Chapter 10: Warg Attack (Part 2 of 2)
John Stark's boots sank into the sodden earth, each step a squelch against the trembling plains as the wargs charged, a tidal wave of snarling muscle and glinting teeth tearing through the bruised purple dawn. His chest tightened, breath catching in his throat, the acrid stench of their matted fur mixing with the coppery tang of blood already staining the air. The ground vibrated under their paws, a deep rumble that drowned the wind's wail, and his heart slammed against his ribs, syncing with the system's cold, steady hum buzzing in his skull—a secret he clamped down tight behind gritted teeth. Beside him, Éowyn stood rigid, her sword raised in a defiant arc, its blade catching the faint light, while the riders formed a fragile crescent, steel clashing against claw in a chaotic symphony of roars and screams.
A rider crashed to the ground, his horse's shriek piercing the din as a warg's weight crushed it, foam-flecked jaws snapping inches from the man's terror-widened eyes. John's legs moved before his mind caught up, a desperate lunge sending him sprawling forward, his blade slashing wildly to shove the rider clear. The effort tore at his shoulders, muscles screaming, but the warg pivoted, its massive head swinging like a battering ram. Jaws clamped around his chest, a bone-crushing force that ignited white-hot agony, his vision exploding into a blinding flash. Blood gushed warm and wet down his tunic, the last sensation before darkness swallowed him whole.
[SYSTEM: Death x1: +4 Agility. Soul Wear: 35%. Warg chew toy? That's you.]
He jolted back into existence, sprawled in a tangle of tall grass, the cold, bruised ache of Soul Wear tightening his skin like a too-small shirt. A shiver raced down his spine, his stomach lurching as the system's mocking voice echoed, grating against his nerves. Gasping, he clawed at the dirt, fingernails caking with mud, and staggered upright, his lungs burning with each ragged breath. He stumbled back into the fray, masking his return with a feigned stagger, the grass whipping against his legs, his mind racing to play it off as a quick recovery. "Great, another death—gonna need a vacation from this hell," he thought, rubbing the back of his neck, the familiar tic grounding him as the new Agility surged, his movements fluid despite the exhaustion.
Now he faced an Orc-rider, the crude scimitar clashing against his blade with a ringing screech, sparks flying into the dawn. The Agility boost kicked in, lending him speed to twist the weapon free with a deft flick, his wrist aching from the strain. But the warg turned, its bulk a looming shadow, and its head rammed into him, snapping his neck with a sickening crack that silenced the battlefield for a heartbeat. Pain vanished into oblivion, only to be replaced by the disorienting rush of respawn near his horse, the 40% Soul Wear spiking through him like a fever, leaving his limbs trembling and his mouth dry as dust.
[SYSTEM: Death x2: +3 Strength. Soul Wear: 40%. Critical damage sustained. Keep Soul Wear below 100% to avoid permanent… issues.]
"Forty percent—halfway to a ghost, fantastic," he muttered inwardly, swallowing the bile rising in his throat as he forced his legs to move, the grass crunching underfoot. He rejoined Éowyn, his new Strength a brutal force that cleaved through warg hide with each swing, the resistance giving way like softened butter, blood spraying across his face. The Orc-riders faltered, their line wavering under the renewed assault, and the tide began to turn, the riders' shouts rising in a ragged chorus of triumph, their voices hoarse with relief.
Éowyn carved through the enemy with fierce joy, her long sword a silver streak in the bloody dawn, her braid whipping like a banner as she focused on an Orc-rider. A massive warg lunged from her blind side, its silent shadow a death sentence, teeth glinting as it closed the distance, the air thick with its rancid breath. She braced, muscles tensing, her grip whitening on the hilt, but John threw himself between them, his body a shield against the beast's charge. The impact slammed into his back, a crushing blow that drove the air from his lungs, and he collapsed with a groan, the world fading as Éowyn's scream pierced the chaos, her voice raw and desperate.
[SYSTEM: Death: +3 Stamina. Charisma: +1. You're lucky that was a good line, hero.]
Her cry faltered as his body vanished into the grass, the warg pausing in confusion, its growl rumbling like distant thunder, the ground still trembling beneath its paws. Éowyn dispatched it with a swift thrust, her heart pounding as she scanned the battlefield, her breath hitching when she spotted him struggling to rise, whole yet pale, his tunic torn and blood-streaked. She seized his arm, her fingers digging into his mail with a fierce grip, her hazel eyes brimming with raw emotion, tears streaking through the grime on her face.
"Stark! You have given your life for me… twice! You cannot keep doing this! Why do you return?"
He offered a tired, lopsided smile, his gaze flickering away to hide the system's flash in his periphery, the glow burning behind his eyes. His throat felt raw, parched from the fight.
"Uh, saving you's my new hobby," he said, the anachronistic quip slipping out as bravado, though his voice carried an earnest warmth that surprised even him, his hand trembling as he steadied himself.
The wargs were routed, their broken bodies littering the plains, the scent of ash and sweat hanging heavy, mingling with the faint crackle of burning wood from the riders' hasty fires. John felt a warm glow from the Achievement: Warg Survivor, but it soured with unease—his luck, his survival, felt too unnatural, too tied to the system he couldn't reveal, the weight settling like a stone in his gut. His legs ached, the strain of multiple deaths throbbing in his thighs.
Whispers rippled through the group, Cenric's gruff voice to Godric's weathered tones, the words carried on the wind.
"Stark the Ghost. He took a hit that should have killed two men. He vanished. He returns."
The moniker took root, a reputation born of his secret deaths, and Godric's nod was a grudging acknowledgment, his pipe smoke curling upward, the tobacco's earthy scent filling the air. John shrugged, deflecting with a muttered quip, his scarred hands rubbing together nervously.
"Ghost? More like guy with bad luck who got better at dodging, eventually," he said under his breath, keeping the humor locked away as he shifted his weight, the ache in his knees a constant reminder.
[SYSTEM: Achievement: Warg Survivor. +3 Stamina. Reputation: Stark the Ghost Unlocked. Congrats, you're famous.]
The victory felt heavy, the 40% Soul Wear a cold ache in his bones, tainting the praise with guilt, his skin prickling with the chill of the morning. He stood among the riders, accepting their nods, but the secret gnawed at him—each death saving them, yet twisting him further from himself, the taste of blood lingering on his tongue.
Éowyn approached, her expression a blend of awe and worry, her breath visible in the cooling air, her armor clinking softly with each step. Her hair was a mess, strands plastered to her forehead with sweat.
"The reports will go to Edoras, John. The warg threat is quelled, and your name—Stark the Ghost—will be known. But it will not please my uncle, the King. We must return to Edoras. We must face the court."
The plains fell silent, save for the groans of the wounded and the rustle of wind through the grass, the horizon smudged with the first hints of daylight. John gazed west toward Edoras, its golden hall a distant promise of new battles, his reputation a double-edged blade—drawing Éowyn's love yet inviting Wormtongue's wrath, his heart thudding with a mix of pride and dread.
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