A Treatise on Revenants

The following is a glimpse into a world I've been working on for nearly a year. This is a professional work, intended for publication. It is a labor of my years of experience and education regarding actual novel writing, world creation, language creation, linguistic studies, and more. I am not a master of any of these, and in fact am likely merely passable in some a I dabble in so many things. I find it highly passable, however. This is not a part of a book, but the things referenced within contain vague nods to copyrighted material and characters, and also nods to spoilers which don't really matter to any of you.

The content is mature, contains some blood and a little bit of violence, and is narrative heavy. It is very short, but I hope I was able to hold your attention with a more personal narrative style. It is written as a treatise by a singular individual, and again serves merely as a glimpse. It's also not a style I practice regularly, so feel free to tell me where to shore up my style if you have more experience writing in such a fashion.

I did not fancy anything up, either. Apologies. Below is the piece. Let me know if the vague outlines of the presented ideas intrigues you at all and enjoy.













































There is strength in many things. There is strength in a warrior's arm, or in the labored back of a peasant farmer. There is strength in the flank of a steed, or in how a woman tends her duties. There is strength beyond our comprehension, perhaps. Strength that resides in our souls. Despair, love, hatred, anger. These all have their own sort of strength. Perhaps none more so than love.

I am a Hunter. Born a bastard and raised a warrior. Taught to read, to write. To wield blade and bow, to track, to kill. Indeed, my station is little more than as a lamb to the slaughter. One of many in an endless line of humanity thrown into a fray of gnashed teeth. There is courage in those of us who choose this. It is a life chosen merely as a child, after all. Or perhaps it is stupidity. The idle daydreaming of a youth who would see themselves as a paragon of might. Still, there is strength too in this.

What of a commoner, perhaps? In this land, this realm, none are truly peasants. We are isolated, surrounded by the most foreboding thing our world knows. The Forest. A living barrier which seems to sway even without wind. Taunting us, enclosing our borders and separating us from the Kingdoms beyond. Allowing us a single road for trade, which takes a small army to traverse. We all hold equal footing, however much some may dislike it. For without the laborers and the farmers, we would fall to starvation.

We exist on the outskirts, the wildlands. Away from the walled cities and the fortified castle dwellings of the nobility. Yet while expense cannot be spared to wall we commoners in, we can be raised to the call of the battle. For when this Forest sends forth the foul beasts, the spawn of Hell, the bane of that godless land. When it sends forth its hellions, we Hunters respond. When our own are taken, we Hunters respond. When the call to feed the land is sounded, we respond. Braving the dangers of the wooded area to fell what game there is.

To you, the gilded noble sitting upon his ass to read this, perhaps this seems preposterous. You are reading a manuscript, which cost a tad more than its weight in silver, written by a peasant. One who just insulted you no less. A peasant warrior, a warrior held in the same regard as any Knight of our realm. To this day, no beast has ever wandered into your world. They only pillage us, only attacking you when you set upon the Baron's Trail. We have no answers, and we never have. I will reveal no secrets to you here in this page of our realm, how we came to be and where our ruler's linage springs from. I know not.

What I have seen though, even I cannot truly comprehend. For as surely as there is a God, and as surely as this Forest is Hell, never have I seen a wonder such as this. The Revenant, one of our own returned to us. A man slain in his home, at night, in a cowardly betrayal by my Lord's son. Hell envelops us, and soon I think it will finally spill forth into Drītan. I say this now at his final passing. He has returned to the true Lord, our Creator. I am honored to say I knew him as a man, and I am in awe to see the power of his redemption.

Thusly I return to love. For it was love that tied this man so strongly to this world. It was love that made him wish, upon meeting our Creator's light, to return. To serve His will, and in doing so be allowed to see her once more. He stood, taller than he ever had in life. He was strong, as a young man. He was utterly alone in our world. Denying himself the chance to be a Hunter to tend to his family. He went unnoticed by so many of us, but secretly revered by his friends. Perhaps such a thing is a true legacy. To be humble, to be meek despite yourself. To suffer but to give freely, and in doing so to be remembered forever by those you affected.

I ramble, yet I think such a thing is truly desirable. Perhaps, however, most are not willing to bare that burden. He bore love for us all, and for her most of all. A love he knew she could not return, and when hope fled from him, knew she would not. Not because she did not wish to, but because she could not allow herself to. To love a Hunter is a terrible burden, and indeed we always wind up marrying each other. You may find it appalling that we allow women into our ranks, as warriors. I assure you we have little choice in the matter. We Hunters have very short life spans. If we make it to our twentieth year, we generally thank the Creator for such an outlandish miracle.

I personally, as well, do not give a shite about your lordly sensitivities. You likely would not last a year in our realm. I write this purely to sell to the Barons, filling our coffers and secure in the knowledge they will pilfer your pockets for twice its worth upon resell. Again, my quill wanders. Allow me to continue and stop wasting ink.

I witnessed only one battle at this Revenant's side. He was both the man we'd lost and yet his soul was different. The blade he carried roared with a blued flame. It burned with the intensity of his sin and desire. Quite literally, as he told us, he carried his redemption but endured through faith. We faced three warriors of the Black Legion. We hunted beasts. Demons, perhaps. Never had we been faced by warriors clad in armor, black iron knights. We had no idea such a thing existed, or that the burning Hells could field a literal army.

They stood a head higher than us all, save for the Revenant. Their plate armor was forged of rough hewn midnight. Shimmering as only something nearing pitch black could. They were armed with crude bardiche, longswords at their hip. They never were able to draw them as the Revenant launched into action. For the first swung his polearm at him, the blade whistling through the air with great velocity. Leveraged for a quick strike, the Revenant held his ground. Taking blade in hand and assuming a half-sworded guard, he swept under the falling shaft and parried with the edge of his blade. Such a thing we'd never seen. To move that fast would be impossible for a man, and as such it would be far more prudent for us to avoid such a blow.

With the splintering of burning wood, the flame consumed the shaft. The head of bardiche landed upon the dirt floor with a dull thud. Twisting at the hips and pivoting on his heel, the Revenant turned into the hellion and drove his pommel into his uncovered jaw. Perhaps a full helmet would have saved the demon's jaw, but it was not to be. We heard the sickening crack of bone. We saw blackened teeth fly from the thing's mouth. Vicious blood accompanied it. Splintered bone could no longer hold its mouth close, and so the jaw hung sickeningly.

The Revenant turned at the hip again, drawing the blade back across the warrior's throat in a swift finality. Blood poured, dark and thick, as the demon dropped the useless shaft of the polearm and grasped desperately at the wound upon him. Taking his longsword in both hands by the hilt, the Revenant charged the other two. Again a bardiche cleaved for him, this time at his legs. Easily he jumped over it, and the demon carried the swing through and around, up above his head in one fluid motion.

But the Revenant was upon him, thrusting the blade foolishly at solid plate. The plate parted however, the flames of his sin burning through the metal as if it were no obstacle. The scent of heated steel and burning flesh met our nostrils, as the sound of the demon's scream met our ears. The Revenant forced him back with great strength, turning and ripping the blade through the warrior's torso, cleaving his armor and his midsection in half.

The third fell upon him, jabbing at him with the tip of the bardiche in an attempt to push him off balance. He swiftly pivoted away from it, moving in a fashion such as I could not have hoped to and survived. He lashed out with a weak, wild strike with his longsword, using only one hand. Perhaps it didn't matter, not against the magic of the Heavens. For the blade cut cleaning through the shaft, the wood igniting as it fell to the ground with the head of the bardiche. The warrior dropped the shaft, reaching for his longsword. He never drew it as the Revenant came upon him, delivering the tip of the longsword up and into the exposed neck.

With a horrific sawing motion, he butchered the demon's head from his shoulders. The body fell immediately to the ground, no longer able to function. This transpired in less than thirty seconds, or so I guess. I was not there for his final stand, nor was I among the number of Hunters he later saved from imprisonment. Of this I can write no longer, but I propose again the strength of our souls.

What strength does your soul draw upon? Love? Anger? Hatred? Lust, or greed? If you were to ask your god for a second chance, do you believe you'd be given it? Would you be willing to bare the weight and searing pain of your sin? For these Revenants, redemption was born upon the strength of their soul. Raw and exposed. This is the first written record of such beings, but I fear we will soon all know such conflict. Prepare yourself, and gird thy soul. For our debts come due, and the collector is soon to come.

Everard of Aidle,
Hunter.

Dear Everard of Aidle,

i admire your "waste of ink, not giving a shite about my lordly sensitivities".
I heard, they have "economical problems" in hell as of this day indeed, hence the lowly choice of the equipment of my peasants, which - by the way - i don't give a shite about. The "Revenant" was it, didn't truly faze me - for the sin i bear might be even greater. You see, i've already signed a contract with the devil. As such i'd prefer not to discuss the old farts plans in the heavens. However, i was quite amused hearing from a twenty years old brat, lecturing me about sins.

Yours sincerely, Mephistopheles,
V. Lord of darkness and
master of games