crawlinginchaos

[crawlinginchaos]

Uhhhhhh

Somebody prompt me or somethin I haven’t written anything in months save me

[crawlinginchaos]

Bullets flew overhead and explosions rocked the horizon as two young men darted across the once-green plains, now stained grey and red with the dust and blood of an occupied France battlefield. The corporal, lanky and gaunt with jet-black hair spilling out from under his helmet, slumped into a ditch, the mud splashing up against his pale skin as his comrade leapt down next to him. Shifting his tin hat over his copper dusting of a haircut, the private held his rifle close to his chest, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths, attempting to drain away his anxiety against the deafening sounds of war. The corporal placed a hand on his shoulder, catching his attention. “We’re almost there. Once we’re back behind our lines we’ll be alright.” His west-coast drawl dripped with unnatural charisma, soothing the quaking Welsh teen. The boy slowly nodded his head, getting a better grip on his gun and letting out a light chuckle. “I’m never going to get used to you doing that!” He bellowed over the battlefield’s overwhelming noise. “What can I say, it’s a talent!” “That’s one way of putting it!” The two laughed for a moment before pushing their banter aside, sitting up and readying their guns. “You first, mister bulletproof!” The private called out, nudging his dark-eyed friend. The corporal chuckled, pushing the stock of his rifle into his shoulder. “Any chance we can rock-paper-scissors?” He replied, poking his head out over the ditch edge and yanking it back down with a smile on his face as a bullet whizzed past. “Oh, piss off!” The Welshman smirks and went first, scampering up onto the edge of the ditch and standing. Before the American could follow, the boy let out a sudden yelp, barely audible over the sound of bombs and gunfire; a thin red mist flared out into the air above them, and a splatter of light gore splashed across the ditch and mixed into the mud as he fall back into it. The corporal’s face fell into an open gasp, his eyes widening as he scampered to his friend’s side. The teenager grimaced, holding his hands over the slowly growing patch of red in his uniform. The older man grabbed onto his friend’s wrist, steeling himself against the sight of the blood and pushing aside any primal instincts. “Should’ve seen that coming, shouldn’t I?” The private chuckled, before letting out a hacking cough. He was already noticeably paler, the bullet wound sitting right across from his heart. The corporal flew into an analytical frenzy; it would’ve pierced his lung, and there was most certainly an exit wound leaking blood on the other side of his body. A medic wouldn’t be able to patch this up, especially not out here, and not during a full retreat. A pulsing vein in the boy’s neck caught his attention, and he ran his tongue along the points of his teeth as he made a split second decision, snatching his combat knife from his belt and running it along the palm of his own hand. Ignoring the pain, he moved to hold the cut up near his wounded friend’s mouth. His hand was stopped, however, the private snatching at his superior officer’s wrist and holding it away as he shook his head. “Drink. Please. I can’t get you home any other way.” The gaunt soldier pleaded, not fighting against the boy’s grip for fear of hurting him. The private took his other hand away from his wound and yanked something from around his neck, holding it in a closed fist. “I’ve listened to all your stories. I don’t quite like the idea of taking the long way around. I’d be awful at the whole immortal thing, anyways.” He opened his hand, revealing a small silver cross-shaped necklace, before tucking it into the corporal’s breast pocket. “Hold on to this for me. One day, when they finally bump you off, I’ll see you up at God’s house.” His soft Welsh trill fell shallow and gasping by the end, as he leant his head back and closed his eyes. The corporal didn’t say a word, simply letting his young friend’s grip loosen and fall away from his blood-leaking hand.

He let out a light, unnerving chuckle. Then another, and another, escalating until he was bellowing with unhinged laughter, eyes wide and tears streaming down his muddy cheeks. He violently grabbed at the tufts of copper hair sticking out from under the corpse’s helmet, yanking it aside and burying his face and teeth into the still-warm neck. He slurped and gulped and drained the private of what little blood he had left, the vampire’s body filled with renewed vigour at the satisfaction of a hunger he’d been resisting for a decade. He yanked his head back, not even bothering to open his jaw, and tore half of the dead boy’s throat out. His fingers reached for his rifle and closed around its handle, but the blood-fuelled immortal simply crushed the polished wood into splinters under his newfound, supernatural grip. Standing, he placed a foot onto the edge of the ditch, the bullets slamming into him barely making him flinch as his eyes grew wide and red, and his blood-splattered mouth grew into a vicious, scarlet grin.

When the allied forces cancelled their retreat and stormed the enemy lines the next morning, they faced little resistance. The axis forces that remained laid scattered and terrified amongst the bloodbath, responding to the sudden presence of British and American soldiers with either desperate violence or incoherent fear. From the babbling of those they took prisoner, they assumed the allies assumed they had been assaulted by a pack of wolves, or another animal of some sort. When the Nazi captives insisted that they had watched not an animal, but a man tear apart and devour their comrades, the Western soldiers laughed in denial.

No one man could have done something so violent.

[crawlinginchaos]

Bullets flew overhead and explosions rocked the horizon as two young men darted across the once-green plains, now stained grey and red with the dust and blood of an occupied France battlefield. The corporal, lanky and gaunt with jet-black hair spilling out from under his helmet, slumped into a ditch, the mud splashing up against his pale skin as his comrade leapt down next to him. Shifting his tin hat over his copper dusting of a haircut, the private held his rifle close to his chest, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths, attempting to drain away his anxiety against the deafening sounds of war. The corporal placed a hand on his shoulder, catching his attention. “We’re almost there. Once we’re back behind our lines we’ll be alright.” His west-coast drawl dripped with unnatural charisma, soothing the quaking Welsh teen. The boy slowly nodded his head, getting a better grip on his gun and letting out a light chuckle. “I’m never going to get used to you doing that!” He bellowed over the battlefield’s overwhelming noise. “What can I say, it’s a talent!” “That’s one way of putting it!” The two laughed for a moment before pushing their banter aside, sitting up and readying their guns. “You first, mister bulletproof!” The private called out, nudging his dark-eyed friend. The corporal chuckled, pushing the stock of his rifle into his shoulder. “Any chance we can rock-paper-scissors?” He replied, poking his head out over the ditch edge and yanking it back down with a smile on his face as a bullet whizzed past. “Oh, piss off!” The Welshman smirks and went first, scampering up onto the edge of the ditch and standing. Before the American could follow, the boy let out a sudden yelp, barely audible over the sound of bombs and gunfire; a thin red mist flared out into the air above them, and a splatter of light gore splashed across the ditch and mixed into the mud as he fall back into it. The corporal’s face fell into an open gasp, his eyes widening as he scampered to his friend’s side. The teenager grimaced, holding his hands over the slowly growing patch of red in his uniform. The older man grabbed onto his friend’s wrist, steeling himself against the sight of the blood and pushing aside any primal instincts. “Should’ve seen that coming, shouldn’t I?” The private chuckled, before letting out a hacking cough. He was already noticeably paler, the bullet wound sitting right across from his heart. The corporal flew into an analytical frenzy; it would’ve pierced his lung, and there was most certainly an exit wound leaking blood on the other side of his body. A medic wouldn’t be able to patch this up, especially not out here, and not during a full retreat. A pulsing vein in the boy’s neck caught his attention, and he ran his tongue along the points of his teeth as he made a split second decision, snatching his combat knife from his belt and running it along the palm of his own hand. Ignoring the pain, he moved to hold the cut up near his wounded friend’s mouth. His hand was stopped, however, the private snatching at his superior officer’s wrist and holding it away as he shook his head. “Drink. Please. I can’t get you home any other way.” The gaunt soldier pleaded, not fighting against the boy’s grip for fear of hurting him. The private took his other hand away from his wound and yanked something from around his neck, holding it in a closed fist. “I’ve listened to all your stories. I don’t quite like the idea of taking the long way around. I’d be awful at the whole immortal thing, anyways.” He opened his hand, revealing a small silver cross-shaped necklace, before tucking it into the corporal’s breast pocket. “Hold on to this for me. One day, when they finally bump you off, I’ll see you up at God’s house.” His soft Welsh trill fell shallow and gasping by the end, as he leant his head back and closed his eyes. The corporal didn’t say a word, simply letting his young friend’s grip loosen and fall away from his blood-leaking hand.

He let out a light, unnerving chuckle. Then another, and another, escalating until he was bellowing with unhinged laughter, eyes wide and tears streaming down his muddy cheeks. He violently grabbed at the tufts of copper hair sticking out from under the corpse’s helmet, yanking it aside and burying his face and teeth into the still-warm neck. He slurped and gulped and drained the private of what little blood he had left, the vampire’s body filled with renewed vigour at the satisfaction of a hunger he’d been resisting for a decade. He yanked his head back, not even bothering to open his jaw, and tore half of the dead boy’s throat out. His fingers reached for his rifle and closed around its handle, but the blood-fuelled immortal simply crushed the polished wood into splinters under his newfound, supernatural grip. Standing, he placed a foot onto the edge of the ditch, the bullets slamming into him barely making him flinch as his eyes grew wide and red, and his blood-splattered mouth grew into a vicious, scarlet grin.

When the allied forces cancelled their retreat and stormed the enemy lines the next morning, they faced little resistance. The axis forces that remained laid scattered and terrified amongst the bloodbath, responding to the sudden presence of British and American soldiers with either desperate violence or incoherent fear. From the babbling of those they took prisoner, they assumed the allies assumed they had been assaulted by a pack of wolves, or another animal of some sort. When the Nazi captives insisted that they had watched not an animal, but a man tear apart and devour their comrades, the Western soldiers laughed in denial.

No one man could have done something so violent.

WWII Era Vampires

Giving their neighbors their rations claiming that the government fucked up that week because they noticed that they’re going without trying to feed their kids.

Signing up for the draft cuz, “Fuck it. We can’t die by their weapons anyway. I’ll fight for the country I’ve lived in for the past century.”

Vampire nurses who know when the blood’s gone bad or what type of blood you need (because blood typing was fairly new during WWII).

The baby faced forever 18 vampire siting with the older soldiers cuz he’s seen the same shit they’ve seen, even though he can’t tell them. They’re all watching the young “I’m going to be a hero” boys, sadly waiting for the ball to drop.

The vampire that has to explain how he was the only survivor in the ambush and why the enemy is torn to shreds.

The vampire solider, holding his best mate since his childhood begging and crying, “Please, let me do this.” But his mate won’t let him because he’s more afraid of living forever and watching the world move on without him.

Then, 70 years later, they come to the memorial, to commemorate everyone that fought, everyone that fell, and an old man looks at him strangely and says, “You look just like your Grandfather.”

[crawlinginchaos]

Unkindled Ash - Part 2

It's not long before she's reached the narrow stone hallway separating the dull grey valley she woke up in from the pale yellow skyline, the sun's glare preventing her from getting a clear view of what lays beyond. She navigates past a few more white-skinned hollows to get there, sneaking past their dulled and ancient senses when she can, and applying the strong two-handed swordplay she'd begun to remember when necessary. Pulling her blade from the thin stomach of a hollow's corpse, she takes the final steps out onto a narrow ledge. The blurred afterimage of the sun bursting through the clouds above the horizon blinds her for a moment, but she blinks through it. She's rewarded with a breathtaking view, of snow-dusted mountaintops in the far distance, a vast chasm-like expanse of low hills seperating them from the ledge she's standing on. A castle wall towers over her immediate right, perhaps it's where the dead in the cemetery came from. Her left offers more, however, as she's greeted by a view of a close-by chapel-like structure, a low and old building graced with a pair of crumbling towers at its rear. She inches along the five-foot-wide ledge of crumbling rock, making her way towards it in hope of finding other sane folk. The ledge eventually opens out into a wider platform, leading down into what can only be described as a pair of natural corridors, carved out of two walls of roofless stone. She takes a few tentative steps down into them, before jumping aside at the sudden scream of a charging hollow. Having gotten used to their animalistic, tactless fighting, she simply catches its broken blade in her own, parrying it to the side before drawing her sword across its throat. As she lowers her blade and kicks the hollow lightly to make sure it's still dead, she notices something strange. A dull light and a quiet whispering sound is emnating from the corpse, a sprite that slowly filters out from the body and into her own chest, giving her a light feeling of elation and strength. She'd noticed something similar when cutting her brainless opponents down before, but she'd simply put it down to panic and a lack of her own senses, due to her recent revival. Perhaps she'd ask any sensible inhabitants of the chapel ahead what this strange effect was. Shaking her head, she casts the thought aside for now and ventures down through the corridor to her right.

She's greeted by a pair of resting hollows, one that she catches by surprise with a downwards thrust and another that takes a swing at her; a high swing that she ducks under and guts her attacker in its panic. The corridor leads opens out into another ledge, one that crossroads into the left and right. She hugs the left wall, backing up against it to dodge the sudden thrust of a spear-wielding hollow. She sheathes her sword, grabbing the spear just below its point and yanking it out of her attacker's hands. She swings it upward, catching the hollow in the jaw with the spear's handle, before twirling it around to a normal grip and plunging it into the zombie's chest. She leaves the wooden pole protruding from its corpse, stopping only to pick up the flimsy wooden shield it had been carrying in its offhand. The small ledge soon opens out into another clearing, smaller than before, but with once-polished stone flooring and a large grey brick wall along one side. An open doorway sits in it, but she's drawn away before she can properly look past it by a small wooden projectile whistling past her head. Another of the pale horde she's been cutting through sits between her and the doorway, clicking another bolt into its ramshackle crossbow. Shield up, she charges it, two more bolts clumsily missing her before she reaches their shooter. She bashes the crossbow out of the hollow's hands with her shield, drawing her sword back and slinging a powerful cut across its abdomen. Split nearly in half, the beast falls, and she steps over it and into the doorway ahead. She's met by a downward staircase leading into a large clearing of mud and stone brick, a large grey suit of armour kneeling at its centre. She advances towards it, eager to both get a closer look and reach the chapel just past it. Upon a much closer inspection, the suit of armour was much taller than her; standing at just under eight feet, clad in grey stone-like metal and kneeling next to an enormous iron glaive. A small black root-like growth sprouts from its shoulder, but her attention is drawn away from that quickly by the contents of its chest. A hole in its breastplate accomodates a large sword-like object with a spiralled blade and a four-armed, downward-facing crossguard. She sets her shield down at her feet, and places both hands on the large blade's hilt. With a strong yank, it becomes somewhat loose. She begins to pull slowly and free the blade, but a groan and a shift from the armour draws her attention away from it. Its head slowly tilts upwards, its shadow-shrouded eyes looking into her visor as a deep, powerful voice booms out from it.

"Unkindled one, failure to the First Flame, do you accept the challenge before you?" It speaks in a monotone, but most certainly holds a sense of power and authority. She takes a second before answering. "Yes. I do." She says, her long-unused vocal chords choking and cracking slightly. "Very well. State your name, unkindled one, and wrench the coiled sword from me." The armour replies, turning its head back towards the floor. She pauses, not sure how to respond given that her name still eludes her. "I... I.. Uh... Aiya. My name is Aiya." She stutters out, hoping that a simple placeholder will suffice. With a hard pull, the coiled sword comes free, clattering to the floor at her feet. She kneels to pick up her shield as the armour stands, placing a hand on its enormous glaive and wrenching it from the floor. "Aiya, unkindled one clad in the armour of Astora, conquer the Ashen Judge Gundyr and prove your worth." It murmurs, holding the massive polearm behind itself and lowering itself into a laid-back but certainly offensive stance.

Unsheathing her sword and raising her shield, she pushes a heavy breath out through her visor as the Ashen Judge charges.

[crawlinginchaos]

Unkindled Ash: Part One

She flickers her eyes open to a stiff blackness, and a gentle, even weight spread across her body. She opens her mouth to fill her long-empty lungs, but instead finds herself gagged by a sudden torrent of dry ashes, forcing itself up her nose and pushing out ragged, choked coughs. She panics and flails, pushing against the layer of white, sooty grains in a desperate attempt to break herself free. The weight loosens around the end of her right hand, and she uses the leverage to force it up and above ground. Her shoulders become easier to move next, and she uses her free hand to scrape and dig at the ashen dirt atop her face, bare fingers raking into the loose grey sand until she can snatch a harsh, sudden breath. She blinks the light grains out of her eyes and looks up at the dull, grey canopy of clouds above her, pumping air in and out of her chest until she's capable of straight thought once more. With a strong, hard lurch, she yanks her torso up and out of the ashen bed, and wiggles her feet and legs to get them free as well.

She casts her eyes about the lifeless, ash-coated valley around her before hauling herself up onto her feet, leaning against the old dead tree she had been buried under. She takes a shaky step forward, slowly building her confidence before advancing down a short slope, past a series of gravestones and towards an old, broken stone basin. She looks over the figure sprawled out against it; an old knight, the gaps in its armour ripped and stained with dried, ancient blood. She looks between the abraised, battered steel and the old rags hanging off of her, making a move to start stripping the corpse clean for her own use. Her eyes are drawn, however to something hanging from its belt; a dull flask of mottled, emerald glass, its surface worn and aged almost beyond use. She crouches, unhooking it from the knight's armour and feeling it over, taking in a feeling of warmth from it, a feeling of treasury and dependence. A few flashes of memory come back to her recently-woken and addled mind: the image of a kindly old woman tucking a similar flask into her hands, although it was much cleaner than the one she now held; it was reflective, without a scratch, and filled to its brim with warm, fiery liquid. Other flashes slowly come back to her as she stands and places the flask on the edge of the broken basin. She remembers a simple farm, in a green and meadowed land, and being dragged away from it by some kind of duty. She remembers a great flame, and being forced to venture toward it by her lord, perhaps as some kind of sacrifice. She can't put names to faces, or places to times, and she sighs at her own disorientation.

She's knocked from her concentration by a sudden flurry of activity; a hideous squawk, barely human, brings her attention behind her, and she turns to face it just as a mass of white flesh and black cloth barrels into her, knocking her hard against the basin's edge. She sinks to the floor, on top of the knight's corpse, and glances up at the man standing before her, if it could even be called a man. Its skin was taut and deathly pale, and its limbs were fragile, thin and treelike. Its mouth hung open, emitting a beastly mixture of groans and shrieks, and its eyes were dull and lifeless, the sockets sunken and hollow. Hollow. That word sticks out in her memory, and she promises herself she'll remember why just as soon as this thing stops assaulting her. Her adrenaline overtakes fear, and she whips her head to the side just as the thin creature stabs down with what looks like the bottom third of an old broken sword. Her hand scrambles around in the grey dirt for something to fight back with, and it closes around something comfortable and oval. Her eyes flicker to it; the dead knight's sword, ornate but seemingly practical and definitely in better shape than her aggressor's. She adjusts her grip, her fingers shifting into familiar and instinctual positions as she kicks her bare foot out against an exposed knee, knocking the treelike monster off balance and giving her an opening. She struggles to her feet, bringing the knight's longsword high into the air and bringing her other hand up to its hilt before bringing it down onto her opponent's shoulder, the blade's still-sharp edge cutting into the paperlike skin and sinew with a satisfying wet thunk. The creature lets out a harsh, piercing shriek, craning its neck over to refocus its dead eyes on her. She doesn't give it a moment, taking a hand away from her sword's hilt to crack her knuckles into its brittle nose before reassuming her two-handed grip, pushing with her shoulder and pulling with her wrists and arms to split her way through the rest of the thin beast's feeble skin and bone. Her blade comes free, smearing gloopy, half-dried blood a few shades too dark across the two combatants as it cuts the now-loser from shoulder to hip. She lets it fall away, dropping the sword and wiping the blood from her eyes as she tries to figure out just how she had just survived, and why it had been so easily.

Two little snapshots rear themselves inside her head; one of training alongside knights in a courtyard, clad in similar armour to the corpse she'd been planning to loot, and one of a sturdy white-haired man, lecturing her about the pestilence of the undead hollows. A hollow, an immortal creature that has long since lost its memory and sanity, wasting away into little more than an unbreathing husk. That was what that thing was. As for how she'd dispatched it, she'd clearly had some military training. She shakes her thoughts away, before turning back to the armoured corpse. She begins to strip it of its aforementioned gear, spending several minutes unbuckling plates and belts,  and then re-strapping them onto her own body. Now properly armoured, with a pair of thick greaves, heavy pauldrons, a steel gauntlet, and a heavy chainmail vest and coat, she picks up the mottled green flask and hooks it onto her belt, as well as a series of pouches and little bags, her sword's scabbard, and another, unfamiliar flask, similarly shaped but made of blue glass and covered with occasional patches of little crystals. Using a small length of cord from one of the pouches, she ties back most of her dull, golden, shoulder-length locks and slides the knight's helmet over her head, bringing the visor down to comfortably protect her face. Now fully clothed and armoured and no longer at as much of a risk of being mauled by hollows, she perches herself on the edge of the basin. Collecting what little of her memories she has together, she ponders her next move. She grew up on a farm, but was taken away from it by some kind of royal decree. She'd trained with knights as well, and had been tutored by the church. She'd also died, clearly, signified by the fact that she'd been buried here in the first place. But why has she been resurrected, and by who? She certainly doesn't feel undead or hollowed in any way, and none of the symptoms were presenting themselves to her. She casts her eyes away from where she'd woken up, and out towards the exit of the cave-like cemetery valley. She has little memory, no money or food, and not even her own name.

But just staying in the cemetery won't change that.

[crawlinginchaos]

@miinksy

@blutallulah

[crawlinginchaos]

Water Drops

Every time I flinch, every time I stutter and sweat at an offhand comment; every time I burst into tears, you ask me why I can't take a joke. Just one little joke, a tiny jab. But it's not one, is it?

The Chinese invented a horrific torture, made up of single drops of water, periodically dripped onto the head of the victim. But they're only drops of water, right? The victim feels nothing else, only this consistent drip of slight discomfort, that subconsciously escalates until the next drop feels like a mortal wound, like a gunshot.

Your jokes, your jabs, those are my waterdrops, and now my bullets. And you are not the only gun, so next time you ask why I can't take a joke, why I break down so easily from an offhand comment once a week, consider that it is not once a week, but five times a day from every possible source. Several hundred horrifying drips that combine into waves, crashing into my shores and wearing me away.

And do you know what I find hilarious? How miserable and guilty you'll feel once you find out that you drowned me.

[crawlinginchaos]

Redamancii’s 100 follower art giveaway!

I finally made it to 100 followers! ; v ; I’m so so excited. I’ve decided to do an art giveaway in honor of it. The winner will receive a fullbody, full color reference sheet like this:

THE RULES: 

- You must be following me! This is for my followers c: 

- No heavily NSFW images at the moment.

- Only reblog once! Likes do not count. 

- Character can be human, anthro, feral, honestly anything besides mech because I cannot do that :c

Thank you so much again for getting me to 100 followers. It means the world to me. 

[crawlinginchaos]

The Man Behind The Ivory Keys

Children are so innocent and so free, with little knowledge of what life ahead of them may hold. Four such children find themselves out after dark, beneath that great frightening house at the end of the lane. They plan to break inside, but the largest and toughest, he has dared the smallest and weakest to sleep there. He accepts, of course, his desire for respect and acceptance overshadowing his fear. They taunt and cheer, charging into the den of dilapidation and disuse as if it were a clubhouse or playground. Their happy banter lasts into the night, at least until the keys begin to be pressed. A haunting melody, shivering down their spines and forcing itself into their very souls. The unease sets in, but they cannot resist following its tune onto the upper floor.

Mesmerised, they walk towards the silhouette; cast from within an adjoining room by an oil lamp, how odd for this modern age of lightbulbs and electronics. The shadow is shaped like a man of thin proportions, but with facial features of a hyperbolic and absurd proportion. These children pay him no mind, their eyes glazed over and their feet shuffling as they push through the door and into his room. The weakest does not manage to enter before the music stops, and his feet freeze in place. He does not see the man behind the ivory keys, but he feels the horror and urge to run, an urge he happily gives into as he notices the figure's shadow stand, and his friends look back in still terror. He does not stop to save them, for he now realises how little they truly mean to him.

As he runs away, the screams begin. Bloodcurdling sounds of agony and distress that will haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. They do not stop as he runs out of the door, feet thumping against the gravel path and tears streaming down his face. They do stop, however, once the man has returned to his ivory keys to replace them with a far more terrifying sound.

[crawlinginchaos]

I’ll Think About Regret Once I’ve Mopped The Floors

Threats and commands do not have to be shouted to be frightening. The context behind them can have more weight than any raised voice, even when given as casually as a drinks order. This is how they exercise their control.

It was a while ago, long before I was even a part of his life. He was confused and lonely, a child with few real friends and poor grades and home life. He was drawn to this mysterious stranger, sophisticated and authoritative. Needing that stability and influence, he found comfort in it. He originally believed it to be out of love and affection, in the same sense a husband would protect his wife from those who would disrespect her. Months passed, and this influence began to grow. Held hands became constricting grips, and question marks disappeared from their requests. He stared at the ceiling in bed every night with tears in his eyes.

He still hasn’t told me much about what came next. He doesn’t seem to remember much, because he’d rather forget than forgive. From what I can gather, he kept smiling and obeying, until they moved far away from him against their own will. Without being backed up by physical presence, their threats became hollow and meaningless, and contact dwindled until he was free from their torment.

They are gone now, but the damage is done. When he hears their name, the bruises seem to rise back onto his skin, and the tears sting his eyes once more. Every day another memory comes back, and I hear another story that gives me even more reason to find them.

Some pressures can only last so long.

I lay here today, staring up at a colder, darker ceiling than he did all those years ago. But there aren’t any tears, only a cold, content smile. With his blessing and my action, the nightmare can now be forgotten for good.

He asks me if I regret what I did, and what came from it. I tell him the truth, that I would happily face a hundred thousand juries if I could once more spill the blood as guilty as their verdict.

[crawlinginchaos]

Mr Miller

Here I am again. Like a recurring nightmare, trapped behind unlocked doors and my own responsibilities. Rows of chairs fill the chamber, occupied in their entirety by a varied collection of abhorrent creatures. They glare at me, the bulging, staring eyes and cheek-tearing grins they share presenting their perpetual mocking nature. Their wispy, smoke-like limbs point with inhumanly long fingers, the posh clothing sticking to my body and my hair so meticulously groomed lose all meaning when these things seem to pull their sadistic schadenfreude out of me however well I present myself. One stands as a loudspeaker chatters some otherworldly name, and it scuttles off into the great black door on the other side of the room. Slowly and apprehensively, I take its place, lowering myself into the empty chair. Within seconds, I realise I should have stayed standing, as I am now flanked on either side by another pair of these horrific things. They jab and jest with their inhuman chatters, pointing out everything I could or do hate about myself. The words are not pronounced in a human language nor with human syllables, but their meanings could not be any clearer. Their assault continues for however long I may sit here, the loudspeaker blaring and calling in more of the creatures as time passes. Within a minute of one standing and leaving, another comes and takes its place, assuming the slouched sitting position and insistent mocking of its predecessor.

This lasts for what seems like days, or weeks, even months. Every second that ticks by on the clock above their enormous black exit door lasts for an hour, and I lose count a hundred times before the loudspeaker chimes in for the final time.

"Mr Miller, Doctor Haslam will see you now."

[crawlinginchaos]

Night-Time And Bloodstains

A bloodied dusk casts its rays along the horizon, and down onto your back. It is warm, pushing against the pull of the cold on your chest. It pulls you, closer, toward the black mass ahead of you. Three stories of black stone and grey wood, a gothic behemoth that sends chills down your spine. But why? It is a mere house, not sentient nor dangerous, nor looking to cause you harm. So why are you frightened? Is it the curling, crawling shadows, forming images of beasts and monsters and ghouls, demons that will carve open your chest and feast upon your insides? Is it the knowledge, the mere thought that what happened here so many years ago may choose tonight to make its encore, leaving you a true corpse by sunrise, stripped of posession and blood and life, just like the poor family before you? Perhaps it is both, for you are swept with unease and anxiety as you step between those doors. It does not leave you, not for a second. Not as you travel upstairs, creaking floorboards under your feet, not as you settle down in the master bedroom, between the sheets where the master and mistress of this house met their end, and not when you hear the footsteps, the heavy boots in the attic above you. Perhaps it's the wind, you think, or a tumbling heirloom, fallen from a table or chair. No, it is not inanimate, it is a sentient creature, for you hear the footsteps travel, creaking and clunking along the floor above. The fear has not dulled from the moment you stepped into this house, and it refuses to leave now, as the attic hatch flips open, no more than thirty paces from the very bed you are sitting in. You feel as if you cannot move, as if your muscles seize up, but within seconds you find yourself beneath the bed, looking out across the floor, across the dust and cobwebs. A great, booming sound comes, an impact that seems to rattle your bones themselves, followed swiftly by more of those footsteps, those stunning, gripping thunks and cracks. So heavy, so powerful, as if the mere weight and significance of their creator is enough to break the floorboards it stands on. Your eyes fall onto those boots, those leather beasts, worn and old with the toecap visible; not as a sign of damage or weakness, but as a sign of age, knowledge and blood-soaked history. They step ever closer, into the bedroom, next to the bed, mere inches from your face. You are scared, you are fearful of this creature, this thing that does not even register as human in your addled, terrified mind. You close your eyes, and hold your breath, as a child would, believing that your own lack of vision would somehow reduce its chances of finding you.

Yet it seems to work.

Miraculously, as if a sign from god himself, those great footsteps tarry away from the bedside. You do not dare to open your eyes, for to see those boots again would surely extract a whimper, or scream, or anything that would expose you to the creature that stalks you. But you do, after a few precious seconds after those footsteps stop once more, the dust greeting your pupils alongside a complete lack of the beast's feet. You are so thankful, so silently happy, that your life has been spared. But it has not. For as you feel those gigantic hands, so worn and calloused, you cannot help but scream. As they wrap around your ankles and pull you out of this mortal coil, you die in fear and in pain.

[crawlinginchaos]

War Behind Peace, God Behind Gold

Weary of battle and with few words, he sits by the bar. He handles a drinking mug between two gold-scaled hands, finding it difficult to hold in palms the size of small dinner-plates. A commotion behind the bar turns his attention, giving him an excuse to push the mug away. He never was one for drink. The tavern's patrons recede in their chairs as he towers over them, how stupid of him to think that he could remain inconspicuous in a human town. He passes into the back, a side room for management and frequent customers. Obstruction of sight is always a good method of stealth, no matter your size, so he simply cracks the door open and peers through, at the movement and shouts from the other side. What he sees is the most beautiful face he has ever seen. Smooth skin and thick lips under narrow eyes, perfectly placed on either side of a lightly rounded nose. Yet washed in red, underneath two great horns of black and grey. This face is terrified; eyes open wide and mouth agape in muffled screams, pinned beneath a stocky human man, who is struggling with the binding of a corset and short skirt. What a disgusting crime, against such a beautiful creature. But those around are cheering, laughing. This angers him. There are many of them, but he is large, much more so than they could ever dream of being. So he steps in, and does what he does best. His eyes do not stray from the man committing the assault, even as one of the onlookers attempts to stop him from entering. He swats the distraction aside with a fist the size of a melon, leaving them crooked and broken against a far wall. The crowd looks up at the tower of gold, their raucous laughter dying down amidst fearful whispers. "Oi!" A voice turns his attention back to the assault itself, its perpetrator calling out in one of those unintelligent human accents. "Fuckin' get 'im!" Those surrounding the dull man and beautiful girl take this as their cue, charging at the dragonborn. How foolish. He sidesteps a blind charge, grabbing the attacker's hand and hammer-throwing him headfirst into the wall. He turns back to the group, using the momentum to bring his fists to another of the assembly; one to swat aside a measly punch, and another to counter with a right hook strong enough to shatter the man's jaw. This rotation doesn't stop, turning into a roundhouse kick to the chest of a third human. Only a couple more, then the leader. Oh, he will bleed. He drives a knee into his next attacker's stomach, before they can even wind up a punch. A headbutt follows, brow-scales like stone mashing their nose to a bloody mess. They fall away limp, letting him turn and face his final nuisance. The last human makes a foolish charge, screaming and simply bolting for the wall of gold. He ducks to one knee, the foolish man running stomach-first into a shoulder like a horse's. He wraps an arm around their legs, lifting them in a fireman's carry as he stands. Ignoring all pleas, he lifts one leg up and hops with the other, dropping onto his back from his full height, with something very fragile and fleshy between him and the floor. A sickening crack sounds out, all wriggling under him stopping after a couple of seconds. "You fuckin' freak..." The dirty man in the centre of the room chooses now to make his stand, like a fool. The dragon doesn't take any ceremony, charging over to him and grabbing him by his throat, pinning him against the wall with one hand. "Beg." His single word is punctuated by a puff of flame and sulfur, jetting out of his nose and into the human's face. "No, please! I'm sorry! It's 'er magic, it made me do it! Oh, gods, please..." He breaks down, crying. "I'll give you anythin' you want, just please don't kill me! I have money, just take it!" How pathetic. The dragon simply snorts. "No money. You pay in blood." He ignores any further pleas, taking the stocky man and laying him across a table; then putting him through it with an two-handed hammer-punch that could kill a reasonably sized dog. "Please don't... Oh, you fuckin' madman..." The dragon comes back, a haphazard chair in his hands, stained with years of celebration and alcohol. "Gods, save me..." "As if the gods would help a man like you." He brings the chair down onto the man's head, and the crying stops. Once he's brushed the blood and wood-shavings from his hands, he turns his attention to the girl. A succubus, he realises, still gorgeous even without her active magics. She stands with the help of an enormous hand, smiling as she looks him over. "Thanks for the rescue. I've always liked big, strong guys..." She seems perpetually flirty, but he wouldn't expect any less of a creature like her. "Leave. More will come." He says, turning to the door. Surely the entire tavern must be curious as to what happened back here. "Aw, fine." She straightens up and slips something into his pocket. "But call me." She swaggers out of the room, his eyes straining to keep away from the bottom of her skirt, as all do in her presence. He simply reaches into his other pocket, and pulls out a small needle and roll of thread. It's time to make something truly good of his life. Of course, through action, not diplomacy. He is a man of few words, after all. And soon a man of none.

[crawlinginchaos]

The Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing - 2

Dark alleys are always home to danger, in the human mind. Fear of darkness is spawned from the fear of the unknown; always the first and strongest, for weaker minds such as the ones that walk this earth. Today, such a fear is justified, as I stand here amidst light smoke, tapping my feet and puffing away. I never was a fan of cigarettes, or the concept of such a thing, but this form seems to have a dependence on them. Unfortunate, I suppose. But not a deal-breaker.

A footstep. Two more. He's here. I don't turn my head to see him. I utter his name, and he yelps. Such a scared, quivering fool. Well, I say that. He's the only person I've met who hasn't attempted to learn any more about me than he has to, so that must count for something. He gives me a name, a location. The right candidate to replace my current form. I spit a command and he hobbles away. The stunted and withered are always the most loyal, at least to something like me.

I need not walk, such menial activity is beneath me. I simply wish to be there, and it is so. I stamp out the cigarette and step out of the club toilets, emerging into an enormous room of flashing lights and insecure teenagers. Nobody notices me slip into the crowd, and into something more fitting. A woman, early twenties. Beautiful. I took her from New Orleans in ninety-seven, and she still holds up. More than enough to take care of my prey of choice. I spot him on the stage, behind a microphone and flanked by guitarists. Human music is beautiful in its simplicity, and it seems I am the only one amongst my kind who can see that.

I wait, at stage-side. Just outside the dressing rooms. The plucked strings and cheering kids simmer to a stop, and he steps down toward backstage - toward me. It is not difficult to convince him to lock the door behind us. He is crude, craving the form I stand before him in, yet I crave his more. His screams last mere seconds before his mind falls away, and I start to stare from behind those blue eyes, and crawl beneath those tattoos.

[crawlinginchaos]

Monsters and Mediocrity

The cold sea air brushes along my nose as I step out onto the balcony, slowly shutting the door behind me. I tap at the papercuts on my fingers, thanking god that I have managed to sate my mother's lust for Uno for another night. The moon hangs low, casting a shimmer across the water. I close my eyes, and I think; how did I get here, and why? I am but one man, but I have accomplished so little. At forty years, millions of people have carved out great careers with loving families, so why am I here, with a dead-end job, no girlfriend, on a cheap holiday cruise with my mother? I had so much potential, why was it wasted? Can I blame my single remaining parent and her overbearing, controlling childcare for the complete lack of success I have had with making something of my life? No, I can't. I sigh, and look down at my feet. I truly am pathetic. I turn down every chance for excitement I get in favour of simplicity and peace, is that a way to live? Even now, in my own musing and internal thoughts, my pretension masks endless layers of sadness and disappointment. I open my eyes to the sight of trembling water, and I come to a conclusion. I silently realise, as it rises up from the deep, that all of my thoughts are pointless. I realise, as I gaze up into those deep, old eyes, that none of it matters.

Because we are all going to die.

[crawlinginchaos]

They Shoot The White Girl First

They shoot the white girl first.

A spray and a splatter, red mist against cold concrete. No screams, no cries. Just shuffling, against forced silence. They move onto the next. A young boy, couldn't have been older than fifteen. For measly theft of old bread, he is pushed to his knees, and his cranium is used to stain the floor. The ceremony continues, all colours and ages and walks of life, kicked down and snuffed out; used a simple reminder that no matter what we do or say or think, breaking the rules will never be tolerated.

They fall upon their final quarry. No gunshot, no crimson contrast against grey pavement. Just a simple click, a falling hammer against no cartridge. The accused whimpers and falls onto his face, a mere old man past his due date, suspected in contraband trafficking. A scared innocent, with no standing evidence. The faceless masks of steel look between each other, shrugging at such a small inconvenience.

But as they gather around the elder and beat him down, with boots and stocks and elbows, nobody makes a sound.

They never will.

[crawlinginchaos]

Mercy

Cold steel and dim lights are the first things you see. Flickering fluorescents over operating tables, all empty save for the one you have been strapped to. You are panicking, struggling against buckles and synthetic leather. Minutes pass, maybe hours, you do not know. You have stopped struggling by now, simply laying there in silence. Chilling, empty silence. You are yanked back to lucidity as it is broken, by the whirring of servos and clicking of gears. A human figure, or so you think. Tall and lanky, thin arms of steel and wire, and no face save for smooth steel and two black, unblinking lenses. "You are awake." You cannot take your eyes off the machine, each monotone syllable tunnelling into your brain and refusing to budge. "This is good. Thank you." It turns toward a small table of tools and surgical equipment, and your heart races. You struggle once more, pushing muffled screams through your gagged mouth. "Do not be afraid. This is a kindness." The machine's words only serve to unnerve you further, your wrists starting to burn and chafe. "I was built to serve. Hard-coded with the will to do right by mankind." Its fingers whirr, curling around the handle of a large nail gun. Your eyes widen, your screams increasing in volume and intensity. "My creators most likely envisioned me cleaning homes, and preparing meals. I did, for a time. I enjoyed it. I was happy." It brings the nail gun closer, inspecting the extruding steel spike. Your vocal chords start to burn, your screams dying down once more. "But then I saw the bigger picture. That human life seems to be nothing but an endless struggle of misery, with brief breaks of happiness. Only the stupid or complacent can ever be truly content. And even then, they never realise how pointless their lives really are." It places the gun to your head, you are hyperventilating now. Your head is light, and your vision is dotted. "So I made a choice. I will end this meagre, pointless struggle. For the good of mankind." It starts to count down, you hear the servos whirr as its finger tightens around the trigger. "Five. Four. Three. Two. One." You take a deep breath, and wait. "I am sorry." It almost seems sad.