The Dissonant Wail

The war drums had started not long after the last orders had been issued and the council dissolved. A deep, primal rhythm rolled through the valleys, striking the town like distant thunder. Grashok could almost feel the advance of the Ratkin just by how the beat sharpened and swelled. The sound came in waves—insistent, unrelenting. It was as if the forest itself had found a heartbeat, one that pulsed with foul anticipation.

He stood on the walkway atop Ingunde’s southern wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, the chill morning wind tugging at his cloak, Soulrend thrumming with eagerness against his hip. The blade sensed conflict approaching; he could feel it in the way it vibrated subtly against the leather binding. Beside him rose the tribe’s enchanted war banner, its fabric shifting with a faint, unnatural ripple despite the still air. Four of the stoutest goblins guarded it, feet planted wide, hands on their weapons, eyes fixed ahead.

To his left stood Elenara, pale skin stark against the bruised dawn, her long blonde hair pulled into a tight plait that swept over one shoulder. A short sword hung from her hip now—simple steel, serviceable but honest. Her emerald dress was tucked and bound for motion, her high-heeled boots firm on timber. Her blue eyes fixed on the treeline where movement had begun.

Grashok narrowed his gaze. “They’re massing,” he muttered.

From the edge of the forest, the Ratkin host emerged—not with order or formation, but with chaos and claw. There was no discipline to their deployment, only the brawling tumble of filth and fury. Ratkin warriors spilled from between trees in tangled clumps, patchy fur glistening with morning damp, rusted blades gleaming in mad tremor. Their numbers were endless, overlapping like waves. A few fought among themselves before being smacked back into line by snarling handlers. The air behind them shimmered with heat and stink.

Ratkin Scuttlers darted ahead and amongst them—snapping and leaping, bone darts clutched in scabbed hands. They were everywhere, scratching at the earth and squealing as they rushed forward, testing the perimeter like rats nosing at a pantry door. They tangled briefly with one another, clambering over packs and squirming through gaps, pausing only to chitter before continuing.

Then came the Brutes—hulking masses of mutated muscle and leather-wrapped fists holding savage weapons. They pushed smaller Ratkin aside like refuse. Grashok saw one raise a club and casually brain a nearby Scuttler that had wandered too close. Their leaders—larger Brutes in jagged helms—pushed them into half-formed ranks, trying and failing to bring some cohesion to the growing chaos.

Gnawthralls. Wretched, drooling things no higher than a goblin’s waist. They came in shuffling, whimpering lines, most of them shackled together with iron links. Their eyes darted—some wide with madness, others blind, milky and staring. Several had growths, glowing faintly, stitched into their bellies. Grashok had seen that glow before. When the flesh ruptured, it burned.

“Pitiful,” Elenara muttered beside him. “And yet somehow… worse than the rest.”

He nodded. The worst enemy was the one you hesitated to strike. Ratkin used that better than anyone.

And looming behind them all was a singular shadow—colossal and grotesque.

A Juggernaut.

Grashok studied it. The creature towered above the others, its necrosorcerous flesh fused with scrap iron and bone. One arm held a torn length of siege chain, the other gripped a splintered tree trunk shaped into a crude maul. It did not march—it trudged, every step cracking the earth like thunder. The smaller Ratkin gave it wide berth, faces twisted in awe or terror.

The deployment was without formation or order. Nothing but chaos held together by hunger and fury — a tide straining for violence.

Still, what unsettled Grashok was not what he could see—but what remained obscured.

The forest behind the emerging horde still shifted. Shadows danced between tree trunks. Glints of rusted steel caught the low light, but their bearers stayed cloaked. He knew the Vermin King would not play all his cards in the opening hand.

“They haven’t committed everything,” Elenara whispered.

“No,” Grashok agreed. “The tree-line holds more than bark.”

Eventually, the drums stopped.

The silence that followed was unnerving. The forest stilled as if it too were holding its breath. No birds sang, no insects chirped. Even the wind had gone quiet. It was the sour hush that always came before a clash of blades and bone.

On the parapet to his right, several adventurers clustered near the crenellations. One leaned out, eyes gleaming.

“Proper endgame siege vibe. I love it.”

Grashok turned slightly, observing them without comment.

On the parapet, a knot of adventurers clustered near the crenellations—humans, elves, dwarves, and others, mismatched and overgeared. Some carried glowing staves, others hefted oversized swords. Their armour glittered in the faint sunlight, and one of them held a spyglass shaped like a brass snake.

“Oh, man,” said the younger human, his pauldrons far too big for his frame. “This is going to be epic.” Another nudged him. “Screenshot this moment. Forums will lose their minds.”

“Yup, raid content for sure.”

“I mean, just look at that line‑up. Every flavour of mob spawn. Forget screenshots—someone has to stream this.”

One leaned forward, grinning. “Seriously though, bet this’ll trigger an achievement. ‘Hold the Rat Tide.’ Or maybe ‘No Sleep Till Sundown.’”

A dwarf shifted his stance, swinging his axe one‑handed with casual ease. “Just hope the loot’s instanced this time. I’m not losing another purple drop to some click‑happy lowbie.”

They laughed—oblivious, excited, practically bouncing with anticipation.

Grashok continued to watch them, disbelief flickering on his brow. Their energy was wild, unshaken by fear. But farther down the line, he saw something better.

Nyxie. She stood beyond the adventurers atop her makeshift spell dais—white stockings vivid beneath her brown leather halter and micro kilt, boots firm against the planked deck. A trio of town mages clustered behind her, wide-eyed and clutching scrolls, while she rolled her shoulders, as if limbering up for the exercise ahead.

Her expression was razor‑sharp, a confident, wicked grin cutting across her face.

Grashok found himself smiling too, before turning back to the Ratkin lines.

Their formations were being forced—pushed more than ordered—into a rough semblance of structure. Gnawthralls skittered uselessly along the edges, yipping in high‑pitched terror. Some broke from their handlers, scrambling between Brutes and warriors in blind panic. They didn’t get far. One hulking Brute bent low, seized a thrashing Gnawthrall by the leg, and stuffed it into its cavernous mouth. Bone cracked; the throat bulged once, then stilled.

Grashok grunted softly. Discipline? None. Cruelty? In abundance.

Nearby, the cluster of adventurers continued chatting along the parapet, looking out over the forest as if this were a morning social call.

“Okay, but seriously,” one of them said, a wiry half-elf in bright red plate armour trimmed with glowing runes, “has anyone ever seen a hot Ratkin chick?”

“Pff, no way,” said another, a rotund dwarf with twin axes slung across his back. “I’ve seen hot orc babes, cat girls, even that goblin mage over there I’d love to tap.”

He gestured toward Nyxie, who happened to be adjusting her staff with one knee cocked defiantly.

“Bro, same. She’s like... peak waifu with extra firepower.”

“Dude, boundaries,” someone muttered.

“No, I’m just saying! There’s hot goblins, elves, demons—hell, even undead if you’re into it. But Ratkin? All just nasty plague rats with teeth and mange.”

They laughed, exchanging theories about evolutionary bottlenecks, cursed bloodlines, and whether Ratkin even had females. Grashok let the nonsense wash over him like sleet. Adventurers were strange creatures—merrily discussing aesthetics as if a plague swarm weren’t seconds away. They buzzed like flies around the edge of his awareness—irritating, but distant. His focus was still on the enemy lines.

The drums changed.

Same beat, only curdled. Slower now, deeper, carrying a wet, thrumming undertone that crawled through bone as much as ear. And with it came movement. Not orderly. Far from it. It looked more like the field had suddenly developed a ripple—a shudder running through the Ratkin as their bodies flinched back from something slithering through their midst.

Then they appeared.

Three withered Ratkin hags emerged into view. Hooded in rags stitched from skin and fur, their snouts were elongated and twitching, their milky-white eyes sewn shut with black thread. They didn’t walk so much as shuffle, their clawed feet dragging through the dirt. From their mouths came a sound—not song, not scream, but something that curled inside the mind like oil in clean water.

The Carrion Choir.

Their song began as a single note—drawn-out and low, almost imperceptible at first. Then another joined, higher, and another, building into a triad of discordant harmonics that made the very air vibrate. The world shifted around the sound. The light seemed dimmer. Colours dulled. The wood beneath Grashok’s boots felt soft, like rotting meat.

The song wasn't a melody—it was madness made audible. A wail of discordant harmonics that sliced through the air, digging talons into the senses. The sky seemed to throb. A low vibration curled through the walls, through the marrow of those standing upon them.

Soldiers staggered. Arrows dropped from limp hands.

Grashok felt the sound before he truly heard it—inside his skull, behind his teeth. Nearby militia grabbed their ears, some dropped screaming, blood sluicing from their nostrils and ears in long, red lines. Others vomited, retching violently over the edge of the parapet. Down the wall, a human militiaman laughed, a wild, hysterical laugh, and flung himself off the wall before anyone could stop him.

Others stared into space, mouths slack, eyes dilated. A few whimpered. One muttered something about spiders made of eyes, crawling through his mother’s teeth. Then vomited black bile.

The war banner beside Grashok flared. The sigils brightened. The skulls rattled once. A faint pulse spread out from it—fifty feet in every direction.

A system prompt flickered across Grashok’s vision:

Strength in Unity – Fear Resistance Active.

Stamina +10%. Strength +10%. Fear Effects Reduced.

The pressure in his skull eased. His stance locked. His breath steadied. The goblins guarding the banner held firm. The soldiers nearest the banner stopped shaking. Their eyes focused. Their hands tightened on their weapons.

“Pods!” Grashok barked, yanking the Saritchbloom Pods from his belt pouch. “Saritchbloom, now!”

He shoved the fibrous bulbs into his ears. Sweet, muffled silence swallowed the horror. The Choir’s song sagged into a dull throb, like a storm heard through thick stone walls. The world lurched once, then settled as the pain drained away. He could think again. Fight again.

Elenara had already inserted hers. She gave him a quick nod, her expression grim but steady. All along the wall, the militia followed suit, fumbling to plug their ears. The pods weren’t perfect, but they dampened the harmonics enough to keep sanity intact. For now.

Grashok turned and scanned the parapet—and saw a young adventurer clawing at his belt pouch in panic. His face was flushed, eyes wild, clearly already hearing too much. “Guys—guys, where’s my pods? Where did they go?!”

His companions cackled with laughter.

They continued to watch as his face turned crimson as blood ran in rivulets from his ears. “Bro help me—oh gods, debuff! I’m debuffed!” the stricken adventurer wailed, voice cracked and raw.

“Bro, I told you to lock your inventory,” one of them said. “Classic loot grief.”

Another tossed a pair of pods at him casually. “Here, take mine—I stole ’em from you earlier. LOL.”

The lad fumbled the catch, dropped one, bent to retrieve it, and nearly cracked his head on the stonework—but managed to get the pods in and collapsed against the wall, panting as his companions continued to laugh.

Grashok stared, half in disbelief. They weren’t mocking him maliciously. They just… didn’t care. Their minds operated in a completely different world. Threats were puzzles. Horror was content. Everything was a game.

He turned back to the enemy lines. The Carrion Choir still stood, voices raised, bodies trembling with effort. Their own troops shuddered near them, some Brutes covering their ears, Scuttlers hissing and twitching. If someone silenced the Choir at the wrong time, threw the wrong note in to their foul song, perhaps the feedback could impact their own warriors?

He snapped his fingers and raised a clenched fist, signalling to Snippa, crouched with her scouts behind the inner wall, their small detachment concealed among crates and stacked pitch barrels.

She sprang up and sprinted lightly across the clearing, her boots barely stirring the packed dirt. Midway, she veered past Tilda, who stood poised beside Grashok’s mount—the hulking Yzobu, all bronze fur and sweeping horns. Tilda kept one steady hand on the beast’s flank, calming it with practised ease after the panic from the choir. She had somehow acquired a helm and her warm brown eyes were sharp from beneath its rim. The Yzobu snorted but remained still under her touch.

Snippa gave her a brisk nod as she passed, then continued her dash, green leather top hugging her lean frame, short skirt swaying with each stride. She skidded to a halt near the inner stairs just as Grashok descended the final steps.

“Pods?” he asked, voice edged with concern.

She tapped her ears and nodded. “In.”

The ache in his own head throbbed like a war drum—dulled by the Saritchbloom Pods but still present. They worked, but not perfectly. Every word felt like it had to fight through molasses before reaching his mouth.

He gestured to the battlements. “Carrion Choir. They’re shredding our minds. Can you hit them?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Together, they climbed the stairs to the upper wall where the view cleared—the forest line a creeping black stain on the horizon. The Choir stood hunched near its centre, swaying in unnatural harmony. Behind them loomed the Juggernaut, its misshapen bulk like a siege tower of meat and iron, a chain-wrapped club dragging through the dirt as smaller Ratkin scuttled to stay clear.

Snippa narrowed her eyes, calculating the distance.

“Extreme range,” she said. “Standard fletching won’t hold true that far. I’ll get drop, maybe lateral drift. Accuracy’s a coin toss.”

A shadow flickered behind them.

Nyxie had wandered over, staff resting against her shoulder. Her eyes scanned the horizon, blinking rapidly.

“I can’t sense any magical protection stats,” she said, wincing as the Carrion Choir’s disharmony fluttered through her nerves. “No shimmer, no ward threads. I think they’re unshielded.”

She frowned deeper. “That won’t last — Ratkin can throw up crude shielding fast when they realise they need it. We’ll only have a handful of shots before they patch the gap.”

Grashok’s head thudded harder, as if his thoughts were scraping stone. “We need power. Range. Do we have anything magical that can help?”

Nyxie nodded, then waved her arm and called out to a figure loitering near the stairwell—a nervous human with soot-smudged fingers and a cracked staff.

“This one buffs weapons,” she said helpfully.

The man flinched at the attention but approached.

“Buff?” Grashok asked.

Nyxie shrugged. “Means ‘make gooder,’ I think.”

The man swallowed, then spoke in a thin, hesitant voice. “I… I can enchant weapons, temporarily. Focus elemental properties.” He glanced at them both, twitchy and uncertain. “You want more range? I can manage that. Three shots—maybe four. Depends if the wood holds.”

Snippa offered her bow. “Do it.”

He whispered a hurried chant over the polished grip, runes flickering around the string. The air around the bow shimmered faintly.

He stepped back. “Three shots. Fast.”

The field below was shifting. Ratkin were gathering. Their voices grew louder, a wild screech rising above the deep drone. The Juggernaut’s feet crunched forward, dragging its weapon like an executioner's axe.

Snippa nocked her first arrow, inhaled deeply—and fired.

It screamed high into the air, arcing beautifully before missing wide, thudding into the mud metres short of the target. A Scuttler stopped to sniff it, then darted away.

Across the field, a Ratkin commander snapped his head toward the battlements, screeching a warning. Several shamans jerked upright, their bone-charms rattling as they scrambled to form a circle. necro-sorcerer shoved lesser Ratkin aside, clawed hands already sketching frantic sigils in the air.

She breathed deep, readjusting her aim before firing a second time.

It glanced off a Brute’s iron pauldron with a clang, spinning away.

Grashok clenched his jaw. The headache muddied his tension, like wool stuffed into his skull.

Below, the shamans’ ritual lurched into motion—fetid smoke rising as they carved runes into the dirt with jagged bone shards. A sickly shimmer began to gather above the Choir, thin as spider silk, trembling with unstable magic. They were close—too close.

The third arrow.

Snippa exhaled—slow, steady—her breath ghosting in the cold air. Her fingers moved with the instinct of hundreds of shots fired before. She drew the string taut, her back flexing, her gaze locked past the battlements and into the churning dark of the enemy line.

She loosed.

Time dragged its heels.

The arrow slipped the bow with a soft, decisive snap, slicing into the rising sunbeam that had just crested the horizon. It spun into the air like a sliver of defiance, a whisper against the thunder to come.

Far below, as the arrow climbed, the Vermin King’s horde stirred.

A single horn wailed—a deep, hollow note that rolled across the field like a storm’s first breath. Then the chittering began—thousands of Ratkin shrieking in unison. From the forest edge, their ranks surged into motion.

The front line broke into a loping charge—scrawny Ratkin warriors swarming forward, claws scraping against stone and root, their malformed limbs propelling them with manic energy. Amongst them scuttlers and gnawthralls bit and snapped as they loped weaving in and out of the throng. Ratkin Brutes lumbering under their rust encrusted armour as they pounded forward, shoulder to shoulder.

And still the arrow flew—arcing high, silent as breath, a sliver of vengeance glinting in the newborn light.

It cut through the drifting haze that coiled above the battlefield, slicing cleanly between two warped black banners that fluttered like diseased wings. The Carrion Choir stood unmoving in their protective shell of guards—crones cloaked in rags and bone-chimes, faces bound in linen, their mouths working in hideous harmony, the air around them shimmered with arcane tension, the dreadful power of their harmonics growing like a distant scream beneath the skin.

The shamans’ forming ward shuddered, half‑woven threads of magic trembling as they strained to rise. One necro-sorcerer screeched at the others, forcing them to redouble their efforts—hands slashing through the air, runes sparking, the beginnings of a shield struggling to coalesce. But it was too slow.

The leading crone turned her head—whether sensing the threat, or responding to some dark instinct, none could say.

The arrow struck her sewn-shut eye with pinpoint precision.

A single, frozen heartbeat.

Then her skull snapped backward violently, and a jet of oily black mist burst from the ruptured eye socket, spiralling skyward like a soul in torment. Her muted chant became a hideous, unearthly scream, shattering the fragile balance of their shared incantation. The remaining two crones faltered. Confusion twisted their corpse-like features, and for the first time, something unmistakable passed between them—panic. Real, visceral fear.

The harmony snapped.

Their spell turned on itself.

With a howl that seemed to tear open the sky, a shock wave of pure, malignant energy erupted from their circle. The arcane backlash detonated in a maelstrom of sound and sorcery—blinding, roaring, unnatural. The two surviving crones convulsed as their own magic turned inward, bursting from their withered bodies in jagged torrents of light and shrieking force. They were consumed—ripped apart into streaks of violet flame, bone shards, and foul ash.

The necrosorcerors nearest the ritual didn’t even have time to scream. The half‑formed ward they were weaving buckled, then imploded, swallowing them in a collapsing bloom of warped light. Their bone‑charms and fetishes vaporised mid‑air, leaving only drifting motes of ash where their circle had stood. The guards closest to them—elite Ratkin, the Pallid Claws—were caught in the same blast, their bone‑laced armour exploding outward in red‑hot fragments as they were vaporised alongside the sorcerors. Limbs spun through the air like broken dolls. Cloth and iron screamed into the sky.

Then the shockwave hit the surrounding ranks.

A thunderclap of force rippled through the nearest formations, flattening Ratkin by the dozens. Brutes staggered, howling, blood jetting from their ears and noses as they crumpled to the ground. Gnawthralls and scuttlers collapsed where they stood, twitching violently, eyes rolled back. Even the Juggernaut reeled, a low grunt escaping its twisted maw as it stumbled sideways—then dropped with a ground-shaking crash, its skull cracked and weeping, flattening a knot of panicked warriors beneath its collapsing bulk.

The centre of the Ratkin formation had been gutted in an instant—hundreds dead or dying, a ragged wound torn through their advancing line.

On the battlements, the adventurers let out a wild chorus of cheers.

“Critical hit! Critical hit!”

“Did you see that? That’s gotta be a scripted event trigger—cinematic as hell!”

“Ten outta ten set piece, not even joking. Someone better be recording this!”

A burst of level up messages seemed to echo from nowhere for Grashok, Snippa and the young mage. Grashok turned to look at the adventurers as they bounced with manic energy, glowing swords raised, eyes alight with the thrill of spectacle. For them, it was loot and glory. For him, it was the first crack in the oncoming storm.

And he would need many more, for the Ratkin were still charging.

Their formation was shattered. The lines were staggered, broken, lurching forward like drunkards instead of warriors.

Grashok bellowed from the wall top, voice ringing like steel on iron.

“To positions! Ready yourselves!”

Snippa darted back down the stairs, boots thudding sharply as she vanished toward her scouts. Nyxie turned and swept toward her gathered mages, the human enchanter still blinking in awe as he was swept along beside her.

Adventurers howled with excitement.

“This is sick—this raid gonna be lore! Posting on forums after!”

“I’m gonna make highlight clips!”

Grashok didn’t listen. His headache was dying away, merely a throb of static, the after effects of the Choir’s power.

But Soulrend hummed louder now.

The battle had begun in earnest.