Castle of Hell (in short story series form) Thread

The young boy awoke to the sounds of screaming and yelling and the earth-shaking explosions of gunpowder in the lock-up. He heard generals yelling “Fire!” although he couldn’t be sure if he was referring to the noun or verb. As the tower he was sleeping in started to crumble, he hastily put on a pair of leather pants and ran away from the crumbling granite stones.

Now he could see the entire scope of the situation. Knights were charging the interlopers, and were suffering heavy losses. The intruders, clad in jet black cloaks, were shooting nothing but pure energy from their bare hands…but they weren’t ordinary hands. They were red and twisted and had black fingernails. One knight managed to get a lucky hit before being blasted through from a red and blue pulsing beam. The cloak fell to the ground, catching on fire from the impending chaos. There, standing a solid six-feet-two-inches was a thing that could only be described as a “demon.” They had blood red skin, and horns sprouting out everywhere. Horns on the elbows, knees, and head. And these horns were the purest black ever seen. The little boy, Erik, watched in fascination, and utter horror, at what these things were doing to his home. Then, as arrows and cannonballs filled the air, one of the demons fell to the ground, mortally wounded.

At that moment, as the demon fell, there went up a raucous cheer, but it was short lived. At that moment, the demon got up and darted toward the tallest tower, much like a speeding suicide bomber. He exploded with the force of 2 barrels of black powder, and the last tower fell, right across the marketplace of the castle, crushing hundreds of knights, women, men, and children.

With the castle in ruins, the remaining dark mages joined hands, and a bright red beam of energy linked through their arms. The line twisted and ebbed, and formed into the shape of a pentagram. With that, they disappeared entirely. The remaining evidence, besides a smoking ruin of a once proud and wealthy populace, was the smoke-like imprint of the pentagram, which was blown away forming dark red eddies in the breeze. As the skies clouded up quickly, and rain began to fall…Erik looked at his chest, seeing bright red blossom forth from his torso, only briefly illuminated, shining from the rapidly disappearing sun.

“Hello…?” said a far off voice.

“Uhhh…” was Erik’s pained reply. Every bone is his body was numb, from his head to his skull; except for the shard of runestone in his chest. No amount of medicinal herbs and blends and liquids could numb this pain. Thankfully, he had no idea how he had ended up here, nor the previous chaotic event. Not the fact that it was shock, but more from the fact that a large piece of mortar had nearly smashed the back of his skull in when the tower fell.

“It took quite a lot of work getting the brunt of the runestone out,” said a rather heavyset woman. “But a little of it still remains inside of you. It could possibly help you, if you choose to control it.”

“…Where am I?” he asked. Amazing that he could still speak, considering the fact that he had been comatose for 3 months. Still waiting for an answer, he scanned the room, and snow was falling outside. His mind piped up, “It was harvest when…something happened…but what?” He decided to ask another question as an addition to the other question. “And what happened?”

The woman began rolling the facts to him very slowly. “First, your castle was attacked by minions of Zanzathaal. Zanzathaal is perhaps the darkest black mage you’d ever have the displeasure of meeting. It’s rumored that the mage that exploded, and therefore the last tower of your castle fell, well…Zanzathaal tortured the other mages and said that the exploding one was an example to follow, and on the next attack, they’d do well to search for survivors and explode more often. You were found face down in a pool of blood with a broken skull, numerous cuts and bruises, and three broken ribs.”

This rush of information caused him to remember the attack, but nothing else. Although it would be better for him not to remember how his parents were killed. They too were survivors, but they had a much worse fate. After a year of coordination and rehabilitation, and as the first snow of the new winter fell, the young man was given a choice. The first time he met the person who ran headquarters…but it wasn’t really a “who.” It was more of a “what,” for the man who ran this place, while benevolent and benign, was also quite fierce looking. He had numerous scars running everywhere on every bit of skin you could see. He was shirtless, but had on heavy working boots and weighted pants. His arms were huge, and they clearly belonged to a warrior prince, much like the ones in ancient Macedonia. He had a veritable treasure trove of objects that ranged from armor and weapons to trinkets and playthings. One of his prized possessions was a stick with a weight on the end of it. He called it a “pendulum.” Whatever objects he had, Erik was brought back to the forefront with a startling question.

“So boy, you’ve spent a year here, and come to regard it as your home, correct?” Erik nodded. “And I suspect you want to be able to make a living, preferably not as a vagrant, right?” Once again, Erik agreed. “I give you these four options, each with their own branch of sub-options. The first is to leave and find your trade through different jobs. The second is to study a craft, and work either here or out in the world. The third, and least pleasurable option, is to become my apprentice and I’ll teach you the ins and outs and give you a very concise view of fighting, and this will enable you to become one of the strongest men in the world. The fourth option is to study magic and sorcery with Malek who lives downstairs, which could enable you to fight Zanzathaal, fire with fire. Although, I believe you are perfectly capable of casting your own spells with that runestone in your chest.

Erik weighed his options. He certainly didn’t want to walk away, and studying crafts was boring. He wanted revenge against Zanzathaal! He lifted his head up after a moment of intense thought and said, “I choose to be…!”

PM me on which you think he should be. A gallant knight, with power to smite the evil with an asskicking sword? Or a powerful mage, able to banish his enemies from time with an asskicking spell? At the end of tomorrow, I'll tally the votes, and continue from there. In here, post only (constructive) criticism.

Edited by (in order): Sticky, Sticky

That's pretty awesome. Exactly my kind of 'Fairytale'/Adventure.
I think the year that just passed was a bit... well, a pity. You could've written something in between. Other than that, it was pretty good. 4/5.

Can't wait for the continuation!