Chapter Text
The ground was slick in blood and rain.
Everything was slick in blood and rain. The ground. The trees. The bodies.
Purple slim fingers that ended in claws trembled heavily, coated in blood and rainwater. The slippery liquid trickled down his wrist. The trembling fingers lost its grip on the mace, its handle wet and bloody.
The mace, Gambit, fell with a thud to the ground. The sound was lost within the pitter pattering of pouring rain.
Gambit was barely recognisable anymore, covered in so much wet and dried blood and other disgusting body juices, that you couldn’t see the intricately carved ridges and the carefully studded jewels. You couldn’t see the beauty. You could only see the blood. It was only recognisable, because it was the last mace in the server.
The owner of the mace was unrecognisable too. He had been a beautiful prince, purple skin and darker purple flowing hair, clawed fingers and a proud tilt of his chin. His face had almost always been cracked into a smile, and his eyes had always had a bright light to them, as if ever-seeing the brilliance in the world.
But Wemmbu was kneeling on the ground, knees sinking into the mud and blood and rainwater. His head was bowed, and an army lay at his feet. Thousands of Cindercrest soldiers lay scattered across the ravaged forest, blood pooling across the ground to form one large crimson sea. Wemmbu had just won a war. But he looked defeated anyway.
Rain dripped from his soaked hair, trickling down his skin. Kneeling hunched over on the ground, Wemmbu felt nothing.
Never let go of your weapon, he heard Mane’s voice in his head, the man who’d once been his mentor. He wondered where Mane was now. Probably dead. Just like everybody else.
Wemmbu looked down. Fingers trembling, hands shaking, from pure exhaustion and rage. Gambit lay half-buried in the mud, slowly getting swallowed by the pooling puddles of rainwater.
The battle had lasted for days and days and days. Nearly all of Wemmbu’s armour was either nearly broken or broken, every inch of his body was hurt and bloody, and his muscles physically could not hold him up any longer.
Kneeling there, Wemmbu was sure he was never going to be able to get back up.
It had been weeks since he’d last slept, and even longer since he’d eaten anything but golden apples and potions that made his stomach churn. His brain was moving sluggishly, and his vision was blurring. Even his spine was tired of holding himself up.
He felt himself tipping forward. If he just let himself fall forward…face buried into the soft mud…let his eyes close…
He’d drift off to sleep. He’d never wake up.
It wouldn’t be so bad. If the stories were true, he’d see everyone he knew again. And if they weren’t, well…
What was there left in this world worth Wemmbu living for?
Rain and pools of blood and more bodies than he could count. That was all that was left in this ruined world. The war had taken everything out of it, and it had left only Wemmbu.
It’s just me, he thought slowly, his brain struggling to even think. I’m all that’s left.
Maybe if he went to sleep, he’d open his eyes and see Eggchan again.
His eyelids fluttered. He felt himself careen forward, landing with barely a sound into the mud.
The man who’d made the biggest impact on the server, dying without a sound.
His eyelids slowly lowered. The world went dim. There was nothing left, nothing he would miss, nothing he would leave behind.
Just as he felt himself fade away, he heard a familiar voice. The voice was weak, desperate, and in disbelief. Wemmbu had never heard FlameFrags sound like this before.
“Wemmbu?”
Flame?
And then Wemmbu’s eyes shut, and everything faded away.