Anoril
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The Gorrillaphantom
His heart was racing, his blood pumping fast. The hunger for this blood radiated from the creature beneath him in nauseating waves. Anoril gripped the sweaty and matted fur and clung on tightly so as not to be dislodged from the monster by its furious shaking.
Nothing ever went smoothly in Amityvale.
As he climbed further up the wolf’s back, reaching for its knotted shoulders Anoril saw blurred flashes of his surroundings as his whole body was flung back and forth by the wolf’s attempts to rid itself of the tiny man gripping its flesh so painfully. Anoril’s eyes felt like they were rotating, he’d see first glimpses of the dark sky through the darker tree branches, devoid of leaves. The next minute he’d see he comrade Mathew engaged in his own quarrel with two hideous ghouls, determined to feast that night. And then he’d be facing the water deprived earth that made up the forest floor of Doomwood.
Anoril, using a reserve of strength he wouldn’t have guessed he’d have, in one movement hauled himself fully up onto the wolf’s back, hands clasped firmly around the monster’s neck and legs clamped together under its black, furry arms.
“Math…ew,” Anoril panted through his own exhausted breath, he couldn’t hold the man-wolf long.
He saw Mathew’s long coat twirl around it’s wearer as Mathew turned and delivered a strong kick to the temple of the nearest ghoul, a move executed with such precision and power it was evident that this was a practice he’d done many times before.
“Anoril!” Mathew shouted back and, first kicking the second ghoul aside, drew his crossbow from behind his back.
The Doomwolf howled once more and dislodged Anoril’s legs from its torso. Just as Anoril’s grip round the creature’s neck began to loosen he heard two sets of whizzing and two sets of thudding. The werewolf stagger back, dark red blood oozing profusely from two holes in its chest from which two identical black bolts protruded. Anoril dropped to the ground in a roll before bounding back up again to grab his falling attacker by the head and push it hard into a tree. Anoril watched as slumped to the gritty floor, dead.
Turning he saw Mathew had had enough of fighting the ghouls and they had long since had enough of fighting him.
Fangs were drawn and so was Mathew’s wooden stake.
Anoril watched, impressed as Mathew first ducked a blow from a ghoul and then plunged the foot of wood into where Anoril assumed its heart would be. Then with a final backflip the Professional Vampire Slayer stabbed backward with his weapon into the heart of the second Vampiric Ghoul. Both of the infernal creatures screamed their last unearthly screech and fell to the ground, a putrid green acid-like substance issuing from their mouths.
“Phew,” said Anoril still out of breath, “That’s not normal is it? Three at once? I remember a time when you’d be lucky to see a flying eyeball in this part of the woods.”
“There has been more activity recently,” replied Mathew, returning his crossbow to his back, “There are more undead in Doomwood than ever, a sudden influx of Doomwolves as well.”
“And what of these Vampiric monsters?”
“There’s more of them too. Frydae still hasn’t been found and I’m assuming where ever he is he’s sending as many minions as he can to Amityvale. I doubt he’ll return to the town until its defences are weakened.”
The Vampire Slayer and the Defender of Cysero began their trek back to Amityvale, what had surprised Anoril most was how close Amityvale was to serious danger like the monsters they’d just encountered.
“So I was right,” Anoril laid a hand on Mathew’s shoulder to stop him and with a serious expression said, “I think it may be time to evacuate Amityvale.”
Mathew looked aghast and stepped away from Anoril as though the words he’d just heard were some sort of disease. “Evacuate Amityvale?”
“You said yourself its no longer safe.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it but whether or not you admit it there’s a real darkness pressing in, one like we’ve not met before. It’s not just here, all across the land this thing, this ‘Doom’ is spreading its influence.”
“But we can’t…” started Mathew but Anoril didn’t let him finish.
“Amityvale is in the middle of Doomwood, there couldn’t be a more dangerous place!”
“No Anoril, if we evacuate then we’re giving up, we’d lose our only outpost in Doomwood.”
“Perhaps but these attacks are only going to get worse and closer to Amityvale with each passing day. Mathew, Amityvale is a civilian town, how would you feel if someone there got hurt, or worse.” Mathew turned his head from Anoril’s words but Anoril didn’t relent, “How would you feel if Wednesday was the next person you buried?”
Mathew didn’t reply.
Anoril continued, a note of pleading in his voice, “Mathew, please, please, there is no benefit in remaining in Doomwood any longer.”
Mathew spoke at last “We have to stay to fight.”
“And what if you die doing it?” said Anoril, his voice louder now, “You would have been killed tonight if I hadn’t been there.”
“A sign that the Lord wishes me to remain here.”
Anoril let out an angry sign, “You were lucky tonight, you can’t stay here to fight never ending waves of evil. You must retreat, to live and fight another day. There are undead and vampires in places outside Doomwood, places that need your help!”
The two comrades stood there glaring at each other contemptuously until the sound of laughter met their puzzled ears. Turning round Anoril saw a light, a long way off and almost completely shrouded by the tree branches.
“Is that Amityvale?” asked Anoril, puzzled, forgetting the argument.
“No, Amityvale is further north, we’re on the edge of Doomwood here, I don’t think that’s even in Doomwood at all.” replied Mathew his eyebrows furrowing.
Anoril silently drew his sword while Mathew notched another bolt into his crossbow.
Mathew put his finger to his lips to indicate they should be quite and began to make his way forward, jumping from tree to tree, toward the light. Anoril did likewise, if a bit unwillingly.
As they drew nearer they could see houses lined up in rows, lit up by gas street lamps.
“Anoril, look,” hissed Mathew, “the trees, they’re not as dark here. And yes,” he had drawn a knife and stabbed a tree limb, a bright thread of green could be seen in the twilight, “we’re not in Doomwood anymore.”
“Really?” said Anoril not looking at the tree limb but at a dark shape on the ground, “then what’s that?” he said, pointing.
Both of them walked forward and crouched next to the body. It wasn’t human, it was far too large and it was covered in purple hair.
“It’s dead,” pronounced Anoril observing the creature’s legs which were both crushed and bloody. There was also a large stab wound in its stomach from which blood has soaked the surrounding fur.
“What is it?” asked Mathew, examining the creature’s massive arms and bloated chest.
“I don’t know,” said Anoril with a pensive look. “I know this will sound a bit off but its face, its eyes to they look a bit like a…a…”
“Moglin’s?” finished Mathew. “Yes and the ears too.”
“A distant cousin? I’ve never seen anything like this before. D’you something supernatural is behind this?”
“If by ‘supernatural’ you mean a small blue necromancer with a liking for causing carnage.” Mathew stood, uttered a short prayer over the dead creature and then made to move on toward the light issuing from the houses just a short distance away. Anoril watched Mathew’s long coat flourishing outward as he walked away before realising he was meant to follow him.
***
As Anoril walked through the village street he observed that under the many ribbons and decorations the house-owners had adorned their abodes with all the houses were of different styles, as though the village had been built by a selection of different builders over a long time span and each using a different set of instructions. Nevertheless the image of many people skipping from house to house with smiles of joy and in some cases delighted terror was heart-warming in its way.
Another thing Anoril noticed was that a great number of the people on the street were wearing masks. An army of skeletons, werewolves, fishmen, mummies and clowns were tonight in force. Despite all the masks he could see Anoril couldn’t find one which measured up to his own Party Hat which still sat perched on his dyed-white hair.
It was all very pleasant and Anoril was perfectly content to simply sit on one of the road-side benches and watch it all happen. He did wonder however what it was all in aid of. Surely it was not normal practice to run from house to house dressed as monsters carrying a selection of bags and weaponry. “Most peculiar,” commented Anoril to himself as he sat back in the bench, ready for a doze.
It was just as he did so that he felt it. A chill penetrating his skull. Something was behind him, right behind him, breathing heavily. He couldn’t move, he was frozen to the bench. None of the people bounding along the street seemed to have noticed anything, they had not reacted at all to the coldness that had appeared so suddenly. Something was amiss.
Recomposing himself Anoril gulped, readied himself and in one quick movement turned to face whatever was behind him.
Nothing. There was nothing there but a regular stone house across a badly-kept garden. At once the chill Anoril had felt was gone. He stood, gasping looking frantically around for what ever it was that had just gripped him with such a cold terror. Seeing nothing he made his way toward the house.
***
“Hello ladies,” said Mathew, keeping his vows in mind. “I’m looking for a Moglin.”
The trio were standing around a large cauldron. Two women, one with wavy red hair and the other with shorter black hair. The third was a girl, much longer than the other two and she was gripping a small cat in her hands. What was perhaps more noticeable about her was that her hair seemed to be made of snakes. They each were wearing similar attire, old fashioned black and red dresses. Mathew could see the family resemblance, they were sisters.
The red-haired one replied, “Moglins? Not dressed like that you’re not.”
The younger sister let out a stifled giggle, more interestingly, so did her cat.
Ignoring this Mathew continued, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“No mask,” explained the black-haired sister.
“I’m not here to play games, I’m looking for a moglin, his name is…”
“We’re not playing games,” interrupted the red-haired sister who looked to be the eldest.
“Wish we were,” mumbled the youngest sister with a sulk. The black cat in her arms mewed affectionately.
“You see something’s happened to the Moglins around here…”
***
Anoril’s continual and rhythmic knocking finally produced results when the door swung open to reveal a small grass-green moglin with particularly large ears. How it had reached the door handle was as much a mystery to Anoril as was to the moglin the reason it could now see nothing of Anoril but instead a large bar of chocolate.
Anoril glanced down at the little green moglin and noticed that he was swaying gently now, eyes wide and pupils dilated. “Are you oka…” but as soon as the sound had left Anoril’s lips he was flung backward by a hand large enough to wrap around his entire head.
Anoril looked up, dazed from where he lay in the disrupted earth. Wearily he managed to stand up and draw his sword from his belt. Anoril stood wobbling dangerously trying to focus on where the formerly-cute creature was. As he discovered, right in front of him as he was lifted up by the neck and thrown into the bench where he had just been sitting so happily.
Laying in the pile of splintered wood, barely managing to breath Anoril saw his attacker move toward him menacingly. “Urhh,” Anoril spat, hearing screams as the people on the nearby street began to flee as they saw the monster roaring.
***
Hearing the screams from where he’d originally came Mathew sped up his progress to find Anoril. Pushing his way against the current of people, who were themselves all rushing in the opposite direction, Mathew got through and saw Anoril thrown into a bench and fail get up. He broke into a run and dimly noticed that Anoril’s Party Hat had been sent flying across the street.
Just as the moglinster was about to deliver a crushing downward blow to Anoril’s motionless body Mathew sent a bolt hurling from his crossbow and into the green fur of the moglinster.
Clearly the monster hadn’t been badly hurt by the attack but was put off long enough for Mathew to cover the ground between himself and it. As he drew level with the roaring beast he drew two more weapons from his belt. A crucifix and a bottle of holy water. Waving the crucifix in the moglinster’s face did little but the holy water sent straight at the thing’s eyes did cause it to step back, blinded for the time being.
While the moglinster was rubbing it’s enflamed eyes Mathew ran to Anoril’s fallen form and helped the battered man to stand. “Urhh,” groaned Anoril again, seeing in double vision, a marked improvement on a few seconds ago.
Therefore, with his double vision Anoril watched as two green moglinsters finished rubbing their eyes frantically and stared, completely still in absolute horror at something Anoril could only just make out. A slight imperfection in the air, less than gas or smoke but somehow defiantly there. Anoril patted Mathew and pointed at the scene unfolding before them. First the moglinster stared, then began to back away. Most surprisingly to Mathew it lifted itself off the ground in what looked like a very uncomfortable posistion and flung itself haphazardly into the nearby house, half of which collapsed under the impact to fall onto the heaving and bloody mass that was the Moglinster.
They waited, nothing further happened. The moglinster didn’t move of its own accord of another’s will. Making sure Anoril was supported Mathew ran across to examine what was left of the beast. To his dismay he found not a bloody tangle of fur but rummaging amongst the rubble found a small motionless body. The moglin’s eyes were huge, and empty. Mathew carried the dead moglin out of the crumbling house and laid it down on the grass. He gently closed its eyes and whispered a prayer over the scene of devastation. Promising to return and perform a more dignified funeral later Mathew returned to Anoril who had managed to stand again. With a sombre look he shook his head at Anoril’s unasked question.
“Anoril I found out something.”
“Oh yes? Anything to do with Moglins turning into huge hairy monsters?”
“It’s not Zorbak like I thought. Apparently the moglins have all been effected by something. If they see a human that’s not wearing a mask they turn into those things.”
“That explains a lot. Which means it’s my fault that moglin died.” Anoril retrieved his hat from the now deserted street but didn’t place it on his head. Instead he ran his fingers through his hair and closed his eyes.
“It’s not your fault, you didn’t do anything,” Mathew assured him, “Speaking of which what did do it?
“You mean pick it up and throw it through its own house?”
“Yeah, I didn’t see anything. Did you?” inquired Mathew.
“I don’t know, a faint outline maybe,” answer Anoril.
“Could you see what it was of?” asked Mathew to which Anoril shook his head. “Invisible yet solid,” continued Mathew, “Some sort of malevolent spirit? A demon maybe-”
Anoril cut across him, “Wait, before, I felt something. It was like a coldness, like fear and hate made gas.” At Mathew’s enquiring look he finished, “It was just for a second though.”
Anoril sat in silence while Mathew nodded and walked back to where he’d set down the body of the moglin. He lifted it to take it back into what remained of its house and was saddened somehow by how light the poor thing was.
Finding the moglin’s bedroom intact he lay the body carefully on the bed and pulled the covers around him. For anyone looking through the window it would have appeared to be sleeping.
Rejoining Anoril in the trampled garden the first thing Mathew said was, “Probably too dangerous to find one of the poor thing’s neighbours.”
Anoril didn’t acknowledge this but said, “Did you find out what that creature we saw in the woods was?”
“Yes, I did. The Moglins have all reacted badly with something they’ve eaten. Whenever a moglin sees an unmasked human they change into these ‘Moglinsters’ they’re called.”
“But how’s that possible?” wondered Anoril.
“You’re better with science than me, Anoril.”
Anoril nodded his agreement absentmindedly, “Perhaps these Moglinsters are a different evolutionary path that no longer exist but the code is still written into a gene in the moglin DNA.”
Mathew nodded, unsure of what Anoril had said.
“And,” Anoril continued, “The code has been activated by means of an evolutionary trigger they’ve come into contact with. Judging by the speed at which the reaction happens if that’s the case then the trigger must have been used in excess.”
“Perhaps it would be helpful if we looked at the other one we found earlier.” Anoril nodded his agreement and they set off back the way they’d come in the first place, away from the lights and into the forest.
Before they reached the forest however their path was cut off by a shaggy red body thrown in front of them.
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