The Masses Underfoot

Sully

Lord Sullivan hunched over the war table. The well-worn and much-marked map of Kelton was spread across the length of the table, kept unscrolled by small stones. A sole tall candle dripped wax directly unto the map as it illuminated the dark, tunneled room. The light was dim and flickering. Sully's tall, broad, muscular frame shadowed most of the table. Dirt and detritus constantly showered down on him from the soft ceiling of the cave, obscuring the indecipherable map further. He had grown rather used to the low light. He would never grow used to the cramped, constricting, and claustrophobic tunnel passages. 

The map marked the location of villages, those they had claimed and those that had been reclaimed by the Paxans. They marked their troop movement with polished pebbles. This was not like the war rooms Sully was used to. The room was no larger than four, perhaps five people could fill, all certainly arm to arm. He couldn't even rise to his full height. His back was constantly bent, and it was taking its toll. These tunnels were no home.

Fairly few Undien were nobly bred. Rott tended to fester most with the poor, the hungry, the homeless, the sick, the helpless. Sully was an unusual case in that regard. He started at the top of the world. That only gave him farther to fall. Now he was so low he was beneath the soil. Commoners stepped on the ground above him. He was untouchable. He was below. He was underfoot. But the Paxans wouldn't be trampling on them for much longer. He was fighting back. 

Sully was a lord, once. Sully was born noble, the first son of a minor viscount. He was primed and premed to be Lord of Seacliff and its tributary lands since he was a boy. His father sided with the Dukes' Parlamentors against the Royalists. He had sent Sully to squire in the war. The war had provided an opportunity for all to distinguish themselves, even for the lowborn Undien. Sully was knighted during a great battle against the Cruel King in which he had distinguished himself.

Yet he took a nasty wound that grew infected and festered with Rott. Eventually, Sully's entire body was taken with Rott. It changed him, took his nose, ears, and much of his skin. Caused his bones to grow unendingly into the spiked armour they resemble today. He hardly looked human anymore. Worse still, it had robbed him of the gift of his faith. His flames burned out along with his body.

Seacliff was a poor and sickly region, full of Rott and decay. Undien huddled in hovels and shacks. Sully's family had worked hard for generations to restore their land and their people. They had succeeded, to a moderate degree. They had homes and land and food enough. Now they had nothing. Now he was right back where he started. Landless, at war, and his people were once again sick and starving. He was going to take back what was his. He was going to make the Duke pay for what he did. Until then, the tunnels were his home

Sully wondered where his generals had wandered to. It was all too easy to get lost in these dark, maze-like tunnels. He followed the quiet sounds and the tightly bored tunnel passages towards the audience cave. These tunnels were older than he knew. They had been dug centuries prior, most likely by Wyrms. They had once been used by Gnomad to travel across Kelton while avoiding the sun. His people had first discovered them after a village well became a village sinkhole, collapsing directly into the audience. 

A massive underground lake filled the room's center. Stalactites lined the roof, but most stalagmites had been cut away from the floor to create more usable space. All but the ambitious few who had matured to pillars after centuries of lover on the roof and the lover on the floor, crying salty tears to reach their top and bottom beloved. This cave was older still than the passages. It was a natural aquifer. It was constantly damp. Sully hated the audience room. He hated it for what it was most often used for lately. He found himself unsupurised but still disquieted that that was the purpose today.

In the center of the room, in the pool of cool cave water, was the King. Only he wished not to be known as King, simply Grimm. Grimm the Harvestor. A ghastly namesake. This Grimm was taller than Sully by half a head and more slender than any man ought to be. He was clad entirely, head to skinless toe, in a black, tattered cloak that obscured his visage and other features. Only his long, skinless fingers escaped the silhouette of shadow. He was a terrifying sight to behold. A horror. Death given form. Grimm indeed. His body was submerged up to his chest, or where it might well be. 

When Sully put out the call for soldiers, Grimm had answered to the tune of many thousands of emaciated farmers and laborers, their children and wives. His flock. It was not remotely what Sully had sought. It was far too many mouths to feed and bodies to hide. They couldn't remain aboveground, or they would be spotted and hunted to their extinction. The numbers and the support of the Wicked had ensured his leadership over Sully's. At least he was wise enough to defer to Sully on tactics and strategy. 

Behind him stood the Wicked Women. Percia. A Wicked of great power and renown, and a vile monster of a woman. She commanded Grimm's Wicked forces. Before that, she was a demon who terrorized villages and lured children to her coven. For what purpose, he dared not ask. Most like to complete her sick and twisted machinations. If he learned the truth of it, he would likely kill her himself. Grimm would not be pleased with that. It was better not to know. 

She was nothing short of deplorable. She too wore a long flowing robe, hers in grays, that covered much of his spindly figure. She was dwarfed next to her King. Her veiled hood hung down, revealing her face. She was far too beautiful for a woman with no skin. Unnaturally so. She still has a strong nose, something that most Undien lack. She had a full hedge of thick and lively hair, a mix of dark and light black and brown. It was, obviously, not her own hair, but no one dared point that out. Her eyes were filled with yellow fire, and her set of teeth was complete and pure white. Not that they were her teeth.

The Wicked was chanting something or other. Her grey-robed "Green Grower" Coven surrounded her and echoed her words. The crowd, the greater portion of their army, surrounded the pond and chanted back, echoing further. She took the King in her perfect skinless hands, submerged him fully in the black watery depths, and held him under for longer than Sully preferred. She continued to chant, loudly and enthusiastically. Some of the words in Standard, others in Runetung. The followers repeated what they could even louder and more enthusiastically. The echoes grew, amplifying and repeating the chant and making thousands sound like millions. The surface of the lake rippled rhymically. When she allowed her King to rise, his body rose, but his face remained floating on the surf. He stared at it for a long pause. The room went silent. The ripples receded. He reached his bloody hands into and under the surface and returned the disfigured mask of flesh to its rightful place, under his hood, where shadow swallowed it whole. 

"Grimm will bring us home and bring death besides for those who have forsaken us. He is our savior! Our Messiah!" The Wicked chanted.

The crowd replied, "Savior" and "Messiah." The words left a bad taste in Sully's mouth. The words echoed across his exposed eardrums louder and louder. It left Sully with a terrible headache. He was neither. He was simply their general and their king. Sully hated this ceremony. He hated the pageantry and the Wickedness. He hated the King. He hated him most of all.

"Come and feel your Lord's power for yourself." The Wicked beckoned them, and her dark disciples facilitated. The Undien rushed into the pool, desperate to touch their Messiah. They clamoured to reach him first, in a stampede, then a mob. The first group touched Grimm and began to chant "Break the grounds" over and over again. The pool was filled, and everyone was touching Grimm, either directly or indirectly. The chanting continued. He began to hear people struggle against the surf of both bodies and groundwater. Sully had seen enough, and he departed. The echoes chased after him.