Chapter 76: Fall of Edinburgh Pt. 2
"There's no bloody way this is happening!" Malcolm exclaimed in utter horror. "It's a fable! A bloody myth! How could…" Words failed him, staring in shock at the enormous nightmare that stood where Sir Scott's monument once had. It was the Nuckelavee.
The Nuckelavee was a monstrosity from myth's darkest corners, its skinless body towering twelve meters, black veins pulsing with ichor. Its malformed head, half-human, half-horse, glowered with a single, malevolent eye. From its gaping mouth, jagged teeth jutted in chaotic directions, slick with spit and something fouler. Its humanoid torso, twisted and unnatural, rose from a horse-like lower half, its long arms tipped with sharp, clawed fingers that raked the air. The horse-like body crushed stone with cracked hooves. Blackened tendrils writhed where a mane should have been, dripping vile liquid that hissed on the ground.
Its skinless muscles steamed with rot. Its stench choked soldiers. Hooves crushed bone. The air burned lungs, heavy with oil-like filth. Its breath, a visible, deathly black smoke, seemed alive, twisting and curling through the air, seeking out victims with relentless hunger. Its presence alone infected the city with terror, its aura a crushing weight.
The creature unleashed a guttural, bone-chilling roar that spread its toxic aura further. Filling its lungs, it exhaled a breath saturated with death magic.
The people of Edinburgh couldn't comprehend this magic, but ignorance offered no shield. The Nuckelavee continued its assault, its breath creeping like a sentient plague through the streets. Its massive fist smashed a pub's ceiling, timber splintering, crushing screaming patrons beneath rubble and blood. A shopkeeper choked on invasive black smoke, his dog's hide blistering rapidly as blood streamed from its eyes. Screams of the dying faded to silence as death claimed them fast.
Those caught closest to the exhalation coughed violently, blood seeping from mouths and noses. Their skin blistered and burst, mixing with the foul air, spreading the contagion. The blackened magic slithered into alleyways, covering drunken beggars, slipping through vents, and curling into open windows, infecting thousands who convulsed as the plague took hold.
The military's intervention failed. Bullets irritated the Nuckelavee, enraging it. Heavy tanks bogged down in black ichor pooling like tar, their crews choking as fumes seeped through seals. General McAllister watched in horror as his soldiers' formations crumbled under the relentless decay.
The troops' precision collapsed as sickness overwhelmed them. Coughing fits wracked their ranks, both outside and within buildings. In mere minutes, the mobilized forces were incapacitated, falling to the same incurable plague claiming civilians.
The mythological horror was indescribable to those watching on news or from a distance. Stories of the Nuckelavee, whispered in hushed tones during childhood, surged to the forefront of their minds. This was no mere tale to frighten children into good behavior—it was real, and it was exactly as described in every horrific detail.
Disbelief mingled with terror as viewers struggled to process it. Some openly sobbed, clutching loved ones, while others stared in stunned silence, unable to reconcile the myth with the monstrosity on their screens. A lone reporter, stationed on the outskirts of the chaos, tried to find his voice, his words shaking as he spoke into the camera.
"The Nuckelavee," he stammered, "a creature of legend, a harbinger of plague and destruction, has somehow stepped out of our darkest stories and into our reality. Ancient lore tells us it comes from the sea, a cursed being that punishes mankind for its arrogance. It seeks to destroy, to corrupt, and to infect—its very breath is death itself."
His voice cracked. "They said it fears fresh water, that it cannot cross running streams. But here, in the heart of Edinburgh, what defense do we have? What chance do we stand against a legend made flesh?"
On the screen, the Nuckelavee marched through the ward, leaving death and ruin in its wake. The camera shook violently as the beast turned its glowing eye toward the reporter's location. For a moment, all was silent except for the sound of labored breathing and the distant screams of the fleeing crowd. Then the feed cut to static, as the reporter and cameraman fled the Nuck's attention, leaving only the horrifying knowledge that the Nuckelavee was no longer a myth—it was here, and it was unstoppable.
The feed re-established itself inside a nearby building, white as a ghost the reporter stuttered and stammered as he tried to report more, as he took cover behind a wall next to a window. The camera could still see out at the portal.
The portal rippled violently, its edges flaring with fiery light. From its depths came an eerie, bone-chilling howl, cutting through the chaos like a blade. The reporter froze, his hand clenching the microphone tightly. "What now?" he whispered, though no one around him had an answer.
Then they emerged.
From the portal, the Cu Sith poured forth. The spectral hounds, their dark green fur matted with shadow and their glowing red eyes cutting through the smoke, moved with unnatural grace. Their howls sent shivers through all who heard them, an otherworldly sound that seemed to burrow into the mind and paralyze with fear. The beasts spread out in coordinated packs, their massive forms weaving through the rubble and destruction.
The reporter tried to find his voice as the Cu Sith charged through the ward, herding panicked civilians into dead ends or toward the Nuckelavee's looming figure. "The Cu Sith," he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. "They… they're hounds of death, they're in the old stories!" His words tumbled out, shaky and raw, like he was grasping at something familiar to cling to. "Their howls mean doom… an omen of death. And… they're here. Just like the Nuckelavee! Just like the stories!"
The camera followed the spectral hounds as they darted through the streets, their paws leaving trails of scorched earth in their wake. One pack tore through a fleeing crowd, their spectral forms phasing through walls and reappearing to cut off any escape. Their glowing red eyes locked onto their prey with unerring precision, and their howls grew louder, drowning out the cries of the terrified civilians.
In the military's command center, General Macallister stood frozen before the monitors. "What are those things?" he demanded, his voice a mix of anger and disbelief.
"They're... Cu Sith," a junior officer stammered, his voice shaky. "Mythical hounds from Scottish legends."
"Mythical?" Macallister barked. "Well, they're bloody well real now! Get me updates on the ground! And tell the men to focus fire on those things!"
The Cu Sith proved as difficult to combat as the Nuckelavee. Bullets seemed to pass through their spectral forms, and even when they connected, the hounds simply reformed, their shapes rippling like shadows under moonlight. Soldiers fell back, coughing from the Nuckelavee's toxic breath while trying to fend off the relentless hounds. The battlefield descended further into chaos as the spectral hounds continued their assault, ensuring that no safe haven remained for the terrified people of Edinburgh.
Reports began flooding from the still-functioning areas of Edinburgh to Glasgow, Aberdeen, and other cities. At first, the reports were met with skepticism. Who in their right mind would believe such wild nonsense? But skepticism quickly gave way to unease as live footage from news channels and security feeds began to circulate. Doubt turned into stunned silence as images of the Nuckelavee and its spectral hounds left no room for disbelief. "Is this CGI?" some officials speculated. Others scrambled to verify what their eyes could hardly comprehend.
Emergency protocols were initiated across the nation. Several cities declared martial law and imposed curfews. Schools closed, sending children home to their families, and hospitals activated crisis plans, preparing to receive waves of injured and refugees fleeing Edinburgh. Emergency broadcast systems were triggered, urging residents to stay indoors and avoid public areas.
At Scotland's airbases, the response was no less frantic. Pilots sprinted to their stations as the orders came down the chain of command. "Edinburgh?" one pilot shouted, his voice thick with disbelief as he ran alongside his wingman toward the airfield. "They're ordering us to attack Edinburgh? What the hell is going on?"
His wingman shook his head, equally unsettled. "No idea. We've got our orders. That's all I know." Both men scrambled into their jets, steeling themselves for the mission ahead. The directives were clear: neutralize the threat in Edinburgh by any means necessary.
In her tastefully decorated office, Director Freya Navarro felt her pulse quicken as her computer terminal lit up with an urgent alert: Gold Alert - Scotland. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the live feeds from Edinburgh. The screen flooded with chaotic images—scorched streets, panicked civilians, and the towering monstrosity that could only be the Nuckelavee. Her breath caught as she watched the deathly black smoke swirl through the air, choking the life out of everything it touched.
Freya's stomach twisted when the Cu Sith appeared, spectral hounds racing through the city, herding terrified people into traps. Tears welled in her eyes as she witnessed the devastation unfolding. The terrified reporter's shaky voice filtered through her speakers, recounting ancient legends of doom and destruction, confirming what she already knew in her gut: this was no ordinary disaster. Then, an alert from another council member appeared on her screen, demanding her immediate attention. Freya hesitated, her gaze flickering between the notification and the horrific feed. With a deep breath, she clicked the alert, bracing herself.
Her heart sank further as the message opened, its cold, bureaucratic tone delivering a chilling directive from Councillor Elias Draven:
"To all Enclave employees, council members, and strike teams: Scotland has mobilized its military and activated nationwide emergency protocols to handle their crisis. Under no circumstances, unless directly contacted by the Scottish government, are we to take any action in Edinburgh to provide assistance or support."
Freya's eyes widened as the words burned into her mind. "What?!" she demanded, her voice echoing in the empty office. She slammed her hands on her desk, staring at the screen as if sheer will could make the directive disappear. But the words remained, their meaning unmistakable. "How are they supposed to convene to ask for help, Elias?? Edinburg is their capital city and its being destroyed!"
Her pulse thundered in her ears as she read the message again. "Don't help them, hmm?" she spat, her voice dripping with fury. "Fine. But I know someone who might be interested in what's happening." Her fingers flew to her personal phone, safely disconnected from the Enclave's network. With practiced precision, she composed a telegraph to be delivered immediately. It was addressed to Robert, at Doras Dagda, four miles northeast of Kilrain, Scotland. The contents were brief but urgent, carrying her warning, and her plea for help.
"Robert. Edinburgh under attack. STOP. Thousands dead, city under siege. STOP. Massive Portal. STOP. Please send help. Freya."
Paying for immediate delivery, she hoped it would reach him in time. A new plan formed in her mind, and she set about with decisive action to implement it. She MUST find a way to open communications with Robert. Elias cannot get away with this any longer.
As for the rest of the world, as the news spread beyond Scotland and into England, and from there across the globe, reactions were mixed. For most of the modern world, unified by alliances and treaties, the initial response was disbelief. The collective mindset of "your team, our team" dissolved into a unanimous, "What are you talking about?" The images and videos from Edinburgh seemed too unreal, too horrifying to believe.
In the United States, ambassadors and foreign delegations deferred to their ally England, expecting them to handle the crisis on behalf of Scotland. Meanwhile, Mexico, to the surprise of many, issued an immediate statement of support for Scotland. They scrambled to establish contact with officials, offering their knowledge on portals and similar phenomena from their own more recent experiences with a portal opening there and releasing chupacabre.
Reports that nearly every global authority dismissed as deranged sightings. Much in the same style as UFO sightings.
Across Europe, reactions varied. Some nations offered polite but hollow promises of assistance, clearly skeptical of the reports. Many dismissed the situation as an elaborate hoax or a ploy for attention. The Kremlin, however, seized the moment for its own agenda, issuing a statement condemning England for failing to provide adequate support to Scotland. "If your so-called United Kingdom cannot protect its own territories," the statement read, "then perhaps Scotland would fare better as an independent nation."
Other nations extended tentative offers of support but required further clarification on what was needed. Diplomatic channels buzzed with cautious queries, while less sympathetic countries remained silent, subtly encouraged by well-placed Enclave diplomats to "let this blow over."
And in this way, the Warlock's foothold on Earth began to solidify, his influence spreading like a shadow over the fractured and hesitant responses of the modern world.