11-24-2017, 12:04 PM
The taste of putrid flesh in his mouth almost sickened Mercer. Forcing wedges of flesh from betwixt his teeth, he decided then and there not to consume these men - if only to avoid their stench somehow lingering on him. He could tell by the sight of them that these men were not too different from what he was… They were ill, and by the strength they still had it was not the run of the mill illness.
The Prototype had something of a mix between a grin and a snarl as he yanked on the chain entangling his right hand, the links scraping against the hardened biomass of his claws. The sight of the man slathered in mud, pulled closer as Mercer wrapped the chain one round after another around his wrist. It was amusing.
The second chain caught him around the neck, but he was quick to sweep his arm over it and yank Halgrim along too. This one managed to remain standing, dropping his ax to grab both hands onto the chain and plant his feet slowly into the wet earth as the Prototype pulled him closer. With the momentary distraction, Falk had rolled around, sinking his feet much the same way.
With eyes filled with murder, Mercer watched as one of the men ran away. Well… there goes my cover. He vowed to run the man down after taking care of his friends. Two on one against two who seemed to be his equals was already odds he was not fond of in his weakened condition. “That’s pretty noble of you,” Mercer spoke with a voice that betrayed the strain in his arms. The words were so calm, almost sickeningly at ease.
He no longer tried to pull the men closer. They were too well grounded, full bodies set against the strength of only one arm. Instead, he sank into a slow crouch. Mercer’s legs quivered as his denim seemingly comes to life. His legs become more like coiled snakes of sickly black. All at once, the man leapt into the air. Suddenly, the Nurgles grounding had no meaning. The strength of the jump pulled their feet from the mud and like two pendulums they slam into each other in Mercer’s wake.
Determined, neither hunter released their respective chains. Slamming into one another was bone rattling, but they had been through worse. Halgrim was about to unleash a witty retort, but Mercer’s grunt of effort cut him short. The pair of hunters were pulled faster into the sky, while Mercer’s altitude plummeted. Slack formed in the chain as they soared towards the vicious claws.
It was not the chain-laiden claws they felt. Instead, it was Mercer’s feet. Instead, his claws grabbed the chains close to their hands and from so close they could see the quivering as even his clothing converted to coiled tendrils. This time determination was not enough. The chains ripped from their hands, shredding their puss-puckered flesh. The powerful leap sent Mercer careening away - his body piercing the roof of Badrun’s home.
Mud sprayed around the Nurgles as their body hit the ground. The stun lasted only briefly before air refilled their grizzly lungs. The chains had been stripped from them, but by this point Saalras the Swift was no longer in view, even the splish-splash of his fleet feet had vanished from earshot.
Back in the cabin, Mercer had landed practically head first in the kitchen sink. Granted, it was not one of his better landings, with a number of cuts and gashes spilling ruined biomass onto the floor. It looked like blood, except instead of just pooling, it squirmed like a pool of living slime in its death throws.
“Sir!” Mercer had never given his name to the boy. Jacob appeared in the doorway, eyes wide. “Do you need some help? I could…” He did not finish the sentence, but he held up his claws, suggesting physically what his spirit was too weak to verbalize.
“No.” The lies begin again; “You should rest up… I feel those women will be a bigger threat.” They seemed like soldiers, the both of them. The Nurglites outside were more like simple hunters. Skilled, yes, but not packing the arsenal that the armored one might be carrying. I’ll need my secret weapon alive…
Outside, Falk and Halgrim were plotting. “Grab his keys and toss them,” Halgrim pointed towards the still running motorcycle. He was busied by grabbing up his axe. The sundered hand still gripped the handle as tight as ever. This pain was nothing. Falk did as commanded, dashing to the motorcycle and yanking the key from the engine. It sputtered into silence just as the tossed keys splashed into the mud a ways off, sinking into obscurity.
“Saalras should be far enough now.” The warrior did not suggest fleeing. Gudrun would not have wanted them to let this monster’s atrocities to go unpunished. With his chain missing, Falk was down his favored weapon. It did not matter, he would go fisticuffs with the monster and beat every fucking tendril into a bloody pulp. That’s just how the hunters liked their monsters; extra pulp.
Mercer heard the silence outside. HIs lips curled to a snarl. My fucking bike! As he moved towards the door, Jacob stepped out of the way. The boy followed only till the front door, where he placed himself squarely in front of the window to watch, as he had been a moment before.
As the Prototype stepped onto the porch, he made a show of throwing down the chains. The tendrils around his arms looked as if they had been crushed, dropping squirming ooze onto the ground. With a foul smirk, his left hand began squirming with a mass of these same tendrils. The claws shrank, dissolving into a larger mass. The weight pulled down his shoulder as he manifested the gruesome Hammerfist.
“Neat trick.” Halgrim jeers, his knuckles white with the grip on his axe. Both he and Falk take a step closer, preparing to rush the monster on the porch.
The response was just a short laugh. For a single pregnant moment, the trio enter a staredown. Each plague bearer was trying to read the other, but aside from a shared bloodlust, found nothing. The silence ended as the pair of hunters began their assault.
The moment they charged, Mercer took to the skies again. His massive fist tore through the covered porch’s roof like tissue paper, not a skrape left on the dense biomass hammer. “Like a fucking cricket!” Falk goaded the jumping murder. It was perhaps not in the unarmed man’s best interest that Mercer happily singled him out.
Falk readied to dodge even as the Prototype took aim, ready to bring the hammer down and splatter the pathetic puss-pocked plague bearer. What he did not expect was Halgrim to throw that heavy, grizzly axe with such precision.
He felt the rusted iron blade sink into the soft underbelly just beneath his ribs just as he watched Falk leap backwards. The fist slammed into the earth, throwing a wave of mud and dirt but ultimately doing nothing but bringing Mercer back to the ground with enough force for him to slam right beside it, digging that axe deeper into his side.
How long had it been since he felt this sort of pain? In truth, he could not even remember. Bullets to the head did not even hurt this bad - at least before arriving in this strange world. The splashing of feet through mud alerted him to Falk, but stunned as he was, all he could manage was a disoriented slash of his right hand. The claws find nothing, but the axe is wrenched free of his body, spilling more of his precious contents onto the ground.
Wasting no time in taking advantage of their new seat of power, Falk brought the axe down on one of Mercer’s legs, sinking to the bone but not quite cleaving through. The new wave of pain aided in dragging air back into his lungs, just to earn a painful howl. Halgrim had dashed to the porch to require one of the chains and just as Falk was yanking free the axe, Mercer felt the chain wrap around his neck and a heavy weight drop onto his spine.
“Welcome to the Pale Moors…” Halgrim crowled into the man’s ear. Falk walked around to stand in front of Mercer, readying the axe like a golf club. He took aim at Mercer’s neck.
“Don’t come back.” Falk’s final words would have undoubtedly made the best one-liner climax to the battle. The only problem is that Mercer was not ready to test if his new body could live without a head. With a strained grunt, he summons as much force as he could to bend his back forward. It was not the prettiest counter, the rusted blade tore the flesh from the top of his skull, scraping against the bone as he ducked beneath it.
There was a yelp from Halgrim as the axe’s upswing slammed into his chest. Falk almost froze in terror as the blade in his hands scraped through his ally’s ribs and cut his beating heart in twain. Mercer’s face was in the mud, but the feel of putrid blood trickling onto the back of his neck and the sudden lump grip of the chain made the filth well worth the reward.
The corpse slid free from his body as Mercer rose. Supporting his weight on his good leg, he wiped the mud in the crook of his left elbow. “Thanks for the warm welcome. This place is starting to feel like home.” That was not exactly a lie. Ever since waking up in the morgue, up till his memories devolve into a foggy blank, all he knew was bloodshed and betrayal.
The Prototype had something of a mix between a grin and a snarl as he yanked on the chain entangling his right hand, the links scraping against the hardened biomass of his claws. The sight of the man slathered in mud, pulled closer as Mercer wrapped the chain one round after another around his wrist. It was amusing.
The second chain caught him around the neck, but he was quick to sweep his arm over it and yank Halgrim along too. This one managed to remain standing, dropping his ax to grab both hands onto the chain and plant his feet slowly into the wet earth as the Prototype pulled him closer. With the momentary distraction, Falk had rolled around, sinking his feet much the same way.
With eyes filled with murder, Mercer watched as one of the men ran away. Well… there goes my cover. He vowed to run the man down after taking care of his friends. Two on one against two who seemed to be his equals was already odds he was not fond of in his weakened condition. “That’s pretty noble of you,” Mercer spoke with a voice that betrayed the strain in his arms. The words were so calm, almost sickeningly at ease.
He no longer tried to pull the men closer. They were too well grounded, full bodies set against the strength of only one arm. Instead, he sank into a slow crouch. Mercer’s legs quivered as his denim seemingly comes to life. His legs become more like coiled snakes of sickly black. All at once, the man leapt into the air. Suddenly, the Nurgles grounding had no meaning. The strength of the jump pulled their feet from the mud and like two pendulums they slam into each other in Mercer’s wake.
Determined, neither hunter released their respective chains. Slamming into one another was bone rattling, but they had been through worse. Halgrim was about to unleash a witty retort, but Mercer’s grunt of effort cut him short. The pair of hunters were pulled faster into the sky, while Mercer’s altitude plummeted. Slack formed in the chain as they soared towards the vicious claws.
It was not the chain-laiden claws they felt. Instead, it was Mercer’s feet. Instead, his claws grabbed the chains close to their hands and from so close they could see the quivering as even his clothing converted to coiled tendrils. This time determination was not enough. The chains ripped from their hands, shredding their puss-puckered flesh. The powerful leap sent Mercer careening away - his body piercing the roof of Badrun’s home.
Mud sprayed around the Nurgles as their body hit the ground. The stun lasted only briefly before air refilled their grizzly lungs. The chains had been stripped from them, but by this point Saalras the Swift was no longer in view, even the splish-splash of his fleet feet had vanished from earshot.
Back in the cabin, Mercer had landed practically head first in the kitchen sink. Granted, it was not one of his better landings, with a number of cuts and gashes spilling ruined biomass onto the floor. It looked like blood, except instead of just pooling, it squirmed like a pool of living slime in its death throws.
“Sir!” Mercer had never given his name to the boy. Jacob appeared in the doorway, eyes wide. “Do you need some help? I could…” He did not finish the sentence, but he held up his claws, suggesting physically what his spirit was too weak to verbalize.
“No.” The lies begin again; “You should rest up… I feel those women will be a bigger threat.” They seemed like soldiers, the both of them. The Nurglites outside were more like simple hunters. Skilled, yes, but not packing the arsenal that the armored one might be carrying. I’ll need my secret weapon alive…
Outside, Falk and Halgrim were plotting. “Grab his keys and toss them,” Halgrim pointed towards the still running motorcycle. He was busied by grabbing up his axe. The sundered hand still gripped the handle as tight as ever. This pain was nothing. Falk did as commanded, dashing to the motorcycle and yanking the key from the engine. It sputtered into silence just as the tossed keys splashed into the mud a ways off, sinking into obscurity.
“Saalras should be far enough now.” The warrior did not suggest fleeing. Gudrun would not have wanted them to let this monster’s atrocities to go unpunished. With his chain missing, Falk was down his favored weapon. It did not matter, he would go fisticuffs with the monster and beat every fucking tendril into a bloody pulp. That’s just how the hunters liked their monsters; extra pulp.
Mercer heard the silence outside. HIs lips curled to a snarl. My fucking bike! As he moved towards the door, Jacob stepped out of the way. The boy followed only till the front door, where he placed himself squarely in front of the window to watch, as he had been a moment before.
As the Prototype stepped onto the porch, he made a show of throwing down the chains. The tendrils around his arms looked as if they had been crushed, dropping squirming ooze onto the ground. With a foul smirk, his left hand began squirming with a mass of these same tendrils. The claws shrank, dissolving into a larger mass. The weight pulled down his shoulder as he manifested the gruesome Hammerfist.
“Neat trick.” Halgrim jeers, his knuckles white with the grip on his axe. Both he and Falk take a step closer, preparing to rush the monster on the porch.
The response was just a short laugh. For a single pregnant moment, the trio enter a staredown. Each plague bearer was trying to read the other, but aside from a shared bloodlust, found nothing. The silence ended as the pair of hunters began their assault.
The moment they charged, Mercer took to the skies again. His massive fist tore through the covered porch’s roof like tissue paper, not a skrape left on the dense biomass hammer. “Like a fucking cricket!” Falk goaded the jumping murder. It was perhaps not in the unarmed man’s best interest that Mercer happily singled him out.
Falk readied to dodge even as the Prototype took aim, ready to bring the hammer down and splatter the pathetic puss-pocked plague bearer. What he did not expect was Halgrim to throw that heavy, grizzly axe with such precision.
He felt the rusted iron blade sink into the soft underbelly just beneath his ribs just as he watched Falk leap backwards. The fist slammed into the earth, throwing a wave of mud and dirt but ultimately doing nothing but bringing Mercer back to the ground with enough force for him to slam right beside it, digging that axe deeper into his side.
How long had it been since he felt this sort of pain? In truth, he could not even remember. Bullets to the head did not even hurt this bad - at least before arriving in this strange world. The splashing of feet through mud alerted him to Falk, but stunned as he was, all he could manage was a disoriented slash of his right hand. The claws find nothing, but the axe is wrenched free of his body, spilling more of his precious contents onto the ground.
Wasting no time in taking advantage of their new seat of power, Falk brought the axe down on one of Mercer’s legs, sinking to the bone but not quite cleaving through. The new wave of pain aided in dragging air back into his lungs, just to earn a painful howl. Halgrim had dashed to the porch to require one of the chains and just as Falk was yanking free the axe, Mercer felt the chain wrap around his neck and a heavy weight drop onto his spine.
“Welcome to the Pale Moors…” Halgrim crowled into the man’s ear. Falk walked around to stand in front of Mercer, readying the axe like a golf club. He took aim at Mercer’s neck.
“Don’t come back.” Falk’s final words would have undoubtedly made the best one-liner climax to the battle. The only problem is that Mercer was not ready to test if his new body could live without a head. With a strained grunt, he summons as much force as he could to bend his back forward. It was not the prettiest counter, the rusted blade tore the flesh from the top of his skull, scraping against the bone as he ducked beneath it.
There was a yelp from Halgrim as the axe’s upswing slammed into his chest. Falk almost froze in terror as the blade in his hands scraped through his ally’s ribs and cut his beating heart in twain. Mercer’s face was in the mud, but the feel of putrid blood trickling onto the back of his neck and the sudden lump grip of the chain made the filth well worth the reward.
The corpse slid free from his body as Mercer rose. Supporting his weight on his good leg, he wiped the mud in the crook of his left elbow. “Thanks for the warm welcome. This place is starting to feel like home.” That was not exactly a lie. Ever since waking up in the morgue, up till his memories devolve into a foggy blank, all he knew was bloodshed and betrayal.
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