Cadwallon militia Mid-Nor
Cadwallon militia Mid-Nor
Material : High quality metal cast.Packing : Packed in normal box
Someone knocked at the door. He let out a small groan, then put methodically the needle to his right and to his left the bloodied pieces of fresh skin. He trotted away from his desk to answer the door. A letter has been laid on the ground, hit with the seal of the Constable. A new mission, it seemed. He turned his head toward his new creation, sighed and shook his head thinking about the long hours that remained to finish his new work. He languishly crossed the room toward the large cupboard at the back. Flames of the few torches flickered in its path, they bathed the place with a warm and quiet atmosphere, though somewhat morbid. The sound of his hooves echoed on the flagstones. He opened two large cabinet doors.
Hundred canope dolls were suspended by small hooks, he took a crystal of unfathomable darkness, black as the depths of his eyes, lying on the bottom of the cabinet. He whispered a couple of syllables in a forgotten language. Three dolls awoke. The first moaned, she wore a little hat he had enjoyed making with the skin of a small rodent, it waved its arms to its creator in the hope of having a mark of affection. The second was like a naked new born, stitched all around without a mouth and eyes kept closed by stitches, he bowed his head as if he were looking for someone. The third doll was a little girl, wearing duvets and wearing a pretty white dress stained with blood. He stroked it tenderly, as a father could be cuddling his daughter, its skin was still as pale as it was in the early days. He remembered when he found the body of the girl floating in the sewers beneath GameHead while returning from a mission. The beauty of this delicate lifeless body had touched him and the pale color of the corpse had awakened in him the puppeteer. For this doll he had wanted it to be the most similar as possible to the original model. Tonight she would serve for this new mission.
He took his rusty iron shield, nailed over the canope doll of the newborn. The surprise it would cause would have a decisive advantage in case of close combat. The crybaby doll should serve as diversion while the girl doll would keep an eye on his back. He took his war hammer and left his morbid lair. He rushed in the streets at a gallop, its four legs beating the pavement soaked by the storm towards the Muck. He knew that the militiaman nicknamed the fantom would take care of the other part of the mission. They did not know each other that much, but they respected their mutual talents, as of those of every member of the Twelfth.
He smiled under his blackened iron helmet, the perspective of harvesting a few pieces of Usurers pleased him. His collection of dolls would expand shortly by a few select pieces. He increased the pace and soon his hooves beat the ground to the rhythm of thunder.
Short story by Daniel Schaeffer.
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