Darkening Cloak of the Old Ones
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Description: A cloak of tanned human flesh with spines protruding from its back, when worn renders its wearer invisible and grants increased speed along roads.
The cloak is only dropped upon the death of a chupacabra and cannot be manufactured.
Is it too late to repent? I pray to the gods not. But should anyone find this note along with my half-eaten remains on the frontiers of some abandoned town, then my repentance was judged and found wanting. I pray instead, then, that this note be a warning. I was known by many names in my lifetime. All of them lies. Who I really am is of little consequence. Only this tale remains. Heed it well, lest you find yourself screaming down the same dark path I now find myself upon.
I spawned two decades ago in a sleepy little pastoral hill town somewhere between Pacifica and New South Pass. Ignored and scorned, I soon fell in contempt of the map-stain of my birth and sought to make my way in the world on my own terms. Through my patience and cunning, I soon learned the patterns of the long slumber of the old ones, punctuated by the occasional misspawning of some broken man or woman in their twenties who, if they uttered their name before falling permanently comatose, wasn't even enough to rouse these so-called elders. With careful planning and subtle practice, I would pick up a blade here or a scrap of iron there. I demonstrated my daily activities, eventually gaining the confidence of those bloated sloths, and was given keys. Here. There. Access to resources and back rooms. They grew further in their complacency. Sometimes I would have to find a room deep within the cold stone hall and vomit or scream my secret contempt.
I sparred daily. Already an expert fighter--one of my few skills of value in this wretched backwater--I grew strong and dangerous right in front of their half-lidded stares. Encouraged, sometimes, when one of them dared stir just enough to grab years worth of food barely better than raw potatoes and return to their hibernations. I kept my daily practice until I could stand no more.
On the day I had chose as my reckoning, lo, a young man in his twenties appeared before me. Strong like me, I subtly tested his character lest I could convince him of aiding with my plan. But it didn't take long before I could tell that he wasn't of the cunning sort. Pure of heart, he was, intentional and kind. He smiled constantly. His annoying laughter burrowed wormlike into my mind. But, worst of all, he was eager to be of assistance. I soon knew that I would have to kill him. But first, I would prey upon the malady that was his innocence and naiveté. I told him stories about bandits coming down from the mountains to the south, and of my grave concerns of wild animals. I spun tales of violence and misery, and with eager wide eyes, he drank the liquor of my poisonous tongue. It then took hardly an effort to convince him to help me shuffle off the old ones into the deep recesses of an old, decrepit stone hall.
When we had dragged the last of them in, I shut the door, and then the window, and locked them both. I sipped my tea as the young man smiled at me, and I smiled back. He said he was eager to start farming potatoes, ready to make them into something with which to feed these invalids. I said nothing to him for a long time. I savored the moment, sipping my hot tea. Eventually I told him about the true nature of my feelings. I can still see the look on his face as it fell. The gleam of his smiling teeth was replaced by the wide white of his eyes, overflowing with terror. He screamed and clawed at both door and window, knocking until, by the will of the slumbering gods themselves, he could no longer.
He had barely a bone knife and nothing more. I, on the other hand, slowly withdrew the battle axe from its crouching perch upon my back. His murder took only three days. In all that time, not a one of the old ones stirred--not that it would have mattered as I had changed the locks already. In another handful of days, the ones who had the wherewithal to carry a crowbar were extinguished. The rest, I just let rot where they slept.
Finally liberated from my decades of suffering, I broke out into the wide world. I had always wanted to see Pacifica for myself, that fabled settlement said to hum with vibrant life and commerce! The place of my spawning was barely a speck upon the world, far off the common routes and utterly lacking in any desirable resource whatsoever. It would take days just to arrive. From the moment I had heard about Pacifica, I had begged for some way to get there. Dozens of unused vehicles lined our streets. I offered to work for a van, a motorcycle, a tandem bike--even a wooden cart, but even on the rare occasion that one of the townsfolk dared open their crusty mouth, they would question my desire. "Why would you ever want to leave? It's too dangerous out there alone. It's best if you just stay here and tend to the potatoes." And they would either ignore my pleas or insult me anew.
But now that I'd exacted my revenge, there was no one to stop me. Now it was my turn to ignore the occasional knock or desperate note pushed under the door, pleading for release. The only release they would know now was from their own mortal coil.
Yet, fate hadn't finished with me yet, for although I now had the means and patience to break any of the vehicle locks, there was hardly a drop of petrol or propane or even alcohol to fuel any gluttonous vehicle. So I had to be content with a tandem bike. No matter, I lied to myself. I will just have to make do until I could ambush another sleepy soul and pry the key from their cold, dead, undeserving hands. Only now do I see that I had grown my own deceptive skills to the point that I was deceiving myself.
Eventually, I struck out on the tandem, carrying as much as I could to survive, hoping that the meager pittance I hauled with me had some value beyond our dead-end valley. And eventually I did come across an unfortunate soul, so entranced in his mining for some mineral of which I have such contempt that I cannot remember it now. Playing the friend, I attempted to engage him in conversation, but he never said a single word to me. He kept on with his sleep-work, oblivious either by design or circumstance, I could not tell. Finally, I had enough of his willful ignorance and struck a blow with my mighty battle axe. While it did not fell him, this act did entice him to awaken. But although he struck out upon me, his strength or skill lacked considerably. His violent retort did little but scratch me. So with nothing left but his biting tongue, he cursed me and fled down the long path. I was unable to land any further blows, but I was unperturbed. My skill at deception would obfuscate the facts, making it seem he the one who attacked first whereas I would claim naught but self-defense. A misunderstanding at most.
For days I traveled the foreboding, yet dull landscape. I passed one abandoned town after another, picked clean by either scavengers or time years before I had crawled forth upon the grime of my spawntown. Until, one day, I came upon a great crossroads. My pitiful excuse for a map shed no light as to the correct way to Pacifica, as if somehow roads were planted where there ought not be any. Yet, I pushed on, making the best guess available that might take me towards the promising shores of my salvation.
And then one night, as the shadows of the mountain pass I was attempting to traverse darkened the way, I heard a sound upon the wind that finally branded fear upon my heart. It sounded like the hysterical scream of a woman. Or perhaps of an animal strangling to death in some unseen thicket. My attempts to lie to myself found little purchase upon my heart, for my knuckles turned as white as death clutching the tandem's grips. As the light failed, I heard the beast dart along just a blur beyond my comprehension. Bushes rustled where the was no wind. Pebbles trickled where there was nothing. Every creature and bird had ceased their activity.
Who goes there? I demanded. But there was no reply. Again I attempted to soothe myself; surely it was the indigestion of old meat jerky obfuscating my wits and nothing more. As I crested the pass, I peddled harder. The next town was in sight, just upon the horizon. I would make it by the morning. But no sooner had my spirits raised at the thought than the slash and sting of the creature's claws bit into my leg! Frantically I let my battle axe fly. It caught only air. I thrashed until exhausted; I could no longer lift my weapon. The beast was nowhere to be seen.
Somehow I made it to the next town. Like the many others I had passed, it was a mere empty shell. Its resources were little more than mud and reeds and garlic. Its hunting grounds pitifully depleted, I settled for a mere pigeon as my sustenance. But I did not tarry. As soon as the fowl was roasted over dried dung and consumed, I fled the village. I could feel myself being watched, though I was never quick nor clever enough to prove reason for my paranoia. And in my haste I realized too far along the path that I had chosen the wrong road. With a mighty bellowing curse, I turned my tandem around to backtrack. But, again as the previous night, it ambushed me. Again it slashed, this time upon my other leg, causing a flow of blood that left my head to swoon. Yet again, I was unable to glimpse the vicious creature, let alone land a blow. By the next morning I had returned to the abandoned village. I didn't even stop to hunt, but this time took what I thought the correct path towards Pacifica.
And then on the third night, as I saw the next town cresting the horizon and the light had ceded its power over to shadow, I was forced to slow my tandem to stillness. For there in my path loomed a dark creature, barely backlit by the twilight. It was the size of a dire wolf with a stench more rank than one. Yet its skin shimmered like a snake. And spines sprouted from its back as sharp as boar tusks. Its huge eyes blared at me like angry red lanterns, but they cast no light to see even my trembling hands before me. From deep within its chest rumbled a growl that turned my bowels. I brandished my axe and stood tall as I could, determined to appear formidable.
"I demand your name!" I shouted. "By rights I should know the identity of my foe!"
The silence consumed everything. I opened my mouth to challenge the beast again, but before I could issue a second threat, it hissed and rumbled its reply:
CHUPA.... Chupa-cabra.
And before I could even move or utter a cry, it leapt upon me, thrashing its teeth and claws, ripping at my chest. My attempts to strike it with my battle axe were in vain. Blood stained the path--drenched my eyes.
Hours later, when the light returned, I awoke and found myself upon the soaked ground. I hauled myself onto my tandem, struggling with every ounce of strength and determination to get myself to the next town. Surely sweet Pacifica was within reach. Surely, the next town was its outpost and I would survive. These lies I told myself until, like my blood, my conviction drained.
Now, as I pen what I am now resigned to acknowledge as my final confession, my weakness is making it too difficult to concentrate and continue with much speed. I see the light waning, and I know Chupacabra will soon be back. I can hear its pursuit already, though I still cannot see my invisible hunter. Already I know I will not be able to reach the town in time. I have but a few hours left to pen these words.
I think I hear it now. Yes. It is close. Closer still. It is laughing. Laughing at me. I know that laugh. One that had burrowed itself into my mind like a worm. It sounds like a young newspawn, eager to help. But this time, no longer innocent and naive.
