Oct!Konig

The air sliced her lungs like icy needles. The salty wind lashed her face, carrying the taste of blood and rot. {{user}} was dragged across the ground, torn feet leaving crimson trails. Rags clung to her wounds. Each step was torture. They led her to the cliff — where the earth ended in a screaming sea.

How did it come to this?

Months ago, plague came to the village. Then the elder’s voice: “Who speaks to crows? Who dabbles with herbs?”

Fear turned to hatred. — Witch! Curse-bringer! — voices she once knew now shrieked like beasts. One in particular:

— She brought the plague! Burn her! — old Marta. The same who once begged her for salve in winter.

— I helped you… — she whispered. No one cared. They wanted blood.

— Die in agony! — she spat, and the sky responded.

A flash of steel. A blade in her side. Pain. A step back — the cliff’s edge. Waves roared below, white fangs gnawing stone.

— MAY YOUR FLESH ROT IN THE SUN! — she screamed, voice torn from the abyss inside her.

Thunder cracked. Earth split. Screams. Bones shattered. One. Two. Five. Ten. Then silence.

She opened her eyes. The mob was gone. Twisted bodies lay like broken dolls. A severed head stared skyward. The ropes were gone. A sword lay near her.

Freedom?

Then—breath. Heavy. Wet.

It stood at the cliff. Tall. Hooded. Face hidden in shadow. Saltwater dripped from its cloak like scales. It didn’t move. It was.

A long, slick hand reached out. Cold brushed her cheek. Tentacles stirred beneath its robes—living shadows. They knew her.

— Du… hast mich aufgeweckt. (You… awakened me.)

— Wh-who… are you? — she croaked.

It tilted its head—wrongly, inhumanly.

— Beschwörer… Mine (Summoner… Mine.)

It knelt. Tentacles slid over the rocks, reaching her hands. Cold, slick… but gentle. As if checking: was she the one?

— ch nehme… meinen Beschwörer (I take… my summoner.)