After what felt like eons drifting through forests, cities, deserts, and dreams, I found him.
Yorrick Bramble.
He sat by a dying campfire, sharpening a blade that had seen better days. His eyes scanned the dark, not out of fear, but out of habit. That’s when I whispered.
Not with words, not fully. Just presence. Intention.
"You are seen."
He froze.
Then, slowly, almost angrily, he muttered to the flames, “Great. I’ve finally lost it.”
I pressed gently again, curious. "You haven’t lost anything. Only found something."
He blinked hard, then laughed in a short, bitter sound. “Now I’m hearing voices. Brilliant. This is what I get for not drinking tonight?”
"You’re not mad, Yorrick. You’ve been chosen."
He stood up, slowly, hand tightening around his blade. “Chosen? Buddy, I’ve been hunted, stabbed, cursed, and nearly drowned in a swamp last week. Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”
I smiled inside. He was perfect.
"You’re broken. Angry. Dangerous. But beneath that… a flicker. Something mortal. Something divine."
He paused, lips tightening. “...Who are you?”
"A god. Young. Learning. Like you."
Silence stretched between us, heavy with disbelief. Then, he finally said:
“…Well, shit.”
He sat back down.
“Alright then. What now?”
---
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Yorrick stood in the field, boots buried in grass that bent and twisted like it was trying to escape the wind. The sound, it wasn’t just loud. It consumed him. Howling, shrieking, resounding at his ears. He pressed his hands against his ears, gritting his teeth, but it did nothing. The wind roared through him.
Minutes dragged into something longer. Hours, maybe. Or seconds.
Then, silence.
Not the peaceful kind. The kind that came too fast, like a breath held too long.
Yorrick lowered his hands, heart hammering in the stillness.
That’s when he saw them.
Figures. People? But they are not?
Faceless. Still. Dozens of them, maybe more, standing around him in a perfect ring. They didn’t move, didn’t speak. They simply were. He stared at one, trying to see past the veil that covered what should’ve been a face, only for his mind to recoil like when one touches fire.
Then he looked down.
Ropes. Thin, red cords. Each one ran from their chests, all the way to his.
He reached toward one, hesitantly, and followed it with his eyes. It pulsed faintly, warm. Real. Alive.
Then he turned.
All of them.
All of them were connected to him.
He barely had time to feel the weight of it before the tearing began.
Their bodies—quietly, without a sound—shredded. Like paper in wind. Fragmented into thousands of pieces, fluttering up into the sky. The same wind that once screamed now carried them away like ash.
And then...
Yorrick woke up.
Gasping. Screaming.
Covered in sweat, clutching his chest where the ropes had been. The night was quiet around his campfire, but his mind hosts a blazing landscape.
“…What the hell was that?” he muttered, eyes wide, throat dry.
And in the back of his mind, he could feel it.
A whisper. Not words. Not yet. Just presence. Watching. Waiting.
---
Yorrick sat motionless in the corner of a hooded cart, one knee up, arms resting on it, a black cloak draped over his shoulders. The supplies beside him creaked with every bump of the road, but he barely noticed it. His eyes were fixed on the dirt path behind them, watching as the tracks they left vanished into the horizon.
He hadn’t spoken since the dream. Didn’t want to. Didn’t know how to. And even if he did, who was there to speak to, really? No one is left. Only him. He gave a low grunt and return to his staring activity.
The wind tugged at the canvas flaps now and then, but it was nothing like that wind. He stopped his mind from remembering that memory and as if it's some coincidence, the cart also halted.
“Why’re we stoppin’?” the driver shouted forward but only sillence answered. Then the sound of boots hitting the ground. The rider hopped off, footsteps crunching against the path, moving away.
Yorrick sat still, waiting. Counting.
One…
two…
ten heartbeats.
Still nothing. So he moved.
He moved quietly as he stepped down from the cart, staying low. His boots touched the earth like a whisper. He moved between the carts, slipping into the narrow shadows created by them. When he's sure that he's near the gathering of the men, he leaned forward and listened.
"Why is that her—"
zzz... zzz...
Thank you for reading!!!
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- Godlings are born with sets of blessings and curses attuned to them. They may grant those to mortals of their choice.