#one haymaker after the other lads

[holdmycaffeine]

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[kdtheghostwriter]

The Dust Up in Jaku

You sure are!

Okay, housekeeping first. I don’t often go here. In fact, this is my first proper visit. I’m caught up with the manga entirely to be clear. I just don’t always go looking for feedback. This blog is miscellaneous, tailored mostly to my whims at the time, but it’s known primarily for its monthly posts on Shingeki no Kyojin. That series is ending soon. These posts have been for practice primarily. A way for me to keep my writing chops warm for other projects. They’ve been incredibly helpful in that regard. I’m not sure yet what I’ll do to supplement that practice after the series conclusion. I don’t see myself doing monthly meta posts anymore. I started doing One Punch Man write ups a couple years ago and doing the occasional meta for big plot developments is probably the ticket. But then there’s BNHA.

My Hero Academia is a bit more…shall we say ‘aggressive’ in its storytelling. That’s what I’ve seen in this latest arc anyway. I’m a fan. And I figured, hey, I can dip a pinky toe in the fandom for a bit. So, before reading any further, please note that this will read as the perspective of a reader that has one eye on the story and doesn’t spend a great amount of time in the discourse.

Okay so let’s start with the obvious or what should be the obvious. Bakugo isn’t dead just yet. If for no other reason than Gran Torino getting spiked by Shigaraki only to supply a sassy quip moments later. You don’t die in a shonen series without permission. Besides that, though, no one I’ve seen seems to be asking the important question here.

What is All For One’s idea?

We saw him reach out to Tomura who was himself on the verge of death and took full control of his body. Those telltale black tendrils have seldom caused bodily harm on their own and there’s little evidence to believe they’d start now. We then can make one of two assumptions.

Quirk theft: AFO has the ability to steal and redistribute quirks and Shigaraki made clear that stealing One For All was his main goal in this fight outside of surviving. Bakugo is one of the few people who know about this secret war and he more than anyone there would recognize that losing OFA to Tomura would be in the nicest terms a disaster.

Forced Quirk Activation: Considering that Kacchan is a walking napalm bomb, this is another possible disaster. Using a massive explosion to escape the battlefield at this moment has some very “I’ll get you next time, Gadget!” energy.

And Tomura has to escape this. I’ll explain that later. But first I must laugh.

No, that’s not Garou after his first hour in the Monster Association. Tomura has been annihilated over the course of this fight. He’d probably be dead two or three times over if it weren’t for his fancy Deadpool Healing Factor which itself wouldn’t be working if Eraser Head wasn’t out of commission.

Shout-outs to Aizawa by the way. There’s a reason Tomura stopped in the middle of the battle to tell him how cool he was.

Anyway, more to the point: Shigaraki can’t beef it here. Don’t get me wrong, as tragic as his story is, there really is no other option currently than to destroy him. The only other course of action is to say, “Please, Tomura, don’t make this entire city and the innocent people living there disappear into dust.” Which…yea. On top of that, he’s the series antagonist and the clear foil for our hero Deku. Narratively it just wouldn’t make sense to have him climb that mountain before he’s ready. And he’s still not ready. His arms are thrashed yet again from his current onslaught.

For anyone having trouble visualizing this, imagine Shiggy as a red rubber ball and Deku is a paddle, smacking him repeatedly. I have this great picture in my head of the news chopper zoomed in on Deku as he calls out every state and major city in the contiguous United States. Jokes aside, the art is phenomenal. This panel in particular really hammers home the aforementioned duality like so many haymakers to the face. The damage is stacking up faster than his regeneration can supply but All For One has stepped in to take the reins, surely saving his neck but that isn’t the only reason Shiggy will see his way out of this spot.

Yeah! Remember him? This big fucker is still on his way. And he’s got the League of Villains in tow. Why is that detail important?

The only thing more important than a major plot event like this is the aftermath. You can easily develop your characters through the way they react to the events that occur to them. Somebody has to break it to Tomura that Twice is gone and I don’t envy the one who gets that job.

Also…lol okay, I don’t wanna do the trolly thing of “oooh Dabi’s a Todoroki!” but c’mon man Dabi’s a Todoroki. I’ve barely paid attention to this subplot and even I know that. Shonen series are by their nature very melodramatic and it would only make sense for such a massive bombshell to be dropped now, in the midst of life-or-death struggle, with direct implications for the Number One Hero and his children – one on each side of the law. Point is! None of that can happen if Shigaraki bites the big one so I’d expect the dusty lad to keep kicking for now.

The same goes for Bakugo, although, he may have early retirement in his future. The main reason Kacchan can’t die here is because, despite what you may think of him as a character – and I’ve seen enough discourse to know that many many people are not fans, such is your right – having a teenaged bully redeem himself by sacrificing his life is a bit much. Especially when you consider this little nugget.

All Might has him pegged here. I would never endorse someone telling another person to kill themselves even when done ironically but Katsuki was a child and children say any manner of dumb, reckless things. More than that, children lash out when they’re scared, and nothing scared him more than being surpassed by Midoriya. All Might goes on to point out that Bakugo earnestly helping with Izuku’s training is his way of atoning for his past behavior. I agree with that stance and I think it’s more than enough. He knows he was wrong and more recently he’s discovered that he knows he wants no harm to come to Deku. Bakugo learned a big lesson in this chapter; by extension, Deku must learn a lesson as well.

Then there’s this geek.

Disclaimer: I don’t hate Endeavor so much as I’m apathetic towards him. He’s the Number One hero by default and it shows throughout this arc. Even here, we see the rookie Kacchan barking orders at him and Shoto and coming up with a pretty solid plan to finally end this damn fight. It didn’t work, but that has more to do with outside interference than inexperience, and it’s not like Endeavor was rapt with ideas to begin with.

I will defend him slightly, however. Some people have gone so far as to call him useless in this fight and I wouldn’t. Shigaraki got a massive buff even if he’s only at 75% capacity. Enhanced speed and strength, plus a healing factor means he has a threshold that Endeavor just can’t overcome. The days of one guy taking on the Final Boss is long past gone. Even so, this must be pretty mortifying for a guy so obsessed with climbing the ladder. His second real test as the top hero and he gets his ass kicked for an hour or more by a shaggy kid who forgot his lip balm at home. LOL is what I’m saying.

Thanks for indulging that aside. Back to Deku. The very first panel of this chapter is a nurse warning him that repeated injuries could result in him losing the use of his arms. Naturally, this follows with Deku smashing Shigaraki in the face five or six times in a row. The combination of Float and Black Whip is keeping the villain suspended in the air where his disintegration    quirk can’t reach the support team below. A fact that Deku points out when Bakugo shouts at him to disengage. This is a great bit of dramatic tension, because neither one is wrong. Izuku’s body is falling apart. I mean, Tomura’s is too, but Tomura can lowkey ignore that and if he reaches the ground, everyone is screwed anyway.

This plays into Bakugo forming the plan with the Todorokis in the first place and then intercepting AFO’s attack on behalf of the helpless Deku. He sees One For All as a cursed power, but he’s smart enough to know that this power is the only chance they have of winning. He then saves his friend to help them win.

Now we come to the bit that has me more interested than even Kacchan’s fate. That being Izuku’s reaction, both in the moment and after the battle is done. As previously noted, Deku is not in less danger now. He’s emptying the tank right here despite possible long-term damage to his body.

The implications of that statement are terrifying. More so coming from a teenaged boy that hasn’t even made it through a third of his life yet. The legacy of OFA is dark and bloody. It was Bakugo who pointed out that the previous holders of the super strength quirk all died young – all murdered at the hands of Tall, Dark and Faceless. Toshinori would have suffered the same fate if it weren’t for a time sensitive cocktail of rage, survival instinct and adrenaline. Deku is sipping from that same cocktail right now and he’s in better shape than All Might was (barely) but it’s clear that he cannot 1v1 a boss with a replenishing health bar. Perhaps if he could sustain an attack without his limbs exploding like Squidward after too many Krabby Patties? Oh well.

My Hero Academia is an origin story. The story of the hero Deku and his journey to number one. With that in mind, we know he can’t lose but he doesn’t necessarily have to win. Not here at the very least. I have no clue how this arc resolves itself but finding out is going to be much fun.

[johnkrrasinski]

Coffee with Cream

Chapter 2: Dream of You

full masterlist

series masterlist

Pairings: Frank Castle x reader x Mad Sweeney

Word count: 2,693

Warnings: cussing, mentions of alcohol, street fight, men being men. 

Summary: Two men, one diner and little old you. Working at a diner had never been your dream job but, fate had a funny way of bringing two contrasted men into your life.

a/n: hey guys! as you all know my obsession over frank castle and pablo schreiber had been exploding these past couple of months. and so, me and @nellblazer decided to write a good old threesome fic involving these two bulky men. hope you like it. enjoy!

You laid in your bed that night with a romance novel that you hadn't had the chance to pick up and finish in awhile due to the weariness of working double shifts. It's the same old pattern for the last few years; you'd get up early for your morning shift at the diner, rushed back home to take a little break, and possibly enjoy your catnaps before your second alarm rings for your night shift. 

And then when the night was ending, you'd take another bus to get yourself home, take a shower and eat your takeout or heat up your frozen pizza, and went to bed. For years, life was merely a repetitive cycle of humdrum. You barely had time for yourself due to your relentless endeavour to stay afloat. 

Living in Brooklyn when you come from a middle-class family means that you really had to fight tooth and nail to pay the bills and fill your fridge. You were raised to be an independent and hardworking person by your parents and that's why it wasn't much of a challenge for you to work double shifts at a diner when you could've taken one. You taught yourself to push through your boundaries in life, and you were aware that sometimes it's not always convenient but at least you were proud of your own effort. 

That also means you didn't have time to swipe right and left on Tinder and find yourself a date. It was nearly impossible to find a decent guy in Brooklyn, let alone trusting a dating app that could possibly be utilized by creeps or murderers to find their next victim. Although your co-workers had suggested it many times to you, you refused to present yourself to the angels of death just simply you were desperate to get laid. 

But tonight was different from the others. It was comical, really, how one, well, two, actually people could walk into your life, okay that was dramatic, walk into a diner and elevated the sour mood that you had grown used to in recent years, and made a difference. A good one.

You couldn't remember the last time you had a genuine smile on your face. You also couldn't remember when was the last time you felt butterflies in your stomach. And here you are, lying in bed, replaying the scenes that took place earlier. In the daylight when the bustle was in full swing and in the nighttime when the city was placid.

You barely knew anything about them and you had only met them in less than 24 hours, but, you could still remember the way Frank Castle made you feel when his brown eyes stared intensely into yours as he shook your hand. The quiet yet magnetic force that he exuded only compelled you to learn more about him. In the brief conversation that you had earlier, you knew that he was a wanderer of a man.

He'd been hoping from one place to another, but he was thinking of staying in Brooklyn for a while and you were hoping that nothing changes his mind about that. You were really hoping that you'd see him again real soon.

And then, your thoughts drifted to the second man that you encountered with earlier. His auburn hair burned the lights in the room, causing a small fire that you didn't light up. But his amorous words had left you starstruck in a way that you didn't know was possible. You weren't one to stumble on a brazenly flirtatious man but something about him was too tempting to be overlooked. And the fact that he had this eccentric thing for coins made you wonder... What else has he got up in his sleeve?

Sweeney hadn't been able to get you off his mind all night.

The grumpy server who'd taken over had definitely not been a patch on your sunny optimism or brimming curiosity. He couldn't remember the last time a girl was so interested in his stories. Usually he got brushed off as a leering drunk or just a plain old letch but you'd entertained him, asked questions and given him a form of fresh cream to boot, all for him. A form of worship as it was.

You hadn't realised it of course, nobody ever believes in gods these days unless they're the Big Three or the Norse pantheon. Little old Sweeney with his Celtic cohort was hardly going to register on anyone's radar. I mean, fuck, nobody could even say his actual name right, let alone believe he was a god.

Even so, he felt refreshed, more refreshed than he'd been in years and when he got absolutely blasted on whiskey, the feeling was not the same as it was. The crippling existentialism was gone to be replaced by joyfulness and he sang most of the way home, thoroughly amusing everyone on his way back with his rude songs. He even danced with an old lady like they used to do in the twenties which he thought had made her night as she blushed furiously and began saying it'd been a while since she'd danced with a young man in the street.

Sweeney was having the time of his life, precisely up until he got in the alleyway and his loud singing got him into trouble.

There was a group of thugs hanging around in the middle, trying to sort something out but Sweeney didn't care to venture too close to find out what precisely.

“-Well I called me wife and I said to her: Will you kindly tell to me, who owns that thing in your thing where my own thing should be!” he belts out, stumbling slightly in their direction and he sees the flash of irritation on their faces.

The next thing he knew he was getting dog piled on. Bodies seemed to leap on him from every corner and all he could think about was protecting his coin at all costs so he sent it in the Hoard, the magical hiding place for his treasure and once he'd taken a few harsh licks to the gut, he tried to pull himself together to fight back.

Drunken brawling was his speciality after all.

He wasn't expecting it when a couple of the gang members were yanked off of him. He took the opportunity to jump back to his feet, delivering a haymaker to the nearest lad who's cheek splintered under his weighted punch. The kid dropped to the floor like a stone, howling about his face.

The next man behind him, he twisted and grabbed around the middle, running them backwards to the edge of a dumpster before letting go and watching his head clang noisily off the metal as they fell backwards.

Oh it had been a good long while since he'd had a fight. He missed the adrenalin, he missed the cracking of bones and the taste of blood. It spoke to his soul that was millennia old when the world was war, ale and feasting.

Sweeney finally looked up to see that another man was fighting with him, a shorter man, stockier and well built, a nose that'd been broken at least once and the buzzcut styling of an ex-military man. The newcomer shifted his position and Sweeney saw a painted skull on his chest. His first thought was that Baron Samedi was expanding his worshipper's network but it didn't make sense for the Baron to recruit a soldier when he preferred his company to be a little more love and less war.

Who the fucking hell was this guy?

“You okay?” the man asks gruffly as he sees Sweeney staring at him. “Get out. Run.”

“I ain't fuckin' runnin',” Sweeney wrinkles his face in offence. “Do I look like a pansy to you?”

“You look fuckin' drunk is what ya look,” Skull Man counters, elbowing an attacker in the mouth. “I'll handle it. Run home.”

“Callin' me a coward?” Sweeney squares up. “I don't run, boy-o.”

“Really?” Skull Man raises an eyebrow. “Ain't the time for pride, Big Red. Fight or don't fight then. I don't care. Just stay outta my way with that one.”

He points to the man who Sweeney had knocked out on the dumpster. His eyelids were fluttering as he started to regain consciousness.

“What's it worth to ya?” Sweeney shrugs.

“Are you fuckin' kidding me?!” Skull Man storms over, coming up until he was chest to chest. “I save your ass and this is what I get?”

“Didn't ask to be saved, lad.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, right back.”

Just at the point where Sweeney is curling his fingers into a fist, ready to give a good old right hook, he's hit hard in the head from behind and goes down onto his forearms, scuffing them with pebbles and dirt. He scrambles unsteadily to his feet, feeling a little trickle of blood oozing down the path of his hair and sees Skull Man beating the living shit out of the dumpster guy before finishing him off with his bare hands.

Sweeney, meanwhile, jumps back into the fist fight, taking down every other gang member who'd dared to get back up. They make a break for it, running desperately down into the other alleyways and out of sight.

“You'd better run!” Sweeney bellows after them. “You'd all be fucked if I still had my spear. I WAS A FUCKING KING ONCE, YOU CUNTS!”

“I've heard some drunk talk in my time but you...” Skull Man shakes his head. “You're crazy, huh?”

“I'm a god, mate,” Sweeney holds out his arms proudly, swaying on the spot.

“Sure ya are.”

“And what the fuck are you, murderer?”

“Nobody you need to know about. You ain't seen me. I don't exist. I'm just taking out the trash of this city.”

“Oh aye? Are ya? And what did he do?”

“Shot up a playground.”

“Oh...” Sweeney tails off, looking at the dead man on the floor. “Well....good then. Good work. Bastard deserved it.”

He holds out his hand and Skull Man shakes it warily. Sweeney got the sense the guy didn't interact with people much because the handshake was stilted, unsure.

“Got a name?” Sweeney asks. “Or are ya hellbent on being mysterious?”

“It's Frank,” the guy replies after a pause. “But I was-

“-Never here, I got that,” Sweeney snorts. “I'm Sweeney.”

“Sweeney the God. A'ight, go on home then. I got clean up to do.”

“Nice fightin', by the way,” Sweeney calls over his shoulder. “See ya around, Frank.”

“I fuckin' hope not,” comes the quiet response.

Sweeney didn't care though. He was too elated to care. Good booze, a good fight and the promise of going back to that sweet little diner where you were.

He'd have to come in earlier just to spend more time around you. He wanted to know everything about you and more than anything, he wanted to see your smile again.

A god he may be but your smile was absolutely magical.

He sang the whole rest of the way home, already looking forward to tomorrow.

[writeawayjake]

WIP Chapter 1 second draft!!!

CHAPTER 1

The Swordsman

   How had he gotten here? Shirt half soaked in cheap mead, eyes red with lack of sleep, sitting in a dingy tavern far from anywhere that could be considered ‘civilized’. The glory had faded, the shouts of praise had grown quiet, and the days had begun to blur together. Just months of him falling farther and farther south, hitting every tap and tavern on the way down. All he had left was the sword and the memories of what he had gone through to get it… and what he did with it once he had it. Why didn’t you save them? Why weren’t you strong enough? Why? Why? Why?  The voice asked. He had hoped the drink would silence it.

   “Never seen a man yer size drink this much and still be awake.” The barkeep said, snapping him out of his lamentations.

   “Another,” he grumbled to the barkeep, sliding his cup across the bar. It had been worn smooth from countless years of sad sorry bastards like him, drinking themselves stupid every night. He fund himself wondering how long this place had stood, how many years and how many broken men had come and gone since it was built. He ran his hand along the bar, his sense of touch being the only still intact at the moment. The drink had blurred his vision and made the rest of the dimly lit tavern seem like one solid mass of dark colors. The dull candlelight at the bar barely illuminated the barkeep’s already very blurry face. Once again he was snapped out of it by the barkeep.

   “You still haven’t paid for the last five, I’ll need the coin ‘fore I pour you another drop.”

   Begrudgingly he reached back for the coin purse on his belt. Yes, another, keep going until we can’t feel anything. Until it all goes away. Drink.

   Just that simple act was proving difficult, the room was beginning to spin and his extremities were starting to feel numb.  “Too much of this stuff will kill you, ya’ know that right?” The barkeep asked.

   “Nothin’s killed me yet, why should this?” The Swordsman slurred in response.

   He began clumsily looking around for his coin again until a booming voice startled him.

   “IT’S HIM!” the voice bellowed. He carefully turned himself in his stool to see a very large, very blurry, bald behemoth with several friends around him. He could tell they were there but for the life of him couldn’t make out any faces. Or be positive that he wasn’t just seeing double.

   “Yer ‘im aren’t ya? The Arm. The ‘dawn bringer’ right?”

   “I’m no one,” he replied in a grim monotone. You’re a failure. False hero.

   “NAH! You’re ‘im! Me and the lads keep hearin’ stories about that sword. Didn’t think it was real.” Turning back towards the bar he tried desperately to ignore the group as he continued looking for his coin purse. He had dealt with enough drunk idiots in recent years to know when one was just looking for a fight. After gaining his current reputation it seemed that every town he visited had someone seeking to test their manhood by taunting him. “I’m sure of it! Yer ‘im! Yer pretty scrawny for a hero, anyone ever tell ya that?” The Behemoth leaned in, “How about it hero? Show us that sword.”

   “You don’t want that…” He warned.

   But you do. Draw it. Draw it, hero. Kill everyone here. That’s all you’re good for. Most dignity had already abandoned him at this point in his life, but he was just drunk enough to do something stupid and self destructive if given the chance.

   “Move along…” he repeated, a grim expression beginning to set in his eyes. The Behemoth came around, moving much closer and his face came into focus; a bent nose that had been broken many times, several scars scattered about, and bulbous shrunken ears. Please, he hoped. Please don’t make me draw. The voice answered back,

   You know you want to. Why are you pretending you’re afraid. You want to. Do it. Do it. Do it! Do it!! Do it!!!

   “Are you plannin’ on movin’ me?” The Behemoth asked with a sense of dark delight at the prospect. There was a long silence before the Behemoth scoffed and began reaching for the hilt of the sword. Without warning, the Swordsman's skull slammed into the Behemoth’s face with a loud crack, re-breaking his nose. The blow had caused him to fall from his stool and had sent the Behemoth reeling. Letting out a roar of pain he held his hands to his face as blood rushed down his chin.

   That’s it! Keep going hero! The voice encouraged.

   “AHM GONNA SHOVE THAH SWORD UP YER ASS!!!” He bellowed.  As he stumbled back to his feet the Swordsman reached instinctively for his sword but his hand recoiled, almost as if he was horrified of it and slowly his arms fell to his sides. 

   You useless coward, It hissed.

   The Behemoth, still screaming, threw a wild haymaker at the Swordsman’s head and a massive fist landed flush across his cheek, hurling him halfway across the room. It was as if he made no attempt to dodge it. He threw another, and another, each one staggering the Swordsman but he never attempted to fight back or defend himself.

   Just let him kill you. There’s nothing here for you. No one who cares if you die in this shithole, it taunted. Fed up the Behemoth finally grabbed the Swordsman and hurled him into a nearby table, sending cups and plates flying. The Swordsman slowly stood back up with a far off look in his eyes and blood trailing out of the cuts on his cheek and brow.

   “STAY DOWN!!!” The Behemoth bellowed as he threw yet another punch. Yet this one did not meet its mark and instead the Behemoth received a swift stomp to his knee. A sickening snap and a blood curdling scream could be heard throughout the tavern. The Behemoth began to topple over but before he could hit the floor the Swordsman grabbed his collar.

   “No…” The Swordsman said in a chilling whisper, before he began slamming his fist into the Behemoth’s nose over and over with savagery and abandon. Over and over again the Swordsman’s fist met its mark, sending droplets of blood flying this way and that. Pulverizing flesh and crunching bone. Mashing the Behemoth’s face into pulp.

   This is all you’re good for. The voice said in an equally terrifying whisper.

   The other patrons who still remained in the tavern looked on in horror as they were sure no one could survive such a beating for long. Kill him. Kill him. Burn the world down! It screamed.

   The Behemoth’s friends finally decided to intervene, rushing in to try and save their comrade. Two grabbed the Swordsman’s arms and tried to pull him off, one began punching him in the gut and ribs as the last tried to drag the Behemoth from the melee. 

   As numb as the drink had made him the Swordsman could feel a rib begin to crack under the barrage. Yes. Yes! Hit us harder. Harder!!! Just give up and let them end it! A searing pain ran through his chest as the punches continued. Finally after several mighty blows the friend pulled a knife. A seax that glinted in the dim candle light. There was no way he could have known the kind of mistake he was making. Prior to that, the whole affair had just been a fight to the Swordsman. He’d been able to hold it at bay. He had been able to ignore it, but now, now it was a different matter entirely… Poor bastard, he thought. 

Poor bastard. The voice said.

[writeawayjake]

WIP!!!

(Plus the little doodle that goes with it)

CHAPTER 1

The Swordsman

How had he gotten here? Shirt half soaked in cheap mead, eyes red with lack of sleep, sitting in a dingy tavern far from anywhere that could be considered ‘civilized’. The glory had faded, the shouts of praise had grown quiet, and the days had begun to blur together. All he had left was the sword and the memories of what he had gone through to get it, what he did with it once he had it. It had been years since he even took it out of it’s sheath.

Why didn’t you save them? Why weren’t you strong enough? Why? Why? Why?

“Another” he grumbled to the bar keep, sliding his cup across the bar. The dull candlelight barely illuminating the man's very blurry face.

“You still haven’t paid for the last five, I’ll need the coin ‘fore I pour you another drop.” Begrudgingly he reached back for the coin purse on his belt. Yes, another, keep going until we can’t feel anything. Until it all goes away. Drink. Just that simple act was proving difficult, the room was beginning to spin and his extremities were starting to feel numb. He gropped around clumsily for a time until a booming voice startled him.

“IT’S HIM!” The voice bellowed. He, very carefully, turned himself in his stool to see a very large, very blurry, bald Behemoth with several friends around him. He could tell they were there but for the life of him couldn’t make out any faces. Or be positive that he wasn’t just seeing double. “Yer ‘im aren’t ya? The Swordsman. The ‘dawn bringer’ right?”

“I’m no one.” he replied in a grim montone. You’re a failure. False hero.

“NAH! You’re ‘im! Me and the lads keep hearin’ stories about that sword. Didn’t think it was real.” Turning back towards the bar he tried desperately to ignore the group as he continued looking for his coin purse. He had dealt with enough drunk idiots in recent years to know when one was just looking for a fight. After gaining his current reputation it seemed that every town he visited had someone seeking to test their manhood by taunting him. “I’m sure of it! Yer ‘im! Yer pretty scrawny for a hero, anyone ever tell ya that?” The Behemoth leaned in, “How about it hero? Show us that sword.”

“You don’t want that…” He warned. But you do. Draw it. Draw it, hero. Kill everyone here. That’s all you’re good for. Most dignity had already abandoned him at this point in his life, but he was just drunk enough to do something stupid and self destructive if given the chance.

“Move along…” he repeated, a grim expression beginning to set in his eyes. The Behemoth came around, moving much closer and his face came into focus; a bent nose that had been broken many times, several scars scattered about, and bulbous shrunken ears. Please, he thought. Please don’t make me draw.

You know you want to. Why are you pretending you’re afraid. You want to. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it!!!

“Are you plannin’ on movin’ me?” There was a long silence before the Behemoth scoffed and began reaching for the hilt of the sword. Without warning, the Swordsman's skull slammed into the Behemoth’s face with a loud CRACK, re-breaking his nose. The blow had caused him to fall from his stool and had sent the Behemoth reeling. The floor felt like it was shifting beneath him as he stumbled back to his feet. The Behemoth let out a roar of pain and held his hands to his face as blood rushed down his chin. That’s it! Keep going hero!  “AHM GONNA SHOVE THAH SWORD UP YER ASS!!!” He bellowed. The Swordsman reached instinctively for his sword but his hand recoiled, almost as if he was horrified of it and slowly his arms fell to his sides. You coward.

The Behemoth, still screaming, threw a wild haymaker at the Swordsman’s head and a massive fist landed flush across his cheek, hurling him halfway across the room, as if he made no attempt to dodge it. He threw another, and another, each one staggering the Swordsman but he never attempted to fight back or defend himself. You should just let him kill you. There’s nothing here for you. No one who cares if you die in this shithole. Fed up the Behemoth finally grabbed the Swordsman and hurled him into a nearby table, sending cups and plates flying. The Swordsman slowly stood back up with a far off look in his eyes and blood trailing out of the cuts on his cheek and brow. “STAY DOWN!!!” The Behemoth bellowed as he threw yet another punch. Yet this one did not meet it’s mark and instead the Behemoth received a swift stomp to his knee. A sickening snap and a blood curdling scream could be heard throughout the tavern. The Behemoth began to topple over but before he could hit the floor the Swordsman grabbed his collar,

“No…” The Swordsman said almost in a whisper, before he began slamming his fist into the Behemoth’s nose over and over with savagery and abandon. Over and over again the Swordsman’s fist met its mark, sending droplets of blood flying this way and that. This is all you’re good for. The other patrons who still remained in the tavern looked on in horror as they were sure no one could survive such a beating for long. Kill him. Kill him. Burn the world down! The Behemoth’s friends finally decided to intervene, rushing in to try and save their comrade. Two grabbed the Swordsman’s arms and tried to pull him off, one began punching him in the gut and ribs as the last tried to drag the Behemoth from the melee.

As numb as the drink had made him the Swordsman could feel a rib begin to crack under the barrage. Yes. Yes! Hit us harder. Harder!!! A searing pain ran through his chest as the punches continued. Finally after several mighty blows the friend pulled a knife. A seax that glinted in the dim candle light. There was no way he could have known the kind of mistake he was making. Prior to that, the whole affair had just been a fight to the Swordsman. He’d been able to hold it at bay. He had been able to ignore it, but now, now it was a different matter entirely… Poor bastard, he thought. Poor bastard. The voice said.

[writeawayjake]

Work in progress!!!

So far these have all been first drafts but this one chapter was one I wasn’t really happy with until I went back and re-worked it!!! As always, open to notes and critiques!!!

CHAPTER 1

The Swordsman

How had he gotten here? Shirt half soaked in cheap mead, eyes red with lack of sleep, sitting in a dingy tavern far from anywhere that could be considered ‘civilized’. The glory had faded, the shouts of praise had grown quiet, and the days had begun to blur together. All he had left was the sword and the memories of what he had gone through to get it, what he did with it once he had it. It had been years since he even took it out of it’s sheath.Why didn’t you save them? Why weren’t you strong enough? Why? Why? Why?

“Another” he grumbled to the bar keep, sliding his cup across the bar. The dull candlelight barely illuminating the man's very blurry face.

“You still haven’t paid for the last five, I’ll need the coin ‘fore I pour you another drop.” Begrudgingly he reached back for the coin purse on his belt. Yes, another, keep going until we can’t feel anything. Until it all goes away. Drink. Just that simple act was proving difficult, the room was beginning to spin and his extremities were starting to feel numb. He groped around clumsily for a time until a booming voice startled him.

“IT’S HIM!” The voice bellowed. He, very carefully, turned himself in his stool to see a very large, very blurry, bald Behemoth with several friends around him. He could tell they were there but for the life of him couldn’t make out any faces. Or be positive that he wasn’t just seeing double. “Yer ‘im aren’t ya? The Swordsman. The ‘dawn bringer’ right?”

“I’m no one.” he replied in a grim monotone. You’re a failure. False hero.

“NAH! You’re ‘im! Me and the lads keep hearin’ stories about that sword. Didn’t think it was real.” Turning back towards the bar he tried desperately to ignore the group as he continued looking for his coin purse. He had dealt with enough drunk idiots in recent years to know when one was just looking for a fight. After gaining his current reputation it seemed that every town he visited had someone seeking to test their manhood by taunting him. “I’m sure of it! Yer ‘im! Yer pretty scrawny for a hero, anyone ever tell ya that?” The Behemoth leaned in, “How about it hero? Show us that sword.”

“You don’t want that…” He warned. But you do. Draw it. Draw it, hero. Kill everyone here. That’s all you’re good for. Most dignity had already abandoned him at this point in his life, but he was just drunk enough to do something stupid and self destructive if given the chance.

“Move along…” he repeated, a grim expression beginning to set in his eyes. The Behemoth came around, moving much closer and his face came into focus; a bent nose that had been broken many times, several scars scattered about, and bulbous shrunken ears. Please, he thought. Please don’t make me draw.

You know you want to. Why are you pretending you’re afraid. You want to. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it!!!

“Are you plannin’ on movin’ me?” There was a long silence before the Behemoth scoffed and began reaching for the hilt of the sword. Without warning, the Swordsman's skull slammed into the Behemoth’s face with a loud CRACK, re-breaking his nose. The blow had caused him to fall from his stool and had sent the Behemoth reeling. With his feet now underneath him, the floor felt like it was shifting and swaying beneath him. The Behemoth let out a roar of pain and held his hands to his face as blood rushed down his chin. That’s it! Keep going hero!  “AHM GONNA SHOVE THAH SWORD UP YER ASS!!!” He bellowed. The Swordsman reached instinctively for his sword but his hand recoiled, almost as if he was horrified of it and slowly his arms fell to his sides. You coward.

The Behemoth, still screaming, threw a wild haymaker at the Swordsman’s head and a massive fist landed flush across his cheek, hurling him halfway across the room, as if he made no attempt to dodge it. He threw another, and another, each one staggering the Swordsman but he never attempted to fight back or defend himself. You should just let him kill you. There’s nothing here for you. No one who cares if you die in this shithole. Fed up the Behemoth finally grabbed the Swordsman and hurled him into a nearby table, sending cups and plates flying. The Swordsman slowly stood back up with a far off look in his eyes and blood trailing out of the cuts on his cheek and brow. “STAY DOWN!!!” The Behemoth bellowed as he threw yet another punch. Yet this one did not meet it’s mark and instead the Behemoth received a swift stomp to his knee. A sickening snap and a blood curdling scream could be heard throughout the tavern. The Behemoth began to topple over but before he could hit the floor the Swordsman grabbed his collar,

“No…” The Swordsman said almost in a whisper, before he began slamming his fist into the Behemoth’s nose over and over with savagery and abandon. Over and over again the Swordsman’s fist met its mark, sending droplets of blood flying this way and that. This is all you’re good for. The other patrons who still remained in the tavern looked on in horror as they were sure no one could survive such a beating for long. Kill him. Kill him. Burn the world down! The Behemoth’s friends finally decided to intervene, rushing in to try and save their comrade. Two grabbed the Swordsman’s arms and tried to pull him off, one began punching him in the gut and ribs as the last tried to drag the Behemoth from the melee.

As numb as the drink had made him the Swordsman could feel a rib begin to crack under the barrage. Yes. Yes! Hit us harder. Harder!!! A searing pain ran through his chest as the punches continued. Finally after several mighty blows the friend pulled a knife. A seax that glinted in the dim candle light. There was no way he could have known the kind of mistake he was making. Prior to that, the whole affair had just been a fight to the Swordsman. He’d been able to hold it at bay. He had been able to ignore it, but now, now it was a different matter entirely… 

Poor bastard, he thought. 

Poor bastard. The voice said.