Ethereal Chronicles

The country had been left in ruin by a war that came unanticipated. Fields once lush with crops and wild growth were now muddy and barren, fertilised only by the bodies of the dead that covered them. Villages and towns lay depleted, their people anxiously waiting for men who would never return.

What was a tragedy for mankind did however prove ample opportunity for a different kind of leader; one whose army was not of the living but of the lost, and far more formidable. With each man that perished, his ranks grew. And soon, he would be strong enough to command the entire world.

This war dragged on for two years. When I came of age, I too was summoned to fight. My mother wept as she held me in her final embrace, begging God to spare at least one of her children, for all four of my brothers had gone before me and none had returned.

Grieved, I offered her promises wrapped in love but empty of truth. She believed them only because she wished to, though we both knew they were promises unlikely to be kept.

I spent six months fighting an enemy that never seemed to end, six months wondering how our king could claim to love his people while sending us to die for him – seated upon his gold encrusted throne, feasting on the cold, dead backs of those he called his own.

By the eighth month, I was drowning in the stench of decay. The corpses that carpeted the fields had robbed me of all sense, and I could no longer taste or smell anything but death. Flesh lingered in my nostrils, the one scent that I could not quite shake, and I forgot the sight of peace and hope, instead blinded by the obscene atrocities that were too vast to bury.

But nothing could have prepared me for the night of the hunt.

We had gained ground, driving the enemy back towards their border, but the small victory came at a terrible cost. The fighting descended into carnage. After several days, only a handful of soldiers remained on either side, and those who did survive were too spent to go on. They collapsed where they stood, into the blood crusted mud which bathed their skin in the remnants of their dead peers.

I was among those that still breathed. I lay there for what felt like an eternity undisturbed, until a faint stirring in the air made my skin crawl.

Through the dark, storm laden clouds, something strange and hollow began to carve its way through. From the break in the darkness came a green, sickly light, spilling across the field and casting the dead and dying in a dim, emerald glow. It was the colour of decay, and I despised it.

Then, from the heart of the mist, a figure emerged. He was both magnificent and terrible, clad in chunky armour and shrouded in torn cloth that whipped about his broad frame. In his right hand he gripped an enormous battleaxe, which he raised before him as if commanding unseen ranks to advance.

As he stepped fully into the light, I recoiled in horror. His skin was grey and patched, writhing with maggots that squirmed through open wounds and fed on the decaying flesh, revealing flashes of gleaming white bone. His left eye hung loose from its socket, swaying by a single thread and yet darting about with dreadful vitality, while the right glowed a furious red.

At his side trotted a great skeletal horse, its bones clattering softly beneath scraps of hanging sinew. He grasped its reins and pulled himself into the saddle before guiding the beast forwards, gliding first through the air, then descending onto the blood soaked ground.

Behind him, his army followed. They poured from the mist in a grotesque procession, unnatural in appearance and demeanor; some on foot, others on horseback, all moving with a ghastly speed that seemed to defy their nature. Like their master, they were rotted beyond recognition, animated by a force that could not be human.

Some bore wounds so horrifying it was a wonder they could stand without falling apart. One man’s jaw was torn clean away, his tongue lolling and basking in the blood that streamed from his open throat. Another held his severed head in place with trembling hands. Others marched headless altogether.

Terrified, I shoved aside the bodies I lay upon and buried myself beneath them, hoping they might hide me from sight. The acrid, metallic stench of fresh blood pressed against my throat, and my eyes watered as I peered through the tangle of limbs at the ghostly army assembling around their leader.

His red eye gleamed through the mist, bright as a burning coal in the darkness. He raised his voice; a guttural, inhuman cry, commanding his soldiers to search for new souls. Obediently, they began to step amongst the corpses.

Each time a ghostly soldier brushed the shoulders of a corpse, the dead man would stir, jerking upright with a shuddering groan before falling into step beside his new commander.

This ordeal continued for some time, until the leader finally lifted his arm and the ranks stopped. They gathered again in grim formation; some men from my side, others from the enemy’s, and many bearing armour or banners I did not recognise.

I whispered my thanks to God over and over, that I had been spared, unseen amongst the fallen. I watched as the dead turned their faces to the sky and ascended, disappearing into the swirling vortex that pulsed above the remaining bodies.

That night, I left for home. I did not care if I was thought a coward, I only wanted to rid myself of the chance to see the ghastly sight again.

By the grace of God, peace was declared less than a year after I deserted the field. Yet even as the years passed and the country began to heal, I prayed with every breath that no war of such scale would ever again curse our land… and that the ghostly army I had seen would remain bound to their own world.

APPEARANCE AND ATTRIBUTES

In German and broader European folklore, the Wild Hunt is a spectral procession of ghostly hunters, often led by a legendary or supernatural figure. The hunters ride through forests, fields, and wintery skies, travelling with fiery eyed horses, hounds, wolves and sometimes demons.

Scandinavian interpretations of the Wild Hunt suggest that the hunters are led by the Norse god Odin, though appearances are said to be scarce and the army is more likely to be recognised by sound alone.

Those who witness the Hunt risk being swept into its ranks or cursed, while some versions tell of prey pursued, whether human, animal or demon. The Wild Hunt is also said to collect the souls of the dead. Encounters often signal war, death, or misfortune, and the Hunt embodies relentless, otherworldly forces that exist beyond human control.