She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXXI)

Posted on December 2, 2013 by R. Richardsson

Disclaimer

The following is one of many installments for a story designed specifically for my blog. While it does step out of my usual genre, there are some things still not suitable for a younger audience. Violent/Graphic descriptions, strong language and sexual situations may be found through different sections. Each entry will tell a small portion of the story during different times and may not directly follow the one prior to it.

This story follows the direct interactions, as well as the deteriorating thoughts of a young man who is struggling not only with the relationships he has with those around him, but with the relationship he has with himself as well.

Finally, all work is strictly fiction and does not reflect the views of the author. Any resemblance to actual person(s) is only a coincidence.

If this isn’t your cup of tea, then avoid these excerpts and hopefully I’ll see you around my other posts and webseries!

———

His vision doubled from the impact.

The pain was excruciating, but for the moment the voices in his head were silenced. Although the pain anchored him to the moment, it felt as if he were lost inside a dream. From somewhere far away he heard the bat-like screeches of Lucy’s voice as she cursed more about the damage to the wall than to him.

A syrupy mixture of blood and tears coated his eyes, allowing him to see the world through death’s own, and he peered through the crimson veil at the monstrosity before him. It waved its trunk-like appendages emphatically as it advanced, alternating between gesturing at him and the wall where he had just planted his head.

A steady throbbing began to spread from his temples, reaching with its hurtful tendrils until it covered the crown of his skull.

He looked upon the hellspawn before him and lost touch with reality.

The creature before him barely passed for a female of his species. It was nearly tall as he, but consisted of mountains upon mountains of flesh which spilled over itself from its neck to its cankles. It was naked, except for the brassiere that covered its mountainous assets. He looked briefly downward, praying to whatever god was listening, that he wouldn’t see its gender specific bits and found that he couldn’t even if he tried. Its large bulbous stomach hung low, covering anything that might help him to determine whether it had an inny or an outy.

He returned his eyes to its face when it suddenly shrieked his name. For a brief moment, even in his current state, he nearly forgot where he was. Perched atop the countless globs of unwashed skin was the face he had once grown to love. There wasn’t time for him to reflect, however, as it suddenly lunged in attack.

It led with its right arm, leading with the same fist which had already once marked his face, but this time it wouldn’t connect. He ducked to the left and stepped underneath its arm, around its body and stopped just behind the behemoth.

It turned to face him, sputtering words over its lips faster than he could follow. He began to smile, and when a look of confusion came over its features, he began to laugh. His head protested from the vibrations his throat was thrusting upon it, but it felt too good for him to stop. Only when the creature’s expression suddenly filled with rage did he become quiet. It swung again, and once more he side-stepped and ducked behind it. This time he planted a foot squarely over the crack between its massive pimple-covered buttocks, (it wasn’t wearing any underwear), and shoved with every bit of strength his leg could muster.

His perception suddenly cleared and he watched, horrified, as Lucy slammed into the banister. His right hand shot out, reaching futilely toward her as she tipped over the edge and fell from sight.

“NO,” he screamed in anguish. “It wasn’t REAL!”

The Box (XIII)

Posted on November 28, 2013 by R. Richardsson

The sword was cold and unfamiliar in his hands, but it was a necessary inconvenience. While he possessed many powerful magics for the coming battle, he still needed something that would open the creature for them to be more effective.

“I suppose I could have allowed them to live,” he muttered thoughtfully to himself.

Despite his words, he knew that he had made the right choice. They would have been useful against the Great Flame, their unique skills would have given him a greater chance for survival, but the overall risk of the box falling into their hands was too great.

He would rather face the venerable wyrm when it was at the height of its power than to allow for that to happen.

As he continued to close the distance between himself and the lair, he silently appraised the condition of the longsword. The light blue substance Elladuer’d applied to the metal held. Though he hadn’t heard what the elf had claimed it was, it appeared to have temporarily enchanted the metal for one purpose.

“To slay the dragon,” he breathed.

The words echoed softly from the stone, disturbing the silent denizens of the underdark, big and small alike. Some acknowledged it with nary a glance, while others fled deeper into the nether.

“O’salum Na’eldraeya, Y’salonna Drak.”

As he incanted the words of the spell, he lightly drew the blade across the palm of his right hand. It bit into his flesh, parting it with its temped edge and drank of his blood. Not a single drop was spilled. The blade absorbed it greedily, prompted by the power he gave unto it.

“Fly, Dragonbane, I command you,” he shrieked. “Protect me from the abomination that is Malifgorranaka!”

At the pinnacle of his spell, he released the blade into the air where it hovered just as the hourglass had earlier. Only, rather than keeping time, this object’s purpose was much more deadly.

His knees wobbled beneath him and for the next few seconds, he fought to regain his strength. The magic was taking its toll on his body, years from his life and it threatened to consume him with every spell he cast. It was a price he was willing to pay, for once he had the box, these worries would be no more.

Safely hidden in the shadows behind him, a single red eye narrowed.

The Box (Part XII)

Posted on November 17, 2013 by R. Richardsson

From his perch, high above the intersection, Joeshan watched as the creatures feasted upon their kill. His stomach lurched threateningly at the sight of his friend being devoured, but there was little else he could do at this point. His body ached from his own recent attack and he had lost a lot of blood from his injuries as well. If it wasn’t for the dark magic of the sorcerer, he most likely would have suffered this very same fate.

The Destrachan had continued to close in on him, breathing upon him its foul stench as it approached. He had been paralyzed by its attack, a sonic blast so strong that it had stolen the air from his lungs and pinned him to the ground. Slobber dripped off of its bottom lip, splashing first on his neck and then on his cheek as it drew ever closer to his face.

With a start, he realized that he could hear the voice of the sorcerer as he worked his magic from somewhere in the darkness around him, but to his dismay it was only echoes that he heard.

A long, snake-like tongue slithered past the creature’s teeth and over his face, smearing the drool over his cheek as it passed.

He wanted to scream, cry, anything, but there were no reserves in his lungs with which to do so. He trembled as the creature’s tongue suddenly forced its way past the eyelids of his right eye socket and wrapped itself tightly around the orb within. He couldn’t scream, but his body reacted with motion for what his lungs could not do in sound.

He’d lost all vision in the eye that the creature had imprisoned. Small lines of fire burned through his head as the creature first tugged, and then yanked on its small prize. At the moment that he’d felt something give, his lungs suddenly expanded, sucking in the much needed oxygen that had been missing for too long.

As soon as it had returned, he expelled it with an anguished wail. Blood filled the now empty socket and ran down the side of his face, while his one remaining eye watched the creature suck in the connective tissues as if it were a string of boiled pasta.

The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt, white hot, and crippling him as surely as the effects of creature’s initial attack. The Destrachan was toying with him. Through his one remaining eye, he watched as it sucked on the other between its lips while pointing the pupil back at him.

It was at the moment that it crushed the eye between its teeth that the creature’s attention had been drawn to Elladuer’s Last Stand, though he hadn’t known that’s what it was at the time. He was just thankful that he was safe, if even for a moment.

Now, as he watched the scene unfolding below, he understood why the creature had suddenly abandoned him its next meal. There wasn’t much left of his elfin companion. The armor had been blasted to shreds by their sonic attacks and was scattered about the clearing. Four of the Destrachan surrounded the elf’s remains, where they occasionally foraged from what little meat was left on his bloody bones.

They were well fed. It was very likely that they didn’t eat this much in one sitting and their midsections were swollen to the point of bursting. They rested close together, not so much as for warmth, but as if it were from habit. Unlike any predatory creatures he had ever seen on the surface, these willingly shared their kill, that the next may have enough in its belly.

He began to cry, clear salty tears from his good eye and bitter blood-filled ones from his empty socket. The pain had since faded to a dull throb, one which would be a constant reminder of what he had lost, but he would never forget the the next thing he saw.

Far below, where the creatures lazed near their feast, Oramiir strode across the clearing. He paused only to take the elf’s weapon and entered the tunnel branching off to the left, from whence the breath of the dragon still emanated.