OneShot Stories Of My Characters

Igor's Fall, The Start Of The Red King

Red. It was all I saw, all that flashed across the eyes of my father's that mirrored nothing but a piercing rage that impaled the likes of another's gaze. All I heard was the language of the sword, as my hand held a death grip on the silver weapon given to me at such infancy. Slash, hit, pain. I felt nothing. I plowed through father's, brothers, sons, yet thought of nothing as my sword sliced through their stomach and spilled their guts like a pig readying for a feast. It only pleased me, ripping the lives out of the dirty hands of the people who hurt the ruling of my father, a king with such power their own leader felt he was yearning for, desperately reaching as he sends waves of men that follow him like a mother duck and her children. Pathetic. Once my head starts twisting and churning with such violence, when my eyes lock on a target, everything leaves my head besides the pleasing thoughts of the suffering of the others, imagining their skin melting, bones decrepitating with the fires emitted from their enemies, bleeding out and crying for their families from the wounds carved by the people they call " Anti-Christ's ", it only made my throat straining battle cries all the more motivated. A man in shining armor came charging towards me, a knight as people call it, I call it a shiny English peasant. His arm slung back in a desperate attempt to fuel a strong swing, aimed towards no particular part of my bare torso. But I'm quicker. With a booming scream and a tight face, the battle axe in my hand swings backward, then forward towards the head of my target as fast as Perun's lighting. But as my enemy topples down in immediate death, my eyes catch sight of something... horrific. Something that strained my heart and mind from the moment it happened, something that finally snapped my sanity in half like a twig, something that caused my burrowing troubles only to burst into flames and boil over without another second. Something that was the start of my downfall, my dark destiny. My father, King Krasnoff, Golden King, Viktor, Papa, was plunged into a spear that held him at hold as he clenched onto the wood in desperate attempt to stop it from further impaling him. As it was ripped out from within him, I went charging forward like a bull seeing red. I screamed so loudly it boomed above the screeches of pain and grunts of strength, and I could be heard by everyone involved. I lunged forward at the unsuspecting attacker, hands grabbing hold of their neck and other pushing into their stomach, slamming them down hard enough to knock the wind out of them. My hand swung up and I found myself in a frenzy of slicing into their skull, slamming down over and over again even though I knew they were already dead, but I wanted to see their head spill with the organ that once contained his thoughts. Despite the king being wounded- or dead- the battle continued. It always did, and their enemy hasn't won just yet. But for me, in that very moment, it was over. I never left behind an unfinished fight, but my father was on the brink of death, the only person that's showed me a never ending form of affection, the man that didn't abandon me with my mother, the man that cared for me and raised me on his own. I dropped my weapon to grab hold of his upper torso from behind, pulling him up with a groan to get him out from the field and towards camp for help. It was a long ways away, and yet Viktor kept pushing on. As I dragged him desperately towards the way of help, arms aching with his massive size, legs straining and pushing, I felt the tears begin to sting in my eyes, the water that men were so ashamed to let run down stream. I pleaded for my father to hold on to the thin rope of life, to not go just yet, the God's surely wouldn't take him now, right? Our death dates are set by the God's but I was sure Viktor would live long enough to die from body straining age. As I began to reach camp, once again I began screaming, but this time it wasn't a battle cry as strong as Svetovid's cry of bloodshed, but instead as weak, cracking and vulnerable as the weeps of Karna. Soon, a land woman came rushing to my side, eyes widening at seeing the Golden King reddened with his fate, and it wasn't long before there was a rush of other land women speeding to help. But how could they? The wound extended through his torso entirely, he was impaled. What could they burn to close? What could they wrap to absorb blood? What could they sew together? Despite this, with my frantic screaming, the most insane they've seen my breaking soul, they did all that and more ( Or tried to anyways ). During the entire process, I resorted to falling upon my bruised knees praying and begging to the Gods and deities that left me cold in the mist for so long now, ripping my treasures and values from my hands any chance they found. But, I never lost my faith, especially in times like these when it's all I had left to hang onto anymore with a tight grip that left my hands calloused and bleeding in the end. I stayed with my father, praying and begging the entire time as I watched the man that let me cling to him in a time where the hare was absent and the wolf remained, the bear lingering. As I faced the king, face reddened, stained, suddenly a wave of anger rushed through my body like the waves caused by a war ship, veins popping like a tree's root. I needed to return to battle, to shed the insides and blood, to split the skin that caused the Golden King's wound, to put an end to their hope just as they have done with mine. I grabbed yet another battle axe, abandoning the side of my guardian, something I would come to regret entirely. I barely noticed my legs moving as fast as a slim horse, tensed and once again but even more so this time, ready for battle. I stayed amongst the fields with my men until the sun fell and the king retreated with the mass amounts of loss, blood stained my entire face, hands, chest, remains of their guts I yanked from their stomachs after slicing them open laid upon my hands. Now their bodies would sink into the Earth, and they would die with no title. A scream of victory rumbled through my tightened throat and bursted from my mouth, soon joined by my men, angry and victorious just as me. But I soon realized what had left my blackened mind as soon as I stepped onto the rumbling, chaotic grounds, and once again I was quick to return to camp that held my sanity within it. When I arrived though, I was only faced with the worried faces of the weeping women, and immediately I knew what caused their sorrows. I abandoned my weapon and rushed to the tent that held him and warmed him before I left, and he was gone.
" Where is my father?! WHERE IS HE?! " I felt the tears finally letting go, and yet this time I couldn't care less. The women shook their heads, shakily telling me they didn't know. They didn't know? How could they not know? They were supposed to be with him in my absence! He was impaled! How could they have lost a man that was as wounded as Viktor was? I wanted to punish them, to punish them for their irresponsibility, for encouraging the death of my father. And oh would they pay, but in that moment, instead I stormed out in search for him, the gray eyes he gave me moving with every direction, screaming his name, desperate for a reply I knew he wouldn't be able to give. But as I found a trail of blood, running after it as graceful as a new born deer, I found nothing at it's dead end. With that, I was gone. The little of me that remained, broken and rushed with sorrow and darkness, insanity, faith lost, and I couldn't see beyond it. I heaved with my tears, my screams of internal misery louder then any war cry that's ever left me, and no longer was I Igor, I was the Red King. I exiled the thoughts of you others and I had, Viktor. I ripped my lips of your name, and if you exist with the Gods I left behind with your death, I will dance with this lullaby with your absence forever as I will and have been sent to the depths of Nav, a place your soul doesn't belong.