Tünslayers: Tünslayers: Origins, #1

By Walter K. Static

Lovecraft meets Looney Tunes as the land of Breth is invaded by unimaginable horrors from another dimension; colorless, formless monstrocities that kill without a second thought.

 

They're impossible to reason with, impossible to hurt, impossible to even describe. Mostly because Brethik warriors have never seen a cartoon character before.

 

Inspired by everything from The Witcher  to Who Framed Roger Rabbit, Tünslayers is cosmic horror as it's never been done before!

 

That is to say: irreverently, and with a lot more 4th Wall Breaks.

 

Warning: Contains Gore, Body Horror, and Very Adult Themes. May give your Steamboat the Willies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Walter K. Static
• Release date: May 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223215585

Book preview

Chapter One: Ain’t that a Fine ‘How do you do?’

~Fletcher~

IT BEGAN JUST AS THE crone had foretold.

A bird was found in the marsh; only its skeleton remained. Around it was a halo of four smaller skeletons; those of smaller birds. They wreathed the desiccated body, perfectly equidistant and just as fragmented in their remains. What had killed the birds was unclear. No wounds could be seen and there was no clear sign of an illness.

It was as if, by all accounts, the bird had simply been stricken down by sudden, inexplicable death and plummeted from the sy. But those smaller skeletons around it were, possibly, the most confusing part. Where had they come from? They weren’t the same type of bird - not corvids; too small - so they likely weren’t its children.

Their skulls were large with cavernous eye sockets and tiny beaks. Whatever they had been, they weren’t indigenous. Fletcher knew his birds, and he’d never seen a kind like this. The closest approximation he could find were chicks, but they shouldn’t have been able to fly in that case.

And judging by the cracks in the bones, they had plummeted during flight.

But that mystery wasn’t what worried him. It didn’t matter to him who or what killed those birds and displayed them so. What worried him was how it echoed what the crone had said; that strange warning she had given to him just a few days before. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but he knew better than to ignore the words of his elders. Even if the cronewoman was beyond an age feasible for sanity, she had seen things men like him could only dream of. Things that all - inevitably - came true. She had foreseen famines, draughts, bandit raids, great fires and countless tragedies too terrible to mention.

And she had foreseen this. And what came after.

She would need to be told; informed her vision seemed to be coming true. The village had countless times relied on her prophecies, but there had never been one like this. It pertained not to the weather, the crops, the hunt or the affairs of the kingdom, but to something much... worse.

Fletcher gathered the remains in a dried skin, treating them as gently as he could. With each contortion, however, he feared he’d crack a bone or dislocate a joint. Keeping the creature in its proper condition wasn’t likely, but he still wanted to deliver it to the crone in as decent a state as he could manage. He didn’t understand the way of these things, but he had a feeling she’d want to see it.

He hiked back to the village, his hunt unsuccessful. The forest was strangely quiet, as it had been for the last few days. Though, that was of little concern to him when faced with the enormity of this discovery. They had food enough for a long time; the crops were coming in well and he still had some dry meats to trade. The grumbling of his stomach was not on his mind. The fact that the crone’s prophecy actually seemed to be coming true was what had him on edge. Many had dismissed her as having finally succumbed to senility - this omen seeming far too ludicrous to believe - but Fletcher had the evidence with him now.

The trek was cold, the sky above him black-brown and the landscape sunk in misery. The bird had landed in a clearing in the middle of the Wallows, a portion of swamp-like desolation beyond the western edge of the forest near Enthifon.

It was littered with the rotting remains of trees, which tilted at steep angles until they eventually surrendered to rot and fell into the marshy mud to be swallowed. The line between thick mud and swamp water was dangerously blurred, but an experienced hunter like Fletcher could spot it easily enough to avoid ever losing a boot to the sucking muck.

Or, at least, he could avoid ever losing more boots to the sucking muck.

Normally, it was a good place to hunt for palsc and cruckery, but nothing had bitten that day and the sky, in its growing darkness, was strangely devoid of birds. The Wallows melted slowly into a brown-green forest. Vulmer’s Thicket - as it had come to be called - extended for miles, wrapping around the roots of Vulmer’s Peak like moss on an old stone. Game was ripe within the woods; rabbit, deer, elk, fox, and even boar.

It was where Fletcher had spent most of his life, as far as he could determine. He felt as if he’d been born in the woods, since the earliest memory he could possibly recall involved first learning to hunt with his father. It was as much a home to him as his hut back at Enthifon. However, on that day it felt different. Entirely different. Alien. Wrong.

And that was because it was empty.

The forest had never been empty, even when it was invaded by great beasts like Brown Skoda that could consider anything its prey. And that was because a monster like Skoda made enough noise to make up for all the other animals as they hid, quivering in their burrows.

But it was silent now. There could be heard the faint chatter of nighttime insects, but not a single squirrel alighted on the branches of the trees, nor did any rabbits scamper through the underbrush. No birds sang, no deers pranced. There wasn’t a sign of a single, breathing animal in all the woods, except for him. Predation could never get so thick as to wipe out the smaller wildlife entirely and Fletcher knew that. It was why - at first - he thought he must be going deaf.

The sickening silence was so deep and pervasive he felt like it was creeping into his brain and pulling it into a bog of stillness. It defied everything he knew about nature. The woods were silent.

It was wrong. And the instant Fletcher realized it, it set him on edge.

Her words echoed in his mind;

Five dead birds...

But only one like us.

They’re not from ‘round here. They aren’t as we are.

They don’t care about us... They just want us to be like them:

Boneless and pale. Colorless.

There’s nothing to them. Nothing like what we’ve got.

They’re just colorless. And they want us to be colorless, too.

They want us to be boneless and pale...

So that they don’t have to be. So that they can bathe in the color of the world.

And when they’re done, this world will be colorless, too.

Colorless before the curtains fall.

The words were broken and fragmented, an imperfect memory. Not that perfect recollection would’ve helped him; it had made no sense to begin with. He wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but it was unlike any of the other prophecies she’d ever given. Usually, it could be interpreted. A warning about invading foes or famine. Starvation, drought, harsh winters; but this was almost totally senseless.

And that was what had made it so horrible.

The silent forest crept around him as he continued through the underbrush, keeping his bow ready just in case he needed it. And yet he knew he wouldn’t. The silence told him that he was alone. Somehow.

Alone, in the middle of the forest.

No squirrels, rabbits or even birds.

It was silent. Or rather, it was almost silent, because as Fletcher strained to listen he caught something at last. There was a taste in the wind; something that accented the calm and caught Fletcher’s attention. There was something there. Something to be heard. The slight hum of music.

Music in the middle of the woods.

The hunter followed the sound, curiously, and the closer he got the better he could hear it. It was strange. Profound. Multifaceted. It was the kind of music only an entire band of players could produce, so what was it doing in the middle of the forest?

Fletcher stalked closer and closer, each step filling him with greater apprehension that he had to ignore. He prayed it was the answer to his questions - just a band of traveling performers who had scared off all the wildlife - and yet he knew it wasn’t so simple. It was unlike any music he’d heard before; plucking and deliberate and strange. It would require a myriad of different instruments and an entire tavern’s worth of players. It echoed in the distance - distorted and strange - allowing him to hear it only as a bizarre, far-off ululation.

A malady of sound.

He hated it.

And then he saw something. Something in the distance that was most assuredly wrong. Different. It was not native to those woods, Fletcher was sure. It was solid white and almost seemed to glow slightly, though as he made his way between trees it kept dropping out of view. He could never get the full picture of it, only ever shards and fragments split up by interweaving branches and tree trunks.

The hunter found himself spurred on by curiosity, his movements becoming more and more desperate. He had to see what it was. Some beautiful, white stag? A shard of moonlight? What could it be?! The music seemed to be coming from it; radiating from it like pulsating heat from a sporadic fire. As he drew closer, the blaring sound grew louder and frothier. The instruments foamed with obnoxious joy, sounding every bit as buffoonish as they did proud.

And yet still, there was that shape. That strange shard of white.

They’re just colorless...

Fletcher froze.

The small parcel of bones slipped from his hands as his felt his pulse quicken. They clattered to the soft earth below, the hunter unable to bring himself to collect them. Instead, those words just echoed in his mind over and over again, a chilling edge to them. Colorless. This thing - this fragment of moonlight - was most assuredly colorless. Colorless completely; stark white and nothing more. This had to be the thing the crone had spoken of.

The knowledge sent a chill up Fletcher’s spine as her other words played in his head. He was one of few people who bothered to listen to the woman’s dread omens anymore. Senility was beginning to melt even the more lucid prophecies into a soup of madness, which left Fletcher to translate them into sanity. Even then, he could usually only interpret the barest possible meaning from them anymore. But this one had stumped him entirely. All he knew was that the gravity with which she spoke made his blood freeze in its veins. Whatever she saw, it was terrible almost beyond words. And now he faced it.

And yet - knowing this - he still had to see what it was. He had to know. Steeling his resolve, the hunter made the final plunge forward. He emerged from the treeline into a small clearing where the sky could be seen clearly above. It was roughly circular and no larger than his own house in overall size. Vegetative rot clung thickly to the bases of the trees, wreathed in prickled shrubbery of various colors.

Brown, green, purple, orange; it festered along the decaying leaves of the forest floor like briny sea foam. It was familiar to Fletcher; the woods he had grown up in, soured by the shadows of night into a befouled duskscape. And yet in the middle of it there was something unlike anything he’d ever seen.

No. No, that wasn’t quite right.

He knew what it was, but he’d never seen one like it before.

It was a door.

It sat in the middle of the clearing, firmly upright, with no wall attached to it. It was nothing more than a door and its frame. Pure white, with black cracks and a black trim around it. The knob was circular with a large keyhole underneath it. It sat there, music throbbing from the otherside like thunder beyond the mountains. And yet, Fletcher knew that on the other side of the door there was simply... the woods.

If he opened it, there would be nothing there but the treeline.

He knew that.

So where is the music coming from?

Slowly, the hunter began to circle around the door until he reached the side, never taking his eyes off of it. At that point, it began to rotate with him as he walked. He saw only the edge of it no matter how much he continued to circle it. For a moment, he was confused, then he realized what was happening; it was opening. He froze, dread instantly pouring into him as he found that there was something attached to the doorknob; some strangely, gangly appendage.

It pushed the door open as a shrill whistling filled the air, like the creaking of some rusty hinge. And yet, it was different. Hollow and piping and clear; like a flute. It set the hunter’s blood pulsing, pounding in his ears and setting his body on fire with nerves. The door was open! Something had opened it from an unknown space the hunter couldn’t see, the limb of the thing emerging from thin air.

Something slithered through; something long and thin and black with a bulbous, white growth on the end. The pseudopod gently touched down on the grass outside before flexing, pulling forth the full form of the creature. It passed through the doorway with a single, fluid motion; pulling itself out into the forest clearing with what could almost be described as a ‘flourish’.

What Fletcher saw was beyond anything he could adequately describe. At first, all he could make out was a strange collection of shapes; a series of amorphous blobs with a set of black, gangly limbs attached. The thing hurt just to look at; giving him a headache and making him squint his eyes just to try and tolerate the sight of it.

He was reminded of trying to look at the sun, but the pain wasn’t caused by some insane brightness. It just made no sense. The shadows of the world didn’t touch it, nor did the moonlight. It seemed strangely flat, like a piece of parchment and yet as it turned, it exposed that it was as full as anything else in the world. All it was was black and white. Black limbs ending with white growths; a black and white body; a black and white head.

They’re just colorless...

Fletcher took a step back. The creature was smaller than he was by a good few feet, and yet it filled him with panic. As he moved, it turned towards him. It changed. Shifted. Morphed. As his eyes adjusted, he began to see it for what it was: something almost humanoid. Two short, gangly limbs supported it, with two more limbs sprouting from either side of its central mass to serve as - presumably - arms. He could interpret the round mass on top of it as a head, with the short, plump mass below being a body. It had no neck from what he could see.

Two bulbous white eyes sat on the front of its head, with two black ovals swimming at the bottom to serve as pupils. The lower part of its face was taken up by some wrinkles, from which occasionally flashed rows of white rectangles; teeth, perhaps. A mouth.

The hunter gaped at it for a long time, his brain racing to try and come up with some sort of explanation for what he was seeing. Finally, words began to tumble from his mouth, spurred on by nothing more than sheer confusion.

"What... what are you?"

Whatever Fletcher had expected, he hadn’t expected the creature to respond to him in words he could understand. He hadn’t even really expected it to respond, at all. The thing was so unlike anything he’d ever seen that he wouldn’t have been surprised if this was all some mad death-vision he was having after being bitten by a venomous snake.

But no. It spoke to him. And he could understand it.

Mostly.

Hoho! Me? The strange being chuckled in a bizarre, high-pitched voice that felt entirely unnatural, Why, I’m a Toon of course!

Fletcher’s mouth went dry. It could speak. It understood him.

But... how?

"A... a Tün?" he tried the word out on his tongue. It felt... odd. Wrong. It was a word he’d never heard before, but already he felt as though he could hear the meaning in it. It was no... ethnicity. No nationality. Not even a species, really. It designated something even broader than that. He knew in an instant that he could not identify himself in any similar way. ‘Human’, ‘man’, ‘hunter’; all were either far too specific or far too general.

A Tün...

Not quite! T-double o-n!! The Tün beamed, A Toon am I and a Toon is me! I’m exactly how my mama made me!

And... you can talk?

Why, Mister, o’course I can talk! I’ve got a tongue, don’t I?

At this the creature - the Tün - opened its mouth. But the way it did so was horrible. Its mouth grew to nearly twice the size of its head, almost certainly dislocating the jaw. But the creature clearly felt no pain from this. In fact, it opened it with such ease that Fletcher was only further disgusted. It was as if its anatomy was entirely mutable. Within its mouth was an utter blackness devoid of any discernible details, as if its lips merely sealed away a vacuous pit.

From a place Fletcher couldn’t see, the creature plucked forth a tongue. It was long and large; bigger than that of any dog or wolf he’d ever seen. And as the creature drew the tongue forth, it only seemed to stretch further and further, without ever actually growing thinner. Instead, it just seemed to... elongate.

It took Fletcher a moment to realize it, but as the tongue stretched so too did the arm that was pulling on it! Both stretched to nearly double their original length without the slightest difficulty, causing Fletcher to suddenly be overcome with panic.

Sorcery! he stammered, stumbling back until he hit a tree. Still, for all his fear, he could not draw steel on the creature. As much of an aberration as it was, it didn’t seem to mean him any harm yet. And he desperately wanted to keep it that way.

Thorther-what? the creature asked, still pinching its tongue between its fingers. As it spoke, giant globs of tear-drop shaped spittle flew from its mouth. For a moment the Tün glanced from Fletcher to its own tongue, looking between the two as it tried to decide what to do. Finally, it stretched its tongue one final bit before releasing. Instantly, the muscle flew back and smacked straight into its face with a wet ‘SPLACK’.

Oof! The Tün cried.

Fletcher stared, transfixed. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t really believe what he was seeing. The Tün reached up towards its jaw and - as it did - something sprouted from it. It was a long, thin bar bent twice to form a sort of mirrored ‘L’ shape. After a moment, Fletcher realized what it was. A crank system, like what was used to raise and lower a castle gate. The creature grabbed it and began cranking, causing its tongue to retract down its face and back into its lips.

What... Fletcher swallowed hard, What has brought this hallucination on?! What plagues my mind to conjure up such demented visions?!

You alright there, Mister? the creature reached up with a long, gangly arm that seemed to twist unnaturally this way and that as its hand snaked through the air. Finally, a finger landed on its round head, giving it a quizzical scratch.

"Th-this is a hallucination! It c-can’t be real! You can’t be real!"

Sure I can! the creature smiled wide, I’m the real deal, Mister! A real show-stopper!

At this, the creature began a horrible, boneless sort of dance. Its arms swung in front of it as its back end rocked side to side in the opposite direction. But the arms. The arms! Where once Fletcher was sure there was a joint - an elbow - now there was nothing. They were perfectly curved into ‘c’ shapes. For a human limb to achieve such a fluidity it would need to be dragged through the spokes of a wagon wheel a hundred times!

Jeez, Mister! You’re not lookin’ too hot! at this the creature took a step towards Fletcher, nearly causing him to scream.

Stay back! he dodged out from the tree, backing further into the blackness of the forest. The creature - the Tün - looked at him, concerned. He could recognize the expression - a frown, down curved eyebrows, slightly drooped lids - but it was all so strange. The way its face slid into the expression so effortlessly, it was as if no muscles were being used at all! It had to be magic. Magic or some malady of the mind.

Here! Lemme pour ya a hot cuppa!

At this the creature removed its small, round hat. It flipped it and - in the time elapsed where the article was obscured by the aberration’s massive hand - it changed. Now upside down, it was clearly a small, ceramic cup. A handle sprouted from the side.

H-h-how-?! Fletcher stammered, but interrupted himself. Without a second’s hesitation, the creature’s other hand changed. It morphed, liquified, became shapeless and then reformed. From it a thin, curved tube sprouted. It tapered towards the end, becoming clearly some sort of spout. From the opposite side of the formless hand sprouted a handle.

Its hand had transformed into some strange facsimile of a teapot. It tilted the affected appendage forward, towards the cup, causing dark, steaming liquid to pour forth. Fletcher recoiled in revolt at this, and at the implication that the Tün might try to offer the drink to him. Whatever foul magics were at work here, Fletcher wanted no further part in them!

Still, the creature offered him the cup. It smiled broadly, showing off a top and bottom row of perfectly rectangular, white teeth. They were locked together so tightly they almost resembled one unified shape with mere lines to give the illusion of separation, rather than individual teeth.

Get that away from me! Fletcher snapped, I have no desire to drink from you!

Because that was what he had to assume. Whatever the creature had offered him had to be some sort of bodily fluid. That or a magically conjured liquid of some form. Or it was all a hallucination. Surreality had conjured a breed of cacodaemoniacal visions for him the likes of which he didn’t think possible to imagine.

Golly, Mister, and after I brewed a fresh pot! The creature released the cup, which hung in the air without moving as he placed a hand on his hip. It was annoyed, clearly, but not angry. Its cheek swelled, its eyes narrowed, its bottom lip curled; it was pouting. Then, its hand - the one that had transformed - effortlessly shifted back into its proper, original form and grabbed the cup out of mid-air.

It drank of it, pouring the liquid straight down into its mouth. A single drop flew from its gullet and splashed on the ground, forming a strangely big pool. Then the Tün wiped its mouth, causing the lips to seemingly stick to the back of its hand and stretch hideously before snapping free and flying back into place with a sort of whipping sound.

Where did you come from?! How did you get here?! Fletcher found himself speaking, despite his fear, though the words were stammered and weak. The phantasmagoria before him was simply too bizarre to be a figment of his own imagination. What would compel a mind to dream up such visions, least of all a simple, earthly mind such as his? How could this just be a vision?

And yet how could it be anything but?

A door! the creature spread its hands, Same way folks get anywhere! I just bumped into one, popped it open, walked on through and here I am! Hoho!

What kind of door?! Fletcher demanded, How did you create it? What is it doing here?!

Well, I ain’t a carpenter, Mister, but I’m guessin’ someone built it! And it’s here because all doors gotta lead somewhere, right? its arms began to loop and twist and writhe together like the vile interlocking of snakes as it spoke, "A door that doesn’t lead nowhere is just a wall, isn’t it? Not all doors lead to where they’re supposed to! Some lead to walls, some lead to more doors, some lead to where ya already were or where you already are! But not this one! I just opened it up and it opened up out onto here!"

Well, go back! Fletcher ordered, Go back from whence you came!

Huh? the creature stared at him, bewildered, its limbs snapping free from their vile knot, "Well, now, Mister, that’s not exactly friendly of ya! Least ya could do is show a fella around! Whaddya say? Come on! This is quite. the. place ya got here!"

The creature’s head swung around in a slow arc as it observed the surroundings. Its mouth turned into a perfectly circular hole as it let out a loud, clear whistle. Its thumbs were stuck under two straps that appeared out of nowhere, slung over its shoulders and reaching down to clips on its pants. It pulled on the straps, stretching them as it concluded its whistle. A smile - larger than any possible - split its face in half.

I-! Fletcher stumbled and staggered back towards the dark as the creature’s strange, hideous smile seemed to become the only thing he could see, I refuse! Go back from whence you came at once!

He stumbled and nearly fell, catching himself on a thick, rough tree. The creature cartwheeled one leg forward as it began taking effortless, weightless steps towards him. It kept pace easily, each step managing to find a perfectly clear spot of ground for purchase.

Ya got a home? Friends? I’d sure like to meet some other people like you! Maybe they’ll be a bit more chatty! No offense, Mister, but you seem like a bit of an old stick-in-the-mud!

Fletcher’s back slammed into a tree, which he bounced off of. The high-pitched voice seemed to be reaching out towards him as the creature continued its odd, wheeling walk. He collapsed to his knees for merely a second before pushing back to his feet, turning tail, and breaking into a full sprint. He had to escape it. That creature - that vision - would drive him mad.

He ran as fast and as hard as he could, the forest blurring by in a dizzy slur around him. The dark night twisted shadows into phantasmagoric abominations which loomed around him like he was being wrapped up in some dread tapestry. For a good few yards the voice followed him. It grew echoed and faint, but the tone never changed. It just followed and followed.

And then it was gone. The only sound left was twigs and dead leaves getting crunched under foot as he raced towards the village of Enthifon. His own phantasmal breath became his only companion, pluming from his lips in pale clouds as he ran so fast and hard his legs ached.

Someone had drugged him. He had drunk worm wine on accident or a crop of fungus had gone unseen in the wheat when it was turned into bread and he had eaten it.

His mind was not well. That had to be it.

He emerged into the blue-tinted world, finding the night sky stretched above him. He breathed deep the cool air, allowing himself a moment of rest. There was no voice. He couldn’t hear its words, nor could he make out even the slightest trace of its boneless form. The cold, night air tasted as sweet as water to his sore lungs. It had been quite some time since he’d last had to sprint so hard.

Fletcher’s legs felt achy and worn just from the run, alone. It had to have been a mile or more, but just that shouldn’t have tired him out quite so much. He was out of shape. The hunts had been too easy; not enough of a challenge to keep his body primed.

A twig snapped behind him.

Fletcher jumped and whirled around, staring into the inky darkness of the forest with wide, panicked eyes. He searched for even the slightest hint of the creature, but found none. Nothingness. It was the same forest he’d known for years. The one he’d grown up in.

Still, panic lit within him anew as unfamiliarity clawed at his soul. All he could see was that... thing. That creature. It was in there somewhere, along with that cursed door. He may have known the forest, but he was beginning to wonder if he truly knew nothing of the world, itself. He stumbled back, before turning and running again, ignoring the cold shriek of his muscles. The town’s tall, wooden ramparts had never seemed quite so welcoming as they did in that moment. Normally they were imposing and brutal, framed against the sky from the town’s position atop the great hill like the fangs of a beast.

But now it just reminded Fletcher of home. Safety. Enthifon.

The gate was - thankfully - still open, so passage inside was easy. The weary hunter nearly collapsed upon crossing the threshold, the two men standing guard at the gate immediately rushing to his aid. They pulled him to his feet, hooking their arms under his to lift him as they stared in alarm at his moon-pale face.

"Fletcher? Fletcher?!" one asked, anxiously, What?! What’s happened?! Are you alright?!

I... I... Fletcher pushed off from the two, his legs feeling as solid as slush-water beneath him. Still, he forced himself to stand and walk, completely ignoring the two guardsmen.

He didn’t have time to talk. He had to get home.

His small, stone house was waiting at the end of a path midway up one of the smaller hills that rippled across the village. He staggered up the incline, feeling his thighs burn at the extra exertion. His fingertips gave him extra strength as he sank forward, his legs threatening to give out from under him. Still, the guards followed him, their concern only mounting at his obvious fervor.

Fletch?! the other tried, Did something happen out there?! Should we raise the gates?! What’s going on?!

I... I don’t... I don’t know. The hunter heaved himself against his door and pushed inside. Within its shadow-soaked depths he staggered to the table and sought the night’s meal. Old scraps of food still lay on the plates and a few drops of water still lingered at the bottom of his wooden cup. He smelled everything. Normal.

No hint of poisons or hallucinogens.

What’s going on in here? A new voice arrived. Authoritative. Brusk. Young.

Duncan Iorundsson appeared in the doorway, his posture as rigid as the blade he carried. He had a habit of doing nightly patrols, just to make sure things were in order, so his sudden appearance wasn’t surprising. His presence would’ve been welcoming were the hunter still not practically delirious with panic.

Fletcher doesn’t seem well. one of the guards reported.

Do you think you’ve been poisoned? the other asked the hunter, as Fletcher scrutinized his