The Mud

Waist deep in the mud with legs sprawled out in an irregular splits before him, Idunn thinks to himself: “Gods above, how did it come to this?” But if there is any god listening, it isn’t with Idunn today. He’s drunk, again, but not on the fine Elven wine of his youth but the mouthful of poison gas slowly melting his insides. The Elf, Idunn turns his head slightly. The trench had been taken by Alliance forces and making his way towards him, Idunn sees a stout Dwarf. The Dwarf, beard flowing behind him, is armed with a hefty tower-shield strapped to one arm and a shotgun in his free hand. The Dwarf makes his way down the trench, stopping at the corpses of Idunn’s fallen comrades. A single loud thunderclap echoes out from the barrel of the shotgun, followed by a pause as the Dwarf fumbles to reload. Both barrels to make sure a corpse is a corpse. And then, Idunn feels the sensation in his leg. It isn’t the strange necromancy-rot driven numbness of the gas. As Idunn’s eyes seek out his lower extremes, he notices Vidar – a fellow Elf Idunn went to school with but never bothered to know very well – chewing on his leg. Vidar looks up for a second, eyes pallid and white, face smeared with gore, one pointed ear firmly in place, the other hanging by mere sinewy threats of undead meat. Clearly, the necromancy-gas was meant to take the trench, one way or the other. But as Idunn looked at the undead body of Vidar vigorously tearing into his own quickly melting flesh, Idunn feels a sense of serenity come over him. “At least one of us is having a decent meal, eh?” Idunn looks up, the Dwarf is on him. Vidar does not notice. He is too consumed by the meal that is named Idunn. The thunder-clap is louder this time, shattering Vidar’s skull and reducing his brain to mush. Then there is the clicking and fumbling as the Dwarf reloads – pausing only briefly to wring some of the sweat, blood and muck from his long blonde beard. With a cough, the Dwarf moves on and Idunn is alone to die.

The Mud

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