RE: Silly Gothic Name Generator
Okay Raz, got yours done. Glad people have thus far been satisfied with their Mini-myths.
Crimson Grave
Gather once more friends and kinsmen, for though the night grows deep, the fire is yet warm, and there are tales yet to be spun this night. We turn to another tale of elder times, And one with a tragedy and heroism all its own.
The lands had been riven by war, power unleashed upon it the like of which none had seen before, and none have seen since. The lands were barren, and the dead no longer rest easily in the earth. From the noblest of intentions, and the greatest of sacrifices did further hardship and fear come upon the very people that had been meant to be saved.
The waves of the dead had risen high, and more than one enclave of people had been overturned by their seemingly numberless hordes. The remnants of the people gathered together in a single large enclave, pooling what they could to mount a defence. Those who could not be trusted, or could not contribute were left out of the enclave, the better to fend for themselves.
Cast away from any signs of help, one such soul strove to stay alive, in any way they could. Scraping a living from the bare forests, they tried to move ahead of the dead hordes. But with so many dead about, contact was inevitable. With nought but bough from a stout ashwood tree, they fought for all they had left. Their lives, and ultimately, their very soul, for to die before the dead who walked was to join them. Their struggle was beyond mortal reckoning, as each of the dead who fell before them seemed to attract the attention of three more. Beyond endurance, and with nought but fear and stubborn determination, the battle raged.
But mere mortals have limits, and once reached, there is no exception, no matter the heroism, or how deserving one might be for more. Falling before the dead was the one fear they possessed, and it was the one fear that was realized. As they dead who walked were wont to do, they buried them beneath the tainted soil, and come the following night, they would rise to join them. And so it came to pass.
But on that night, when they rose once more from the soil, a truth was shown. The dead that walked were not possessed of hunger, nor of rage. They were possessed of despair at their state, and tried to salve this despair by having others join them. Fresh from the grave, and still covered in the blood of themselves, and their foes, the newly risen set back for the enclave.
Sure enough, the dead had found it, and had begun to assail the walls. Their numbers were vast, and they would overtake it, snuffing the last vestige of their people.
But this was not to be.
Finding a fallen blade, relic from an age past now, and set about not the living, but the dead themselves. Hewing through the packed hordes, they climbed upon a mound of destroyed dead, and stood before the bright lights of the enclave, who saw one of their exiles, Crimson from the blood of the dead who walked, and still bearing the earth of the grave, but holding to their defence.
"We stand for ourselves, as no one else shall do so. Stand with me now Brothers, until the last fading of the night, and we shall see our people delivered." They called over the walls. Frightened, yet heartened all the same, the people threw themselves back into the defence, and despite losses beyond the count of grief, the walls did hold.
As the sun did rise high, overpowering the gloom of the dead that walked, these purging rays began to burn them from the lands. Nearly as one, they fell to their knees as they flaked to ashes and dust before the purifying force. When the people threw up a cheer for victory, they all froze as they saw but one dead still remained. Their saviour who had rallied them in their darkest time remained, refused his rest, for forsaking the purpose that he had been given, to stand with the other fallen.
Into the world he walked, despair his companion, and he too did enter the realms of darkness, seeking a release from his existence, and believing that he might find one within that could grant him such.
But we still sing his song, that his memory may never fade, and may we never forget that honour is won by deeds, and nought else.
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