The elven woman screamed as the blade struck a glancing blow off her skin, a slow red trail marking her passage as she continued to flee. She ducked behind a stump as a blast blew off the upper chunk of the dead tree.
She tried to cover the wound on her arm, but the blood continued to drip between her fingers and onto the ground. There was no hiding now. Everyone knew that the Sweepers could smell blood even in the harshest of Ghostland conditions. There was no escape.
She cowered behind the stump as the faces of her dead companions passed before her: The tracker they had hired, who had been the first, caught in a Sweeper trap and flayed alive by some rusted device; The soldier - tough and weather-worn, he had sworn that no harm would come to her out in the Ghostlands, he never made a sound as the Sweepers took him down and began to feast on his body, his only reaction a grimace of dissatisfaction and shame; and the fat moneylender with his bloated face, he had tried to actually bribe the Sweepers with money to leave him alone, She could still hear his screams an hour later on the wind as they took their time torturing him while still others counted his money.
Suddenly the young woman snapped back to reality with the realization that she'd been sitting there a little too long and yet...she listened as best she could in the blasting winds.
Silence.
Cautiously, she looked around the remains of the dead tree to see the bloody corpses of Sweepers on the cracked earth floor of the Ghostlands as an even larger one stood over them, wiping his two long black blades on the tattered rags of one of the corpses.
The larger Sweeper indeed stood head and shoulders above most of the others, slightly disfigured with long-term exposure to the barren wastes, he was almost certainly human but was certainly the largest of his species she had ever seen. Even more unsettling was the pieces of armor and chain stretching across his torso, back and thighs, deeply embedded into his skin to the point that they seemed to move almost fluidly with him as he bent down over another corpse and closed it's eyes with two large fingers.
A shocked gasp unconsciously escaped her lips as she watched him slide his blades back into their sheaths, encased in the flesh around his shoulder blades, their hilts barely protruding above his shoulders.
At the sound, his head shot in her direction and she screamed as he raised himself and began a slow run in her direction. She tried to scramble away, but in her bewilderment and terror at this form now moving toward her, she had forgotten to continue the pressure on her wound. Looking down a small pool had already collected around her...
She fainted.
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Kratter had always been a freak among freaks. When he was born, the kidnapped field doctor that his father had abducted had told them that Kratter would have to be cut out of his mother's womb. He would have to get to his offices for clean tools and cloth for what he called a cesarean birth. His mother had shot the doctor in the throat between contractions and his father took to the operation himself, with his own blade. A couple minutes later, Kratter was brought into the world. His mother didn't survive.
However, on Kratter's birth, it was found that his father had cut too deep and the infant's arm and stomach had been sliced open, if not mortally then certainly enough to disable the child from effective raiding as an adult. As it was a crime among their people to attack the children of their own tribe, his father was quickly dispatched himself. Amidst the commotion, no one noticed until the next day that the wounds on the small child were already beginning to heal.
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Kratter grew tall and strong as he reached adolescence, easily besting those his age in their savage childhood games. With his noted recovery abilities and his parents no longer alive, the tribe elder took Kratter under his wing. The Elder, whose position was won through merciless and savage acts more than wisdom, taught Kratter the ways of the Ghostlands, how to survive and, more importantly, how to kill.
Kratter excelled in melee combat, but while most of his tribe preferred the steam-tech inventions looted off of the corpses of travelers leaving Everan, Kratter preferred a pair of falcatas found on the body of a Roh'tone fiend just outside Eldersgrave. Others tried to claim the black steel blades for themselves, but after one Sweeper lost a hand and another his entire left leg, they backed off.
The elder delighted in Kratter's skill but worried about his ability to protect himself. His size and mutations made fitting armor to him near impossible. He found a breastplate that almost fit once, but Kratter could not move his left arm with any effectiveness. Then the elder had an idea.
Sweepers were often fond of grafting weapons to their skin. You sure can shoot that gun well. Let's make sure you never drop it. The pain and disfigurement was considered a right of passage.
So it was that Kratter began what became a daily ritual for 4 years. With five other sweepers holding him to the grafting table, the elder would cut and peel large patches of Kratter's flesh, pressing pieces of broken breastplate and chainmail into his flesh and holding them there as the skin would be forced to heal around it. Each day he would be forced to train for hours after a new piece had been put into him. It was often painful, but kept Kratter from losing his flexibility. By the time that the grafting had been completed Kratter's entire upper body and thighs where covered with an almost impenetrable surface. The sweepers began to call him Kratter Ironhide in recognition of his coming of age.
After that Kratter truly became a force to be reckoned with, often leading raids on unsuspecting groups and butchering them all, dragging their loot back to camp along with the corpses, that some sweepers would then use for more nefarious purposes.
All that changed after he found the Page. After the Sweepers began to call him "Ironhide the Betrayer".
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The young elven woman awoke tied to a pole, the large sweeper crouched over a crackling fire. Without looking up, he spoke.
"You safe. Kratter killed sweepers. Kratter bandage wounds."
The young woman tentatively replied, "Are you going to rape me? Or...kill and eat me?"
"Kratter not plan on it," the large sweeper stops to look her up and down before licking his lips, "but Kratter could be convinced tomorrow. But tonight? It is time to sleep. Hungry day tomorrow." And without another word, Kratter pulled out his bedroll, laid his massive body down and, within minutes, was snoring loudly.
The elf looked around her and thought that she could make out the lights of Everan just in the distance. She found the rope to be inexpertly tied and was able to quickly escape it and the pole. Her possessions, along with what felt to be about half of the moneylender's coins were piled together nearby. She quickly took both and quietly made her way out of the camp and toward Everan.
Kratter waited for a good 10 minutes until she was well out of earshot before he stopped snoring and sat back up on his bedroll, sighing deeply. Those he rescued from the sweepers always still viewed him as one of them, a savage. It didn't matter that he had saved them. It didn't matter that he had learned proper Common. It didn't even matter that he knew of the Gods.
Easier then to let them escape the dumb savage once close enough to a major town that anyone could survive the trip. Leave their things nearby and well-packed up. Sometimes, he'd even find them a horse to tie up close by. It was a thankless existence, but at least Kratter was at peace with himself.
Kratter grabbed his skinning knife from his pack and cutting a clean, skilled slice over his heart, he reached into the wound and pulled out a small waterproof bladder. Inside the bladder was a small piece of yellowing parchment. Kratter carefully wiped all of the blood off of his hands and chest, which was quickly healing, before handling the document.
The page, covered in verse, was ripped in places but still remained relatively intact. Back before, before he understood, he and his raiding party had slain an entire adventuring party, save for the bard. Kratter claimed him as his price and despite the calls and gestures by the rest of his group, he led the bard to a secret place where he presented the bard with the page and demanded that he teach Kratter how to read it. When the bard explained that it was some sort of song, Kratter demanded that the bard teach him to read it and sing it. The bard did both. Kratter awarded him with a quick and painless death and burnt his body so the others could not get to it.
The large human who was known to what were once his people as a traitor, sat at the fire and sang:
And from beyond the scarlet wall,
the Gods of Man did heed the call.
For time to pass in set with stone,
and what was all will stand alone.
The flame of faith to burn no light,
And cast past's shadows lost in night.
The humans stole and killed and raped,
so in their night no stars were draped.
To feed on pain and cling to vice,
You wait to pay the great ones' price.
He already knew that he would pay the price for his own misdeeds. He just hoped he could pay a little up front.
