![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Metalocalypse fic - a new thingy
Title: Prologue
Rating: PG-10 for gore
Word Count: 1738
Song: Sonata Arctica - The Ruins of My Life
Death stalked the field, its presence a palpable force and inescapable. Hunched black shoulders shrugged, matte feathers ruffling a little in the chill wind that swept across the battlefield, and the raven clacked his beak. Bright eyes, as black as the feathers but shining with an uncanny intelligence, rolled in the bird’s head as it searched, looking for a proper target. They lit on a softly groaning figure, a young man, more of a boy really, in homespun. The hunting bow he’d carried into battle rested out of his reach, a hand’s breadth past his outstretched fingers, and his long knife was still trapped in its sheath at his belt. Blood matted the lad’s rich chestnut hair at his temple and more poured steadily out of the wound he’d taken to his thigh. To the raven’s practiced eyes, the axe had struck deep and true into the femoral artery and it wouldn’t be long before a final pulse of crimson would carry the life from the boy’s body. It would be best to reach him before that happened.
Soft rustling accompanied the slight spreading of the raven’s wings, a span of nearly six feet from tip to tip, and the bird released his talons from the branch. One somewhat awkward hop and then another, the few remaining brown leaves rattling like a lung’s last gasp, and the raven was air born. Muscles worked in conjunction with the air to defy gravity and the raven soon climbed skyward. Beneath the lazy circle the bird began, the last throes of the skirmish started to wind down. It hadn’t been much of a contest - a pastoral people against the fierce invaders from the north – but the raven had an interest in such things. Nearly all the Northmen were still alive, barring an unlucky few who had been picked off during the opening volley of arrows, and most of those were hale and whole. Their targets weren’t so lucky. Lacking even rudimentary armor and the thick layers of hides the Northmen wore, their sun-baked bodies fell easily before the practiced might of the invaders. Long iron-tipped spears, clubs, and rarer battle axes and swords cleaved their flesh, broke their bones and spilled their brains open upon the gleaned field, their blood soaking into the earth that had for years taken their sweat.
The stench of it, of their sweat and blood and the contents of their bowels and above all the sour reek of fear, was distant from the raven’s severely limited sense of smell but even he could detect it. Far sharper eyes raked over the scene, the varied shades of blood in its many forms standing out in stark relief to the duller earth tones of the humans’ clothing. Smaller things, rats mostly and field mice, darted about the edges of the conflict and more birds, a few ravens and a group of cantankerous buzzards, perched expectantly in skeletal trees or flew in lazy circles over the field. A pack of dogs bayed in the distance, out of the raven’s sight, and a lone plow horse plodded with sweat-damp flanks back in the direction of the village. The raven could make out the frantic activity there as women and children and old men scrambled to flee or resist, a few resigned already to the inevitable and sitting with blank expressions upon the ground. Swiveling his head, the raven returned his attention to the battleground and to the boy.
His chest still rose but slowly, like bellows tended by an inexperienced and tired apprentice, and his fingers had stopped plucking at the dry grass. The raven circled, spiraled down towards the boy and finally landed a meter or so from his head. A few long hops carried the bird forward in ungainly progress, the tip of one wing trailing for balance. The raven stopped next to the human’s head, his talons digging into the frost-hard ground and tangling in a strand of the boy’s hair. He leaned forward, the softer feathers of his breast brushing the lad’s cheek, so that he could cock his head, use an eye to peer down into the boy’s own. They were brown and clear but the pupils were enormous and dilated and did not focus on the bird now in their line of sight. As the raven stared, the boy drew in a breath like a sigh and let it out with only the softest of sounds. His chest did not rise again and the raven bobbed its head once, as if in an acknowledging bow, before lowering further. The eye was tender and soft, moist against the raven’s tongue as it swallowed the juicy morsel, a pleased ruffling of feathers accompanying the feast as the raven straightened. And then, ass the boy’s eye slid down the bird’s throat, the visions began.
Jumbled collections of human things, of long days in the field with a primitive hoe while the sun beat down mercilessly, of a cold snowy night in front of a too-small fire, of a fast-flowing river and silver-bright fish caught in a weir, of a gray-haired old woman with only three teeth and a rheumy eye, of parents and sibling and friends, all flashed across the raven’s consciousness. He rode on them, like riding a thermal, let the tide of the boy’s life slip past him until he saw something that looked interesting. A girl, young and pretty by human standards and the boy had imagined many times what he would do with her if he could only win her favor. He was a creative lad and apparently far more cruel than his appearance suggested for he did things to the girl with ropes and knives that the raven had never seen before. The bird stored those thoughts away, tucked them into his brain, and went back to the stream of life. More thoughts, all that he’d had, and most of them were common and plain, normal and boring, but the raven found a few more worth taking, including the curious-looking tool the lad had considered making for threshing. The tide slowed to a trickle and the raven shook himself, feathers plumping up as the bird returned to the reality of the battlefield.
Normal vision returned slowly and at first the blurry image before him made no sense. The raven blinked, tilted his head and looked up into a mouthful of gleaming white teeth. He squawked and mantled, hopping backwards clumsily and only just keeping his balance with an outstretched wing. A bright red tongue lolled between the fangs as the wolf opened its jaws in a canine grin. Gore was smeared across its muzzle, silver-white fur stained with blood and dirt, and uncannily bright blue eyes stared down at the raven with a fierce intensity. The boy, the raven noticed with one eye, no longer had much of a stomach, his intestines strewn about the ground and his liver missing from his body cavity. Pink-tinged saliva dripped from the wolf’s mouth as its jaws opened further and it used one black-clawed paw to nudge the boy’s slack head.
“Enjoy your dinner, little bird?”
The wolf’s voice was clear to the raven, a smooth sleek sound with an underlying masculine growl, and the bird shook his head, staggered back another step.
His croaked reply, though, was cocky and smug, conjured up by a memory of emptying his bowels once from a quarter mile up and reaching his target. There was no trace of the terror he felt coursing through his veins in his words. “Very tasty. And manageable enough.” He preened his feathers pointedly but the wolf just chuckled and dropped, rolled over the boy’s body and getting blood and offal all over his fur.
“Do you ever live, little bird? Ever experience your own life rather than that of others? Don’t you hunger for it?”
The wolf watched him from upside down, all four paws in the air, as he lay draped over the dead human’s chest. It should have been funny but the glint in the wolf’s summer-sky eye promised a dark sort of mischief and the raven remained on his guard.
“You,” the raven retorted with a sharp clack of his beak, “are a glutton. And I have my own life and my own purpose.”
“Your purpose.” The wolf let out a most unlupine-like snort and rolled back over, getting to his feet mindless of the damage his claws were dealing to the corpse beneath them. He took a step forward and then another, attention trained on the raven. His tongue licked at his jaws, cleaning them and threatening at the same time. “Think you’re so high and mighty, don’t you, with your perch and his ear. Just a tool, that’s all you are.”
“And you’re just an appetite,” the raven called back, harsh voice made even rougher by fear. He half-spread his wings, took another hop backwards, getting a lot of air.
“Well then,” said the wolf, baring his teeth in a nasty grin. “Maybe I’ll just eat you.”
The wolf lunged forward as the raven leaped, wings clawing at the air. Breath, hot and stinking of human flesh, washed over him and he closed his eyes and strained for the sky as powerful jaws began to close…
…Toki Wartooth sat bolt upright in his narrow bed, mouth open to scream even though the noise was caught in his throat. He swore he could feel the humid air on his skin, smell fetid breath in his nostrils, and as he blinked, terror-stricken in the dark of his room, he wrapped his arms tightly around himself and was almost shocked not to feel feathers beneath his fingertips. Ten minutes passed as he slowly calmed down; his racing pulse lowering to a more manageable level and the sweat on his brow drying there. Finally, torn between returning to sleep and fear of what would happen if he did, Toki got up.
When Jean Pierre found Toki in the kitchen half an hour later with his hands wrapped around a giant mug of hot chocolate and staring unseeing at the wall, he wasn’t surprised. It was the tenth time in less than a month that nightmares had driven the rhythm guitarist from his bed and the mousy chef clucked his tongue in concern and went to make chocolate-chip pancakes with a side of herring, the perfect form of Norwegian comfort food.
Rating: PG-10 for gore
Word Count: 1738
Song: Sonata Arctica - The Ruins of My Life
Death stalked the field, its presence a palpable force and inescapable. Hunched black shoulders shrugged, matte feathers ruffling a little in the chill wind that swept across the battlefield, and the raven clacked his beak. Bright eyes, as black as the feathers but shining with an uncanny intelligence, rolled in the bird’s head as it searched, looking for a proper target. They lit on a softly groaning figure, a young man, more of a boy really, in homespun. The hunting bow he’d carried into battle rested out of his reach, a hand’s breadth past his outstretched fingers, and his long knife was still trapped in its sheath at his belt. Blood matted the lad’s rich chestnut hair at his temple and more poured steadily out of the wound he’d taken to his thigh. To the raven’s practiced eyes, the axe had struck deep and true into the femoral artery and it wouldn’t be long before a final pulse of crimson would carry the life from the boy’s body. It would be best to reach him before that happened.
Soft rustling accompanied the slight spreading of the raven’s wings, a span of nearly six feet from tip to tip, and the bird released his talons from the branch. One somewhat awkward hop and then another, the few remaining brown leaves rattling like a lung’s last gasp, and the raven was air born. Muscles worked in conjunction with the air to defy gravity and the raven soon climbed skyward. Beneath the lazy circle the bird began, the last throes of the skirmish started to wind down. It hadn’t been much of a contest - a pastoral people against the fierce invaders from the north – but the raven had an interest in such things. Nearly all the Northmen were still alive, barring an unlucky few who had been picked off during the opening volley of arrows, and most of those were hale and whole. Their targets weren’t so lucky. Lacking even rudimentary armor and the thick layers of hides the Northmen wore, their sun-baked bodies fell easily before the practiced might of the invaders. Long iron-tipped spears, clubs, and rarer battle axes and swords cleaved their flesh, broke their bones and spilled their brains open upon the gleaned field, their blood soaking into the earth that had for years taken their sweat.
The stench of it, of their sweat and blood and the contents of their bowels and above all the sour reek of fear, was distant from the raven’s severely limited sense of smell but even he could detect it. Far sharper eyes raked over the scene, the varied shades of blood in its many forms standing out in stark relief to the duller earth tones of the humans’ clothing. Smaller things, rats mostly and field mice, darted about the edges of the conflict and more birds, a few ravens and a group of cantankerous buzzards, perched expectantly in skeletal trees or flew in lazy circles over the field. A pack of dogs bayed in the distance, out of the raven’s sight, and a lone plow horse plodded with sweat-damp flanks back in the direction of the village. The raven could make out the frantic activity there as women and children and old men scrambled to flee or resist, a few resigned already to the inevitable and sitting with blank expressions upon the ground. Swiveling his head, the raven returned his attention to the battleground and to the boy.
His chest still rose but slowly, like bellows tended by an inexperienced and tired apprentice, and his fingers had stopped plucking at the dry grass. The raven circled, spiraled down towards the boy and finally landed a meter or so from his head. A few long hops carried the bird forward in ungainly progress, the tip of one wing trailing for balance. The raven stopped next to the human’s head, his talons digging into the frost-hard ground and tangling in a strand of the boy’s hair. He leaned forward, the softer feathers of his breast brushing the lad’s cheek, so that he could cock his head, use an eye to peer down into the boy’s own. They were brown and clear but the pupils were enormous and dilated and did not focus on the bird now in their line of sight. As the raven stared, the boy drew in a breath like a sigh and let it out with only the softest of sounds. His chest did not rise again and the raven bobbed its head once, as if in an acknowledging bow, before lowering further. The eye was tender and soft, moist against the raven’s tongue as it swallowed the juicy morsel, a pleased ruffling of feathers accompanying the feast as the raven straightened. And then, ass the boy’s eye slid down the bird’s throat, the visions began.
Jumbled collections of human things, of long days in the field with a primitive hoe while the sun beat down mercilessly, of a cold snowy night in front of a too-small fire, of a fast-flowing river and silver-bright fish caught in a weir, of a gray-haired old woman with only three teeth and a rheumy eye, of parents and sibling and friends, all flashed across the raven’s consciousness. He rode on them, like riding a thermal, let the tide of the boy’s life slip past him until he saw something that looked interesting. A girl, young and pretty by human standards and the boy had imagined many times what he would do with her if he could only win her favor. He was a creative lad and apparently far more cruel than his appearance suggested for he did things to the girl with ropes and knives that the raven had never seen before. The bird stored those thoughts away, tucked them into his brain, and went back to the stream of life. More thoughts, all that he’d had, and most of them were common and plain, normal and boring, but the raven found a few more worth taking, including the curious-looking tool the lad had considered making for threshing. The tide slowed to a trickle and the raven shook himself, feathers plumping up as the bird returned to the reality of the battlefield.
Normal vision returned slowly and at first the blurry image before him made no sense. The raven blinked, tilted his head and looked up into a mouthful of gleaming white teeth. He squawked and mantled, hopping backwards clumsily and only just keeping his balance with an outstretched wing. A bright red tongue lolled between the fangs as the wolf opened its jaws in a canine grin. Gore was smeared across its muzzle, silver-white fur stained with blood and dirt, and uncannily bright blue eyes stared down at the raven with a fierce intensity. The boy, the raven noticed with one eye, no longer had much of a stomach, his intestines strewn about the ground and his liver missing from his body cavity. Pink-tinged saliva dripped from the wolf’s mouth as its jaws opened further and it used one black-clawed paw to nudge the boy’s slack head.
“Enjoy your dinner, little bird?”
The wolf’s voice was clear to the raven, a smooth sleek sound with an underlying masculine growl, and the bird shook his head, staggered back another step.
His croaked reply, though, was cocky and smug, conjured up by a memory of emptying his bowels once from a quarter mile up and reaching his target. There was no trace of the terror he felt coursing through his veins in his words. “Very tasty. And manageable enough.” He preened his feathers pointedly but the wolf just chuckled and dropped, rolled over the boy’s body and getting blood and offal all over his fur.
“Do you ever live, little bird? Ever experience your own life rather than that of others? Don’t you hunger for it?”
The wolf watched him from upside down, all four paws in the air, as he lay draped over the dead human’s chest. It should have been funny but the glint in the wolf’s summer-sky eye promised a dark sort of mischief and the raven remained on his guard.
“You,” the raven retorted with a sharp clack of his beak, “are a glutton. And I have my own life and my own purpose.”
“Your purpose.” The wolf let out a most unlupine-like snort and rolled back over, getting to his feet mindless of the damage his claws were dealing to the corpse beneath them. He took a step forward and then another, attention trained on the raven. His tongue licked at his jaws, cleaning them and threatening at the same time. “Think you’re so high and mighty, don’t you, with your perch and his ear. Just a tool, that’s all you are.”
“And you’re just an appetite,” the raven called back, harsh voice made even rougher by fear. He half-spread his wings, took another hop backwards, getting a lot of air.
“Well then,” said the wolf, baring his teeth in a nasty grin. “Maybe I’ll just eat you.”
The wolf lunged forward as the raven leaped, wings clawing at the air. Breath, hot and stinking of human flesh, washed over him and he closed his eyes and strained for the sky as powerful jaws began to close…
…Toki Wartooth sat bolt upright in his narrow bed, mouth open to scream even though the noise was caught in his throat. He swore he could feel the humid air on his skin, smell fetid breath in his nostrils, and as he blinked, terror-stricken in the dark of his room, he wrapped his arms tightly around himself and was almost shocked not to feel feathers beneath his fingertips. Ten minutes passed as he slowly calmed down; his racing pulse lowering to a more manageable level and the sweat on his brow drying there. Finally, torn between returning to sleep and fear of what would happen if he did, Toki got up.
When Jean Pierre found Toki in the kitchen half an hour later with his hands wrapped around a giant mug of hot chocolate and staring unseeing at the wall, he wasn’t surprised. It was the tenth time in less than a month that nightmares had driven the rhythm guitarist from his bed and the mousy chef clucked his tongue in concern and went to make chocolate-chip pancakes with a side of herring, the perfect form of Norwegian comfort food.