Former scribe for the church turned wood golem
7’ tall. Over 400 lbs. Made of wood reinforced with iron bands. Covered in runic names that seem to have been mystically seared into the golem itself.
Logan Pissánt hid beneath the wagon as it listed to one side where the wheels had been shattered by the blade of a giant war axe. His breathing gurgled in his throat and he could no longer maintain a full breath. His robes were splattered with the blood of his companions as well as much of his own. The sounds of death and dying surrounded him as sword clanged against steel, iron and wood. The last of the soldiers tried desperately to fend off the witches’ mercenaries as much to save their own lives as protect the caravan they had been assigned to. In his hand he clutched a scroll casing which he looked at and even in his desperate state, smiled slightly thinking of the irony of his situation and what the scroll contained. With far more struggle than would normally be necessary, he removed the lid from the case and with little of the reverence he otherwise reserved for this document, he clawed the parchment from its protective sheath. The parchment, once free from its case splayed out upon the ground, covered at the edges with the bloody fingerprints of the young scribe who just removed it. Other than this gory border, the parchment was exquisite, embossed with golden patterns at the borders and covered in perfect penmanship in two almost impossibly straight columns. Each column was made up of dozens of names. The names of those fallen in battle against the witches forces. Logan himself had penned this particular scroll as he was one of the church’s “Scribes of the Dead”. He chronicled the names of all those known to have fallen in battle or gone ‘missing’ in the war against the witches. His parchments recorded the names and, as much as the churches census data revealed, the kin of the deceased. The Church referred to this list as the “Log of Martyrs” however the soldiers and common folk had another name for it – “The Dead List”.
No one was happy to see a scribe of the Dead List approaching their home for it more often than not meant news that a loved one had died. The best one could hope for was simply that their status was considered MIA, but in a war where witches regularly drug the bodies of the dead (or even the living) away for morbid and unholy experiments, MIA often held little hope and in many cases, was worse than a status of ‘deceased’. One can see why those assigned to deliver such news to next of kin were often disliked or even shunned and anger at the loss of a loved one was often vented against the messenger. For this reason among many, these scribes always traveled with an armed escort, sometimes half-a-dozen soldiers strong. The armed escort was also necessary for often the scribe traveled through enemy territory to complete their duties to the Church and deliver news to the kin of the fallen. It was not a coveted role in the least, but Logan took it very seriously and expected to one day give his life himself in the service of the “Log of Martyrs”.
That day, Logan was now convinced, was to be today.
Having now freed the Log of Martyrs from it’s case, Logan reached back towards his hip, his bloody hand shaking. He was able to free his iron-tipped quill from its loop on his belt. Without thinking about the extent of his injuries, he reached back with his other hand to grab the inkwell he kept on the other side in a pouch on his belt. However this was not to be as the pain that shrieked through his left arm and torso instantly reminded him of his battered and fractured ribs and the gaping ax wound cut deep into his shoulder. Nearly the entire left side of his body had been shattered by a relentless and unemotional attack by some huge towering golem made of wood and steel. One of the Crone’s elite foot soldiers. It was from this beast’s onslaught that Logan had hoped to find refuge beneath the shattered wagon. For the moment, it seemed to be working, perhaps because the creature’s attention was turned to the armed soldiers nearby. Doing his best to recover from the pain, Logan tried to steady his now shallow breathing and dipped his pen in the only ‘ink’ he had available – his own blood, now pooled beneath him in the grass. He began to pen his own name onto the Log of the Martyrs. ‘L’….‘O’… the ‘o’ slanted slightly as a huge crash rocked the top of the wagon above him. Some massive weight has just been smashed down upon it. Trying to focus on what was likely to be his last duty, Logan continued…
‘G’… Logan dipped twice to finish this letter and then placed his pen back into the pool of deep red formed beneath him on the ground. As he moved to finish, his hand reaching out towards the letters he had written… He suddenly felt a burst of white hot pain shoot through his shattered arm and shoulder as a giant wooden hand grabbed him by the leg and yanked him violently from beneath the wagon. The pain was great enough to shift him into an eternal unconsciousness. Perhaps a final mercy for Logan, considering what was to follow at the hands of the Crone and her minions. He drifted into the afterlife, with the final image of the holy “Log of Martyrs” in his mind… his name, only partially written, became the last thing he saw… ‘Log’.
But the afterlife was not yet to be for Logan. At least, not the one he’d anticipated…