Ethereal Chronicles

The air had grown thick, hot with the stench of death and fire that suffocated us all. The sun, red and swollen like the wounds that streaked my chest and arms, hung low in the sky, mocking me. A cry rang out through the clash of battle, close to me, and I swerved out of the way to see a soldier from the other side attempt to slam into me, his sword gleaming in the haze. I twisted from his grip just in time, and he crashed into the dirt with a grunt of pain.

As he scrambled to rise, I unleashed a roar of my own, hurling my warhammer into his face. The impact was sickening, a brutal crunch as metal met bone. Teeth and blood sprayed from his lips and he fell backwards, dead before his body could hit the ground.

Above, the sky darkened. I staggered backwards as the familiar swarm of monstrous, bird-like creatures dove down, shrieking with hunger. They descended upon him savagely, raking talons and tearing beaks fighting one another for a morsel of flesh and blood. The wet, grotesque sound of flesh being ripped from bone filled my ears, as did the deep, greedy gulps of them sucking him dry.

I turned away, gripping my weapon tighter, and pushed forwards to fight my way through the crowd of chaos ahead of me.

I no longer knew how many I had killed. Fathers, sons, brothers, none of that mattered to me anymore. The sentimentality of man-made affection? That fades once the sight of your comrades’ insides becomes an aspect of everyday life. After that, you see men less as humans and more as bodies, obstacles.

So I cut them down without mercy, deaf to their protests and pleas for me to spare them. I fought until my hands were slick with sweat and blood, and the unyielding grip over the warhammer had torn my palms raw with blisters. And each time I struck a fatal blow, the disgusting creatures lurched towards the lives I had claimed. Some crashed headfirst into the dirt, spraying muck everywhere as they gorged themselves where they fell. Others snatched bodies in their grimy talons, hauling them away to feast elsewhere.

The sound was the worst part.

It rose above the clash of swords and the cries of dying men, the horrifying wails of the Keres. Great, grating shrieks clawed through the air and echoed over the spongy battlefield. Worse still was the insufferable sound of their gnashing teeth; a hideous, ceaseless crunching as they devoured what remained of the fallen whose souls were now condemned to the depths of Tartarus. Their mangled, deformed forms were a hideous blend of bird and woman, and as they stooped over the mounds of bodies their wings covered the carnage in its entirety, so that nothing could penetrate their evil.

APPEARANCE AND ATTRIBUTES

Over death stricken battlefields, the Keres circle like vultures, their black wings blotting the light from the skies. They wait, eager, listening for the final, ragged screams of dying men, for the sickening thud of bodies collapsing into the mud. They are children of Nyx, spirits of violent death and destruction, drawn to slaughter like moths to a flame.

Because they don’t have the power to kill, Keres are unable to interfere with or sway the outcomes of battle. But their hunger is insatiable. When a soldier falls, the Keres descend in a frenzied swarm, clawing not just at the corpse but at each other as they fight for the first taste of blood. They drain the body dry before tearing the flesh to ribbons, leaving behind nothing but scraps of bone. By the time they finish, another twenty men have fallen.

And so, the feast continues.