Noir of The Forgotten Ages

“AHHH!” The little girl’s scream was sharp enough to pierce through the heavy, oppressive thrum of the oncoming storm. Outside, a jagged fork of lightning ripped through the heavens, casting a stark, skeletal white glow across the cramped room. Terrified, the child bolted across the creaking wooden floorboards towards her mother. The woman was seated on a low wooden stool, her hands moving with frantic, exhausted efficiency as she tried to air out her children's damp clothes, garments she had foolishly forgotten to bring inside during the suffocating heat of the afternoon. Before the mother could even turn around, the little girl dove forward. She grabbed the hem of her mother’s heavy, dirt-stained long skirt, lifting the fabric and burying herself underneath it like a wounded animal seeking refuge in a cave. Beneath the safety of the cloth, the girl trembled violently. Her large, doe-like blue eyes glistened with unshed tears, reflecting the erratic flashes of light from the window. As another low, guttural rumble of thunder shook the very foundations of their small home, she squeezed her eyes shut and clutched onto her mother’s ankle, her small fingers digging desperately into the thick white socks her mother wore. The mother winced, a sharp intake of breath escaping her lips as her daughter’s tiny fingernails pinched deep into her skin. But she didn't yell. Instead, she let out a soft, weary sigh, forcing her own racing heart to slow down. She began to hum a low, familiar melody, a protective rhythm meant to shield her child from the harshness of the outside world. “Shouldn’t you be asleep by now, little one?” The mother scolded gently, though her voice lacked any real venom. “This storm is your punishment for staying up so late. The night belongs to things that do not wish to be seen.” Reaching down, she pulled back the heavy folds of her skirt to expose the shivering bundle hidden beneath. “Now, come out,” she murmured, staring down at the tiny, fragile frame. The girl’s hands were still wrapped in a vice grip around her shin. Slowly, the child unwrapped her fingers. She crawled out from her fabric sanctuary, her tear-stained face tilting upward. Those massive, watery blue eyes looked up at her mother with a silent, heart-wrenching plea for safety. The mother’s heart melted. Dropping the wet laundry back into the wicker basket, she reached down and scooped the little girl up into her arms, lifting her onto her lap. She pressed the child’s small head against her chest, letting her feel the steady, reassuring thud of her heartbeat. As her hand began a slow, rhythmic patting motion against the girl's trembling back, the mother resumed her soft lullaby. But as she sang, her own gaze drifted away from her daughter and locked onto the window. Her soothing voice grew stilted, heavy with an unspoken dread. Outside, the world looked wrong. The soulless sky was completely devoid of stars, stripped of any beauty. Heavy, bruised clouds had long since swallowed the moon, plunging the Colombian landscape into an unnatural, suffocating darkness. A violent night breeze howled through the valley, kicking up debris and tearing away almost anything left loose in its path. Down below, the unpaved streets of the village were entirely deserted. The wind whipped through open courtyards, scattering people’s forgotten belongings across the dirt. A few shadows moved frantically in the distance, the homeless and the destitute, running hither and thither, their desperate eyes scanning the darkness as they searched for any semblance of shelter. Then, the rain began. At first, it arrived in sparse, heavy droplets, splattering against the parched earth. The water painted the dry ground with a darker, sinister colour. To an artist, it might have looked like a chessboard emerging from the dirt, alternating squares of stark black mud and pale brown sand. But within seconds, the rhythm changed. The rain increased its pace in an unnatural, terrifying way. It was as if an invisible hand had opened a floodgate in the heavens, drowning out all of humanity. Soon, the howling wind died down, and the frantic cries of the villagers were swallowed whole. Only the deafening, relentless roar of the downpour remained. Meanwhile, far to the east, miles away from the fragile safety of civilisation, lay a vast, desolate wasteland. It was a place inhabited by absolutely no one, a dead zone of cracked earth, scorching winds, and forbidden history. At the absolute centre of this barren landscape stood a monolithic structure: a massive, ancient castle built from black stone, its towering spires tearing into the weeping sky. Tonight, the silence of the desert was shattered. An immense army of thousands surrounded the castle walls. Clad in the armour of the elite human military orders, they advanced like a crushing wave, their iron boots sinking into the mud. But they were not winning. With every step they took towards the castle gates, their numbers were violently and systematically carved away. Blood, dark, hot, and thick, flooded the cool desert floor, turning the earth into a sickening, slippery mire. The battlefield was a slaughterhouse. Bits and pieces of torn meat, shattered bones, and severed limbs were scattered across the blood-soaked ground, painted by the horrific artistry of a monster. “Ahh! Dios mío, ahhh!” A young soldier’s agonising shriek tore through the rain. He stumbled backwards, his sword slipping from his numb fingers. His eyes dropped down to his midsection in absolute, paralysing disbelief. A brutal claw had torn his abdomen completely open. His intestines were slipping out of his body, spilling over his belt like a nest of pale, writhing snakes. For a terrifying, suspended moment, the entire battlefield seemed to freeze. The surrounding soldiers stopped their advance, their breaths catching in their throats. It took a few agonising seconds for the shock to wear off and for the neural pathways to fire, delivering the pain to the young man's brain in full, merciless force. The soldier’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, the veins in his neck bulging as a guttural howl of pure agony ripped from his throat. His legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed heavily onto his knees, his lifeblood pouring out into the mud, steaming in the cool night air. Trembling violently, his mind snapping under the trauma, the man stretched out his slick, bloody hands. He began frantically trying to scoop his intestines back into his ruined stomach, weeping and praying to a god that had clearly abandoned this place. Through the curtain of torrential rain, a figure approached. He walked with a swift, predatory stride that defied human physics, moving so fast he seemed to blur against the backdrop of falling water. He was clad in a pristine, snow-white coat. Despite the absolute c*****e surrounding him, despite the mud and the flying viscera, there was not a single speck of stain on his clothing. The only part of him that bore the mark of the slaughter was his hands. They were dripping with fresh, crimson gore. The man stopped in front of the kneeling, weeping soldier. He didn't look down with pity or anger or satisfaction. His face was a mask of cold, terrifying indifference. Before the soldier could even lift his head to beg, the man in white reached down with one blindingly fast motion. His bloody fingers gripped the soldier's head and twisted. A sickening SNAP echoed over the sound of the rain. The soldier's body went completely limp, collapsing face-first into the bloody mud. The man in white straightened his posture. He turned his head slowly, his gaze sweeping across the remaining ranks of the terrified human army. When he spoke, his voice was not human. It was a sonorous, booming baritone that resonated through the bones of everyone present, vibrating with an ancient, oppressive power that made the very air feel heavy. “WHO IS NEXT?” As the words left his lips, his eyes ignited. The natural colour vanished, replaced by a brilliant, gleaming blood-red hue, surrounded by a dark, swirling outer ring of shadow. His lips curled back in a feral snarl, revealing a pair of elongated, razor-sharp white canine teeth that glinted wickedly in the flashes of lightning. The human soldiers took a collective step back, their weapons trembling in their hands. They realised too late that they hadn't marched into a battle. They had marched into a feeding ground. “Tsk. Stupid, arrogant humans,” an elderly woman cursed from the safety of a high ridge overlooking the battlefield. Her long, grey hair whipped wildly around her face, soaked through by the relentless rain. She wore the dark, embroidered robes of the Veilborn Coven, her gnarled hands clutching an ancient silver amulet tightly against her chest. Her eyes, clouded with the sight of prophecies and timelines, watched the effortless, brutal m******e of the human military forces below. Besides her, younger witches shook with fear, their magic fluctuating wildly. They could feel the area's ambient energy warping, turning toxic. The elderly witch tightened her grip on her amulet until her knuckles turned white, her voice dropping to a harsh, terrified whisper that was swallowed by the storm. “They thought they could hunt a god. They thought their iron and guns could contain the ancient blood. We are all doomed if that monster breaks his seals and fully enters this world.” High below the slaughter, standing on the gradual inclines of the castle’s highest balcony, another figure watched the chaos unfold.