When Steel Met Flesh – Menace (Narrative)
Sept 18, 2019 16:00:42 GMT
via mobile
Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar, Jonathan P, and 5 more like this
Post by Ian (Menace) on Sept 18, 2019 16:00:42 GMT
[WARNING: contains graphic descriptions of violence!]
The night is dark and full of voices; some mercifully foreign, only half acknowledged; others gratingly familiar and ever present.
Why do you deny me?
Menace trudges through the dark streets of Daring Heights. Sound and light spill in equal measure from open windows and doors, curdling outside like so much sensory refuse: the laughter of a happy family here; a bar fight there; the clanking of a workshop; the hissing kettle steam from a cook shop. It all combines into a roaring cacophony in his mind as he walks on, seeking quiet relief from his thoughts; and the grating voice at the back of his mind.
I can sense your frustration. Think of how much better you would feel.
He marches on, rounds corners without looking, seeking solace in the rhythm of his gait, caring not where his feet might carry him to. It begins to rain. All the plans he has laid, the schemes he has prepared, swirling together and- “Hey! Watch where you go!”-he bumps into a group of men that were just leaving a small corner pub. He makes to quickly wander of, but one of them – short, stout, mess of brown hair, broken nose – grabs him by the shoulder. “You damn Tieflin’s, always gettin’ good folk into trouble! Bringin’ crime and disease wherever you go! Probably even opened the gates for the orcs few years back. Shoulda’ run you out of town like the pests you are!” He shakes loose and quickly strides off, Brokenose held back by his drinking companions. He glances over his shoulder to make sure they don’t follow, but they turn, likely on their way to the next watering hole. He has heard such words before, and they don’t bother him. Dealt with the attitude all his life. Facing suspicion and hatred wherever he turned. Learning to forge his own way; his own trade; his own luck.
But it does bother you.
So what if they think of him as less than dirt? He would prove them all wrong! Confound expectations. He would rise in Port Ffirst, just as planned, and then run the Lenoirs out of town! Run them out of town…
I see…
He remembers the moment. Getting away when the others did not. Remembers the sneers on Soros’ and Voros’ faces.
You don’t just crave power for power’s sake.
Remembers the cold rain, and the old cloak that concealed and saved him.
Your motives are even purer.
Remembers as the archers let loose and his people fell.
You seek vengeance.
Remembers the blood soaking into the mud, into the cloak, into his skin.
That purest of motivations.
Remembers waiting, playing dead; just another sack of meat among the bodies.
I can help you.
Sneaking away afterwards; a rat in the night, blood soaked and mud caked.
I can give you the power.
Finding a ship, any ship, to anywhere but there.
I can make you whole again.
Only to find out that the ship carried him to a new port, much like the old port, with the same people still in charge that he had tried to flee from.
You just have to let go.
And he remembers the rage; the fury; and Malice.
You just have to give in.
He finds himself in a back alley; stops, and presses his burning face against the cool stone of a wall. The rain batters down unceasingly. He hears a tuneless whistle, and the sound of someone relieving themselves nearby; turns, and sees Brokenose, not thirty feet down the alley, propping himself against the wall, as he sprays the contents of his bladder over the ground in the gloom.
Yes.
His feet carry him further down the alley. He is quiet as a cat, feet finding solid footing as he goes. His eyes are fixed on the man, back turned toward him, unawares. His hand reaches out and his fingers find the handle, coiling around it.
Do it.
The weight feels reassuring in his hand. Heavy, solid, dependable.
Do it.
He raises the cleaver.
Do it!
A squelsh of the boot has Brokenose turning to find Menace behind him. “Wha’ the-?” his face hardens, pulling a knife from his belt.
“Run me out of town, will you?” Menace asks, voice trembling, feeling the rage welling up again. “Me?!”
Brokenose lunges, steel scraping on steel. Trading blows in the dark, the rain continuing to fall. Only the sounds of grunting, straining, heaving, two bodies pushing into each other. The knife falls, clatters to the ground. A fist crunching into Menace’s face, sends him reeling. Brokenose stumbles, foot caught in the mud. Menace pirouettes, and the cleaver arcs down as merciless as the rain.
A wet thud as steel meets flesh. A shocked gasp, hot blood flowing. The cleaver is ripped from the wound with a sucking sound, flesh parted like open lips, yearning, begging for more.
Yes.
He brings the blade back down a second time, but Brokenose catches him by the wrist, grunting, trying to hold the deadly blade back, as his life seeps out of him. Slowly, slowly the gap narrows. Their eyes meet, locked in their deadly embrace. He sees Brokenose’ eyes go wide with fear as he realizes that he won’t be able to hold on. “Please…” just a whisper, “please… you don’t have to do this!”
He looks in turn into the black pits of the Tiefling’s eyes - and finds only Malice.
Steel bites into flesh once more. Slowly, slowly, the blade is driven deeper, parting skin, meat and muscle. The cleaver drinks greedily.
Yesss.
As the life drains away, and eyes glass over, the body slumps into the mud. Menace draws breath sharply. He looks at the dead body at his feet and the Bloody Cleaver in his hands.
That will do, for now.
He rights himself, furtively looks up and down the alley, and upon seeing no one, quickly wipes his hands and blade on Brokenose’ shirt, before swiftly walking off. As he finds his rhythm ones more, he can feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, washing away his stress and worries, just as the rain washes away all traces of his bloody deed.
And in the back of his mind that familiar voice grates on.
In the name of Bhaal…
You shall have your vengeance.
The night is dark and full of voices; some mercifully foreign, only half acknowledged; others gratingly familiar and ever present.
Why do you deny me?
Menace trudges through the dark streets of Daring Heights. Sound and light spill in equal measure from open windows and doors, curdling outside like so much sensory refuse: the laughter of a happy family here; a bar fight there; the clanking of a workshop; the hissing kettle steam from a cook shop. It all combines into a roaring cacophony in his mind as he walks on, seeking quiet relief from his thoughts; and the grating voice at the back of his mind.
I can sense your frustration. Think of how much better you would feel.
He marches on, rounds corners without looking, seeking solace in the rhythm of his gait, caring not where his feet might carry him to. It begins to rain. All the plans he has laid, the schemes he has prepared, swirling together and- “Hey! Watch where you go!”-he bumps into a group of men that were just leaving a small corner pub. He makes to quickly wander of, but one of them – short, stout, mess of brown hair, broken nose – grabs him by the shoulder. “You damn Tieflin’s, always gettin’ good folk into trouble! Bringin’ crime and disease wherever you go! Probably even opened the gates for the orcs few years back. Shoulda’ run you out of town like the pests you are!” He shakes loose and quickly strides off, Brokenose held back by his drinking companions. He glances over his shoulder to make sure they don’t follow, but they turn, likely on their way to the next watering hole. He has heard such words before, and they don’t bother him. Dealt with the attitude all his life. Facing suspicion and hatred wherever he turned. Learning to forge his own way; his own trade; his own luck.
But it does bother you.
So what if they think of him as less than dirt? He would prove them all wrong! Confound expectations. He would rise in Port Ffirst, just as planned, and then run the Lenoirs out of town! Run them out of town…
I see…
He remembers the moment. Getting away when the others did not. Remembers the sneers on Soros’ and Voros’ faces.
You don’t just crave power for power’s sake.
Remembers the cold rain, and the old cloak that concealed and saved him.
Your motives are even purer.
Remembers as the archers let loose and his people fell.
You seek vengeance.
Remembers the blood soaking into the mud, into the cloak, into his skin.
That purest of motivations.
Remembers waiting, playing dead; just another sack of meat among the bodies.
I can help you.
Sneaking away afterwards; a rat in the night, blood soaked and mud caked.
I can give you the power.
Finding a ship, any ship, to anywhere but there.
I can make you whole again.
Only to find out that the ship carried him to a new port, much like the old port, with the same people still in charge that he had tried to flee from.
You just have to let go.
And he remembers the rage; the fury; and Malice.
You just have to give in.
He finds himself in a back alley; stops, and presses his burning face against the cool stone of a wall. The rain batters down unceasingly. He hears a tuneless whistle, and the sound of someone relieving themselves nearby; turns, and sees Brokenose, not thirty feet down the alley, propping himself against the wall, as he sprays the contents of his bladder over the ground in the gloom.
Yes.
His feet carry him further down the alley. He is quiet as a cat, feet finding solid footing as he goes. His eyes are fixed on the man, back turned toward him, unawares. His hand reaches out and his fingers find the handle, coiling around it.
Do it.
The weight feels reassuring in his hand. Heavy, solid, dependable.
Do it.
He raises the cleaver.
Do it!
A squelsh of the boot has Brokenose turning to find Menace behind him. “Wha’ the-?” his face hardens, pulling a knife from his belt.
“Run me out of town, will you?” Menace asks, voice trembling, feeling the rage welling up again. “Me?!”
Brokenose lunges, steel scraping on steel. Trading blows in the dark, the rain continuing to fall. Only the sounds of grunting, straining, heaving, two bodies pushing into each other. The knife falls, clatters to the ground. A fist crunching into Menace’s face, sends him reeling. Brokenose stumbles, foot caught in the mud. Menace pirouettes, and the cleaver arcs down as merciless as the rain.
A wet thud as steel meets flesh. A shocked gasp, hot blood flowing. The cleaver is ripped from the wound with a sucking sound, flesh parted like open lips, yearning, begging for more.
Yes.
He brings the blade back down a second time, but Brokenose catches him by the wrist, grunting, trying to hold the deadly blade back, as his life seeps out of him. Slowly, slowly the gap narrows. Their eyes meet, locked in their deadly embrace. He sees Brokenose’ eyes go wide with fear as he realizes that he won’t be able to hold on. “Please…” just a whisper, “please… you don’t have to do this!”
He looks in turn into the black pits of the Tiefling’s eyes - and finds only Malice.
Steel bites into flesh once more. Slowly, slowly, the blade is driven deeper, parting skin, meat and muscle. The cleaver drinks greedily.
Yesss.
As the life drains away, and eyes glass over, the body slumps into the mud. Menace draws breath sharply. He looks at the dead body at his feet and the Bloody Cleaver in his hands.
That will do, for now.
He rights himself, furtively looks up and down the alley, and upon seeing no one, quickly wipes his hands and blade on Brokenose’ shirt, before swiftly walking off. As he finds his rhythm ones more, he can feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, washing away his stress and worries, just as the rain washes away all traces of his bloody deed.
And in the back of his mind that familiar voice grates on.
In the name of Bhaal…
You shall have your vengeance.
