An Early Morning Sacrifice.
Posted: Thu Jan 05, 2012 3:18 amHis lust for blood had been supremely sated by the slaughter committed on nights' past. His desire to see chaos and pain and confusion sown amoungst the people of Myrken had drunk deeply that evening. And while he had been content for the last three evenings, he knew that such stillness was unacceptable. Not to that which he had recently devoted himself too. Peace and contentment were for the weak. An day without tears was something that could not be had. There had to be strife.
There had to be Blood.
And while his new patron would not fully understand the wait, it would enjoy the slaughter. He was still a man that understood men, and thus knew that one could not step into a barracks by themselves (even if the urge was there) and hope to survive. Not that survival was, as he understood it, a goal his deity needed. But one could not further the spilling of blood if one was dead. Besides. He had already decided that he would not go in a simple raid. He would go with heads piled up besides his feet, his armour soaked in gore, and blood filling his belly like a primordial leech.
The wait. He had waited like a ghost, shadowing the patrols that made their way between the walled town of Myrken and its festering pustule of vice, the Broken Dagger. Other than the recent killings, fine work if he could say so, and the... weirdness with the other madman, Myrken was at peace. Peace led to contentment. Lead to a depreciation of skills. A sword was honed in a forge, the ability to wield it in the yard. The will to use it on the field. It was why he had waited so long. A proper gift.
Since his assault in town, the Constable patrol had been increased. That suited him. Four was a better test than two. No. Five. He would grin widely, blood-dirty lips being licked. He waited. Waiting for that slice of sun to spread its wings over the horizon. Wait for the patrol to come across his offering there in the middle of the road. When they stopped, he reached down and hefted his newly acquired axe in one hand.
The first of the Constables would see it. A headless body no longer than an arm, skin flayed from muscle. Small fingers, that still had necrotic flesh attached, held the head of a blood stained teddy bear. The second Constable would step forward, raising his pole lantern as the first vomited at the side of the road. The three militia members who had been drafted for this early excursion hefted their spears uneasily. Myrken bred daemons and broken, shadowy things, but this...
He broke from the nearby bushes as the lantern spilled its golden light over the body in the road. He was amidst the militia before they knew what was going on, his axe burying itself into the torso of the first to turn at the sound of his passing. He left it there. The militia man besides him would find a long iron spike being driven into his thigh as the shadowy figure blew past. The last militia member would lower her spear, trying to crack their killer with the haft of her weapon. It was caught in a bloody hand, the man grunting with the effort. He yanked, causing the woman to become unbalanced and stumble forward, in return that bloody iron spike would be rammed into her face, leaving the militia woman to fall with a cry and whimper.
He took a breath, head twisting and dirty hair flying. There. The Constables. He didn't care about the militiamen, they were just extra blood for the table. He reached down and wrenched his axe free of the chest of his first kill. The one with the pole had tossed it down and hefted a heavy cudgel. Off and behind himself the light had gone. It was a good idea, though it framed the Constable in the light, the glow of the lantern wouldn't spoil his night vision. He had to give it to them. The Constables were not... soft. Well. Except for the one who had just finished retching. He would not allow that one to live.
He had to respect a man who carried a cudgel into battle and did not shirk. So he paused long enough to identify himself. [i]"I am Acras! And I thirst!" [i]With a snarl he than sprang forward, even as the ready Constable prepared himself. They two came together in a clash, the Constable sidestepping the powerful, one handed swing that came from the one who called himself Acras. In response the Constable swept his club about, catching the man in the shoulder as he passed. Acras bellowed and continued on. The second Constable realized to his horror that his companion had not delayed the inevitable, and found himself speared by Acras' iron spike. He felt rage-hot breath on his face, and looked up at hate-filled eyes of muddy green. As blood filled his face, the berzerker would bite on the Constables nose, ripping it off in his teeth before letting him fall.
"I AM SEALGAIR! The Harbinger of Blood!"
With a spin, Acras threw himself bodily at the other Constable. He had been advancing upon the madman whilst he had howled his profane insanity to the heavens, and so was ready. But he was NOT ready for the insane strength behind the wiry frame. With one swing of that axe the cudgel was swept from his grip, the strap that bound the thing to his wrist tearing and scraping his flesh. The Constable jammed his leg up against his attacker's stomach, but the one called Acras was too close. Too... greasy with sweat and blood and dirt. A second swing of the axe saw the Constables arm come free at the elbow, and him falling to the ground. The last thing he saw, before blacking out, was his killer standing above him. Spittle drizzled from his mouth, flecked with blood it seemed. With horror, he realized that he knew who this was.
"Tell Kurt I remember him. Tell Agony that her time will come. Let them know... heh huh crahh." He coughed, then spat upon the ground. "You... you were strong meat. You will live to die later. Or perhaps, you will join me. heh heh... Perhaps..." The last thing Constable Dravin saw was the dirty, blood and snow stained boot of Aeryn Karolinger come crashing down on the side of his head.
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When he came too a short while later, Dravin would find a crude sort of bandage pressed to his shattered elbow, wrapped it seemed with the coat of his unlucky companion. The rest of his company had been beheaded, their heads taken and bodies left in a runic design around him in the crushed and bloody snow. Even the body of the child had been used to make up the design. He had not thrown up the evening before, but seeing this made him spill his guts into the churned turf besides him. Blissfully, he passed out, hoping the next patrol, or anyone really, would find him before the chill claimed him...
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OOC Note: This is the rune in question.
There had to be Blood.
And while his new patron would not fully understand the wait, it would enjoy the slaughter. He was still a man that understood men, and thus knew that one could not step into a barracks by themselves (even if the urge was there) and hope to survive. Not that survival was, as he understood it, a goal his deity needed. But one could not further the spilling of blood if one was dead. Besides. He had already decided that he would not go in a simple raid. He would go with heads piled up besides his feet, his armour soaked in gore, and blood filling his belly like a primordial leech.
The wait. He had waited like a ghost, shadowing the patrols that made their way between the walled town of Myrken and its festering pustule of vice, the Broken Dagger. Other than the recent killings, fine work if he could say so, and the... weirdness with the other madman, Myrken was at peace. Peace led to contentment. Lead to a depreciation of skills. A sword was honed in a forge, the ability to wield it in the yard. The will to use it on the field. It was why he had waited so long. A proper gift.
Since his assault in town, the Constable patrol had been increased. That suited him. Four was a better test than two. No. Five. He would grin widely, blood-dirty lips being licked. He waited. Waiting for that slice of sun to spread its wings over the horizon. Wait for the patrol to come across his offering there in the middle of the road. When they stopped, he reached down and hefted his newly acquired axe in one hand.
The first of the Constables would see it. A headless body no longer than an arm, skin flayed from muscle. Small fingers, that still had necrotic flesh attached, held the head of a blood stained teddy bear. The second Constable would step forward, raising his pole lantern as the first vomited at the side of the road. The three militia members who had been drafted for this early excursion hefted their spears uneasily. Myrken bred daemons and broken, shadowy things, but this...
He broke from the nearby bushes as the lantern spilled its golden light over the body in the road. He was amidst the militia before they knew what was going on, his axe burying itself into the torso of the first to turn at the sound of his passing. He left it there. The militia man besides him would find a long iron spike being driven into his thigh as the shadowy figure blew past. The last militia member would lower her spear, trying to crack their killer with the haft of her weapon. It was caught in a bloody hand, the man grunting with the effort. He yanked, causing the woman to become unbalanced and stumble forward, in return that bloody iron spike would be rammed into her face, leaving the militia woman to fall with a cry and whimper.
He took a breath, head twisting and dirty hair flying. There. The Constables. He didn't care about the militiamen, they were just extra blood for the table. He reached down and wrenched his axe free of the chest of his first kill. The one with the pole had tossed it down and hefted a heavy cudgel. Off and behind himself the light had gone. It was a good idea, though it framed the Constable in the light, the glow of the lantern wouldn't spoil his night vision. He had to give it to them. The Constables were not... soft. Well. Except for the one who had just finished retching. He would not allow that one to live.
He had to respect a man who carried a cudgel into battle and did not shirk. So he paused long enough to identify himself. [i]"I am Acras! And I thirst!" [i]With a snarl he than sprang forward, even as the ready Constable prepared himself. They two came together in a clash, the Constable sidestepping the powerful, one handed swing that came from the one who called himself Acras. In response the Constable swept his club about, catching the man in the shoulder as he passed. Acras bellowed and continued on. The second Constable realized to his horror that his companion had not delayed the inevitable, and found himself speared by Acras' iron spike. He felt rage-hot breath on his face, and looked up at hate-filled eyes of muddy green. As blood filled his face, the berzerker would bite on the Constables nose, ripping it off in his teeth before letting him fall.
"I AM SEALGAIR! The Harbinger of Blood!"
With a spin, Acras threw himself bodily at the other Constable. He had been advancing upon the madman whilst he had howled his profane insanity to the heavens, and so was ready. But he was NOT ready for the insane strength behind the wiry frame. With one swing of that axe the cudgel was swept from his grip, the strap that bound the thing to his wrist tearing and scraping his flesh. The Constable jammed his leg up against his attacker's stomach, but the one called Acras was too close. Too... greasy with sweat and blood and dirt. A second swing of the axe saw the Constables arm come free at the elbow, and him falling to the ground. The last thing he saw, before blacking out, was his killer standing above him. Spittle drizzled from his mouth, flecked with blood it seemed. With horror, he realized that he knew who this was.
"Tell Kurt I remember him. Tell Agony that her time will come. Let them know... heh huh crahh." He coughed, then spat upon the ground. "You... you were strong meat. You will live to die later. Or perhaps, you will join me. heh heh... Perhaps..." The last thing Constable Dravin saw was the dirty, blood and snow stained boot of Aeryn Karolinger come crashing down on the side of his head.
----------------------------
When he came too a short while later, Dravin would find a crude sort of bandage pressed to his shattered elbow, wrapped it seemed with the coat of his unlucky companion. The rest of his company had been beheaded, their heads taken and bodies left in a runic design around him in the crushed and bloody snow. Even the body of the child had been used to make up the design. He had not thrown up the evening before, but seeing this made him spill his guts into the churned turf besides him. Blissfully, he passed out, hoping the next patrol, or anyone really, would find him before the chill claimed him...
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OOC Note: This is the rune in question.
