12-01-2015, 02:42 PM
The woman’s blood actively curdled as it fell from her belly, landing in thick globules on the pavement below. She didn’t bother struggling for breath, knowing that her diaphragm was already giving way to the necrosis that suffused every cavity of her war-ravaged body. The sickness had already won.
Grunting, the woman jerked her makeshift shiv to the side, the wood collapsing down on his trachea and putting an end to his undaunted sermon of decay.
“Shut the…” she rasped, searching for air, “fuck up.”
Translucent bubbles gurgled from his mouth, his mouth still miming the words of his prayer. The chaos that animated his form would not relent. The plague that the Grandfather had gifted upon him stitched his wounds, death sadly unable to keep pace with the Rotting God’s blessings.
The jagged edge of the blade jerked within her, his sputtering movements bringing the rusted blade through her viscera. Her feet went cold only moments before they seemed to fade away, the tingling numbness of paralysis creeping up her trunk. And yet, she clung to life.
Her right hand left the wooden shard and she cocked it back, her trembling fingers making a limp fist. What was left of her breath was pushed in to one final scream, though her newfound phlegm and rot strangled most of it into little more than a whimper. “I don’t need…” she managed before trailing away.
The fury of her strike did not diminish as quickly as her words however, and the marine’s skull split along the sutures where her knuckles connected. A spray of pale fluid splattered out in a glorious display of violence, and the thing which was once a man tumbled over. Her metallic fingers yet clung to the barb that she had planted within him, so she hit the ground along with him.
Laying limply on the fiend’s chest, sweaty and sore, her hateful eyes bore into the chasm she had created on the side of his face. No longer capable of lifting herself with her frozen back muscles, she instead used the wooden spike to posture up for another blow. Flesh met flesh, and both combatants were instantly drenched in that substance which Okor called his blood, thick chunks of his skull pushed down into his brain along with her fist.
The tattered mass that was once the plague marine’s head lay unmoving, his cursed lips finally still. She pried her hand from the crater she had leveled into his head, and the structure wobbled and deflated grotesquely, bits of grey matter dripping from between her digits. The blade that had been sunken into her gut slowly dissolved, though the maladies it had imposed upon her remained.
She allowed herself the privilege of inhaling, though it took every ounce of her will to take in even just a whisper of oxygen. She no longer heard the crowd, though she had stopped listening to them long before. All her ears yearned to hear was a voice telling her that it was over; somebody to tell her that help was on its way.
She managed only to pull herself away from the creature’s body before she became vaguely aware that her mechanical arm had ceased in responding to her commands, a quick glance revealing that her body had begun to reject it in her enfeebled state.
She couldn’t even manage a swear, and instead scornfully latched her hand upon the trophy that dangled on Okor’s waist. “That’s…” she wheezed, “mine now.” She pulled the darkened skull off of his belt, snapped the rope that had held it in place.
Not knowing what more to do with it, she clutched it upon her chest with the only limb she retained agency over, and stared up into the sky.
It was not much longer until the magical barrier that surrounded the field fell, and the sound of heavy footfalls surrounded her. She didn’t move her head to notice who had come for her, and only saw the Kingdom’s medical insignia when they stooped down to push a finger into her throat to check her pulse.
The medic began to count her thread heartbeat, and a slow look of consternation crossed his face. The shrieks of his comrades filled the air before his own did, the pestilence that Nurgle had bequeathed upon the bandit now streaking up over his own flesh. “Do not touch her!” he howled in his dying moments, “The illness will only spread!”
Groaning, the bandit finally turned her bloodshot eyes from the clouds, staring with dispassion and displeasure as her only chance of survival crumpled into the street beside her. “Mother fu…” she trailed away, unable to continue her speech. Giving her head a gentle shake, she sighed and conceited herself to the Fountain, knowing that it was far too late for recovery.
When she awoke, a darkly robed creature loomed over her, tiny, glassy eyes staring upon her from behind its massive hooked beak.
The marauder’s heavy hand quickly snapped the leather cuff that presumed to restrain her and landed on the being’s cheek, sending him flying across the room. Panting heavily, she tried her other arm, though it still refused to move for her. Instead, she reached across her body and yanked the other chain from her metallic wrist and sat up.
“Where the fuck am I!?” she demanded, her voice echoing in the strange emptiness of eternity that stretched in all directions around her.
Correcting his hat, the medieval plague-doctor slowly brought himself to his feet and readjusted his mask. He took a deep breath from his elongated herb pouch in the beak that poked out in front of his face and exhaled. “You are in quarantine,” he said quite calmly, a thick old-world accent tainting his voice. “Yourself and your opponent are both quite contagious in your current states.”
Shaking her head, she tried to wrap her head around what had happened. “Wait, I’m not dead?”
The doctor shook his head, “No, though we feared you might if not given enough time to recover. Our Lord has given us this Isolation Verse to slow the passing of time and tend to your injuries for that reason. You should have several more weeks to convalesce.”
“Several more?” She groaned, and threw herself back into her sweat-drenched pillow.
“It’s amazing that you managed to recover at all. We could do nothing for you, it seemed, and it seemed that you had given in to your death.” He shrugged, collecting thick sheets of parchment from the floor, scribbled with his manic notes, “Until you had given yourself to the glory of Our God, it seemed hopeless.”
She ran her hand through her thick dreads and furrowed her eyebrows. “Until I had given in, huh…” she allowed the thought to trail away, almost repulsed at its implications. Her eyes snapped up as another realization struck her, “Wait, he’s alive too?!”
The doctor’s expression was inscrutable behind the dark lenses of his glasses, but his voice was pained as he confirmed, “Yes. The plague-bearer yet lives.”
“HOW IN THE FUCK,” she shouted, more an exclamation than a question. “I punched his fucking brains out! I literally punched his fucking brains out!”
“Perhaps it is your foul tongue that slows the healing will of God,” the man of ‘medicine’ scolded. “In any case, enjoy your rest. None of the other competitors will have such leisure time.”
The bandit sighed, looking around her bed into the blank canvas that sprawled in every direction. “So uh,” she said flatly, “what do I do to burn some time around here?”
The doctor motioned towards a small night stand on the side of the bed opposite herself. “I have left you something to read.” He quickly shuffled through his papers once more and nodded, “I will be back to check on you soon. Rest well, warrior.” With that, he turned, vanishing through the white and out of the isolation.
Grunting, the bandit managed to shimmy her way to the drawer that rested in the night-stand, pulling it open. She snatched up the leather-bound tome that rest within, its cover unadorned with a title. She smiled to herself at its pristine appearance. She had never had any good books in the Dunes.
She settled into a propped-up position and flipped it open, almost giddy with excitement. As soon as she read the first page she groaned, her head dropping back in crestfallen disappointment. “Fuckin figures,” she swore and tossed it into the emptiness.
“I’ve had enough lectures for one day,” she spat, searching her pockets for her dataverse device.
Grunting, the woman jerked her makeshift shiv to the side, the wood collapsing down on his trachea and putting an end to his undaunted sermon of decay.
“Shut the…” she rasped, searching for air, “fuck up.”
Translucent bubbles gurgled from his mouth, his mouth still miming the words of his prayer. The chaos that animated his form would not relent. The plague that the Grandfather had gifted upon him stitched his wounds, death sadly unable to keep pace with the Rotting God’s blessings.
The jagged edge of the blade jerked within her, his sputtering movements bringing the rusted blade through her viscera. Her feet went cold only moments before they seemed to fade away, the tingling numbness of paralysis creeping up her trunk. And yet, she clung to life.
Her right hand left the wooden shard and she cocked it back, her trembling fingers making a limp fist. What was left of her breath was pushed in to one final scream, though her newfound phlegm and rot strangled most of it into little more than a whimper. “I don’t need…” she managed before trailing away.
The fury of her strike did not diminish as quickly as her words however, and the marine’s skull split along the sutures where her knuckles connected. A spray of pale fluid splattered out in a glorious display of violence, and the thing which was once a man tumbled over. Her metallic fingers yet clung to the barb that she had planted within him, so she hit the ground along with him.
Laying limply on the fiend’s chest, sweaty and sore, her hateful eyes bore into the chasm she had created on the side of his face. No longer capable of lifting herself with her frozen back muscles, she instead used the wooden spike to posture up for another blow. Flesh met flesh, and both combatants were instantly drenched in that substance which Okor called his blood, thick chunks of his skull pushed down into his brain along with her fist.
The tattered mass that was once the plague marine’s head lay unmoving, his cursed lips finally still. She pried her hand from the crater she had leveled into his head, and the structure wobbled and deflated grotesquely, bits of grey matter dripping from between her digits. The blade that had been sunken into her gut slowly dissolved, though the maladies it had imposed upon her remained.
She allowed herself the privilege of inhaling, though it took every ounce of her will to take in even just a whisper of oxygen. She no longer heard the crowd, though she had stopped listening to them long before. All her ears yearned to hear was a voice telling her that it was over; somebody to tell her that help was on its way.
She managed only to pull herself away from the creature’s body before she became vaguely aware that her mechanical arm had ceased in responding to her commands, a quick glance revealing that her body had begun to reject it in her enfeebled state.
She couldn’t even manage a swear, and instead scornfully latched her hand upon the trophy that dangled on Okor’s waist. “That’s…” she wheezed, “mine now.” She pulled the darkened skull off of his belt, snapped the rope that had held it in place.
Not knowing what more to do with it, she clutched it upon her chest with the only limb she retained agency over, and stared up into the sky.
It was not much longer until the magical barrier that surrounded the field fell, and the sound of heavy footfalls surrounded her. She didn’t move her head to notice who had come for her, and only saw the Kingdom’s medical insignia when they stooped down to push a finger into her throat to check her pulse.
The medic began to count her thread heartbeat, and a slow look of consternation crossed his face. The shrieks of his comrades filled the air before his own did, the pestilence that Nurgle had bequeathed upon the bandit now streaking up over his own flesh. “Do not touch her!” he howled in his dying moments, “The illness will only spread!”
Groaning, the bandit finally turned her bloodshot eyes from the clouds, staring with dispassion and displeasure as her only chance of survival crumpled into the street beside her. “Mother fu…” she trailed away, unable to continue her speech. Giving her head a gentle shake, she sighed and conceited herself to the Fountain, knowing that it was far too late for recovery.
-----
When she awoke, a darkly robed creature loomed over her, tiny, glassy eyes staring upon her from behind its massive hooked beak.
The marauder’s heavy hand quickly snapped the leather cuff that presumed to restrain her and landed on the being’s cheek, sending him flying across the room. Panting heavily, she tried her other arm, though it still refused to move for her. Instead, she reached across her body and yanked the other chain from her metallic wrist and sat up.
“Where the fuck am I!?” she demanded, her voice echoing in the strange emptiness of eternity that stretched in all directions around her.
Correcting his hat, the medieval plague-doctor slowly brought himself to his feet and readjusted his mask. He took a deep breath from his elongated herb pouch in the beak that poked out in front of his face and exhaled. “You are in quarantine,” he said quite calmly, a thick old-world accent tainting his voice. “Yourself and your opponent are both quite contagious in your current states.”
Shaking her head, she tried to wrap her head around what had happened. “Wait, I’m not dead?”
The doctor shook his head, “No, though we feared you might if not given enough time to recover. Our Lord has given us this Isolation Verse to slow the passing of time and tend to your injuries for that reason. You should have several more weeks to convalesce.”
“Several more?” She groaned, and threw herself back into her sweat-drenched pillow.
“It’s amazing that you managed to recover at all. We could do nothing for you, it seemed, and it seemed that you had given in to your death.” He shrugged, collecting thick sheets of parchment from the floor, scribbled with his manic notes, “Until you had given yourself to the glory of Our God, it seemed hopeless.”
She ran her hand through her thick dreads and furrowed her eyebrows. “Until I had given in, huh…” she allowed the thought to trail away, almost repulsed at its implications. Her eyes snapped up as another realization struck her, “Wait, he’s alive too?!”
The doctor’s expression was inscrutable behind the dark lenses of his glasses, but his voice was pained as he confirmed, “Yes. The plague-bearer yet lives.”
“HOW IN THE FUCK,” she shouted, more an exclamation than a question. “I punched his fucking brains out! I literally punched his fucking brains out!”
“Perhaps it is your foul tongue that slows the healing will of God,” the man of ‘medicine’ scolded. “In any case, enjoy your rest. None of the other competitors will have such leisure time.”
The bandit sighed, looking around her bed into the blank canvas that sprawled in every direction. “So uh,” she said flatly, “what do I do to burn some time around here?”
The doctor motioned towards a small night stand on the side of the bed opposite herself. “I have left you something to read.” He quickly shuffled through his papers once more and nodded, “I will be back to check on you soon. Rest well, warrior.” With that, he turned, vanishing through the white and out of the isolation.
Grunting, the bandit managed to shimmy her way to the drawer that rested in the night-stand, pulling it open. She snatched up the leather-bound tome that rest within, its cover unadorned with a title. She smiled to herself at its pristine appearance. She had never had any good books in the Dunes.
She settled into a propped-up position and flipped it open, almost giddy with excitement. As soon as she read the first page she groaned, her head dropping back in crestfallen disappointment. “Fuckin figures,” she swore and tossed it into the emptiness.
“I’ve had enough lectures for one day,” she spat, searching her pockets for her dataverse device.