Methkog: Young
Long before he became the Harbinger of Asylum and known throughout Ocost, Methkog was a young man like the rest of us. He did not spring fully formed from the earth, clad in his heavy armor, heart burning with hatred, though some may think it. Methkog was born like any other human, and he found his armor on the plains of Asylum in the ruins of an old battlefield.
To be more accurate, he built his armor on the plains of that battlefield. It was another step in his education, and before his vile nature had fully formed.
Little was notable about this battle when it happened five years or so before Methkog stomped through the high grass on his scavenging mission. It was near the western coast of Bronien, back when the Briggarz made a final, concerted effort to drive the humans into the sea. They near succeeded, if not for the final, valiant effort of Commander Steinhurst and his two companies. His troops marched alongside the coast, nearly brushing the sea with their right sleeves, in order to strike at the Briggarz’ rear.
Brave Steinhurst, and his troops, knew it was a fatal task. Aside from their weapons they carried nothing but the armor on their backs and a few pieces of bread in their pockets. Fighting to the last, they charged into the Briggarz’ rambling lines and caused enough havoc to stop the advance.
This field where Methkog walked was well within human territory and just one of the first steps toward victory. Beta and Charlie company, along with Steinhurst, never received an award for their work, or even proper burial. Each man or woman received a shallow grave just inches from where they fell in battle. It was a hasty burial given by an army more concerned with survival but still trying to render thanks to comrades who bought more time with their lives. The small, dimpled, mounds of dirt were partially washed away. It was a pathetic graveyard.
Yet it made for a scavenger’s dream.
Methkog was surprised more hadn’t been picked over. There were even fully booted feet sticking out of the soft soil. The leather hadn’t held up well—much better than the former owners had—but it didn’t matter. He hadn’t come all this way for boots.
Although a young man he looked more than twice his age already. Tall, well-sculpted with useful muscle, and dark hair, Methkog might have been called attractive if not for the multiple scars across his face, splitting his lips. His nose was hooked where it had been broken years before, and a chunk of it was gone, at that. Over the years the scars would only increase, whether on his chest, arms, or legs. The one place they never accumulated was on his back: no one could accuse him of cowardice.
His eyes, however, for the people who were lucky, or unlucky, enough to see them were what they truly remembered. They were a deep, royal blue that managed to shine in even the darkest of nights. It was almost mystical, some would say.
On that day Methkog’s eyes were squinted against both the Orb’s yellow glare and the strong wind whipping against him. He had spent most of the day on his hands and knees trying to dig anything of value from the soil. It was the final part of this particular lesson. He’d already stolen a shuttle from Alain, a pirate who—if mindlessly bloodthirsty at least had access to good equipment—owed a debt to Methkog’s mentor. The shuttle was down payment on the amount. Anything inside the shuttle was forfeited as well. It pained the young man to part with layered steel armor, energy blasters, and two roto-cannons, among pounds of other equipment. The thousands of yils he’d made in the transaction were safely stowed in his vortex. His mentor had been clear about not keeping a yil or single item for himself. Methkog had learned the hard way he couldn’t hide anything. The two marks across his shoulders were testament enough to that fact.
This battlefield, then, was his reward. His mentor had told him about it, the way the humans tore into the Briggarz with a desperate ferocity. How it came down to brute strength and hand-to-hand combat in these tall grasses. How the dead were never given proper rights. He could take anything he wanted here. All he had to do was avoid the sensor net cast out from Has. Good training regardless of the reason.
Slung over his shoulder, and beating against Methkog’s back with every step, was a rough sack filled with the greaves, pauldron, and gauntlets he’d managed to salvage thus far. They were rusty, still stunk of the grave, and the gauntlets likely had worms in them, but they were the best thing in the world to him at that time: free.
Something snapped under his boot. It was part of a ceremonial poleax someone had carried into this battle. Rotten to the core, the shaft crumbled in his hand as he picked it up. The unit insignia it once bore was long gone, and even the chromed spear at the tip was pitted with rust. Methkog tucked the longer half under his arm and kept going. It’d save him from sticking his feet into more ant hills.
Poking, prodding, and digging, he slowly moved further through the grass. Naturally, none of the graves were in any particular order. He could tell how the lines of battle had shifted further inland, as the graves slowly began to sweep away from the coast.
The Orb’s light was nearly touching the ocean by the time he’d gathered enough to form a full suit. It’d take plenty of time to refurbish, repair, and layer, but it was a fine start. He just needed a helmet now.
As he walked, upright since the wind had finally died down, Methkog tossed a long, thin piece of chrome into the air with one hand. He’d found five more broken, rotted poleaxes and salvaged their tips. He might be able to do something with them. He’d been hoping to find a rifle, but anything that could be used in the heat of battle had been stripped from the dead.
Although he knew nothing of this battle, Methkog could tell he was reaching the end of the human advance. He certainly didn’t know he was only feet from where Steinhurst himself fell as he grappled with a Briggarz bailiff. This was where the battle had ended. The Briggarz had drawn back to avoid being enveloped while the human advance had loosed its final bolt. No one who advanced this far made it back to camp that night. Their wounds were mortal.
Realizing the Orb was fading from orange to a deep red, Methkog knew his time was up. As he turned to get back to the shuttle enough grass parted that he saw a quick glimmer. The Orb’s fading light had caught something.
He carefully parted the grass before him, going foot by foot so as not to miss it. His boot tapped against something before he saw it. Whatever it was it rang hollow.
The bag clunked against the ground. Crouched, he dug into the ground, pulling grass out in handfuls. Dirt spattered against his face and piled under his broken nails. Feeling something solid, Methkog groped for an edge. Finding one, he forced his thick fingers through the still-warm dirt.
Rifle gone, sword broken, Steinhurst was reduced to slashing at the Briggarz with the remains of his sword, whose other half was buried in the brute’s side. Losing blood from dozens of wounds across his body, Steinhurst stumbled on a root. He never saw the massive fist flying toward his head. The punch broke his neck and sent his helmet spiraling through the air. It laid there among the grasses, faceplate torn away, slowly sinking into the earth for five years.
Then Methkog pulled it free.
Ignoring the clods of damp soil still attached, Methkog slid it over his head. The rustling of grass died down and he could hear his own heartbeat echoed back inside his skull. He banged a fist against the side. The helmet barely moved.
Good enough. He could make his own faceplate. Something with a visor suite built in. There ought to be enough room in the helm, he decided.
He wore the helmet all the way back to the shuttle, getting accustomed to the weight. Overhead the sky darkened from bright pink, to dull violet, and finally to black. It was time for his mentor to receive the payment he was rightfully owed.
Anyone else walking that late might have been worried about what was lurking in the tall grasses, but Methkog strode forth, confidently tossing a poleax spear in one hand and hefting the sack across his shoulder with the other.
He was even smiling. That in itself would have scared anything away.