Bodies.
Dead, burning bodies.
Heaped together mercilessly out the front of the Goldshire Tavern.
The three friends gaze out at the horror from the doorway of the Inn, unable to quite comprehend what their eyes are telling them; eyes watering slightly from the smell of burning flesh and the curiosly green-tinged smoke that waft around lazily.
Some of the former residents of Goldshire are easily recognisable; others are not so. All look to have been mutilated quite horribly before finally being allowed to die. The scent of burning people and sulphur is strong; too strong for Trixiana, who bends double and throws up the remains of her drinking adventure. Shasmo and Shastarian move as if in a daze, helping Trix to her feet, and over to the park bench under a tree, where the smell isn’t quite as strong. From here, they can still see no-one alive, and the silence is deathly: only broken at times from a muffled child’s cry that appears to come from …
“Oh my sweet Elune” Shasmo breathes. “It’s coming from that pile of people.”
“What? No-one can be alive in that!” Shastarian snorts. “Look at those people, they were butchered! Whoever did this would have made sure that no-one survi-”
“WAAAAAAaaaahhhh….” The mournful cry tapers off even as it interrupts Shastarian mid-sentence. It does indeed seem to be coming from the pile in the middle of the square. Leaving Shastarian to hold Trix’s head up, Shasmo moves slowly towards the mound. As she moves closer with her hand over her nose, she can see that the people, parts of people and … some un-identifiable things … are twisted together in an intricate … pattern. Some of the flesh has been … she looks closer … fused together with … whatever the hell else is in there.
She gets as close as she can to the pile, heat still radiating from it in waves. She can hear now a soft crackle of flames from a fire that still burns on some bodies on top. She leans closer, straining to hear the cry again. It comes even softer than before, and she realises that it won’t be long before this pitiful soul is gone from this world.
She moves around the pile, and spots the lone survivor. This small child, about six years old, almost old enough to start her Pre-Pathway training, has been … Shasmo looks closer.
“Oh, No!” she struggles violently to stop from throwing up. She has seen that the child’s flesh has been stitched into the rest of the bodies, her legs burned to the bone and her hands broken, then twisted into the all-too-recognisable ‘Demon Horns’ that reminds Shasmo of …
“Have you found anyone?” Trixiana comes around the corner of the pile, with a peg on her nose that she must have taken from Old Lady Burder’s washing line. “Oh, no,” she spies the little girl. “you poor thing!“.
The childs eyes stare pleadingly at Shasmo and Trixiana, willing them to help her. Shasmo and Trix share a look; knowing that even if they both were priests, there is nothing to be done for this little girl.
All of a sudden, the child starts screaming, louder and louder than before. Her eyes roll wildly, like a mad horse’s would if it was being fed to Ragnaros. It sounds at first like she is screaming nonsense sounds, but they gradually begin to sound alot like:
“NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! N—!”
The screams are cut short as red bursts in the girls eyes, and she slumps over as much as the stitches allow. Shasmo and Trix look at each other, then turn to see what the girl had been staring at, see what caused her to panic more than she was and die of. They see nothing …
… except …
…
…Shastarian.
