Hand on the Head

He could see the smoke that lay like a shroud over the ruin thickening and solidifying around the trooper as he reached into the reliquary and pried loose the object within. It was a skeletal hand, clenched in a fist, the yellowing bones scrimshawed with curt, intricate characters whose meaning Skaranx could not discern. The trooper held it up for a moment, eyeing it. Then, satisfied that it held no intrinsic worth, he tossed it aside.
It never struck the ground.
A hand, garbed in night-black armour, fell atop the looter’s head. The fingers, painted to resemble fleshless digits, closed almost gently on the unfortunate trooper’s pate. Bone cracked and burst and the man screamed in agony.
...He could only watch as men died, quickly save for the one who’d opened the reliquary. He clawed at his punctured skull and wailed like a broken-backed cat as he was held aloft by his attacker. Flames curled from the fingers that pierced his skull, dripping across his blood and grime-streaked flesh, and enveloped him with a greedy whoosh. He kicked and screamed for long moments, thrashing in obvious agony, his cries bouncing from broken arch to grinning cherub before spiralling up into the air. Then, he made no more sounds and hung limp.



Remorseless