Jessica Brown
Stories
7
Chapters
1,940
Words
857.1 K
Comments
0
Reading
2 d, 23 h
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Her armour should have caved in! Her body should have broken! He could have sworn it had! The cracking of bones reached his pointed ears, but would soon be followed by flashes of sweetness within the caustic stench of vitriol. She continued resisting his onslaught. The rage of the beast rose in his mind, threatening the reason of the man within. “ The nimbus of vitriol ate his body with every blow, but the resilience of the curse countered it. His eyes narrowed, noting her movements were weakening.…
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Men died around Kyembe like flies. The Sengezian danced and leapt from their encirclement, but they swarmed over the seats like enraged bees. His sword-staff struck out in a blur, slaying or wounding with each cut, and the haft grew slick with gore. And not just with that of his foes. A score of cuts marked his own body, inflicted by fortunate lupine claws or sword-blows. They stalked him, not giving him leave to draw forth his healing energies. He growled, frustrated. Wurhi and Merrick struggled…
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Her bearing sword drove deep into the titan’s only eye, splitting its pupil and bursting the orb beneath. A bloodcurdling scream shook the mountain, potent enough to grind crystal to dust. Warriors near the cyclops shrieked and fell to their knees, clasping their ears. The cavern trembled with the giant’s agony. Yet the saint remained steadfast: a Solidblade that did not shudder against tribulation. The anguished bellow that followed rocked the cavern as the titan stumbled, his footfalls hammering the…
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What had occurred? Had Cristabel already made her way there? Did these cultists have a falling out among themselves? The Spirit Killer froze in astonishment as he emerged from the tunnel’s mouth. -smote the fleeing mortals. Bronze crumpled. Bodies Shattered forms swept through the air as though hurled from catapults. “By the stars!” Kyembe ducked. A familiar glitter caught his eye. He stopped. …perhaps nearer than he had thought. His friend - transformed into a rat and girded for war -…
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Earlier, a fleeing Haldrych had stumbled from the passage and emerged into what he could only describe as hell. A cacophony of wails, roars, shouts and screams assaulted his ears, overlaying the bedlam within. Before him writhed a chaotic scene of bronze, flesh and death. The seats of the arena burst with black robed cultists struggling against berserk beasts. Werewolves leapt among them, pulling down the half-starved, panicked creatures and tearing them open with fang and claw. Yet, there were but few…
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“Lycundar’s Teeth! Look, Sacred Alpha!” Berard pointed. A familiar, very A rat-woman that should be “What in Lycundar’s teeth…” he murmured. “How did-” He paused. Her sword glittered as it pierced through the mask of a surprised acolyte, drawing forth a fountain of crimson to drench the sand. That sword had hung from the belt of his beast-man when last he had seen it. Now it was reclaimed - held in the grip of the rat-thief’s hand – and leaving him with a bitter conclusion as…
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Haldrych gaped at the towering Its fiery blade drank lives as a glutton guzzled wine. The heat had grown sweltering and the ash was choking. What deviltry had come for them!? Even the werewolves - who had seemed so mighty and fearsome to him - could only die like curs as they threw themselves upon that fiery point. Familiar screams filled his ears from somewhere very near. It took him a moment to realize they came from his own throat. Did he truly sound so feeble? “This isn’t working!”…
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Wolves bayed as pack-brothers transformed both before and behind him. Dying screams echoed through the tunnel. These were the sounds that clasped the young poet in an icy grip and set his heart thundering. Haldrych, the Patriarch of House Ameldan - who had yearned for combat that would carve his name into legend - had at last found the storm of battle. His hands trembled…from excitement. ‘Yes, only from excitement,’ he told himself. His mask. His mask had grown stifling. Suffocating him. He…
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Silently, Wurhi and the hunting cat darted into the room with both sword and teeth bared. The guards at the entrance only had time to whirl about when a silver blade pierced one through the neck and massive jaws pressed down on another’s skull- The Zabyallan eyed the room, but found no more opponents. She recalled more guards when she had been taken to the arena - but it seemed that Milos’ planned ritual required the presence of most in the cult. She smiled. “Lucky me.” “P-please,” a voice…
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A silver blade thrust into the acolyte’s back, sliding cleanly through his ribs and deep into his beating heart. His blood-choked gasp alerted his companion, and the alarmed man whirled toward the dying acolyte and held up his oil lamp. He had no chance to cry out. The cat’s eyes shone, and it turned toward one of the opposite tunnels, letting loose a low, rumbling growl. The scent of wolf drifted from the centre passage, and Wurhi watched it tense in anticipation of vengeance. “Later, later!”…
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