The Thousand-Child Tyrant:
Excerpt from The Daily Chronicle, 15th day of the Harvest Moon
In a shocking revelation that has stunned our fair city, reports have surfaced of a most disturbing nature. Deep within the sprawling Blackthorn Estate, located in the misty hills beyond our borders, lives a man whose ambitions defy all sense of morality and reason.
This individual, whose name remains shrouded in mystery, has declared his intention to father no less than one thousand children. Sources close to the estate claim that he has already gathered dozens of women within his mansion, each one a willing participant in his grotesque scheme.
Witnesses describe a scene of utter debauchery, with the master of the house presiding over his "harem" like a king of old. His appearance is said to be as twisted as his goals; sporting six fingers on each hand and eyes of mismatched colours, one azure blue and the other a sickly yellow.
Local authorities are at a loss as to how to proceed, as no laws appear to have been broken. The women, it seems, have entered into this arrangement of their own free will. Yet one cannot help but wonder: what dark powers of persuasion does this man possess? And what fate awaits the children born of this unholy union?
As our city grapples with the implications of this bizarre tale, one question burns in the minds of all decent folk: Is this the work of a madman, or something far more sinister?
…
Finished reading the article, a man with a grey beard folded the newspaper with a soft rustle. He set it aside on the worn, wooden bar top and raised a hand to catch the bartender's attention.
"Another, if you please."
The bartender nodded and reached for a bottle of amber liquid. As he poured, his eyes flickered over the man's attire; black from collar to boot, with a style reminiscent of the older priestly uniforms. The cut was unmistakable, even if it seemed a touch outdated.
"Here you are, Father."
The bartender slid the glass across the bar.
The grey-bearded man's hand paused midway to the glass. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Not anymore…Retired now. Just call me Zareth."
He lifted the glass and drank deeply, savouring the burn.
This bar was perched atop a dirt hill in an impoverished town area. Even so, it was busy despite or perhaps because of its remote location. A handful of people occupied the scattered tables, whose murmurs provided a constant backdrop to the clink of glasses.
The bartender leaned in closer and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Say, Father… I mean, sir Zareth, is it true what they say? About your days as a Priest?" His eyes lit up with curiosity. "Did you really purify Tumors? How many did you... you know... take care of?"
The grey-bearded man stared into his glass, seemingly intent on ignoring the prying questions. Inside the swirling wetness, he saw a reflection of those hideous creatures.
But the bartender pressed on, "Come on, just a tidbit. I'll even throw in another drink, on the house."
With a deep sigh, the man looked up. "You want to know how many I've purified?" A sinister smile played across his lips. "Let's just say I don't have enough toes or nails to count them all."
The bartender's eyes widened in awe. "Unbelievable! You must have some stories to tell. What was it like when you…"
But before he could finish, a figure in a long, tattered cloak settled into the chair right next to the grey-bearded man. The newcomer's face was hidden in the shadow of a deep hood, but there was an unsettling stillness about them.
Without preamble, a raspy voice emerged from beneath the hood, directed at the retired Priest.
"Do you believe in God?"
"…"
The grey-bearded man didn't even flinch. He simply raised his glass to his lips and took another long drink, pointedly ignoring the question hanging in the air between them.
"Huh…mm…"
Sensing the sudden tension, the bartender quietly retreated to the other end of the bar, leaving the two figures sitting in loaded silence as the sun continued its slow descent outside.
The mysterious figure in the tattered cloak suddenly tilted its head, as if listening to something only it could hear. Then, in a bizarre display, it began to sniff the air loudly.
Sniff! Sniff! Sniff!
Its concealed nose was twitching weirdly beneath the hood. "I can sense it… You're different from the others. You must be a… Priest."
"Hmm…"
Zareth's eyes narrowed slowly, then a flicker of suspicion crossed his weathered features. He took another sip of his drink before responding nonchalantly, "Not anymore. I'm retired."
"Vu-hu-hu…"
A weird, unsettling chuckle escaped from beneath the hood. "Retired? That's too bad. I was hoping to be entertained."
Without warning, the cloaked figure reached across the bar and snatched a full bottle of liquor. Before anyone could react, it tilted its head back and began to pour the entire contents down its throat.
Gulp! Gulp! Gulp!
"Hey…!"
The bartender who was initially outraged at the theft, opened his mouth to demand payment. But his words died in his throat as he watched in horror. The figure wasn't just drinking the liquor, it was swallowing the entire glass bottle whole. The neck of the bottle was slowly disappearing past unseen lips.
"Sweet merciful heavens. This man is beyond weird," the bartender whispered to himself while inhaling and exhaling trepidation.
As the last of the bottle vanished into the depths of the cloak, the figure slowly lowered its hood. The patrons nearby gasped and recoiled. The face revealed was a nightmarish visage, crisscrossed with deep, angry cuts that pulsate in the bar's dim light.
Those inhuman eyes locked onto Zareth with an intensity that would have made lesser men flee. The figure's lips, if they could be called that, curled into a sinister grin.
"So," it asked again, each word dripping with malevolence, "do you... believe in God?"
The bar fell silent, all eyes now on Zareth and the grotesque figure beside him.
"What the hell… that man, he's disfigured…"
"Is he even human?"
The onlookers whispered among themselves while slowly creating distance from the epicentre of their disgust.
Unlike the others, only one man was calm.
"Hmph…"
The retired priest's hand tightened around his glass. The air itself thickened with anticipation as it waited for his response.
Zareth glanced sidelong at the figure. 'This man... there's something off about him. Hmm.' He took a closer look at the figure's neck.
To his astonishment, he could see the outline of the bottle bulging and sliding down the man's throat. But what truly alerted him was the sight of pulsating veins, visible through the skin, crushing the bottle from within. It was as if the man's very flesh was digesting the glass.
'Tsk, I won't get involve. I'm retired.'
Disturbed by this unnatural display, Zareth downed the last of his drink swiftly. He stood up from his stool, ready to leave this increasingly unsettling situation behind.
As he turned towards the exit, the figure's hoarse voice cut through the air once more.
"Where do you think you're going? You didn't answer my question. Are you... ignoring me, Priest?"
"…"
Zareth didn't respond. He continued his path to the door. However, just as his hand reached for the door handle, a cacophony of shattering glass erupted behind him. The sound of breaking bottles continued for what felt like an eternity; a good ten seconds of unrelenting destruction.
Then, cutting through the chaos, came that chilling chuckle again.
"Vuhuhuhuhu…"
Finally, Zareth turned around, and the scene before him defied comprehension. The bar patrons, moments ago peacefully enjoying their drinks, were now in various states of distress. Men and women alike were choking. Their mouths were forced open by the necks of liquor bottles protruding from their throats. Some had blood trickling from their lips, cut by the sharp edges of the glass.
Zareth's eyes slightly widened as he observed the victims more closely. Bulging, pulsating veins covered their skin, snaking across their faces and necks like angry rivers. It was as if their very bodies were rebelling against them, forcing the bottles deeper into their throats.
The bartender was nowhere to be seen, having apparently vanished amidst the chaos.
In the centre of this nightmarish tableau was the figure, whose mutilated face was twisted into a grotesque smile. It tilted its head rather drastically, regarding Zareth with an air of perverse amusement.
"Now, Priest… about that question..."
"Gu-haa…"
"Help… hel…"
The bar's atmosphere grew thick with tension and the muffled sounds of struggle. Zareth stood frozen at the threshold, caught between the horrors within and the uncertainty that lay beyond the door.
As Zareth surveyed the horrific scene before him, a chilling realization dawned. He focused his attention on the figure at the centre of the chaos.
'There's no doubt about it. That thing sitting at the bar is definitely a Tumor.'
The word 'Tumor' echoed in his mind, bringing with it a flood of memories and knowledge from his days as a Priest. Zareth's thoughts were piecing together the bizarre puzzle before him:
'Tumors. Tiny, grotesque worms from another dimension known among The Convent as "Sarx." These parasitic entities sometimes slip into our world through portals and latch themselves onto unsuspecting hosts and take possession of their bodies and minds.
'Typically, when a Tumor possesses a human, the result is catastrophic. The host loses all sense of rationality and their body morphs into monstrous forms that defy natural law. I've seen men twisted into abominations and warped beyond recognition, driven by nothing but primal, destructive instincts.
'But this... this is different. The entity before me, while clearly inhuman, retains the ability to think and reason. It engages in conversation, asks questions, and even seems to have a twisted sense of humour. This level of cognitive function in a Tumor is unprecedented. Could it be some kind of evolution? Or perhaps...'
Zareth's train of thought was interrupted as he glanced around at the suffering folks who were slowly being corrupted by an unseen force.
"GUAH! HELP!"
One man fell from his chair, clutching his neck, choking on his own blood until his eyes rolled over. Only the white could be seen.
Zareth sighed heavily as he muttered, "I'm retired. I thought this place in the middle of nowhere would be free of these bastards... wishful thinking, I guess."
The figure took notice of Zareth's contemplative silence and slowly rose from its seat. Its movements were fluid yet unnatural, like a puppet controlled by unseen strings. It turned to face Zareth fully and its mutilated face twisted into what might have been a smile.
"Are you willing to answer me now, or do you need more convincing, Priest?"
The tension grew even heavier. Zareth stood his ground. His years of experience were battling these otherworldly horrors warring with his desire to leave that life behind. But as he looked into the entity's eyes, he knew that this confrontation was far from over.
The retired Priest's hands clenched at his sides. Suddenly, his nails began feeling unusually warm against his palms. Whatever decision he made next would undoubtedly shape the course of events to come.
Slick! Slick…
The figure glided across the floor, grotesquely graceful, like a predator stalking its prey. It stopped beside a table where a burly farmer struggled in vain to dislodge the bottle jammed in his throat. His face was a sickly shade of purple. The veins pulsing beneath his skin were now a network of thick, writhing cords, holding him captive in his own personal torment.
"Do you like my masterpiece, Priest?"
The figure spoke up in a gruesome parody of an artist admiring his work. It laid a hand, if it could be called that, on the farmer's heaving chest.
"The way his veins strain against his skin, like worms trapped beneath the earth. The desperate gasps for air only serve to lodge the glass deeper. The raw terror in his eyes, the knowledge that his own body is betraying him, turning against him in the most horrific way imaginable… What a beauty."
Its grin became wider.
'This bastard…'
As Zareth watched the scene unfold, a familiar coldness settled in his gut. He'd witnessed countless atrocities at the hands of Tumors, but their casual cruelty never failed to ignite a spark of righteous anger within him.
"And the best part," the figure continued with perverse delight, "is that it's only just beginning. The real fun hasn't even started yet."
It leaned closer to the farmer and almost touched its mangled lips against the man's ear.
"Tell me, Priest, where is your God now? Where is his divine intervention, his boundless mercy?"
The figure straightened and looked at Zareth. "If he truly loved his precious human creations, as you humans claim, would he allow them to suffer so? Would he stand idly by as they are consumed from within by creatures like me?"
It threw back its head and let out a chilling laugh that reverberated through the bar.
"FACE IT! Your God is either powerless to stop this… or worse, he simply doesn't care. Perhaps he finds amusement in our little games."
The figure turned back to Zareth, burning with unholy light. "So, I ask you again, Priest. Do you… believe… in God?"
Crack!
Before Zareth could answer, a bottle sailed from over the counter and smashed against the back of the figure's head with a sickening crunch. The figure staggered and was momentarily stunned.
"Run, Father Zareth! Get out of here!"
The terrified bartender stood behind the bar with another bottle clutched in his trembling hand. He'd somehow managed to avoid becoming another of the figure's victims, but his courage was a fragile thing, held together by desperation and a sliver of hope.
The figure slowly turned towards the bartender. The amusement vanished from its face, now replaced by an icy fury.
"You… dare…"
It hissed and then its right hand shot out bulging veins that twisted beneath the skin like snakes writhing beneath a blanket. They lashed out and wrapped around the bartender's chest and pinned him against the back shelf with bone-crushing force.
"Gah!"
The bartender cried out in pain. His struggle was growing weaker by the second.
Zareth wasn't a man easily fazed. Decades spent combating the grotesque manifestations of Sarx had inured him to even the most unsettling displays of violence. So, as he watched the bartender struggle against the constricting veins, he felt a familiar weariness settle over him rather than fear.
"Good grief," he sighed while running a hand over his grizzled beard. "This is a mess."
Without another word, Zareth moved. He became a blur. Years of honed instinct and physical discipline condensed into a single, explosive moment. He crossed the space between himself and the figure in a heartbeat. His leg was cocked back.
Boom!
A heavy thud echoed through the bar as Zareth's boot connected squarely with the figure's jaw. The force of the blow sent the creature hurtling backwards until it crashed through a table and slammed against the wall. Splintered wood and overturned chairs marked its path of destruction.
Now released from the crushing grip of the veins, the bartender slumped against the counter, gasping for breath.
"Brave idiot."
Zareth muttered, hauling the bartender up by his collar. He ignored the man's protests and tossed his intoxicated ass towards the exit.
"Get out of here. And spread the word. Tell the Convent what you saw."
"Oh… yes." The bartender's escape was fuelled by adrenaline and terror. He didn't need to be told twice.
"Grr…"
The Vein Tumor groaned as it pushed itself up from the wreckage. Its eyes burned with cold fury as it glared at Zareth, who now stood calmly in the spot the creature had occupied moments before.
"No one will escape!"
As if on cue, veins erupted from the bodies of the possessed patrons nearest the exit, bursting through skin and clothing with unnatural speed. They whipped through the air until they seized the fleeing bartender and dragged him back into the heart of the chaos. He screamed in terror as he was hoisted into the air.
"Ah! Father Zareth! Save me from this horror! I'll give you free drinks for life!"
Zareth watched the scene unfold, still wearing his stoic mask. He felt a bit of annoyance rather than concern.
"How unfortunate."
The bartender was no longer his concern; dealing with this anomaly of a Tumor took precedence.
"It's about time I commence your exorcism, Tumor."