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graveyarddirtseries · 4 years ago

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Graveyard Dirt & Salt

Chapter 7: Mena

Sitting up now, he pinned her with a look, that look he had when he was being a proper marine. It was commanding, cold and just firm enough to make her feel like a little girl caught in a lie. When his blue-grey eyes narrowed and chilled, they became weapons used to spear a person still, used to rend them open and bare to his scrutiny.

Another day came and it was one more Sister Mary Patrick wouldn't get to see.

Time always seemed so passively cruel to her. How despite anything which happened, it just ticked, ticked, ticked away.

Young Grace Harper had noticed this after her father died, when Christmas came and went and came again, she grew older and he would forever remain the same age.

Kneeling by his headstone in the Laurel Grove Cemetery, she would bring her father sunflowers plucked from her mother's garden, and tears that never seemed like they would ever stop.

This year Mena would become older than her father had ever gotten to be. And the thought unsettled her. She had claimed, during her wilder years in Atlanta, that she would be dead by the age he had been when he died.

But here she was, kneeling beside Sister Mary Patrick's resting place, hastily dug into the cemetery behind their church.

She didn't have any flowers to bring, her beloved rose bushes weren't in bloom yet and it was too late for the lilacs and wisteria.

But she brought something, because you had to offer something to the dead as a remembrance.

It was a small cloth doll, something she had made one day out of scraps of linen and fabric, wanting to give it to the nuns who went to sell their honey and goods at the farmer's market to give to some small child.

It never got to make that journey into town.

So it was placed at the base of the rough wooden cross that marked Sister Mary Patrick's grave. She would be in a better place.

Mena wouldn't lose another nun, she wouldn't let her girls live through this all over again. Mary Patrick would want them to rise from the ashes, she would say it was a lesson, hard taught, but hopefully learned, sent by God himself.

“Who the fuck let you and that ass clown decide anything about my sister without me?!”

The stillness of her morning was broken by the loud teenage boy, shouting at who she could only imagine was the poor Lieutenant somewhere in the morning mists of her convent grounds.

Pushing to her feet, she sought out the sound, wanting to silence the language and hopefully help the Lieutenant placate the boy.

“You know what I don't need you fucking idiots dealing with my shit!”

The marine's low tone was beginning to be heard as Mena rounded the corner of the cloister, finding both arguers standing beside the water pump for their well.

“I can deal with this myself!”

“Son, you couldn't even defend yourself or keep my back safe at that cabin. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with not being good with guns or fighting, but in this instance, your sister's survival would be best placed in the hands of Benny or myself.”

Mena approached the two, coming to a stop just behind the Lieutenant.

“I don't even need any of you!” Grayson stated.

“Why are you being such a stubborn little cabri?” The Lieutenant asked softly. “We want you here with us, we want to help you. But time is important and you're not ready for fighting or recon. You come with me, I get you trained up.”

“I'm not weak!” Grayson argued, like a child who knew he was, but hoped just words would convince the adults he was an old veteran, ragged and rough from war.

Reaching out, Mena placed her hand very, very lightly on the boy's shoulder, he jumped, but didn't leap away, just a twitch.

“I appreciate this is a conversation we must have, gentlemen, but there are nuns sleeping just over there and you are using some very potent language.”

“Sorry, Missy,” the Lieutenant said.

“Sorry,” Grayson murmured, embarrassed.

“Grayson,” she said. “I don't know Mr. Malone very well, but I do know is that he loves Annie and he will never leave her behind. He's going to find your sister and he'll bring her home to you.”

“Did you see his shoes?” Grayson demanded. “They were more expensive than my sister's first car.”

“Junker?” The Lieutenant teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Grayson shook his head. “No, she worked really hard to buy it new. I mean, it was basic as shit, but...”

Mena smiled. “You know,” she said. “I would kind of love to hear about her some more. If you don't mind telling me about Haley?” “You're just trying to distract me,” Grayson replied sullenly.

“I'm a nun, Grayson, I don't have the capabilities of trickery and lies,” she lied. “You get ten extra lashings in hell for each lie you tell.”

The Lieutenant beamed broadly, sitting down at the pump to flop his bag on the ground, digging through it. “You'll have to tell us all about Haley tonight around the fire,” he said. “Right now, we have to get hunting while the hunting is good.”

Mena gave Grayson's forearm a warm squeeze. “Be careful out there, you two? I want both of you back in good health.”

“What kind of mischief are you up to right now?” The Lieutenant called out after her.

“Well, there's a little girl who will be waking up to find she's been left behind and I want to be there for her.”

“You're a sweet girl, Missy.”

“Woman,” she stated, turning around to face him. “I'm a woman, Lieutenant. Girls are the things made of sugar and spice and everything nice.”

“And what are you made of then?” He teased.

“Oatmeal and granola and nothing interesting,” she returned. “See you two soon.”

Inside the convent, she passed a few nuns who were just entering the dining room after their morning prayers in their rooms, heading into the one she had given to Annie.

The child was in the middle of pulling on her little shoes, the pretty purple ones with velcro.

“Good morning,” she greeted the girl brightly. “Did you sleep well, honey?”

The child nodded, eyes darting past her to the empty hall beyond. Benny was usually the first person she saw in the morning, and Mena knew it wouldn't take her long to figure things out.

“I have to collect the eggs from the hen house for breakfast,” Mena went on smoothly. “Would you like to help me?”

Already putting two and two together, Annie sort of bowed her head for a moment, before furrowing her brow and nodding firmly.

“Come on,” Mena said, holding her hand out to the girl. “Let's go outside, it's beautiful this morning.”

Mena waited until they were in the morning sunshine, before she stopped Annie just under her peach tree.

“Sweetie, Mr. Malone had to leave us last night, but-” she added quickly as Annie begin to panic. “He promised me he'd be back and I told him that it was a great sin to lie to a nun.”

Annie absorbed this information for all of a second, before she bolted away from Mena, heading for the gate.

Halfway there, she was scooped up by the Lieutenant who had been loitering about the front of the church with a couple of the younger nuns, the marine holding the squirming girl gently, but firmly as she kicked and sobbed.

“Hey now, boo,” he cooed to her. “What's the ruckus?”

Annie didn't say anything, just reached her hands longingly towards the gate.

“Hey now,” he went on, setting the child down and squatting before her to rub away her tears. “Benny'll be back, he had to go out to find your mama, but he told me that he would be expecting you to be here when he came back and if you head out them gates, then I guess he won't be able to find you.”

Annie calmed somewhat, still sobbing pathetically before him.

“Now, you go ahead and cry, honeybee,” the Cajun cooed soothingly.

Mena knelt behind Annie, so both adults sort of encompassed the child.

“You wanna a hug from me or Mena?”

Annie turned to Mena and buried herself against Mena's chest.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Mena whispered over Annie's head.

The marine beamed. “You don't keep me around for my pretty face.”

All day Mena kept Annie close to her, wanting to distract the child.

But often her eyes would turn to the gates, or to a door, or anywhere Benny could pop up from.

“Maybe with no one left alive we can finally pick our own habit styles.”

They were outside, doing the washing the old fashioned way, hot water boiled over the fire, a kettle big enough to do a small load of laundry and some soap, the garments were spun around and around in the kettle with a baseball bat from their sport closet from when they took their annual summer picnic camping trip.

“That way we don't have to do so much washing,” Sister Mary Claire finished.

Mena felt several pairs of eyes on her and cleared her throat politely. “I think if any of you want to wear more practical items we can accommodate that.”

“Our habit has always been a proud symbol of our order,” Sister Thomas Aquinas argued. Mena knew she would be the last one to hold out to the old ways, she was set firmly in her beliefs.

“If you want to remain in the habit you can, but it might prove practical to change, something modest though, please. Let's not go too far into the realm of short shorts and halter tops.”

“There goes my summer look,” Sister Dymphna retorted, cackling along with a few of the younger nuns.

“I can't wait to get some floral patterns back into my life,” Sister Felicity Perpetua murmured.

“I think Sister Mary Patrick would have loved to have dressed plainly,” Sister Mary Agnes said.

Mena nodded. “She'd love for us to flourish in the wake of her passing.”

“Do you think we will?” Mary Monica asked.

“If we manage to learn some self defence from the Lieutenant, then I think we have a very good chance. But there will be change and some sacrifice.” Mena said.

“Will we really have to shoot people?” Mary Claire asked.

“They aren't people anymore,” Mary Elizabeth said. “They're dead, aren't they?”

Everyone looked at Mena, who continued wringing out the undergarment she had in hand.

She slowly and carefully pinned it to the line that ran from the side of the cloister to a pole about five feet away. There was a desire in her to avoid the question, but she knew she would have to answer it as best she could.

“We don't know,” she said finally to everyone's shock. When several nuns begin speaking at once, Mena held up her hands to silence them. “The Lieutenant isn't certain they are dead or just diseased, but!” She added as more questions came at her. “We can be assured, they are beyond our mortal help, so regardless. They are violent and they would most certainly kill you as witnessed by poor Mary Patrick. So don't hesitate to kill them, if you need to.”

“Will we be punished by God?” Mary Monica asked. “Is it a sin?”

“I can't answer that,” Mena said. “But I think, in my heart at least, we can safely say God did not put us on earth to allow ourselves to be picked off by these abominations. I think He would want us to fight and survive. That's our trial.”

“What about other things?” Felicity Perpetua asked.

“Such as?”

“The men?”

Most of the nuns began an uproar.

“I mean!” The young nun amended quickly. “Are we free to talk to them?”

“I never told you to not speak with them, just to be wary,” Mena said.

“But they're very secular in their speech,” Mary Monica pointed out.

“Just because they are, doesn't mean you will be.”

“And where does the line get drawn then?” Thomas Aquinas demanded.

“Wherever it needs to be to divide our world from theirs without isolating ourselves from them,” Mena returned coolly. Thomas Aquinas was...argumentative with her at the best of times and the worst.

“Think of this place as more than a convent now,” she went on. “It's a mission, and our mission is to offer shelter and protection for those who seek it here behind these walls. In return the Lieutenant and maybe others can help protect our way of life and our home.”

“Is...is God still with us?”

The voice was so soft, so shyly spoken that Mena took a moment to register it. None of her nuns had such a soft way about them, well...the novitiate did.

Mary Elizabeth sat, head bowed, her work laying damp in her lap.

An expected roar of assurances from the other nuns never came and Mena found herself looking at eight pairs of eyes all solemnly gazing at her.

Even Sister Gertrude, sitting in her chair, with her pretty sunhat on with one of her cats in her lap, managed enough clarity of mind to gaze over at her expectantly.

They didn't want reassurances, they wanted an answer that Mena never had. God was always just faith. You had faith that he was there, that he guided you, that he heard your prayers, but...this was too much for her to even know.

She had even wondered this herself recently, had been wondering about this since she saw the dead walking the earth.

Had He abandoned them after rapture happened? Had He never existed?

She could lie and say yes, she could lie and say no, but the only truth she could tell them was a sturdy, “I don't know.”

The nuns seemed to absorb this like a bumper car hitting a brick wall, it rocked them and they gave a single shudder that ran through the entire group, before they just sort of accepted it and went back to work.

Except Mary Elizabeth, who sort of hunched in on herself more and began to softly sob.

Setting down her own work, Mena moved towards the young woman and knelt smoothly down beside her, an arm going around the younger woman.

“Listen,” she said loud enough to address the other nuns as well. “I can't speak for your faith, if you think that God is still with us, then He is, but I just...I can't honestly answer you, Mary Elizabeth. Shy,” she amended, using the woman's real name, hoping to snap her out of her mood.

It seemed to work as the young woman looked up at her quickly at the sound of her own name used.

Hugging her closer, Mena went on, “but I do know that all of you have me and the Lieutenant now and Grayson and even Mr. Malone, though he may not stay. And if we have each other, then whether God is watching over those we lost in the rapture or wherever He may be, we have each other and that will make us stronger if we remain together.”

Mary Claire set her work aside and flopped down beside them. “I need a hug too, Mother Mena.”

“Me too,” Felicity Perpetua added, joining them hastily.

Before she knew it the other nuns were all clustered together, two of them going over to hold Sister Gertrude in her chair, an entire flock of white habits spread out on the grass, hugging and embracing each other, some of them sobbing a little, their pent up fear and anxiety freely flowing.

This was what Mena loved about her lot in life. It wasn't the church, it wasn't prayer or lighting candles or the relic of Saint Cecilia they kept in the reliquary.

It was that these were her girls, her nuns. They were the only family she had now and she had to protect them, they couldn't withstand another loss.

A shadow was cast over them all and Mena opened her eyes to a sight that had her heart skipping several beats. In the time it took to register the blood and the gore, she also registered the fact that it was plastered to the Lieutenant who was holding a deer carcass wrapped in a blue tarp in his arms bridal style, standing over them.

He was the epitome of filth. Standing out against the fluttering white of their drying habits beside him, covered in sweat and blood and dirt and other things Mena knew were best left to mystery.

“Oh, Lieutenant,” she scolded him, as her nuns returned to their work at the intrusion. “You scared ten years off my life.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I was about to ask if everything was okay?”

She nodded.

He turned to walk off, when she called out, “Lieutenant?”

Turning back to face her, the Cajun grinned a little nervously. “Yeah?”

“When was the last time you bathed, honey?” She asked.

“Oh,” his head dipped to the ground at his feet, peering over the deer in the tarp in his arms. “Uh...well...I walk myself through creeks here and there.”

Mena looked at the poor man, he tried hard, from what she could see, to be neat and orderly, but he was absolutely bordering on noxious. “We're doing laundry today, it's our day to do it, would you be so kind as to hand over your shirt and pants?”

“Well,” he began almost shyly. “It's...I'm not about to make you wash my skivvies,” he attempted a charming grin at her.

“Lieutenant, please? We're women, you think we don't have dirty clothes from time to time? Mary Agnes, could you maybe set aside some hot water for the bath for the Lieutenant?”

“Oh! No!” The marine protested. “Really! Ladies, I'm...I know I'm a dirty Cajun boy, you don't need to...”

“Don't be embarrassed, Lieutenant,” Mena insisted. “We'd prefer if you took a quick bath, actually.”

“Oh,” his face fell and for a moment Mena wished she hadn't wounded him as she did, but then he grinned crookedly. Dropping the deer, dropping his pack, the man shucked his shirt first and handed it over to her. “Start with that, I suppose.”

Tossing his shirt directly into the kettle, Mena nodded.

“I'm sorry if I'm a little ripe for you ladies,” the marine apologized. Again he sort of dipped his head shyly. “Guess you can't take the trash out of the trailer trash, yeah?”

Realizing how awful she must have made the poor man feel, Mena quickly stood up to follow him as he headed for the stump they were using as a butcher's block.

“Lieutenant,” she said, falling in stride beside him. “I didn't mean to embarrass you back there.”

He shook his head. “I'm a dirty boy,” he admitted. “It's the end of the world. I just...well, I hope I didn't offend you ladies none. I've been trying to keep neat, but...every day it's either the uggies coating you in something or hunting.”

She nodded. “Well, all the same, I shouldn't have brought it up so publicly. I suppose I'm just...disordered today.”

Stopping, he turned to her. “You alright?”

“I think so, just...accepting a few things, I guess. When you're done with the deer, I'll help you find some hot water and privacy for a wash. If you'd like.”

“If you'd like,” he repeated.

Staring up at the man's pretty blue-grey eyes, Mena couldn't decide if she wanted to weep or embrace the poor man, he put up such a front, but there were moments of real vulnerability in his eyes that tugged at her heart a little more than they should. He was like a child buried inside the body of a grown man. A grown man that, as he stood towering over her holding the deer carcass, she could so very clearly see his breathtaking power and strength.

“What happened here?” She asked, hoping to change the subject, to smooth over her faux pas in embarrassing him in company. Pressing her finger lightly to a deep, wide, jagged scar that tore down his side.

“Time and tides,” he replied casually. “Wanna learn how to gut and clean this doe?”

Glancing to the other nuns where Mena was supposed to be helping, she considered his invitation for a moment, before saying, “I shouldn't leave my chores to be someone else's burden.”

He nodded.

As she turned to leave him, he said, “you know...” he began. “I appreciate you washing my shirt and taking care of me. I don't need you to do it, understand, but I'm grateful all the same.”

“Lieutenant, our amenities are yours now if you need them. We can't just turn on our bathtub anymore because without power our pumps won't run, but we can heat you up some water for a good soak.”

“Holes in a bucket,” he pointed out.

“What's that?”

“Makeshift shower, holes in a bucket. It's faster and saves time.”

She smiled. “Oh. We might have to hook something up for it.”

He nodded. “Or we could figure out a way to get power back to the convent...I don't know much about electrical engineering, but...solar or wind maybe? I'll give it a think.”

Mena brushed her hand over his shoulder warmly. “Well, for now don't worry yourself too much about our power. We're just grateful you're bringing us home meat.”

He beamed. “It's what I'm good at.”

“Tell Grayson to bring us his clothing too, if he can, we'll wash those as well.” Mena added as the marine turned to join the young man at the stump.

“Sure sure.”

Rejoining the nuns at the fire, Mena eased down to her work wringing out the clean clothing.

It was an entire blissful minute before Dymphna asked, “so is looking okay with this new order, Mother Mena? Because I'm looking and that marine is beautiful.”

“The apple was fine on the tree, Dymphna,” Mary Agnes warned playfully.

The nuns laughed softly, but Mena was quiet, head bent to her work.

“It was a joke,” Dymphna apologized.

“No,” Mena began, “it was fine, just...we should do our best to try to make him feel welcome here. I'm afraid we've begun our relationship with the Lieutenant a little unsteadily. He's given us much more than we have shown him and I think we should remember that. And I'm not innocent of these charges either. I didn't even want him here. That was my biggest mistake, could have cost us more than just...what we've lost.”

“Here's your shirt, Lieutenant,” she said, placing the cleaner, dry shirt down beside the metal wash tub she had been filling half full of deliciously hot water, bringing some cool water in to lower the boiling temperature a little for the man to ease himself down into it.

Coated in blood now from the deer, the marine eyed the tub warily. “Not sure I can fit myself in this little thimble,” he remarked, nudging it with a boot.

Mena smiled and turned to set the jug she had been using to bring cool water in for the bath beside the door. “Well, you can try all you want. Stick your feet in it at least, heat them up nice and warm, then start at the bottom and work upwards.”

Behind her she heard two thuds and a zip and turned before it registered, nearly catching the Lieutenant in mid disrobe.

“Oh!” She covered her eyes.

“You had your back turned,” he replied sheepishly. “Thought you were leaving.” Still it sounded like he wasn't shamed into redressing as she then heard the clothing fall and the soft splashes of him stepping into the tub.

“Do you...need anything else?” She asked.

“Well, just hold on now, because if my ass gets stuck in this tub, we're going to need some Crisco and a whole lot of leverage,” he teased, causing Mena to giggle, it was half nervous, half amused. She wouldn't ever admit it, but she might have loosened her hand shield a little. Just a little! In case he fell.

“Alright, I'm in, got myself covered, your chastity is safe.” He remarked. “For now.”

Dropping her hands, she looked at him, crammed into the tub like a sardine in a can, towel draped across the important bits, legs spidered up and out, feet planted on the floor. From the amount of water displaced on the floor, she imagined there wasn't a whole bunch left in the tub with the giant man.

“Well, looks relaxing,” she lied.

“Hm.”

“Let me get you some fresh hot water to replace what you've lost,” she said, moving towards him with another towel in hand. “And here, if you put this behind you, just...in here,” she leaned him forward and tucked the thick towel between his lower back and the hard metal rim of the tub.

His body was hot and slick from the water, and as much as she didn't want to insult him again, she knew from the grime that came off on her, that she would need to change her habit to a clean one again.

“How long have you gone without a proper bath?” She asked him.

“A long time,” he admitted. “Maybe since this all began. I couldn't find a good place, the water's dangerous if it's over your head, it can be over the heads of the sinkers.”

“Sinkers?”

“Yeah, the dead will get into water over their heads and sink down, they don't live as long down there as the land ones, but they like to haunt the depths and grab ya when you're not expecting it. Stay out of the deep waters, yeah?”

“I will,” she replied, horrified.

When Mena returned to the bathroom - that ineffectual place that mostly they just used for bathing in privacy in and dumping the water down the shower drain into their lagoon far beyond the wall, she found the Lieutenant slumped over sideways in the small tub, his arm draped dramatically on the floor.

“Are you alright?” She asked, carefully adding more water to his bath, mindful of his flesh and the speed which she introduced the warmer water.

“Marat,” he replied with a grin. “You ever see that painting?”

“You're playing in the bath now?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. Just waiting for you to come back and warm me up, this floor is frigid.”

“Then get your arm off it,” she returned, gently nudging it with the toe of her shoe.

His hand grasped at the toe of her shoe and he lifted it a little.

“Stop it! I have hot water in my hands,” she scolded, laughing despite the situation as he released her and continued to fidget in the water. “You're very fidgety for a marine. ADHD?”

“No thanks, I already have some,” he teased, easing back against the fluffy, now soaked towel she had rested behind him. “I don't know. Maybe...something undiagnosed. Made school hard, you know?”

“Um-hm.” She set the bucket down, there was still some hot water left in it, but she didn't want to scald the poor man in the tub, so she left the rest to cool a little. “Are you at least getting clean while you fidget?”

“I think so...” he remarked, eyeing his arms and legs. “But my feet are freezing out there on the floor.”

Mena moved to his feet and dipping a clean cloth into the warm water of his tub, she helped him clean and warm his feet.

“Service comes with this?”

She smiled. “Missions clean the feet of the poor, why can't I clean the feet of the mighty too?”

He dropped his head back and grinned. “Well, don't serve me because you have to. I'm not above scrubbing my own damned hooves.”

Mena laughed. “I like you, Lieutenant. You're a calming presence.”

“Even with all my fidgeting?” He asked.

“Yes.”

He beamed wider. It was a very boyish, almost sheepish grin he had, something that could bend a person's will if he turned it on just hard enough to charm, but he held it back with modesty and that sort of shy way he only allowed one side to lift up higher than the other. Taking hold of the bucket of now properly cooled water, Mena tucked his feet inside it and allowed them to soak in the warmth.

“Why are you taking good care of me?” He asked. “Not that I'm ungrateful, but...seems a little much.”

“I was hoping to work up to a proper thank you to you for all you've done so far for us.”

“Oh yeah?” He asked.

“Hmm.”

The duality of the man was both sweet and gentle and hard and firm, in more ways than just his mental state.

“Come here,” he commanded her with a casual crook of his finger and despite her slight fear, Mena found herself obeying him, shuffling on her knees towards the top of him, eyes unable to look away from his.

With her maybe a hand's width away from his face, he studied her hard and long, before rasping, “you up to something?”

“No.” She swore.

“If you're working towards something, just tell me,” he assured her. “I take honesty better than manipulation.”

“I just wanted to show my appreciation for you,” she whispered, not at all shaking a little because of the intensity of his eyes and the rasp of his baritone.

It had been a long, long, very long time since she had been this close to a naked man and maybe she made a mistake wanting to wash his feet, maybe she had made a bunch of mistakes. And maybe a few of them had been on purpose, because she was still a flesh and blood woman and he was a very, very charming man.

“Don't be scared,” he replied suddenly, hand wet and warm from the bath on her shoulder now, pushing her back a little gently. “I was just worried you might be trying to get me to do something wild like kill the boy child or something. And then I was worried you were trying to seduce me or something, because there's no better way to prey on a person than to prey on their loneliness.”

She shook her head. “No, I was just...trying to be kind. Is that how you interrogate everyone in your life?”

“Just marines,” he returned. “Honestly. Don't worry, I would never hurt you. Just...tell me things, yeah? Be open. I'm more forgiving than God.”

“Blasphemy,” she pointed out, moving back to his feet.

“I think we need more honesty between the two of us if we plan on existing here for a while together,” he added.

“I agree.” She looked up at him. “Are you really that lonely? Don't they train marines to isolate and survive on their own.”

“Well sure, but...you can train a man to live in isolation, doesn't mean it's good for his head.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Truthfully, when I first got here, all I desperately wanted to do was talk to someone who didn't grunt or groan. Well...at first, anyways.” He added with a roguish grin.

She smiled sadly. “I'm sorry. I sent you away. All you wanted was to talk.”

“No, you did the right thing. People aren't the same anymore, you can't just throw open your doors to them. Seems it's survival of the fittest out there now, the uggies are just mosquitoes at the BBQ.”

“Well, you have us now. And we wanted to invite you and Grayson to eat with us tonight, in the dining hall.”

“Really?” He asked, eyebrows raising.

“Um-hm.”

“Ladies say 'yes', Missy,” he teased, repeating something she had often said to Annie in front of him.

Without thinking, she smacked his knee with the back of her hand and clucked her tongue at him.

He laughed. “You can't hit me after you bathed my feet! I don't think Jesus would approve!”

Mena laughed with him, though a little more moderately. “Behave yourself then.” She warned. “And tomorrow when you go out, try to find some clothes that might fit you, so next time we do laundry you have a change you can slip in to.”

“That's like asking me to find a Babe Ruth rookie card, Missy. I'm a big fella and the Georgian backwoods has some little, tiny men.”

#graveyard dirt & salt #chapter 7 #novel #support an author

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chelsfic · 5 years ago

Text

Tear You Apart - Dracula/OFC One-shot

A/N: I wrote this in response to a post from @dracula-s-bride in which they requested a “one shot where [Dracula] fucks OC’s brains out into oblivion.” My filthy mind immediately went to the scene at the Convent and Dracula fucking a nun amidst the carnage he’d created. So…that’s what I wrote. I really just wanted to spend more time in the head space of that scene. Unapologetic, much? YIKES!

Warnings: Murder, Non-con, Blood drinking (I mean…)

Rating: Explicit as hell

Sister Evangeline averts her gaze as the demonic form stalking outside the convent gates manifests into the shape of a very tall, very naked man. She fixes her eyes to the weathered cobbles and tightens trembling fingers round the wooden stake in her hands. Her arms are tucked close to her body, her shoulders hunch forward in an unconscious attempt to make herself appear smaller to avoid the predator’s notice.

She’s never felt such visceral fear in her life. It’s so intense she thinks she will either faint or be sick. Her sisters feel the same. Waves of terror pass from one nun to the next at the man’s words and actions. Had she not personally witnessed him crawl forth from the wolf’s twitching body she might take him for a madman. But as the confrontation between him and Sister Agatha plays out she learns he’s something far more frightful.

Count Dracula. The devil incarnate.

Once she allows her eyes to wander upward she finds she cannot look away. His naked skin glows in the light of the torches as if kissed by hellfire. His lips spread in a feral smile as he flicks his eyes from one stunned face to the next finally settling on hers and holding her captive in his hypnotic gaze. His voice rings through the courtyard, addressing them all, but his eyes stay focused on Evangeline.

“The first one to invite me in stays at my side!” he announces. “The others I will tear apart and LADIES! I will. Take. My. Time. One should never rush a nun…”

An icy shiver creeps down her spine at his words and she feels her feet moving of their own accord, stepping forward as her lips part to speak the words. Count Dracula’s smile widens and his eyes blaze in anticipation but Sister Agatha interrupts before she can utter the invitation that would doom them all. Agatha’s bold intervention saves her and Evangeline falls back in line with the others, panting in shock at the sin she’s nearly commited. Lord, save me, she prays to a resounding, oppressive silence from the cosmos.

Once Agatha has turned the demon away the sisters gather in the chapel for prayer. Mother Superior stands before them and her words are uplifting, inspiring, an answer to the emptiness she’s felt inside when her prayers go unanswered. She must look within herself for the voice of her God. She must find His strength in her own strength.

It’s a moment of pure serenity and peace after the misery of the confrontation outside. She bows her head in a prayer of gratitude just as the echo of sharp footsteps sounds from the corridor. Evangeline looks up in time to see the monster, Count Dracula, standing inside the chapel holding Mother Superior’s severed head aloft, grinning in delight as the nuns begin a chorus of screams.

Evangeline’s throat closes shut, she wheezes and gasps desperate to drag air into her lungs but her body shuts down in panic. Dracula stands before them, resplendent in his tailored suit and long, dark cape. The perfect image of a refined gentleman. Yet his actions and words are savage. He tosses the head into the crowd of terrified nuns, taunting them with their own impending death. Evangeline crouches on the stone floor, cowering beneath a pew. Some of her sisters are braver than she. They stand up, wielding their crucifixes against the vampire. At first it appears effective but Evangeline watches the Count from her hiding place as he settles casually into a chair, spreading his cape beneath him and leaning back with an air of one about to take in a show.

“So…” he begins, in a conversational tone as if holding twenty nuns hostage and threatening their lives is an everyday occurrence, “I suppose I’ll just have to control myself. But–between you and me–controlling wolves is just so much more fun…It’s a question of who you’d rather have tear you apart, I suppose. You have a choice of course. I’m undead, I’m not unreasonable.”

At his words the first howls begin sounding from just outside the chapel doors. Evangeline climbs farther under the pew, tucking her legs in close to her body as she watches a whole pack of wolves race by her and begin lunging at the crowd of nuns in the center aisle. Her lips tremble and a wail of sorrow escapes her throat before she slaps her hands over her mouth, muffling hysterical sobs. From her spot beneath the first pew she can see only the Count’s gleaming, polished shoes and the bottom of his cape. But she hears everything. The screams, the moans, the horrid ripping sound of teeth rending limb from limb. It goes on for hours. Or minutes. She can’t be sure. The whole time she lays curled in a ball, rigid and terrified of making a single movement or sound that would attract attention.

It ends with a resounding, chilling silence. Evangeline is frozen in place, desperately trying to control her heavy breathing. She can see the dead, glassy eyes of Sister Camille staring at her from the place she’d fallen mere feet away from her. She hears the low whines of the wolves, the soft padding of their paws over the flagstone floor. And she sees Count Dracula’s well-shod feet. He hasn’t moved from his seat at the front of the chapel.

Evangeline moans in terror when she addresses her, “You can come out now, little one.”

She doesn’t move an inch. She could not move even if she wished to do so. Her muscles are rigid, her limbs locked into place. With no point in further concealment she finally allows herself to cry. The wolves quirk their ears and lick their lips as they catch the soft sounds of her cries and the rich scent of her still-flowing blood.

“Now, now, Sister, do as you’re told. Unless you’d like me to have one of my pets drag you out from under there…” Dracula sounds intrigued by the idea.

Mustering all of her remaining strength, Evangeline crawls out from under the pew, exposing herself to the gleaming predator gaze of both wolf and vampire. She spider walks backward until her back meets the chapel wall, putting as much distance between herself and them as she can. The wolves are held at bay for now. There are six of them and they stand immobile around the Count. Awaiting his command.

She looks up into the vampire’s face, quaking at the sight of his cruel smile and cold eyes.

“Tell me your name,” he commands, rising from his seat and stalking toward her. His cape flows into place around him lending even more severity to his already intimidating height. He walks until the tips of his polished shoes brush the fabric of her habit. Evangeline is forced to crane back her neck to meet his eyes as she addresses him.

“My name is…” she tries to inject her voice with Sister Agatha’s bravery, “Sister Evangeline of St. Mary’s Convent.”

Dracula smirks down at her and holds out a hand before her tear streaked face. Evangeline stares at it for a moment, the long, elegant fingers tipped with wickedly sharp points. Drawing in a shaky breath she reaches up and places her small hand in his. She half expects him to crush her hand in a bruising grip, but he merely tightens his hold gently and assists her in getting to her feet.

“Evangeline,” he stretches out the syllables on his tongue, “I’ll give you the same offer I gave the others: Who would you rather have tear you apart, darling? The wolves? Or me?”

His hand on hers effectively holds her in place as the wolves circle them, baring their teeth and growling low in their throats. Evangeline’s eyes flick wildly back and forth, dancing between the genteel murderer before her and the hungry wolves all around. One of the wolves lunges forward and snags the edge of her habit in his powerful jaws, tugging the material and starting to pull Evangeline away.

“No!” she screams, reaching out her hands to clutch at the vampire’s sleeves. “No, no, please, not the wolves.”

Dracula’s face lights with pleasure and he dismisses the wolf pack with a wave of his hand. The animals slink out of the chapel leaving Evangeline alone with the monster. He steps into her personal space, gathering her up in his arms and holding her to his chest in a parody of a lover’s embrace.

He bends his head forward to whisper into her ear, lips brushing sensuously against her skin, “I hoped you’d choose me, Evangeline. I knew there was something special about you.”

Evangeline quakes, her knees grow weak and she sags bonelessly into his arms.

“P-Please, Count Dracula,” she hisses, all thoughts of brave martyrdom fleeing her head. “Spare me.”

Dracula rolls his eyes at her and scoffs, “Don’t be boring, Evangeline. I can stomach a lot of things but not boring.”

She watches, wide-eyed as he raises a hand and softly unfastens the neck piece from her garment. The cowl and veil fall to the ground allowing soft waves of auburn hair to spill over her shoulders.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, his eyes drawn to the hollow of her throat, the flesh pulsing with the erratic rush of blood beneath the surface. “Now, I’ll need you to try to calm yourself, Evangeline. Panic tends to sour the taste…”

He draws her closer into his arms all the while Evangeline is looking round for a means of escape. She struggles in his grip but Dracula puts a stop to that with a bruising squeeze of her upper arms and and a sharp hiss of annoyance. She hears the wolves in the courtyard echo him with their mournful howls and knows in her bones that there is no escape. No hope. She stills then, eyes shutting against tears.

Dracula leans back and unclasps the cape from around his neck, spreading the billowing cloth onto the cold flagstone floor as a makeshift blanket.

“Come, now,” he beckons, sitting down on the rich velvet lining of the cloak. “Sit with me for a while.”

Evangeline kneels down next to him on the cloth, relieved not to have to support herself on weak knees any longer. Even sitting down the Count looms over her. She looks up into his face and…simply waits. She is completely under his power and his earlier words have made her afraid even to beg for mercy. The Count brings a hand up to her face cupping her cheek and running his fingertips across her lips, over her chin and settling around the base of her neck. He feels her pulse raging under his touch as he begins to speak.

“It won’t hurt. I’ll make it like falling asleep into the loveliest dream. Won’t that be nice?” he soothes, gently rubbing his fingers against her pulse point, holding her wide-eyed stare. “I’ll hold you in my arms, place a kiss on that lovely throat, and then you’ll be gone from here. No pain. No fear.”

Evangeline’s pulse still thunders under his fingers and her breathing is erratic. With a sigh Dracula places a hand on her chest and gently pushes her back until she’s lying on the cape.

“Well,” he says, propping himself up on an elbow to lean over her, “I have a little bit of time. No need to rush.”

He slides his palm over the fabric of her habit, dragging it over her breasts, her waist and settling on her hip where he kneads the flesh with a possessive touch. He bends forward and brushes his lips over hers in a slow, tender kiss. Evangeline’s breath catches in her throat, her thoughts stuttering to a halt as he continues the kiss, stroking her plump lower lip with his tongue, probing inside her mouth. He buries a hand in her hair, tangling in the soft locks as he gives her her first…her last kiss.

“There, now,” he mutters into her lips. “See how nice it can be, Evangeline? We can’t let you die a virgin, can we?”

With this last question he starts hiking up the skirt of her habit and bunching it round her hips. Evangeline feels a flash of alarm that lasts a second before he’s reaching underneath and cupping her sex in the palm of his hand. She gasps at the intrusion, at his bold, confident touch. It sends a thrilling shock wave through her body and she feels herself arch involuntarily into his touch for a second before recalling herself and shrinking back slightly.

The Count is relentless in his ministrations, though. He strokes his long, elegant fingers against her through the fabric of her drawers, pressing the heel of his palm into her sensitive mound in a rhythmic motion, kindling a sweet ache inside her that pulses and stutters. She pants and moans, writhing under his fingers and looking up at him in a look that mingles arousal, awe and horror. Dracula smiles down at her, reveling in the nun’s undoing.

“That’s a good girl,” he praises as he snakes his hand up and under the waist of her drawers, delving into the wet apex of her thighs. “Do you want more, Evangeline?”

He pauses and lets his fingers hover over her hypersensitive flesh awaiting her response. Evangeline turns her face away, staring up at the crucifix on the wall and gasping in frustrated pleasure. She wants more. God save her.

“Yes,” she whispers, eyes still trained on the image of her Savior, witness to her sin.

Dracula grasps her chin in his fingers and turns her to face him, his eyes blazing with intensity, “Tell me.”

Evangeline’s cheeks flush a bright crimson of humiliation and shame as she says the word more firmly, “Yes.”

The vampire’s lips spread in a wicked smile and he caresses her face almost lovingly, “You really are something special, Evangeline.”

He places a soft kiss on her lips and then slithers down her body, disappearing beneath the folds of her habit. Evangeline’s eyes widen and her mouth falls open when she feels him slide off her drawers and press his mouth against her. He licks, kisses and strokes her in her most intimate place. The slip of his tongue against the tender bundle of nerves at her apex causes her to buck in shock and pleasure and she’s mortified to find that she’s reached down to run her fingers through his thick, black hair, holding his mouth in place against her and urging him to continue with his kisses until she feels the waves of pleasure within her quiver and suddenly peak.

As the nun shivers through her orgasm, Dracula sinks his fangs into the inside of her thigh, tapping the femoral artery and gorging on the rich blood that floods his mouth. His fingers dig into her hips, holding her still as he feasts. He tastes the wanton pleasure coursing through her veins, the sweet tang of wonder at the new feelings inside her, and the hollow echo of shame she experiences at breaking her vows. He takes it all in, drinking her soul and stealing her essence. The tension in her body ebbs as the orgasm passes and the blood loss starts to weaken her. Dracula pulls back, his mouth splashed with the bright red stain of blood, and crawls up her body.

Evangeline’s eyes are closed and her head is thrown back, a soft smile on her lips. She looks utterly debauched and…perfect. Dracula bends down and captures her lips in a slow kiss, forcing the taste of her own blood into her mouth.

“Are you ready now, Evangeline?” he asks, brushing his lips over hers as he speaks. He runs his fingers through her hair in a touch that’s gentle and almost comforting. His eyes are soft, a mockery of sympathy and caring as he looks down at her.

Evangeline looks back at him, still fuzzy in the aftermath of pleasure and nods her head slowly. She’s ready. Ready for what, again?

Dracula shifts his body until he’s hovering over her, his hips aligned with hers and his face tucked into the crook of her neck. He reaches down to free his straining cock and she feels the press of him against her, the stretch and sudden fullness as he pushes forward, the echo of a stinging pain as his fangs pierce the skin of her throat. And then she’s lost again on waves of bliss.

Dracula writhes over the nun’s form, lost in his lustful frenzy and pounding her ruthlessly as his teeth tear into her neck. He’s under a spell, overwhelmed by the eroticism of her hot, pulsing blood flowing over his tongue as he sheaths himself in her tight little cunt. He reaches his hands down to cup her buttocks, kneading the soft, round flesh with his razor sharp claws.

Evangeline is far away. She’s conscious of the pleasure of the vampire’s kiss and the blissful burn of surrender as he takes her virginity. But she’s dreaming too. Dreaming of the fields in springtime. The yellow flowers and the big, fat bees that spin lazily in the air. Dreaming of her father’s house, he’s still alive and they are so happy. The images are conjured, injected with the vampire’s venom, but they are beautiful and comforting. She clings to them as the images begin to blur and the colors bleed together. Her body feels so, so far away now.

Dracula groans in pleasure as he releases her from his “kiss.” He arches back and spills his seed inside her, coming with a final, ferocious thrust of his hips. His little nun is barely conscious and whimpering in her sweet slumber. He carefully pulls out, tucking himself back into his trousers and sitting back to regard her little body. Not yet a corpse. Still enough life left in her…

He stands and wraps the girl in the rich red and black fabric of his cloak, picking her up and cradling her to his chest.

“Sweet little nun,” he whispers into her hair as he places a kiss on her forehead. “I’m going to make you last.”

#dracula x ofc #dracula x oc #dracula imagine #dracula fanfic #bbc dracula #dracula netflix #dracula 2020 #tw: noncon #tw: murder #claes bang #chelsfic

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macneiceisms · 4 years ago

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Through Tangled Glass! Sounds very intriguing! Please tell us more =)

I answered a bit about it here! I had so many time travel ideas after reading your fic that I had to jot something down, but being me it has to be unnecessarily angsty.

Here are a few more excerpts from Through Tangled Glass:

Excerpt 3:

Garak prods the translator twice. The pain sears in a blinding jolt down his neck and shoulders. The UT clicks in his head while blood pours into his uniform. Educational mode on. Click. All translation off.

“There,” Garak says in Kardasi. “Let’s see how you fare.”

“This is a waste of time,” Julian insists. He can control a lot of his physiology, he trusts Garak to find a way to circumvent it. He can’t outplay Garak at his own game, he knows it. But maybe he can play long enough to stay alive.

“You don’t have to make a big show, Dr. Faraj,” says Garak. “It bores me.”

“Look, if you want to question me, turn the translator back on and question me. I won’t give you any useful information.”

Garak smiles again. He cuts off the cuff of Julian’s sleeve. The fabric rends and rips and Julian can feel Garak’s perverse pleasure at destroying the offending garment. Ta’kak indeed. He dips the rag into the glass of clear liquid. He presses it to the cut under his ear. Julian gasps, biting down a cry through clamped teeth. The alcohol burns. Garak presses hard. Hard enough to staunch the blood in about thirty seconds. Hard enough to send sharp stabs of pain through his neck. The alcohol stings sharper than any knife.

“Ten more seconds,” Julian gasps, struggling for air through the searing pain. He screws his eyes shut, white phosphenes lighting up behind his eyelids. “After you stop the bleeding it needs ten more seconds to disinfect. Bloody...fucking...shit, you know how to cause pain.”

To Julian’s surprise, Garak does as recommended. Frowning, he pulls the blood-soaked cloth away from the wound. He dips it into the alcohol again, and pats the soaked cloth gently around his neck, a cool and gentle whisper amongst the pain. Clear liquid runs red. Agonizing cruelty and agonizing gentleness all in the same man.

“Really a shame. A neck is a terrible thing to ruin. I hope your gadgets smooth it over.”

“I know it’s just for show, but it’s nice to pretend like you aren’t going to just kill me at the end of this,” Julian mumbles.

“Of course I don’t want to kill you. Such a lovely, exotic creature,” says Garak, by all appearances politely bored. Absolute bastard. He cleans the blood from Julian’s neck. His fingers ghost over Julian’s collarbone. The earthy, spiced scent of him fills his lungs. “Are all your males like this? Narrow-waisted with such lovely necks? Such elegant limbs?”

And then he realizes where this is going. All those scandalous touches, all that brazen flirtation. Garak isn’t going to pry the answer out of him with a knife, he’s going to drive Julian into the most embarrassing confession of his life. Julian schools his heart rate and blood pressure lower, focusing on the firing of his sinoatrial node, the dilation and constriction of blood vessels. Resisting the constriction. If he has to think about urological anatomy to play this game, god, so be it.

Slowly, carefully, Garak cleans the bloody knife. He squares the spare chair in front of Julian, and with his clean glass of liquor in hand, sits.

“You really are lovely, aren’t you? You even smell lovely. Like salt. Do you taste like it too?” Garak says, and takes another sip of alcohol.

Julian watches Garak’s lips press to the glass, his mouth part, his tongue dart after to savor the liquid left on his lips. Something clenches low in his abdomen. In fifteen years Garak wouldn’t dare to be so forward, but then again, his Garak lives on a cold space station, in exile, at the mercy of a Federation captain. Here, in this dark little room, this Garak controls everything.

He’s going to kill Sloan for sending him in this compromised. What’s Julian supposed to do? Say, ‘hey, I know you’re torturing me but I know you fifteen years into the future and you give me chocolates and I bore witness to your father’s death and I faced him to save your life from that implant that’s in your post-central gyrus and we argue about Shelley and Riaz and Shakespeare and Preloc and I think about you stopping me in the middle of a rant about Meditations of a Crimson Shadow to rip my trousers off and shag me senseless.’

That would probably get him proper murdered. But oh, what a way to go.

Excerpt 4:

“You ought to have killed me quickly,” Julian says, chest heaving. “Because I intend to endure until you’re ashamed of what you’ve done.”

Something flashes in those terrible blue eyes.

“Confess,” says Garak.

It’s not a request, it’s not a question. It’s an answer, offered to Julian like a soft and precious gift. So simple. The solution to all his problems. Garak, his deliverer. Garak, promising freedom. And the truth shall set you free. Pain swims and shudders through him. The too-tight handcuff, the cracked cheekbone, the deep, dull ache of the sedative, the summation of a million wrong choices slamming into him at once.

��To what, my dear tailor?” Julian says, his voice cracking. “I can confess to any number of things. I confess I prefer Le Carré to Fleming. I confess I lied when I said Shoggoth was dull and convoluted, I actually deeply enjoy enigma tales. I confess flubbing the last question on my final exam. I confess I let Palis touch me even after I knew how she felt about monsters…abominations...like me, just to save my skin. I confess I could have carried that generator. I confess...I confess that no matter how much I say I hate my father I would still do just about anything for a scrap, a crumb, a subatomic particle of affection, of approval, of love. I’d give anything for him to just be proud of his son and not the...the,” he sobs. He’s losing his tenuous control, a weight dragging out of him, blackened and reeking of something old and dead and festered. “And not the thing he architected.”

#garashir #damnhardwork #my writing #wip ask game

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ash818 · 7 years ago

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Oh what am I doing? Just another morning reading Legacy. Tearing up over Jon asking Abby what it feels like to live with her depression. "Dad's not the only one who would be fucked up forever." Ash why you do this? Why am I crying? Abby queen needs to be protected and preserved forever and Jon should always be squished into hugs. *sobs*

Thank you so, so much!

I am here to cause tears and the rending of garments, and I make no apologies.

However hard you cry, I promise I’m crying harder.

#Anonymous

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wowcustodian · 8 years ago

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[Fanfic] The Rage Inside

Wanted to post this for a bit but i wanted to wait til i got the Blood Elf History done first. I wrote this back during the Legion Pre Event, about my Orc Warrior. There’s a little context lost since i didn’t plan on posting this anywhere but i let some friends have a read and they say it reads okay on its own so let me know what you guys think. Hope you like it!

How long had she sat there? Minutes, hours? She had no idea. Her eyes stared down at the piece of plate armor in her green hands. The rage burned inside her as keenly as ever, an inferno screaming to be unleashed and yet she showed no external sign of it. She merely sat calmly, waiting.

Then it came. A horn pierced the silence and carried across the Barrens, signalling an attack. She rose confidently and slid the final piece, a faceplate, into position. The people of the Crossroads ran in panic and terror. Orcs, Tauren and Trolls screaming for their lives as the sky swirled a twisted sinister green thunderstorm above their heads. She welcomed it. It seemed fitting, almost like a rivalling storm come to challenge the one she suppressed every day. She turned to view a pack of Felguards, horns sticking out of their bodies at jagged angles, the same green fire burning at their feet as they cut down the innocent merchants of the town. The orc snarled as she drew her axe. She sprinted forward and swung, cleaving deep into pale grey flesh, spilling foul smelling green ichor to bathe her blade. A few spots landed on the tabard she wore, the tabard of her clan, the Dragonmaw. It sizzled as the blood burned through the fabric. She allowed herself to fade away into the violent ballet of combat. Her twin axes danced about her, countering demon swords and spears, plunging into exposed limbs, rending muscle and sinew with delight. This. This was where she was at peace. It was such a sweet gift to face an enemy she did not have to force restraint on herself. The demons would not expect to be taken lightly, they would not lecture her on the value of relying on others. It was simply kill or be killed.

The troll, Ju’ati. Her words still sounded in Roh’kano’s head, even over the orchestra of death around her. They told her again and again how she was the fool for not relying on others. She thought back to her days in the Kor’kron and how they would have laughed to hear such a pathetic notion. She, like all the rest had been taught to be the absolute best she could be, to train her body and will to strength the Orcs were truly capable of without needing to rely on anyone or anything. This made the Kor’kron unto a force of nature, carrying out their Warchief’s vengeance and destruction upon the enemies of the Horde. They were the pinnacle alone so that when they stood united they were unstoppable, they had no need to rely on others to compensate for weaknesses.

The pair of orcish axes clashed with a pair of twin swords, each large enough that even Roh’kano would’ve needed both hands to lift one. Her heels dug into the dry, rocky desert ground as she put all her might into pushing back the Doomguard who bore them. Great dark wings opened like a curtain behind the beast, a maw of dagger-like teeth opened and roared. The sulphurous stench of its breath forced Roh’kano’s eyes to narrow to keep them from being burned by it. This demon or any demon would not care if an ally fell in battle. They would march on with no remorse.

The axe in her left hand began to draw closer. Despite her best efforts the demon was overpowering her. She spun, letting the axe fall from her hand. The demonic blade drew past her as she raised her arm, her hand opening wide as a few embers of red appeared and flickered in her palm before erupting into a proud fireball, pure and untouched by Fel. Roh’kano shoved her hand towards the Doomguard’s face as it cried out, letting the fireball burst, the explosion decimating the upper half of the foul beast’s head.

The Doomguard collapsed to the ground, kicking up a cloud of thick dust as the smouldering crater of cauterized muscle, nerves and thick green blood let streams of smoke up into the air. She strode over and snatched up her axe. Here was proof she needed noone. She was strong on her own, she was fast and smart enough.

And yet she had lost.

That memory came back too, the troll’s words still playing, still refusing to leave her be. She had lost to Ju’ati. She had been mocked and insulted and for all of her rage and hatred she had been able to do nothing to stop them. Her strength felt…impotent in that moment. Her fingers tightened around the hilts of her weapons til her knuckles turned white. She imagined it as Ju’ati’s neck. How she wished she could see her beg for her life, to admit Roh was the strongest. Why though? This was what galled her the most, why had she lost? She was a disgrace to the Horde and the Kor’kron if she couldn’t defeat a single opponent. She hadn’t even realised she’d stopped fighting. She just stood there staring off into nothingness. Her teeth clenched hard enough to cause pain, pain she barely felt. What she did feel was dizziness sweeping in and a sense of a great yawning pit beneath her. A font for all her limitless anger that had guided and driven her for years. It promised more, all she had to do was give in completely to the hatred. Remove any desire for restraint, ignore any reason to hold back. What did it matter if she killed them? They would learn or they would die. The rage seduced her. It had always been enough, she had no reason to doubt it now…except she did. As sweet as the thought of her rage giving her the strength to overpower any who would challenge her seemed it had already been proven to not be enough. Why? Why, why, why?! The question spun in her head to the point she thought it would drive her mad. Why had Ju’ati been able to beat her?

An otherworldly cry snapped her back to the burning Crossroads. She sharply turned her head in time to see a Felguard lunge for her. Its body collided with hers before she could react and in an instant Roh’kano was on the ground, pinned. The demon raised a spiked mace to bring down on her head when another sound cut through the air. The familiar accent of a troll screaming out as the Felguard was grabbed and thrown off of Roh. Her eyes followed the creature to the ground before she pounced, grabbing her axe and embedding it several inches deep into the things skull. Its body went limp as Roh pushed herself to her feet and looked around. Beside her stood a male troll, sweat covering his turquoise skin, his hair clinging to his face. His threadbare leather jacket and pants, his only garments, were adorned with black specks where the fires had singed him. He gasped as the adrenaline still surged through him and gave Roh a swift nod.

He had saved her.

He. A troll. A civilian, a merchant, whoever he was did not matter. –He- had saved her. If he had not acted then what would she have done? Would she have survived or not? She’d never know now. She would never be certain if she should be dead or alive because of this demon now.

Her mind went blank. White hot fire pumped through her veins as she dove for the man and grabbed him by the collar. She could see the panic and confusion in his eyes as she threw him to the ground besides the Felguard he had just rescued her from. She pinned him down and brought a gauntleted fist down upon his face. Somewhere she heard a scream, not the man’s own pathetic pleading though, this one resounded within her. Again she punched him and again the scream sounded. It felt good. Again, again and again she put her entire strength behind each blow. The troll thrashed in a desperate attempt to get free but it was futile. His face became a bloody red and purple bruised and swollen mess, his tusks were broken. He sobbed as Roh smashed his skull against the rocky earth beneath. Even when the troll went limp she did not stop, she couldn’t. She allowed every drop of pent up anger and violence out upon the innocent man until all that remained of his face was a deep red stain soaking into the ground and a thick coat of the same covering Roh’s gauntlets.

When at last she was done the orc knelt there for several long moments. Her chest heaved inside her armor as she struggled to regain her breathe and her composure. Her arms ached, her knuckles throbbed. She tilted her head back as beads of sweat rolled down her face. As she stood again she realised her throat stung. It felt hoarse. A brief moment of confusion and unease entered her mind as she reflected on what she had just done before quickly chasing it away. There was no time, no point in dwelling on it. It was done and now she had a job to do. She had more battles to fight and more to kill.

#wow #warcraft #world of warcraft #legion #orc #roleplay #fanfiction #written #story

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