"A BLESSING FROM THE DAMNED" (3,700 words, Fantasy, Sexual Content, Violence) - Page 2

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Thread: "A BLESSING FROM THE DAMNED" (3,700 words, Fantasy, Sexual Content, Violence)

  1. #11
    Join Date
    Jun 2014
    St. Louis, MO, USA

    Hello Everyone,
    Here is the continuation per your requests. WARNING: If you thought the first chapter was dark, you might not want to read on. The next two chapters are extremely violent and deal with some heavy subject matter.


    Part 2
    Bringa of the Orcwood

    “Broka!” she said again and again. “Minka! Dressik!”

    Badraka cried silently in his embrace, small murmuring sobs, barely above the whispers. Bringa’s forearms were slick with salt tears.

    He clutched his arms firmly around his little brother’s head, making sure that he couldn’t see anything and, perhaps more importantly, couldn’t hear anything, either.
    “Broka. Minka. Dressik.”

    They were burned into Bringa’s mind like glowing hot steel burns into flesh. Behind the sounds of her pleads, red violence shook the forest air. What was once an opus of screams, clashing metals, and cracking flames regressed into intermittent moans, distant pleads for mercy, and the smells of black ash. Someone was breathing heavy close by, as the words rung out in terrible rhythm.

    “Broka. Minka. Dressik.”

    “I want my mommy.” Badraka murmured in between sobs. Bringa shushed him, squeezing his arms titer around his ears.

    “Remember what father told us.” He whispered. “Remember our duty.”

    “Keep your brother safe, Bringa. Protect him, at least until he can protect himself. Then it will be his duty to look after you. That is the charge of every brother.”
    And so Bringa protected him, from the fires that raged through the village, from the spears and axes that surely were collecting valuables off the dead right now, but most importantly from the words.

    “No! Stop! Please!”

    Bringa’s eyes popped open in the blackness. The room was pitch dark. He brought a hand up to wipe his worn eyes.

    The nightmares were always at their worst when he hadn’t’ had anything to drink. Of all the wine sinks in the flatlands, I had to walk into the one that was out of ale. He thought to himself bitterly.

    “No. Stop. Please.” squeaked a voice in the next room, sending a white shutter through Bringa’s body. He shot up from under his cloak, chest heaving, a sick panic setting in.

    If this is a dream…

    No. Stop. Please” he heard again, this time a faint knocking noise coming in behind it.

    “Shut up, bitch.” A man’s voice replied.

    Bringa, got to his feet and felt for the exit in the darkness. The door across the hall was slightly cracked open, the knocking sounds coming from within. Ever so gently, he pushed the door inwards, and walked in with quiet steps.

    The bed in the far corner of the room rocked, a hairy, white ass heaving and thrusting violently in between a pair of slender legs. From under his weight the sobs continued in short squeaks.
    Various articles of armor and clothing lay strewn about the floor. Two muddy boots, a dirty black cloak, and a short handled ax.
    Bringa picked the ax up off the ground. Blood smeared across its broad single beard, its wetness betraying its recent use.

    “No. Please. Stop.”

    “Bloody bitch!” The man yelled before raising a fist high in the air and bringing it down with hard grunt. ”I told you to shut your bloody fucking mouth!”. The pleads for mercy stopped but thrusting became more and more violent.

    Bringa’s green fingers ran white around the hilt of the axe in hand. His broken tusk screamed for relief as his jaw clenched tighter in his mouth. The white shutter that he felt was getting redder, harder, and meaner. Things stirred in him. The fires of regret, emptiness, embarrassment, and rage were all sparked in him now, and when they grew into an inferno, the result was rarely a pretty site.

    He had no idea what any of it meant, only that he was walking closer to the gray slab were the two lay. His shadow crawled up the man’s mailed back like the night crawls across the black earth, all the while he remembered them, the words that had robbed him of countless nights.

    “Broka. Minka. Dressik.”
    “Broka. Minka. Dressik.”
    “Broka. Minka. Dressik.”

    A set of crystal blue eyes peaked out from over the man’s shoulder. Two blackened puffy orbs with a broken nose in between, dripping crusty red from each nostril.

    “HELP!” she screamed.

    When the man turned, the blade of the ax bit deep into the side of his cheek. The impact sent him sprawling off the girl and crashing into a dark wood chest on the far side of the room, his trousers twisted
    around his ankles, his manhood pointing into the air like a bobbing lance spiked in to the ground.

    The man brought a hand up to stop the gushing wound in the side of his face, looking up just in time to see the second blow coming in a downward vertical arc. The axe shaved the left side of his forehead off.

    Black brain oozed forth from place where his skull once was. The ax trembled in Bringa’s hand as if it was eager for another bite. He raised it up again over his head, keen to let it eat once more. The third chop split the crown of his skull down to the eyes. The life was well gone from the them now, but the life of the ax in Bringa’s hand was exhilarated with blood thirsty fervor.
    Whack! A chunk of hair fell off the man’s head into his steel collar. Whack, whack. Half of his head flew off in two gory pieces.

    Over and over and over again Bringa brought the ax down with every sinew in his body tense, summoning all the force he could into each brutal, bloody chop. Warm red sprayed lavishly across his chest. Somewhere off in the distance, a girl was crying in the corner, but Bringa could barely hear her amongst the horrid voice ringing in his ears, forever whispering the words.

    “Broka. Minka. Dressik.”

    “Bastard.” he grunted behind clenched teeth.

    He chopped at the bloody pulp at the top on the man’s torso until the blade knocked against something hard in the background. Again he raised the ax above his head, and again Bringa brought it down to the gory reckoning below. The handle snapped this time, leaving the axes head lodged the wooden chest that propped up the man’s fresh corpse.
    He stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving for air, sweat mixing in with the red splatterings on his skin. The thing he had been hitting scarcely looked like a man anymore. A slimy “V” shape
    marked the spot where his head used to be. The corpse’s pants were still tied around his ankles. Blood was everywhere.

    He turned and looked at the girl with a distant stare. She was a fair girl, even with the battered face, and she was perhaps even more scared than she was before.

    A shadow moved in the candle light out of the corner of Bringa’s eye. A big one.

    The girl’s eyes widened and voice shrieked. “BEHIND YOU!”

    Bringa whipped his head around on instinct, but before he saw who was behind him, a cold, hard reckoning exploded into his shoulder. A lightning bolt shot down through his arm, past his elbow, and into his hand. He turned around and saw one of the biggest, hairiest bastards he had ever seen, a marble purebred, one hand raised high above his head, mace clenched inside waiting to deliver the killing blow.

    Without thinking, Bringa ignored his screaming shoulder and tackled the armored giant, grasping him with both arms, driving him up against the wall. Something crashed to the floor off of a nearby table and a high pitch scream vibrated through the air. He grunted as he pulled the man off the wall and slammed him to the ground, the metal of his chainmail knocking hard on the floor. He postured up, and delivered two stiff punches to the side of the man’s head. But, when he thought he had the him were he wanted him, something hard and cold and hard cracked into the side his face, and the world went reeling.

    Bringa fumbled to get to his feet, but whenever he did, the world came crashing up to him again and again. He found himself propped himself up against the wooden chest, right next to the fresh corpse he just made, his hand leaving red handprints on whatever it touched.

    The spiked mace came hurling out of the corner of his eye. This time, Bringa got a hand up and caught the wrist that wielded it, but then another hand grabbed him by the throat, sealing the air off in his body, and dragging him up the wall and onto his feet. Bringa’s fingers scrambled for anything. He found the axe head the he had used to kill the rapist still lodged into the chest behind him. He pried it out of the wood and clubbed it over the big man’s face like a sharp edged rock. His growls turned to angry yelps, as the blood flowed lavishly from a deep gash in his temple.

    “Fucking green bastard” he said behind gritted teeth. Bringa tried to club him again but the massive hand let go of Bringa’s throat and pinned the his other wrist against the wall.
    Time seemed to stop there for a moment amidst the sounds of two men struggling for their lives. Their eyes were locked in a trance. Most didn’t like to look their victims in the face before some killing needed to be done, Bringa found it oddly fascinating though. Ultimate truth was always in the eyes a few seconds prior to death. Right now, in the hairy, scared effigy that was this man’s face, he saw desperate fear under a thin coat of determination. He had always wondered what people saw in his eyes in moments like these, but he never had the chance to ask.

    The man’s forehead smashed into Bringa’s face and world began to spin again. Then he did it again and again. Through the welled up tears in his eyes, Bringa could see blood trickling down the man’s forehead, not his own. Bringa’s shoulder was badly injured and both arms burned with fatigue under the weight of the big man’s strength. When his skull smashed into his face again, they went limp.
    Bringa’s cheek banged against the bloody, wood flooring. He rolled over drunkenly, with not a clue as to how he had gotten there. A shadow raised high above him, a black mace held high, ready to strike.

    It’s her. It’s the Valkyrie. The demons of hell await me. This is long pasted due.
    A queer feeling of relief began to take hold of him.

    Something silvery came out of nowhere and smacked the shadow in the side of the head with a shout. A woman’s voice.

    Bringa’s mind cleared like the clouds parting on an overcast day and he was on his feet. The man was crumpled over, punch drunk, and struggling mightily to get to stand. A few paces away the girl stood, a spiked war-hammer resting cock-eyed in one hand. A few lonely strands of long hair clung to its head.

    Bringa held out his hand, and she offered the hammer handle first.

    The big man’s skull made a deep knocking sound the first two times Bringa hit him, and then a sickening crunch on the third. He stopped moving.

    The hammer fell carelessly to the ground. He was out of breath, his body was awash in sweat and blood, his shoulder screamed in agony, and his nose bubbled red streams from each nostril. Hands on knees, doing his best not to vomit, he peered one eye through his blood stained hair, at the girl who had saved his life. She began to sob again.

    The main hall looked a ghastly afterbirth of hell the likes of which he had rarely seen. Most of the furniture had been destroyed, tables flipped over on their tops, the chairs smashed into pieces. The owner’s corpse lay strewn clumsily amongst them, his arm taken off at the elbow and the crown of his skull caved in.

    Across from him another dead man slouched in his chair, a crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest.

    Wet smacking sounds echoed from the bar area.

    “Heeded, heeeeeeee” smack, smack, smack.
    Bringa noticed a faint red trail that lead there, as if something bleeding had been bragged into that corner. He walked over on padded feet, doing his best not to make a sound.

    “Heeeeeee, heeeeeeeee” a voice squeaked breathlessly.

    When Bringa looked over the bar, his face contorted in disgust. The corpse was lying face down, her throat cut almost to the ear, her eyes vacantly staring off to the side. Lying on top of her was a boney man, his trousers bunched around his ankles and making disgusting sounds every other thrust.

    Stomach turning, Bringa looked around the room for an instrument to end the repulsive noises. Over at the table where the dead man sit slouched in his chair, he noticed five mugs.

    I knew she was lying.
    He forgot everything else and made for the drinks, shoving chairs to the side on his way. The bitter ale streamed down the corners of his mouth as he drank.

    When he was done with that one, he grabbed the one in front of the dead man, casually nudging it off the chair to take it for his own. As he was drinking he noticed a black blade sticking out of the dead man’s throat.

    “Now if I can just find my other one” he thought as he ripped it free and jabbed it down on the table in front of him.

    A horrid scream sounded from across the room and the wet, squeaky noises stopped.

    “What? What the fuck are you doing out here?” squealed the skinny man.

    I haven’t spoken a word to this bastard, and already I can’t wait to kill him.

    The girl had a horrified look on her face. “What are you doing to my…” her voice breaking into uncontrollable crying.

    “What? Bugger you! Where’s Lutt? Where’s Gamin? What the…”

    Bringa cast one mug aside and grabbed another.

    When the mug shattered on the ground, the skinny man looked over and locked eyes with Bringa, his face turning a pale white.

    “Lutt! Gamin! LUTT!” the man screamed, desperation creeping into his voice with each syllable.

    Even amidst all the screams and grunts and gods know what braking in there, this halfwit never thought to check on them.

    Bringa raised the mug to his lips, the brain and blood still caked darkly onto his fingers. The air was tense and quite as he tipped the bottom of the mug toward the ceiling, gulping down it remaining content. He flipped the mug over his shoulder and onto the ground were it lay amongst the rubble. He looked into the next one and noticed it was had a slightly darker tint to it and little red speckles decorated its inner rim. He sniffed its contents. Some blood had gotten into this one.

    Fuck it.
    Bringa thought, taking the ale back in three big gulps.

    His shoulder was racked with pain now, every movement greeted with a harsh reminder of the big hairy bastard’s mace.

    Corpse-fucker was still staring at him with terrified eyes, the crude little dagger in hand beginning to tremble slightly.

    “What now? Wha-what are you going to do?” he asked Bringa.

    The orc man waited a long moment before he replied. “Don’t know. Your friends didn’t fare so well, how goes your luck?”

    “Not as bad as yours, greenback. Those men you just killed were bad men and they pledge fealty to worse. They will come sniffing round these parts, and when they do, they have that green skin on a tanning rack hee,hee.”

    “Is that so?”

    “Aye, for you murdered Guymon and Lutt of Irsa’s Whelps. Lutt being a chief captain, answerable only to the Dog Faced Man himself.”

    Bringa silently studied his face to try to find the lie in it. He took another swig of ale and tongued the empty space where his tusk once was.

    “Bullshit. You’re friends maybe, but what use would a band of killers have for someone the likes of you?”

    “It’s not about uses. It be about family. The Dog Faced Man is mine own cousin. And you know what else, greenback, the rumors about him be true, hehe. He is crazed, drinks from
    the skulls of his enemies, he does, and feeds their infant babes to starved hounds, hehe. What do you think he will do to you?”

    Bringa, looked around, and sighed. “I have no appetite for another fight. Your brothers in arms accosted me and got what for but I have no quarrel with you, so I see no need to end this in more death.” Bringa stretched his burning shoulder, licked the crusty blood from his upper lip. “So this is what it will be. Your buggery is over. Pull up your britches and scour this place for as many gold sovereigns as you can find.”

    “What?” the girl interrupted in a trembling voice.

    “I will even split it with you. In an hours’ time, we are done here, bound in different directions.”

    The brigand’s shoulders sagged and he exhaled a heavy sigh.

    “When you get back to your General, you will tell him everything. You will tell him how your friends were jumped and killed by a lone traveler. But most important, you will also tell them about my fair complexion, sandy brown hair, and slender build. Catch my meaning?”

    The scrawny man gave a slight nod. “And the girl?”

    Bringa stared over at her, still sitting frightened in the corner of the room. “Leave her to me.”

    Part III

    Taking What was His
    Looting things off the dead was something Bringa had grown used to by now. It was rather easy when the corpse was fresh and workable, but the longer the body lay dead, the harder it went for the looter. Dealing with the stiffness was always a choir. When the body became rank or withered, that was when even Bringa had to take inventory over whether or not he truly needed what it had.

    After some thought, he reckon that everything that he owned had been taken off a corpse at one time or another. He had gotten the cloak from a soldier he found dead on the side of the road. He was an old man, out in the middle of nowhere for Gods know what, going to Gods know where. His tunic used to be a farm hand’s, that was until he caught Brings stealing a pig off his master’s land one night a season ago. He was a big lad, but, lucky for Bringa, he was slow and craven. He had always preferred looting to burglary because sometimes the later included murder and he didn’t enjoy that as much as some people seemed to. That night, however, Bringa needed to eat and the boy found him, and so Bringa needed to murder. At least that was what he told himself.

    The one named Gaymon seemed to have a great deal better taste in clothing than the serf boy had. His breastplate was a beautiful matte silver inlaid with the golden carving of a wild horse on its front. Once Bringa got most of the blood and brain matter off, it shined like a diamond in the firelight. The plate fit him perfectly, as did the chainmail, and the hardened leather greaves, all of which still had pieces of Gaymon stained into them.

    Bringa was cautious not to get to greedy however. There was a lot of stuff here that a merchant would pay a pretty price for, but more loot meant more burden on him. More burdens mean a slower horse and by dawn I will be a hunted man in the Flatlands. A slower horse might mean a slower death.

    Some dried bread, dried beef, a black pot, a short Valenese issued spade, an empty, oversized leather coin purse, and both of his black blades were just about all he and his mount could carry at a quick pace.

    The scrawny man had scurried throughout the inn a half a hundred times, looking for every last spot of gold there was in the place.

    “I know you have more, bitch!” he would scream at the mourning girl, who seemed to be crying without tears now. “Where!”

    “I don’t know” she would always reply, holding her father’s broken head in her hands.

    The moon was dark and ominous in the sky. It wouldn’t be long before dawn was here, and with it all the threats of a new day.

    Something shuffled through the stable behind Bringa. He turned around and met the scrawny man’s gaze dead on, without hesitancy.

    “Think I have it all, if you want to come and split the spoils.”

    Bringa tongued the vacant place were his tusk once was.

    “And I bin thinking…” the men continued in a shrill voice…”I don’t know, what you plan on doing to that girl. She is a rare, thing, a virtual maiden, just de-flowered in the prime of her years. I don’t care what you do with her, but, I would like to know, so maybe I could do something with her after. Heeeheeee. Catch my meaning’? Hehe.”

    The question of what to do with the girl had been sitting in the back of his mind like a black shadow. It wasn’t really a question at all. Either open her throat and leave no testimonies as to his person or let her live, only to be raped a half dozen more times, beaten, until she gives whomever the information they want, right before they open her throat anyway.

    He wondered what his brother would do. His brother always seemed to have all the answers and a strict certainty of each. Where is Badraka’s arrogance when I need it?
    One thing he was sure of, though.

    Bringa extended his hand to the scrawny man. “I want to thank you.” His face showed genuine surprise then morphed into a self-satisfied smirk, the likes of which the orcman had been seeing on white faces his entire life. That’s the problem with the marble men; they think the green folk a race of halfwits.

    “For what?” the man asked, Bringa’s hand closing firmly around his clammy fingers. When Bringa pulled him close, his eyes widened.

    “For getting that gold for me.” The man tried to scream, but when Bringa twisted the blade in his gut, his jaw went slack, a string of drool dangling off the lip. He slid the blade horizontal across his naval.

    Bringa stared deep into his victim’s eyes and watched the terror wash over them. The Valkyrie was at hand, and he was not in the mood to allow this one the mercy the other two had gotten; the mercy of a quick death. Bringa wanted to know what was coming, wanted him to see his end. He wanted him to see all the regret and terror and sorrow that came with it. Bringa wanted to see the truth in his eyes.

    The runt collapsed to the ground, folded over on his side, clutching his stomach, coughs of blood sprinkling the ground in front of him. He sobbed quietly. Bringa snatched the blade out of the man’s gut, wiped the gore off on the forearm of his newly acquired greaves.

    He relieved him of the gold, both what he had in his satchel and the sum he was hiding in his boot. He normally didn’t enjoy a murdering, but he found some satisfaction in this one.

    He saw the truth in the man eyes and it was nothing but fear, black, raw fear.

    Fucking coward. They are all afraid in the end though, some contain it better than others, but they are all scared, every one of them.

    His morbid curiosity sated, the orc returned to his horse, making sure his wares were packed tight for what was sure to a be a hard ride. The runt whimpered pathetically for help in
    the background.

    Everything was packed and ready when the orc put one foot in the stirrup when something snapped loudly and the scrawny man screamed.

    “Nooo. Please..I…UH.” Something else cracked.

    When he walked about from behind the palfrey, he saw the girl, the bloody hammer in hand, held high to bring it down on scrawny man’s ribs.

    She squealed in anger the 3rd time she brought it down. And the 4th and the 5th and the 6th until Bringa had lost count. Soon the squeals became petty sobs, then wretched wails.

    Then the skinny man’s wails had went silent.

    Exhausted, she let the hammer fall to the ground.

    Bringa looked at her crying for a moment, reminded of what needed to be done, knowing what he had to do. He had tucked it so far in the back of his mind that he hoped to forget it, but he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

    She looked up at him, helplessly. “Help me, please?” she murmured through tear flooded eyes. I don’t know what to do. I don’t… I don’t…. Please help me.”
    Bringa pulled the knife out of his belt.

    I’m sorry.

    Her body cowered in fear when he took the first step toward her.

    “No!” she squealed staggering backward.

    She must die.



    “No! Stop! Please!”

    He stopped, his blood turning cold as the worst winter. Bringa tongued the place where his tusk once was.

    Broka. Minka. Dressik.

    For a reason he did not know, his knife was sheaved again. Wordless, Bringa turned and walked back to his palfrey.


    “Wait” the girl yelled in background.

    Ignoring his own thoughts, Bringa mounted on the horse and wheeled it eastward.

    “You can’t just leave! What will I do? Please tell me what to do!”

    Bringa wheeled the palfrey back around. He reached behind him and dug the flat black spade out of his collection of loot. Flinging it end over end in the air, it landed at the girl’s bare feet with a clang.

    “Bury your parents proper, if that’s what your kinfolk do.” He said, his breath misting in the cold night air. “Burn the rest.”


  2. #12
    Good read.

    Chapter 1:
    'the stiffness in his bodying fading slightly' Body.
    “Should be coming’ round any day now.” A stray '.
    'Dreama, set four frothy mugs in front of the guests.' Why the comma?
    'He said as Colletta as he put the mug down in front of him.'
    'So you are not naturel born Valoran' Natural.
    And quite a few instances of starting a new line, sometimes two:
    I am sure I need not have to tell you of that now do I, master innkeeper?”'
    ', but those will
    be here soon, don’t you worry.”'
    ', his teeth grinding in the back of his
    'Even the women ran against the phalanx when things got truly
    dire for them.'
    'How do you tell them there are
    'Just under his chin, a short black blade poked out of his throat and began to saw a red path across

    his neck.'
    'Warm, wet

    streamers flew about him in red ribbons.'
    'A song the likes of

    which Markum was strangely reminiscent of. '
    'cracking white lightning bolts behind
    his eyes and ringing all the bells in Valorum between his ears.'

    Chapter 2:
    ', his trousers twisted
    around his ankles,'
    'A slimy “V” shape
    marked the spot where his head used to be.'
    ', drinks from
    the skulls of his enemies,'
    'But, when he thought he had the him were he wanted him,'
    '“Now if I can just find my other one” he thought...' I think thoughts have 's, not "s.
    ', gulping down it remaining content.' Its.
    ', they have that green skin on a tanning rack hee,hee.”' Need a space after hee,.
    'In an hours’ time, we are done here,' Hour's I think.

    Chapter 3:
    'The runt whimpered pathetically for help in
    the background.'
    '“And I bin thinking…” the men continued in a shrill voice…”I don’t know, what you plan on doing to that girl.' Needs a space after the second....
    'She is a rare, thing, a virtual maiden, just de-flowered in the prime of her years.' Why the first comma?
    'Catch my meaning’?' A stray '.
    'One thing he was sure of, though.' Again, why the comma?
    'Bringa wanted to know what was coming,' Wanted him to know...
    3rd is shown as a date. Maybe third fourth, etc anyway.
    'Then the skinny man’s wails had went silent.'

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