we need to figure out."

It was two days later when they came across the next body. The corpse was more than lifeless, it seemed drained; not of blood but of an essence.
"How long have you known her to be gone?" Charles stood in the corner, trying to take in the whole scene, trying to piece together what could have happened.
"Since yesterday," their guide told them. They were in a small house, somewhere towards the outskirts of the village. The body of the woman on the floor had been respectably covered with a sheet, but all three of them knew what lay beneath it.
"Only a vampire can drain a creature, but not like that. And even one cannot take out half a village, a colony of vampires would not be able to hide from us this easily." The Slayers' guide shifted,
"You suspect a vampire?" The young Slayer shook his head before telling,
"Vampires don't kill in this way, they drain blood, leave the victim bloodless. She's far from bloodless, which means we're dealing with something different altogether."

One, two, three … that's how many ribs he could count through his flesh. He sat, wrapped up in an old cloak in the central square. His bony hand held the cloak together, barely even keeping out the cold.

Charles stopped as he walked through the square; the blond kid from the first day was there. Like last time he was waif thin, looking just as cold as before if not colder. Surely it was unusual for an orphan in a village this size to get so hungry and cold. In a city, who cared? In a village there was a greater sense of community. Was it this creature that had caused the community to become so haunted that they forgot this sense? Stopping in front of the kid he pulled an apple from his pocket.

The brown haired Slayer stood in front of him, an apple in his hand.
"Here!" he sat down on haunches, holding out the piece of fruit to him. Not entirely sure of himself he took the apple, holding it protectively as he brought it back. Sharp teeth sank into the flesh, the sweet juice running from where his teeth had pierced it.
"Thank you," he whispered.

The young Slayer flicked through his father's field guide, seeing if he could link the attacks with any of the creatures. But as he had said, he'd never seen anything kill like that before. A knock at the door brought his attention back around.
"There has been another ten bodies found, the creature the cause," he heard his father's voice through the wood.
"That brings the total up to 61; that leaves 39, us and the creature."

Old tales of Russia talk of a creature that kills without distinction between its victims; of a creature which kills for both the feed and the satisfaction of doing so. They name it the Soul Reaver, the eater of souls. They say it can wipe out populations; that is can eat even beyond its fill, but could survive years without even consuming a single soul. Some say they live the years that the souls did not, making them live for a near eternity.

Over the next two days the number of villagers was whittled down to just fifteen.
"This ain't looking good." Charles stopped mid-tread; the blond kid was sat in a doorway.
"Have you been out every night?" The young child nodded. For the first time the Slayer considered him, he couldn't have been much older than ten, his blond hair was unkempt, and his wide blue eyes showed both innocence and pain.
"Have you seen anything unusual about, a creature of any sorts?"
"It keeps to the shadows," the kid's own words seemed to shiver, "Something lurks in the shadows. It's what is killing everyone, isn't it?" The Slayer reluctantly nodded.
"It whispers so darkly, so dark an intent. I can hear it wanting to kill, but always in the shadows."
"It's not safe on the streets. Do you want a place to stay?" The orphan nodded.

Our young Slayer's eyelids were heavy; he'd been up these past few nights trying to find this creature, but now he needed rest. His father was out on the prowl for it now. Outside the snow had started to fall again; it'd been a good thing that he had managed to get the kid out of the weather, now he was asleep next door, not having to worry about if he'd wake up frozen. Going to his own bed he sat down with his head in his hands, dissolving into his own bleakness of the mission. Where ever he stepped in this village he could sense the menacing darkness.

The orphan looked down at the Slayer in his fitful sleep. The youth was in his late teens if not his early twenties, but sleep has that habit of making one seem younger.
"It's been a long time since someone has treated me with such niceness," his waif voice whispered. In his sleep the Slayer moaned, turning slightly.
"Sweet dreams."

The elder Slayer moved through the village. Life didn't seem to stir in the village at all, he wondered just how many were alive, including his own son. A slight noise made him stop, the door of one of the houses had cracked open. Entering the house he stopped in the way. The body of the innocent victim was on the floor, the creature over it. Sea green eyes looked up at him; but still it continued to feed, wisps of white entering its mouth. With a last gulp the wisps disappeared, so did the life from the body. As it stood it wiped the back of its hand across its mouth. The voice which came from its mouth was no longer human,
"Tick tock, it finally clicks. All this time. I haven't fed like this for a long time, a hundred round souls, my hunger is sated for a while. One more can't hurt."

He woke in a pool of sweat, clutching at his head. The dreams were always bad, darkness always teasing at the edges. Standing, he blindly found the door.
"Kid," the Slayer drew up short, "Where are you?" The bed was empty, the room seemed hardly used. His breath was heavy in the silence. The silence. Grabbing his sword he ran out into the streets, the silence reigned. The snow was crisp, not trodden on. It was mid-day, people should have come out by now.
"Hello?" In the sickening silence only one person heard him.

The Soul Reaver walked through the streets; one last call, one last cry, one last piteous soul; his soul. As he came across the Slayer he stopped, allowing the realisation to sink in.
"Where is everyone?" he challenged.
"Beyond the realm of the living," the Reaver answered.
"We thought you were one of the hundred."
"We? 'Tis the wrong context Slayer, it's only I now."
"I? Father? What have you done?"
"What is in my nature."
"What are you?"
"Soul Reaver, the eater of souls. This form you see, it was one of the first I stole, so very long ago. Mortal flesh houses me, piercing of it can kill me, but still I stand."
"Father should have killed you."
"But how can one kill his own son?" The youthful blond face began to change, turning into that of the Slayer's.
"I don't need your soul to change into you, only to have been around you long enough. I used your face to face your father. He couldn't do it, he couldn't pull the trigger on a creature who bore his son's face, even though he knew it wasn't you." Slowly he reverted back to the form of the blond orphan,
"With this face people pity me, they take me in, just like you did." With shaking hands the Slayer held his broad sword out in front of him.
"You won't do it," the stealer of souls walked towards him. The weight of the sword became heavy as the orphan's sternum rested against the tip. The creature's face was impassive, eyes staring coldly.
"You killed all these people," the Slayer's voice was breaking apart, "You killed my father!" Still the sword tip rested on the sternum.
"You can't do it," the creature of such potent darkness remained unshaken, "All you Slayers are taught the same, look what is on the outside, whoever the person inside was no longer is. But I show no other on the outside, I have no tell-tale signs, I seem human. Go on," he took the Slayer's spare hand, pressing it to his shoulder to give the Slayer a grip on him, "Prove me wrong. All you have to do is push that blade into me, run that scarlet blood down the grey metal and kill me. Avenge this village, avenge your father, kill me!"

Charles fell to his knees, the sword thudding uselessly into the snow. Tears streamed down his cheeks, splashing pin-drops into the snow.
"There really is no God. You killed all of them."
"And it tasted so good," the Soul Reaver cooed in his ear.
"You killed them; you killed my father."
"But I've spared you," lips moved at Charles' ear, "I'm letting you live. God, how your soul is festering with guilt and despair and hatred, how much I want to take it." The young Slayer didn't even notice as the bone like fingers traced his lips, too lost was he in what seemed like an eternal torture of his mind.
"How you wear your heart on your sleeve Slayer; I want this soul of yours, but I can wait, I will wait."
"Just take it."

The breath was warm on his cheek; fingers pushed on into his mouth, stretching as if to grasp something deep within. Something cold slipped down his throat, reaching deep into him. Icy strands wrapped about inside of him, sending his stomach in twists and turns. His lungs heaved for the oxygen he wasn't getting. He could feel the sweat drip down his body. With great hardships he stopped the primeval panic from rising in his head. Something central inside of him shifted, making bile rise in his throat. A hand pushed his head back, as if trying to make a straighter alignment of his throat and mouth; the sickness was dying down.
"I can taste it already, this soul of yours," came the inpatient tone, another breath being played across his lips. Slowly it felt as if the centre of his being was being moved; his limbs were becoming heavy. Up his throat he felt it being drawn, the shock sending streams of tears from his eyes which coursed over his cheeks and crashed into the snow. He could feel the creature's ecstatic breathing against his teeth. His eyes were unseeing, his limbs feeling dead.

The Slayer fainted in front of him, his soul halfway up his throat. Pulling his hand back he let go of the soul, allowing it to fall back into place. Grabbing he Slayer's hair he wrenched his head back, one last breath tracing across the youth's cheek. The Soul Reaver let out an evil little laugh before pushing the youth to the ground.
"Like I said, I'm letting you live, for now. One hundred and one souls, I'm sated. Your soul, oh just to lick at it tastes good; but maybe in some years, once all of those emotions have festered, a feast it shall be."

The Soul Reaver left the silent village. Not since then has it been seen so vividly; but every once in a blue moon, word of it comes around, another story of another soul taken.

--

"Where did you come across that story; a myth from Denmark's streets?" Christina honestly asked as they walked away from the crowd that had gathered.
"Who said it was a myth?" Drakeom walked on ahead. After some steps he stopped, turning to see that she had stopped before him.
"You mean the Soul Reaver is real?"
"Charles Caranté was admitted to a Polish mental institute in the March of 1908; all that was with him was the scraps of a diary, claiming that a whole village had been killed by a creature. For the next two years he lived in fear, claiming that a little kid was coming to claim his soul. Strangest of all is the fact that he died under the same circumstances as the written about in the diary."
"It exists?"
"I think it's just local hokum, a serial killer just covering his tracks. For one, no one has ever found the village mentioned in the diary. Why, are you scared?"
"I…" she blushed, showing that the story had affected her.
"Don't worry, I'll protect you."

Description
Drakeom is called upon to tell a story; and without entirely knowing what to do he comes out with the only known account of the creature known as the Soul Reaver.

Darkness clung to the ground, the old village was silent but to the wind. Eerily it blew through the empty houses; moaning as it cut through the broken wooden shutters; screeching at the old door hinges as they screamed before a life ending bang, only for the wind to blow it open and repeat again and again. The village wailed at its own pain, but as if it ominously knew of what was to come.

The kid sat in the lee of the church entrance, under his thread-bare tunic he could feel his ribs sticking up through his flesh. He didn't want to know how many he could feel, how long he had gone without a scrap of food; too long was all he knew. The cold racked his body, sending shivers through his bones and the flesh that was slowly turning blue. Footsteps crunching through the nearby snow took his thoughts away from himself, making him look up with meek eyes at the strangers. The taller of the two men had a gun on his belt, somehow it seemed to emit the sense of a divine mission, or perhaps that was because there was a holy cross hanging from his belt next to it. Carefully he tried to slink back into the darker shadows of the arch, knowing that someone like him should not be in this man's presence until he was allowed to be.
"Is this the parish of Bunting Nook?" the man asked, his English was accented. The child nodded, then watched as the man walked up to the church. The younger of the two strangers followed some steps behind, as if he were some apprentice or underling of the elder; but the child watched as the younger man followed, eyes seeing the short broad sword that was strapped to his back. With a final crunch of snow his thoughts turned back to his starving state.

As he followed his father through the gravestones he stopped, turning to look back at the entrance arch. The blond kid was no longer sat there, he didn't seem to be anywhere. Something in the air made him aware of the silence of the place, his fingers straying to the pommel of his sword in his apprehensiveness.
"Charles, are you coming?"
"Yes father." He stayed for but another second, convincing himself that the problem was not here right now, before trudging up to the door of the church.

In his eighteen years, Charles had seen enough to make him question his own belief in God. Sitting in one of the pews he looked up at the cross as he waited for his father. His own broad sword rested across his lap, for it was impossible to sit when it was sheathed; it had been a long time since he had let it out of his grasp or sight, its very presence felt like protection to him. He'd probably need this sword to deal with whatever the problem was in Bunting Nook, but until his father got back he would not know what had troubled the village. Instead of praying he watched the few locals that were in the church, the few that had decided to brave it out to their place of worship when there was something killing them off in droves. Even though they had braved it, fear was still in the locals' eyes; this wasn't the first time he had seen such an emotion throughout a community. So what was it this time; werewolf, vampire, rogue mage, assassin? His fingers drummed on the sword blade, his prayer to himself, hoping that he could deal with this problem before too many more innocent lives were taken. A door close to the altar opened, and out came his father and the reverend. Standing he slung his sword over his shoulder, re-sheathing it, and went to him.
"What are we dealing with father?"
"That's what we need to figure out."

It was two days later when they came across the next body. The corpse was more than lifeless, it seemed drained; not of blood but of an essence.
"How long have you known her to be gone?" Charles stood in the corner, trying to take in the whole scene, trying to piece together what could have happened.
"Since yesterday," their guide told them. They were in a small house, somewhere towards the outskirts of the village. The body of the woman on the floor had been respectably covered with a sheet, but all three of them knew what lay beneath it.
"Only a vampire can drain a creature, but not like that. And even one cannot take out half a village, a colony of vampires would not be able to hide from us this easily." The Slayers' guide shifted,
"You suspect a vampire?" The young Slayer shook his head before telling,
"Vampires don't kill in this way, they drain blood, leave the victim bloodless. She's far from bloodless, which means we're dealing with something different altogether."

One, two, three … that's how many ribs he could count through his flesh. He sat, wrapped up in an old cloak in the central square. His bony hand held the cloak together, barely even keeping out the cold.

Charles stopped as he walked through the square; the blond kid from the first day was there. Like last time he was waif thin, looking just as cold as before if not colder. Surely it was unusual for an orphan in a village this size to get so hungry and cold. In a city, who cared? In a village there was a greater sense of community. Was it this creature that had caused the community to become so haunted that they forgot this sense? Stopping in front of the kid he pulled an apple from his pocket.

The brown haired Slayer stood in front of him, an apple in his hand.
"Here!" he sat down on haunches, holding out the piece of fruit to him. Not entirely sure of himself he took the apple, holding it protectively as he brought it back. Sharp teeth sank into the flesh, the sweet juice running from where his teeth had pierced it.
"Thank you," he whispered.

The young Slayer flicked through his father's field guide, seeing if he could link the attacks with any of the creatures. But as he had said, he'd never seen anything kill like that before. A knock at the door brought his attention back around.
"There has been another ten bodies found, the creature the cause," he heard his father's voice through the wood.
"That brings the total up to 61; that leaves 39, us and the creature."

Old tales of Russia talk of a creature that kills without distinction between its victims; of a creature which kills for both the feed and the satisfaction of doing so. They name it the Soul Reaver, the eater of souls. They say it can wipe out populations; that is can eat even beyond its fill, but could survive years without even consuming a single soul. Some say they live the years that the souls did not, making them live for a near eternity.

Over the next two days the number of villagers was whittled down to just fifteen.
"This ain't looking good." Charles stopped mid-tread; the blond kid was sat in a doorway.
"Have you been out every night?" The young child nodded. For the first time the Slayer considered him, he couldn't have been much older than ten, his blond hair was unkempt, and his wide blue eyes showed both innocence and pain.
"Have you seen anything unusual about, a creature of any sorts?"
"It keeps to the shadows," the kid's own words seemed to shiver, "Something lurks in the shadows. It's what is killing everyone, isn't it?" The Slayer reluctantly nodded.
"It whispers so darkly, so dark an intent. I can hear it wanting to kill, but always in the shadows."
"It's not safe on the streets. Do you want a place to stay?" The orphan nodded.

Our young Slayer's eyelids were heavy; he'd been up these past few nights trying to find this creature, but now he needed rest. His father was out on the prowl for it now. Outside the snow had started to fall again; it'd been a good thing that he had managed to get the kid out of the weather, now he was asleep next door, not having to worry about if he'd wake up frozen. Going to his own bed he sat down with his head in his hands, dissolving into his own bleakness of the mission. Where ever he stepped in this village he could sense the menacing darkness.

The orphan looked down at the Slayer in his fitful sleep. The youth was in his late teens if not his early twenties, but sleep has that habit of making one seem younger.
"It's been a long time since someone has treated me with such niceness," his waif voice whispered. In his sleep the Slayer moaned, turning slightly.
"Sweet dreams."

The elder Slayer moved through the village. Life didn't seem to stir in the village at all, he wondered just how many were alive, including his own son. A slight noise made him stop, the door of one of the houses had cracked open. Entering the house he stopped in the way. The body of the innocent victim was on the floor, the creature over it. Sea green eyes looked up at him; but still it continued to feed, wisps of white entering its mouth. With a last gulp the wisps disappeared, so did the life from the body. As it stood it wiped the back of its hand across its mouth. The voice which came from its mouth was no longer human,
"Tick tock, it finally clicks. All this time. I haven't fed like this for a long time, a hundred round souls, my hunger is sated for a while. One more can't hurt."

He woke in a pool of sweat, clutching at his head. The dreams were always bad, darkness always teasing at the edges. Standing, he blindly found the door.
"Kid," the Slayer drew up short, "Where are you?" The bed was empty, the room seemed hardly used. His breath was heavy in the silence. The silence. Grabbing his sword he ran out into the streets, the silence reigned. The snow was crisp, not trodden on. It was mid-day, people should have come out by now.
"Hello?" In the sickening silence only one person heard him.

The Soul Reaver walked through the streets; one last call, one last cry, one last piteous soul; his soul. As he came across the Slayer he stopped, allowing the realisation to sink in.
"Where is everyone?" he challenged.
"Beyond the realm of the living," the Reaver answered.
"We thought you were one of the hundred."
"We? 'Tis the wrong context Slayer, it's only I now."
"I? Father? What have you done?"
"What is in my nature."
"What are you?"
"Soul Reaver, the eater of souls. This form you see, it was one of the first I stole, so very long ago. Mortal flesh houses me, piercing of it can kill me, but still I stand."
"Father should have killed you."
"But how can one kill his own son?" The youthful blond face began to change, turning into that of the Slayer's.
"I don't need your soul to change into you, only to have been around you long enough. I used your face to face your father. He couldn't do it, he couldn't pull the trigger on a creature who bore his son's face, even though he knew it wasn't you." Slowly he reverted back to the form of the blond orphan,
"With this face people pity me, they take me in, just like you did." With shaking hands the Slayer held his broad sword out in front of him.
"You won't do it," the stealer of souls walked towards him. The weight of the sword became heavy as the orphan's sternum rested against the tip. The creature's face was impassive, eyes staring coldly.
"You killed all these people," the Slayer's voice was breaking apart, "You killed my father!" Still the sword tip rested on the sternum.
"You can't do it," the creature of such potent darkness remained unshaken, "All you Slayers are taught the same, look what is on the outside, whoever the person inside was no longer is. But I show no other on the outside, I have no tell-tale signs, I seem human. Go on," he took the Slayer's spare hand, pressing it to his shoulder to give the Slayer a grip on him, "Prove me wrong. All you have to do is push that blade into me, run that scarlet blood down the grey metal and kill me. Avenge this village, avenge your father, kill me!"

Charles fell to his knees, the sword thudding uselessly into the snow. Tears streamed down his cheeks, splashing pin-drops into the snow.
"There really is no God. You killed all of them."
"And it tasted so good," the Soul Reaver cooed in his ear.
"You killed them; you killed my father."
"But I've spared you," lips moved at Charles' ear, "I'm letting you live. God, how your soul is festering with guilt and despair and hatred, how much I want to take it." The young Slayer didn't even notice as the bone like fingers traced his lips, too lost was he in what seemed like an eternal torture of his mind.
"How you wear your heart on your sleeve Slayer; I want this soul of yours, but I can wait, I will wait."
"Just take it."

The breath was warm on his cheek; fingers pushed on into his mouth, stretching as if to grasp something deep within. Something cold slipped down his throat, reaching deep into him. Icy strands wrapped about inside of him, sending his stomach in twists and turns. His lungs heaved for the oxygen he wasn't getting. He could feel the sweat drip down his body. With great hardships he stopped the primeval panic from rising in his head. Something central inside of him shifted, making bile rise in his throat. A hand pushed his head back, as if trying to make a straighter alignment of his throat and mouth; the sickness was dying down.
"I can taste it already, this soul of yours," came the inpatient tone, another breath being played across his lips. Slowly it felt as if the centre of his being was being moved; his limbs were becoming heavy. Up his throat he felt it being drawn, the shock sending streams of tears from his eyes which coursed over his cheeks and crashed into the snow. He could feel the creature's ecstatic breathing against his teeth. His eyes were unseeing, his limbs feeling dead.

The Slayer fainted in front of him, his soul halfway up his throat. Pulling his hand back he let go of the soul, allowing it to fall back into place. Grabbing he Slayer's hair he wrenched his head back, one last breath tracing across the youth's cheek. The Soul Reaver let out an evil little laugh before pushing the youth to the ground.
"Like I said, I'm letting you live, for now. One hundred and one souls, I'm sated. Your soul, oh just to lick at it tastes good; but maybe in some years, once all of those emotions have festered, a feast it shall be."

The Soul Reaver left the silent village. Not since then has it been seen so vividly; but every once in a blue moon, word of it comes around, another story of another soul taken.

--

"Where did you come across that story; a myth from Denmark's streets?" Christina honestly asked as they walked away from the crowd that had gathered.
"Who said it was a myth?" Drakeom walked on ahead. After some steps he stopped, turning to see that she had stopped before him.
"You mean the Soul Reaver is real?"
"Charles Caranté was admitted to a Polish mental institute in the March of 1908; all that was with him was the scraps of a diary, claiming that a whole village had been killed by a creature. For the next two years he lived in fear, claiming that a little kid was coming to claim his soul. Strangest of all is the fact that he died under the same circumstances as the written about in the diary."
"It exists?"
"I think it's just local hokum, a serial killer just covering his tracks. For one, no one has ever found the village mentioned in the diary. Why, are you scared?"
"I…" she blushed, showing that the story had affected her.
"Don't worry, I'll protect you."