Rashan carefully administered the potion, a thick, bitter concoction sliding down the unconscious High Elf's throat. Its effects were swift and cruel—specifically designed to amplify sensation, flooding the brain with heightened awareness, amplifying fear, anxiety, and pain to unbearable extremes. It was a dark alchemy, expertly refined from Rashan's perfect recall of human biology and nerve pathways from his past life.
Commander Iltharin's eyes flickered open suddenly, pupils immediately dilating as a storm of raw, unfiltered sensation crashed through him. Every sound was deafening, every touch excruciatingly intense, every shadow impossibly deep and menacing. He gasped, his breath ragged as panic surged through every nerve, overwhelming his ability to form coherent thoughts. Before he could orient himself fully, rough hands grabbed him by the ankle, dragging him mercilessly across uneven ground.
The pain exploded through his amplified senses, each scrape and bump against stone and root magnified a hundredfold. Jagged edges of rock tore at his exposed skin, opening fresh wounds with every violent jerk. He screamed wildly, an animalistic howl devoid of rational thought or language, driven purely by instinctual agony. Twisting desperately, Iltharin reached blindly, fingers clawing uselessly against the rough terrain, seeking any grip to halt his torment. His severed hand, though gone, sent phantom sensations pulsing endlessly through his nerves—a merciless, relentless throbbing that intensified his terror.
He was hauled into a black, oppressive cave, darkness so complete it felt like thick oil pressing suffocatingly against his skin. The potion's effect heightened the absence of light into an overwhelming physical presence, crushing him beneath its unseen weight. His breath came in short, strangled gasps, chest heaving painfully as he struggled against unseen restraints. Strong hands pinned him, invisible captors securing him with brutal efficiency, their grip tight enough to bruise, their touch alone igniting unbearable sparks of panic across his hypersensitive flesh.
Only one sound penetrated the cavernous void, repeated with chilling, emotionless precision:
"Anbu."
The word echoed softly at first, a sinister whisper barely audible yet penetrating deeply into his consciousness. Each repetition grew louder, clearer, resonating within his mind, stripping away layer after layer of sanity. The single word drilled relentlessly, mercilessly, leaving him trembling uncontrollably in primal terror.
"Anbu."
Shapes, unseen but sensed, moved around him in the oppressive blackness. The slightest shifts in the air felt like cold, ghostly fingers tracing lightly across his skin, teasing and cruel. Phantom touches brushed his cheek, traveled down his neck, lingered cruelly upon the ragged stump of his severed arm. The amplified nerve endings ignited with unbearable agony, raw nerves flaring violently beneath these intangible caresses.
"Anbu."
The whispers multiplied, surrounding him from all directions. Each voice overlapped, blending into a haunting chorus that refused to relent, refused to allow any reprieve. His heart pounded violently, each beat feeling as though it would tear itself from his chest. Sweat poured in torrents, burning sharply against the countless raw abrasions covering his battered body. He was hyper-aware of every droplet, every minute shift in sensation a fresh wave of unbearable pain and fear.
Time ceased to exist in the eternal blackness, every second stretching infinitely. His senses, pushed far beyond their limits, began to fracture under the relentless psychological assault. Each whisper and phantom touch broke him further, dismantling his psyche with methodical brutality. Despair crushed him beneath its weight, robbing him of even the faintest hope for escape.
Suddenly, a strong grip grabbed his jaw and potion was forced into his mouth— delivering a cool liquid down his throat. Consciousness mercifully began slipping away, pulling him briefly into oblivion. But this reprieve was cruelly temporary.
When Iltharin next awoke, it was amidst horrific carnage. Blood pooled thickly around him, bodies of his soldiers grotesquely twisted, scorched, and shattered. Faces frozen forever in agony stared lifelessly into the gray sky, their empty eyes accusing and pitiless. The lingering potion amplified every horrific detail, magnifying each ghastly sight and smell. The stench of burnt flesh and spilled viscera overwhelmed him, triggering relentless waves of nausea and terror.
Delirious and trembling violently, he stumbled to his feet, slipping repeatedly on blood-slicked earth. Hands—still unseen, still terrifyingly strong—roughly guided him forward, forcing him to stagger through the nightmarish scene. Bodies littered the path, some still smoldering, others crushed beyond recognition. Each new sight brought fresh waves of panic, further fracturing his already tenuous grip on reality.
The whispers continued, quieter now but no less horrifying:
"Anbu."
He sobbed uncontrollably, pleading incoherently, his voice raw and broken. Still, the hands pushed him onward, merciless and unwavering, forcing him back along the path his doomed company had traveled. For seventy-two relentless hours, they herded him through gore and ruin, never allowing rest, never permitting escape from the haunting repetition:
"Anbu."
Finally, without warning, the phantom hands vanished. Alone and instinctively desperate, Iltharin fled wildly, driven by a single, overwhelming imperative: escape. Scrambling and crawling, battered body numb with exhaustion and mind shattered beyond repair, he clawed his way back toward Gilane, the singular word echoing eternally within the ruin of his mind.
Inside Gilane's fortified command chamber, the Dominion commander—a High Elf Justiciar meticulously dressed in ornate robes—stood rigidly, his eyes scanning the report with cold contempt. His lip curled slightly, revealing a thin sliver of disgust.
Scouts had reported what they found of the remains of the company:
Not a single enemy casualty and the company had been pincered between two boulders and slaughtered from above.
The charred bodies and envirement suggested fire that burned at an extremly hot tempatures. Falling stones from the ridges had crushed the soilders below. Javelins hurled from concealment up above had devestated the company.
Whomever had done it had made no effort to hide their handiwork.
Based on the evidence at the scene the scouts reported it was likely the soldiers were slaughtered without ever glimpsing their attackers clearly, the scenes suggested the company had fallen into dissary in its final moments.
The commander sighed inwardly.
Typically Redguards were known for their skill in swift, direct ambushes—brief but disciplined clashes, followed by tactical withdrawals. Fierce, honorable engagements, even if conducted from surprise.
But this was not their typical tactic. What occurred here was disturbing, a sinister deviation from the norm. This wasn't mere guerilla warfare; it was calculated, merciless brutality. His disdain shifted subtly toward unease, though he quickly suppressed it beneath practiced arrogance. A full company of nearly one hundred Dominion soldiers—experienced mages, skilled archers, and battle-hardened warriors—had been annihilated without the chance to properly engage or respond.
His gaze lingered bitterly on the final paragraph of the report:
"Commander Iltharin, the sole survivor, breached Gilane's gates in a state of extreme delirium, screaming hysterically, inciting panic among citizens and soldiers alike. Three city guards were required to restrain him. Despite repeated healing and questioning, Iltharin remains incoherent, speaking only one intelligible word: 'Anbu.'"
The Justiciar's sneer deepened, but it was tinged now by subtle apprehension. Anbu. A meaningless term dragged from the shattered mind of a failed officer—or perhaps something more insidious?
No matter. He straightened, shaking off the lingering discomfort, clinging resolutely to his pride. Such tactics revealed the desperation of a failing enemy, not strength. Yet as he turned away to address other pressing matters, he remained unaware of just how deeply—and fatally—mistaken he truly was.
READ AUTHORS THOUGHTS AND COMMENT… PLEASE!