#craygerhudt

[lukebygrace]

The Craygerhudt Mine

In the town of Craygerhudt, a backwater village precipice on the coast, smothered in dense forest with a natural waterfall not too far off, it was a small place that most could call home; Ran near single handedly by one Constable, the poorest district had its flaws, being segregated from the aristocratic rich jewelers and shoptenders, homeless, wheat farmers and all those trying to make a living were forced to mingle and interact. The town was barely connected to the lively kingdoms and castles, relations held by a small thin cord of the towns hope; The Crayger Mine, a deep and winding cave system that housed minerals from silver to gold, to jewels and artifacts of long ago. However, with the population of the town dwindling, the search for more extravagant jobs in the dark ages, the forage to see the worlds plays and arts. The mine lacked it’s once bumbling house of coworkers, and soon enough, the accidents and unforgivable turmoils rose too high for it’s small workforce, and with the employment of a new Baron, the mine was declared exiled from the town, not even a property of the smallest town. Connections were cut, and more people joined the staggering marches and crumbling stagecoaches to find their way out of the town. Those that lived in the town started to crumble, with prices for land and necessities rising in order to keep the upper districts lively, found the faces they traded and worked with familiar, even in the crumbling architecture of the town, humble friends and bonds were made, a potent friendly air--Scratch each others back, for while bond can’t be bought, bread can.

On the perch of one stubborn night, a wagon had came down the main streets, a set of 4 newcomers arriving off the stagecoach. A plated knight, sword in hand. A roughened, crude brigand, an actor the likes of royalty, and a prestigious nun. Not much was known, save for their purpose. The eyes of homeless and the curious watched on, stalking and lingering as the pair chattered and chuckled to themselves, arriving to the mine, they found themselves boastful and mischievous, and they disappeared the abandoned, decade ancient mine. They disappeared for hours, days went past, and those were considered to be dead, rumors of creating a search party to find them were whispered among the vagrants, until the 3rd night, the crackle of torches, clinking metal, laboured breaths and pain-ridden curses. Not much was seen nor heard, save for the agreement. “We’ll split, and god forbid  we ever have to see each other, or any of this again” All was quiet, the baron left his place and instead came around Constable Lisa, a virtuous and stout figure, commanding and stubborn, she began the long task of pulling Craygerhudt back into a society, rather than the organized slums they were. 10 years have gone by since any mention of the mine or even an issue, the cost of food starts to dry down, land becomes purchasable, newcomers come in wild shapes and forms, the town seemed to be at an uprise, and the decision to move here, or stay, wasn’t looking as a bad idea. Until the nightmares started to happen. Each rest and sleep were reckless and nightmarish, unsettling and disgusting. Starting slow, all it came was one steady dream. Life would go on as normal, however any mention or appearance of the mine was met with a disgusting contrast to the world, people would appear sicker and sicker, cast with the plague, deathly pale with blackened eyes, a sight that even the toughest lobotomy couldn’t wash out. The dreams came in different manners, some simply eery and unnerving, depicting just a vision of the entrance to the crawling mine in real time, each minute clocked by in real life was a minute spent staring, figures and eyes could appear in the darkness, harsh cackling or devilish, sadistic laughs, and some days, not a figure or sound at all. How long these dreams have gone for, no one knows, if anyone else has these dreams, who would ask. As each night ended, and each morning you woke, there was nothing but one motivation rattling in your bones. Get to the bottom of that mine, set a date and go, forgo reality and family, goals and ambitions; Something is lying there, and you can feel it crawling through you.

[lukebygrace]

Craygerhudt; Retired Reprisal

The darkness of the night gloomed over the backwater town and through it’s bordering forests. A faint grey mist lingering in the air. The grey moon shined down upon the towns forests, luminescent rays of light bearing just the tiniest bit of visibility for the forest’s inhabitants. Though, something else was at plan. He sat up straight in his bed, feeling the dull ache across his bones, tingling and panging out in a ritualistic, checkered pattern, a zig zag that he feared ever since the start. Old blue eyes somehow grew greyer on this night, a tumorous red scar across the left side of his face, with another deep set of scratchings among a heavily chiseled and ragged-stubble covered chin. The faint candle light in his little wagon slowly started to flicker, waning off like a careful breeze of wind had entered his cosy, wooden home. A long vacant, deep and slow thump in his chest started to come back, and his breaths went from the peaceful slumbering snores, to the careful, quiet, deep breaths of paranoia. “No.” He mumbled out from his breath, his throat starting to wail and grow dry, as he threw his legs off the side of the bed, planting veiny, bare feet onto the grainy wooden floorboards. “You can’t be serious.” His voice lay crooked, an angering tone growing within a disappointed flare. “I’m not ready.” He mumbled quickly under his breath, his face growing into a stubborn, despaired frown, looking across his small wagon. 

An ancient armour stand stood behind his desk, dusty and empty, long gone of it’s once prodigious armour and sigil. His weapon and armour sold amongst other antique relics to the wandering vagrant that came each week.

“Once more…” He sighs, trouble building in his voice. The smell of potent candle wax in the air, a dull quietness in his ears, a lack of screaming, a lack of yelling--An addiction long since settled, now suddenly brightened to a flame. A suffocating dull quiet air that left him uneasy.

He stood himself up onto his feet, feeling a tingling scatter across his mind, rattling against his skull like a ricocheting bullet, although gently tickling through the grooves of his brain. Goosebumps, from the inside. “What more can I do? How more can I do?” He spoke out to the world, relieving himself of that dull silence, even if it was filled with his deep, anxious voice.

He quickly stumbled to his desk and drawers, rattling through cabinets among shelves to find himself any vast protection he could. Finding himself a simple black gambeson coat, ropes and strings to attach long since sold or used elsewhere. He threw the pillowy, soft fabric across his chest, the gambeson tunic ending at his waist, and starting at his neck. He gathered loose belts and strapped them across himself in a loose attempt to hold it steady. A black padded hood that closely fit his head was quickly thrown on, as well as a set of simple thick cloth pants, and some high-rising boots.

The ex-knight gathered to his front door, adorned in his makeshift, crude armour and snatched a long, steel blade from beside the door--The blade length drafted from his thumb to his collar bone, whilst the handle fit perfectly in his hand. He marched out onto the marshy, muddy, gravel-coated surface that waxxed over Craygerhudt’s floors, he looked to the forest and trudged through the mud.

“I will come back to you. I will once more stray myself away from the sheep, unto your...Treacherous, degenerate arms.” He snapped, his face crumbling into a vicious sneer as he grew closer to the mine, stopping in his tracks as he saw the mine.

Once abandoned, once left ruined, blood stained, curse filled and trashed--A flickering light of flame lay at the mine’s mouth.

His eyes drew over to a squint, and suddenly the tingling in his mind stopped. The pain that trickled along his bones like a simple bit of thread eased to stop--Yet that dull quietness never ended.

His time was over. He knew. His feet slowly stomped through the up hill marsh to the mine. Fulfilling old, abandoned footsteps he and his friends had once left.

His eyes grew duller, as he grew closer. Marching a step he never thought he’d take, though from anothers shoes, in another perspective.

The harsh rocks crumbled against his boots, stomping into the wet marsh, an awful mix of half-attempted pathing, and natural restoration.

The night grew colder, as he grew closer, emerging up to the mine’s gateway, peering down it’s harsh slope down, watching the fire light at the end of the tunnel, the highpitch squeal and shriek of abominations that seemed all too familiar, now come to be brought unto death once more.

Casual, mumbling voices grouped up at the bottom. Four of them, from all different ranges.

His hand tensed against the swords grip, his tongue tickled his mouth for words to say.

Begone from here, thy wretched thief hands be abolished from this treacherous mine.

Your solace in a crumbling misfit of hope shall bring more sheep to the slaughter than your own.

Your never ending flow of ambitions and abandonment shall not be ended by the rightful crusade of this mine.

He squinted. Nary a thought could be chosen, nary a word could be specified, nary a purpose for the foul words that seemingly appeared in his head.

Claim your birthright and answer the abominalistic call of the beyond.

The words rattled around in his mouth, and once more, the right side of his face twisted and coiled painfully, cramping into a sadistic grin, then an upheaving sob, while the left side laid dormant and miserable, a stroke of evil determined even within the retired.

His sharp teeth bit along his dry tongue, and he stomped down into that slippery slope again.

And then, he started to walk down the steps to that forgotten mine, calling out to the new arrivals.

[lukebygrace]

Merc | Foreclex Office (Part 1)

The back door of the black van was wide open, waiting on the side of the street. The engine hummed and quietly panted. Sleek and black all over, the driver's seat had the window rolled down, an elbow stuck out, with a dark red hoodie rolled up past it, a caucasian hand falling down the side of the van door, pale fingers incessantly tapping at the metal of the door. James stared out from the van, looking out to the house beside him, the front door was wide open, and down the hall he could see his...Friends. Sam walked out first, blonde hair tied back up into a high hanging bun, a loose fade of eyeshadow over her eyelids, a natural set of pink lipstick over her lips, with mascara adorning her eyelashes. A grey and black ballistic vest laid over her torso, covering up a floral blouse, thin, white material, patterned with beautiful deep shades of purple, violet, yellow and red as flower petals, with a white set of tight fitting trousers as pants. A black strap covered from her shoulder to her opposite hip, at the end of the strap hung a dull, faded crimson red bag, with a white cross over it, torn velcro straps covering the contents. Her face was naturally rested, brows downtilted in an angered expression, her head looking to the floor, blue eyes looking across the gravel foot path as she walked outside, before her head leered up, to glare at James. Her eyelids grew into a tight squint, as she walked through the front grass to the back of the van. Then, next in the line, Smith. A tall, muscled figure, wearing a flannel button up shirt, his cheeks were chiselled, with a strong jaw, a grey 5 o clock shadow painted over his jaw, a shaved, bald head covered in a gradient of black, stubble starting to grow back. He stared straight out, looking to James, his shoulders were broad, his arms out by his side, hands clutching two firearms, small and compact. A set of grey, fading jeans hung loosely over his legs. Over his flannel jacket laid a familiar ballistic vest, akin to Sam’s, as he walked out to the grass, staring at James as he made his way through, his face naturally held in an angered expression, with a stout jaw and a constant squint. “Let’s go, buddy.” James called out from the driver's side, his right hand grabbing hold of the bottom of the steering wheel with his thumb, giving it a subconscious twist. The words from James only made Smith look away from him. The van buckled down, and gave a quiet creak as Sam crept into the back, a set of seats lining the interior of the van, facing one another, a total of 5 on each side. James flicked his eyes to the rear view mirror, watching the blonde crawl along the narrow hall way between the seats, and take a seat at the most top left seat, just behind James, a quiet, muttering sigh was heard as the click of a seatbelt was heard. “Gettin all dolled up huh?” James asked again, his voice still as eager and enthusiastic as the last day, his breath wasted to the air, in an attempt to cease that awkward silence. The air was thin, though suffocating, like a film that hung loosely in the air, like a loose cobweb in the wind, it only gave a sole reminder to their true purpose, or at least to Sam; Not a place to make friends, but a place to make a living. As Sam hung her head down, resting her elbows on her knees, and her palms on her face, she remembered that. “Better than dying ugly.” She muttered, feeling her breath drift past her bare wrists, before she wrung her head up and sat still in the seat, as the van gave another creak, as the hulking giant; Smith, came into the van. James glared through to Smith through the mirror, gifting him a sanguine smile, without any acknowledgement. James took a breath in, feeling the breath slip past his lips and harshly against his lips, before he looked to the windshield, clicking his tongue impatiently, looking down the road, the dirty brick buildings that bordered the cracked asphalt road, old parked cars laid dormant on the side of the road, some untouched, some broken into. It was a way of life in Crook territory. Anybody that had a car that needed to get somewhere would be out by now, James knew, before he looked to the house again, an impulsive “Are we good to leave yet?” slipping from his lips, a loud tone that he couldn’t quiet. The last of them stood at the front door, her hand moving back to grab the door knob and shut it behind her, as she looked to James. Long, messy black hair, curled and knotted without a care, a long face with a weak chin. A set of thick bushy brows and big brown eyes, her brows rested up, a resting expression of forgotten care. A black t-shirt was covered by the same, grey and black ballistic vest they all shared, though in Laina’s hands held a long, wooden rifle, just a little under the size of both her arms. She held it in her both hands, barrel downturned to the ground as she started to walk to the end of the van. “No we’re still--” Sam started to speak in a breathy, sighing mumble, before Smith spoke out at the same time. “No.” His blunt, strong voice leaving a booming mutter into the van. “If you wanna leave without me, that’s fine.” Laina spoke out from outside, her tone lacked all tone, a voice that portrayed simple stagnicity. James gave a little, amused puff of air from his nostrils, and a smile grew across his lips, “Gonna leave me alone up here?” He asked, sticking his head closer to the window to watch Laina as she arrived at the end of the van, one hand moving up from the gun to grab against the door, before she twisted her head to James. “Yeah.” Laina said, dull and monotone, before she looked back to the end of the van, and she crept into the back of the van, ducking her head down as she searched for a seat. James let out a scoffing chuckle, before turning back to the rear view mirror, watching Laina take her seat, and Smith give out a quiet, angered sigh, standing up from his seat to close the van doors behind Laina. “What’d I do to you guys?” He let out a jesting remark as Laina took her seat, and Smith took his seat, closest to the exit, uncaring with their seatbelt, before James looked to the windscreen, and pulled his hand inside, turning the handbrake with a whirring ‘click’ from the van. “Dunno.” Laina remarked, and Sam spoke with a breathy sigh, glaring at the back of James’s chair. “Wake us up at 10AM to kill?” Sam chides, earning a tiny amused muffled “Hah” from Laina. James feet struck the van’s acceleration pedal, and the van cruised along out to the main lane, starting to slowly fly by the old, brick buildings and rotting cars. James scoffed through his nose, “It’s not that bad.” James’ voice carried out a loud, sanguine tone, an optimist, even with the scar on his right eyebrow, with a dirty 5 o clock shadow over his face. A stained hoodie over his top, and stained track pants, with a shotgun laying beside him, jammed between the seat and the door, he was simply used to it. 

“Yeah some of us haven’t done this since we were 13, James.” Sam scolded, a quick, fiery tone in her bark towards James.

“Or, even want to.” Laina monotonically remarks, bending over in her seat, resting her elbows on her knees, letting the gun drop to the floor, her hands hanging loosely in the air between her legs.

Sam’s brows were cast downtilt even further, an angry expression her face, tightly held. James rocks back into his seat, his brows furrowing down, growing angry for a second before he only quirks his brow up in confusion, “You think I wanna do this?” he asks, glaring back at the rear view mirror.

Smith holds onto the back of the van door, almost like a safety guard, staring ahead of him into nothing, a frown constantly over his face, as if he’s just waiting for something.

Laina hangs her head down, her messy clumps of long black hair falling beside her, her shoulders give a lazy shrug.

Sam stoutly keeps herself in an upright posture, head tilted to the back of James chair. “So why aren’t we turning around?” She barks out, before turning to face ahead of her, looking to Laina staring at the van floor.

James opens his mouth, his breath hangs in his mouth for a minute, a solid pause before he barks out, his tone no longer sanguine, but still with an enthusiastic tinge in it, a glimmer of hope almost.

“You think I wanna be working for the german fucks?”  He barks, angrily looking off to the side, though still forced to glare at the windscreen, as they drive into an intersection, the main highway just ahead of them, the cars drifting past.

The cars flew by quick on the highway, the highway sprawled out into branches of different roads going all over the city. It’d take almost 25 minutes to get from this crime ridden, slum of an industrial district, out to the main city, almost untouched by the faction wars that leered on the outskirts of the city.

“So why are we.” Laina muttered to the floor, as Sam barked over her. “You’d rather work for The Crooks out of all people, that doesn’t make us better!” she yelled, her voice starting to pick up in sound, bouncing around the metal walls of the van.

Smiths hands clutched at the handle to the door, grasp tightening slowly. “We have a mission to do.” He spoke quietly, though it didn’t lack the blunt, rude nature of his voice.

James opened his mouth and stammered, “Well fu-” he paused, bringing his head straight ahead of him, and he shook his head. “What else are we supposed to do? Fuckin German’s got money,” He ranted, shaking his head from side to side, as if he was listing things off in his head. “Redhead bitch is corrupt.” He continued, and Sam’s frown only grew further.

“You don’t know that.” Laina mumbled to the floor.

“The Lawyers a fuckin pussy, he’s got fuckin nothing dude.” James listed again, steering off at the intersection. “And hey, fuck, The Crooks are the only fuckin thing left!” He shouted off, at the end of his list, turning onto the main highway, and drifting along with the cars side by side.

“You don’t like Lucy because The Crooks don’t like her!” Sam snapped off, “And, you know what, you think The Crooks are so good--They’re a bunch of drug addicts, isn’t their whole fucking reason to gang, because...cause!” Sam continued to yell, feverishly yelling out to the van, losing her poise at the end of her words, tripping up on her sentence.

Laina lets out a sigh and sits herself up, looking to Smith, her hands on her knee’s.

“You like Lucy huh? When she fuckin sells kids as sex slaves, huh? You wanna work for that devil bitch?” James snaps out, looking to the rear view mirror, tilting his head towards it, his eyes open wide, a stabbing, piercing sight in his eyes, almost vacant save for that sharp stare, trying to look for Sam.

“The Crooks are better?” Sam laughingly yells out, shaking her head and crossing her arms in her seat. “Yeah, think about all they’ve killed and childhoods ruined, for their fucking gang. You ever think that!” Sam only yells, though in a jovial, jesting matter, a sadistic smirk over her face, taking pleasure in the heat of the moment.

“Yo, Smith.” Laina calls out to Smith, watching him as he hangs his head low, shaking his head, his other hand moving up to bring along his face, giving himself a face palm.

James just lets out a scoff, turning away from the mirror, hands gripped tight onto the steering wheel as he steers, he gives himself a slow, shake of his head, quietly scoffing under his breath.

Sam slowly loses her smirk, looking past Laina’s shoulder, as she sighs and turns, looking dead at Sam.

“Huh?” Laina questions.

And Sams angry frown looks to Laina, “What?” she snaps out.

“You..” Laina mumbles, before she gives a roll of her shoulders, and she looks beside Sam, looking over her shoulder. “Nevermind.”

Sam lets out an exaggerated, dramatic scoff before looking to the bottom right of the van floor.

The silence hung thin once more, that constant film of web in the air, hanging in front of them, draped at their face, like taunting a red bull. The film of tension.

“None of the factions are ‘Good’” Smith mumbled out, angrily and loud, as he brought his head back up to stare in front of him, before he looked out to the rest of the van, talking to them all.

“We’re not good. Pick a side and fuckin stick.” He speaks out, louder, his voice naturally boomed out along the vans insides, giving all a clear directive.

“Crooks are spastic kids, Brokers are fraudy fuckin fritz.” Smith rolls his eyes. “The Kids are an organized set of kiddy fuckers, and The List is a senile fuckin lawyer.” He closes his mouth grimly, and simply stares, feeling that tension, feeling the film build over his mouth that wants to shut him up.

“So shut the fuck up. And pick one. “ Smith finishes off, looking to Laina, and looking to Sam. Sam still sits with her arms crossed, eyes looking to the floor, her lips pursed up in an angry pout, Laina sits with one leg on the seat, her elbow resting on that leg, her fist up to her head, staring out in front of her blindly.

“Crooks.” James speaks out, a sense of condescending obviousness in his tone.

Sam lets out a dramatic grunt of disapproval, “Ugh.”

Laina stares in front of herself, giving a slow sigh, and a slow blink. “This fuckin sucks.” she mutters out bluntly, monotonely.

And Smith rolls his eyes, turning back to the door, shaking the door, feeling the metal jar back into his hand as a means of reassurance, almost.

The silence built up for a while, the thin film crew to a thick tape, plastered over their mouths as the highway passed by them. The highway growing over the Grandulay river, a river that separated Crook and Kid territory from the safe center of the city, known as ‘The Public’. Up on the highway, there was a clear view of the city, Brisom. In the centre was a sprawling mixed district, tall, dense skyscrapers and city towers were frequent, long and congested roads, with hundreds of pedestrians on the street at any one time, going from place to place without a care in the world, under security of Milatas.

Underneath The Public, was The List territory, a set of recently acquired land with roads that were like small grids, copy-pasted houses lined the streets, a quick and easy way of buying as much property as people. Next to the List, or bottom left of The Public, was The Crook territory, a mess of industrial manufacturers and cheap, brick buildings, thick sludge poured out from the landfills out into the river, and big stacks of white smoke would leer off from the factories.

Just above Crook territory, was The Kids, a set of suburban houses and shops, lining against a set of cargo harbors that painted the side of the Grandulay river, a key set of assets for a human and drug trafficker.

And above The Public, was The Broker territory, sets of offices and factories with higher standards than The Crooks, modern buildings with beautiful looks, with hard working office workers, blue and white collar, slaving away for a corporation they never knew was owned by The Brokers.

They drove through the Madison highway, the highway over the river, and down to the very start of The Broker territory, they drove past the luxurious office buildings and rushed, office workers, dressed in a shirt and tie, rushing from lunch to their office to get back to their work.

As they drove along one particular business park, James pulled the car up along the curb, the tires harshly grazing against the freshly mowed grass.

“What’s the address?” He asked, his voice had lost his sanguine tone, but a gleam of hope still remained, somehow, an almost light tone to his voice, even if reluctant.

Sam goes to open her mouth, before she pauses, and she closes her mouth, pulling her arms away from being crossed and onto her legs, before she sighs.

Laina lazily drums her fingers against her upraised ankle, leaning her cheek on the same leg.

Smith looks away from the door, and down to James. “...8 Lanscier Park…” Smith speaks, glaring to James.

James looks around the signs and squints, reading the different sign numbers before he spies one specific office on top of a hill, a big two story building with plenty of windows along both flavours, except for one side to the left. The left side stands as a blank, concrete building, with two large garage doors and a simple maintenance door next to them.

James pulls off of the curb, and starts the drive up to the office, a big sign on the front of the office building reads “FORECLEX.”

“...They want us to defend the warehouse.” Smith speaks out coldly, before looking back to the van. “What time is it?” Smith asks, James glares to his center console.

“11:48?” James asks out, curious, as he pulls along side the warehouse’s huge garage doors.

“We’ve got 12 minutes.” Smith explains, before James looks to the rear view. “Really? Shit, a’ight…” He calls out, and the hand brake locks with a clicking whirr, clicking the gear into park.

“Finally.” Sam speaks out, standing up as Smith stands up and opens the door, grabbing one of the guns before walking out of the van.

Sam places her hands on her back, cracking her lower back before she moves to the end of the van, picking up the spare gun and stepping out of the van.

Laina stands herself up, her mouth opens wide into a long, loud yawn, stretching her arms out wide before she bends down to pick up her rifle, and moves out of the van.

James smirked, looking to the massive garage doors. “Fuck, this gonna be fun.” he laughs to himself, grabbing the handle of his shotgun, turning the keys to the van and pushing open the driver's side door, walking outside to meet with the rest of the crew.