I used to call him brother.
Morgath was the kind of man who could stand in silence and inspire armies. He wasn’t just the best fighter I ever knew - he was our hope. Every time we marched, he was at the front, his spear a blur of deadly precision. He fought like he had something to prove, something to protect.
But the man I called friend no longer exists.
We didn’t see it at first. Who would? The corruption did not announce itself. It crept in, quiet, slow, patient. And we were too focused on the enemy in front of us to realize the real threat was already among us.
It think it began during a clash with the Bloodthorne deep into the Elderwood. Morgath led us, like always, cutting through its twisted minions, driving us forward with that relentless, unshakable force. We fought for hours, days maybe - it all blurs together. But I remember reaching a grove, a cursed place where the air felt thick and heavy.
What happened next ... I don’t fully know. Or maybe I just don’t want to remember. Morgath pushed ahead, moving like a force of nature, his spear flashing through the gloom. Then something shifted. The vines, the thorns, the shadows - everything seemed to pause. And Morgath ... he was just standing there. I saw him reach out, his hand brushing against something at the center of it all, but the memory is foggy. It’s like trying to recall a dream after waking up. All I know is that when he turned back to us, something in him had changed.
None of us said a word as we retreated. We thought we had won. How foolish we were.
Over the next few days, Morgath grew distant. Quieter. I figured he was just exhausted, maybe haunted by the horrors we’d seen. But then his strikes began to change. They were faster - too fast. His reflexes inhuman, his power ... darker. I should’ve spoken up then, but we were soldiers, and when your commander fights harder than ever, you don’t question it. At least, not until it’s too late.
I’ll never forget the battle that came next. Routine work. He charged ahead, cutting through the band of outlaws like they were nothing. But when we caught up, expecting to find a field of dead men, we found something worse. The soldiers weren’t dead. Vines had erupted from the ground, twisting through their bodies, turning them into ... things, puppets of the Bloodthorne. And Morgath - he just stood there, watching them writhe, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I shouted at him. I wanted answers. I wanted my friend back. But when he turned to me, I knew that man was gone. There was no light in his eyes, no trace of the brother I had fought beside for years. I will remember his next words until my last day ...
"The Thorne whispers," he said, "and soon, you will listen ..."
I still hear those words in my head sometimes. Cold. Detached. Like he wasn’t even speaking to me. That’s when I knew - Morgath wasn’t the man I had followed into battle. He was something else now. Something far more dangerous.
Since then, he’s been called the Elderwood Scourge. He moves with an unnatural grace, faster than any human should, his spear now a weapon of the Bloodthorne itself. His strikes don’t just kill - they corrupt. I’ve seen it happen. Each blow spreads the darkness he once fought, twisting everything it touches.
I see it now. The way the shadows move at the edge of my vision when no one else seems to notice. The faint whispers that echo when the forest is still. I’ve started wondering if Morgath’s fate was inevitable - if maybe the Bloodthorne’s reach extends further than we realize. If maybe, just maybe, it's already too late for all of us.
Every day, the whispers grow louder.
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