Daily15 Stuff
Jan. 30th, 2006 03:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Internal
Word Count: 481
Strong feelings of gloating mingled with satiation and dark amusement in the back of her mind as Kalla swung again, biting deeply into the body of yet another Nestarian soldier. Her emotions roiled, mingled revulsion with rage and an undeniable blood lust. All her life she’d been resisting the call, not knowing fully what the evil mutterings she had heard tickling the edges of her consciousness had meant but understanding that to speak of them would only bring ill fortune upon herself and her family. But it seemed as if her silence had come to naught for her family was dead, killed by soldiers wearing the same rust-colored uniforms and expressions of either sadistic glee or hollow blankness. All that remained to her was revenge and the voice that filled her every moment, slipping into even her dreams to whisper insidiously and drench everything with the same crimson that stained her hands and matted her hair against her forehead.
The double-bladed axe should have been heavy now and her shoulders should have been slumping, elbows weak with exhaustion. Instead, the weapon felt lighter than it ever had as it sang through the air to a voice of deep and terrible exaltation that only Kalla could hear. She wrenched one end free of yet another soldier’s belly, watched as his internal organs spilled out, slippery and stinking from the bite she’d given his intestines. He was dying even as she ruthlessly kicked him aside and faced the next opponent. The stone corridor was slippery behind her, slick and wet with blood and other things, and all she could do was move forward if she wanted to keep her footing and live.
It almost seemed as if the axe was feeding on each soldier it hit, the voice and emanations filling her growing and pulsing with every connecting strike. And despite the veritable stream of blood she was making, it didn’t seem to even her inexperienced eyes as if enough came out each time she landed another blow. Her own blood was roaring in her ears, filled her vision with a haze she recognized with a detached part of her brain from the old priest’s stories. Berserker fury he’d called it, a curse from the gods. And it seemed as if she had it, fighting like one possessed. Kalla couldn’t tell if it came from the supposedly demonic weapon that was also her only savior or if it was something that had always lurked within. But as she raised the dripping twin sickle moons again, this time taking off a man’s head in a move that should have been impossible for one with her own limited strength and experience, she decided it didn’t matter.
All that did was survival. Survival and revenge and staining the halls of the emperor of Nestar as darkly crimson as the absorbent clay soil of her former home.
Word Count: 481
Strong feelings of gloating mingled with satiation and dark amusement in the back of her mind as Kalla swung again, biting deeply into the body of yet another Nestarian soldier. Her emotions roiled, mingled revulsion with rage and an undeniable blood lust. All her life she’d been resisting the call, not knowing fully what the evil mutterings she had heard tickling the edges of her consciousness had meant but understanding that to speak of them would only bring ill fortune upon herself and her family. But it seemed as if her silence had come to naught for her family was dead, killed by soldiers wearing the same rust-colored uniforms and expressions of either sadistic glee or hollow blankness. All that remained to her was revenge and the voice that filled her every moment, slipping into even her dreams to whisper insidiously and drench everything with the same crimson that stained her hands and matted her hair against her forehead.
The double-bladed axe should have been heavy now and her shoulders should have been slumping, elbows weak with exhaustion. Instead, the weapon felt lighter than it ever had as it sang through the air to a voice of deep and terrible exaltation that only Kalla could hear. She wrenched one end free of yet another soldier’s belly, watched as his internal organs spilled out, slippery and stinking from the bite she’d given his intestines. He was dying even as she ruthlessly kicked him aside and faced the next opponent. The stone corridor was slippery behind her, slick and wet with blood and other things, and all she could do was move forward if she wanted to keep her footing and live.
It almost seemed as if the axe was feeding on each soldier it hit, the voice and emanations filling her growing and pulsing with every connecting strike. And despite the veritable stream of blood she was making, it didn’t seem to even her inexperienced eyes as if enough came out each time she landed another blow. Her own blood was roaring in her ears, filled her vision with a haze she recognized with a detached part of her brain from the old priest’s stories. Berserker fury he’d called it, a curse from the gods. And it seemed as if she had it, fighting like one possessed. Kalla couldn’t tell if it came from the supposedly demonic weapon that was also her only savior or if it was something that had always lurked within. But as she raised the dripping twin sickle moons again, this time taking off a man’s head in a move that should have been impossible for one with her own limited strength and experience, she decided it didn’t matter.
All that did was survival. Survival and revenge and staining the halls of the emperor of Nestar as darkly crimson as the absorbent clay soil of her former home.
