Tyloric
Illogical Process of Elimination
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White
By Tyloric
Note: This is a rewrite of an older story of mine. If you recognize it, that's why.
I never thought that it would end this way. I always thought that one of the many people I’d ****ed off through the years would find me and run my through, or put a bullet in my head, or that maybe I’d get some fatal disease from a cheap whore in Bloodstone. Or, hell, may that I’d drink myself to death. Anything but this.
I never thought that it would end with me being trapped in some god forsaken labyrinth be chased (hunted?) by some god damned Balverines. **** me off.
Another roar, more of a howl really, cuts through the darkness like a sword sliding through flesh. The echo of the narrow walls and high ceiling offer makes my ears ring. “Yeah, you cheeky bastard. I hear ya,” I mean for it to sound a bit menacing, but my throat it too dry and it comes out sounding rough and haggard like some homeless bum.
Slowly, I stumble my way down the corridor, searching, hoping, praying for a way out. But I’m a realistic man; there is no way out. Not one that is close enough, anyway. My wounds would take me soon enough; the bite to my right bicep (ruined my ink, the bastards) way already leaking and beginning to fester. I can feel the fever taking me and my vision is already a bit cloudy. So I’m either going to a, die, or b, turn in to a balverine. Neither option sits right with me, but I had to choose I’d rather die.
Another howl echoes down the hall louder this time. They’re getting closer. They must have finally caught on to my scent. Again. Persistent arses.
It’s my own fault, really, being in this situation. I let greed get the better of me yet again. An tomb that had yet to be raided? The possibility of riches beyond my imagination? How could I resist? Common sense said that there was a reason that it had never been successfully plundered, but I over estimated my abilities this time. There was no way out this one, that had already been made terribly clear.
I start using my long sword as an impromptu walking stick, stabbing it in between the cracked cobblestones of the floor for balance. My legs were losing their strength, and I could feel the change coming. The easiest way to describe it is just that I was hungry. No, really, that’s what it felt like. Ever fiber of me was beginning to tell me the same thing: “I want meat.”
God dammit, dying was uncomfortable to say the least.
Making a management decision, I decide that it’s time to stop walking. Because, let’s be honest, there is trying to survive and then there is just outright refusing to die, and I just didn’t have the energy to do either anymore.
I sit and against the wall, setting my blade and torch down, drawing my pistol and resting it in my lap. A stray cough comes out of nowhere, shaking my entire body. It brings a metallic taste with it which I spit out revealing (I’m not surprised) blood. Great.
I can hear growling in the darkness, just out of reach of my torches light, and I can’t help but smile. I’m right here, you ****s. Come and get me.
A white balverine steps into the torchlight, snarling. I don’t regard it with fear or repulsion, just a tired resignation.
It stood there, watching me, looking me in the eye no less. Just… waiting. It took a minute for my addled brain to catch up and make the connection, but when I figured it out I couldn’t help but throw my head back and laugh at the absurdity of it all.
They were waiting for me to change.
“Heh, I guess we don’t give you guys enough credit. Smarter than you look, that’s for ****ing sure.” If the creature understood me, it didn’t show it. It didn’t even show any sign that I had spoken. It just… watched.
Well then, I’ll just have to give it some incentive then, won’t I? I raise my pistol in line with its head. It gave me just the reaction I was looking for; the balverine hunched over, taking up an aggressive stance snarling, drool leaking out of its mouth.
I cracked a tired smile, “You or me, bud. What’s it gonna be?”
It lunged just as I pulled the trigger.
Crack!
I never thought that it would end with me being trapped in some god forsaken labyrinth be chased (hunted?) by some god damned Balverines. **** me off.
Another roar, more of a howl really, cuts through the darkness like a sword sliding through flesh. The echo of the narrow walls and high ceiling offer makes my ears ring. “Yeah, you cheeky bastard. I hear ya,” I mean for it to sound a bit menacing, but my throat it too dry and it comes out sounding rough and haggard like some homeless bum.
Slowly, I stumble my way down the corridor, searching, hoping, praying for a way out. But I’m a realistic man; there is no way out. Not one that is close enough, anyway. My wounds would take me soon enough; the bite to my right bicep (ruined my ink, the bastards) way already leaking and beginning to fester. I can feel the fever taking me and my vision is already a bit cloudy. So I’m either going to a, die, or b, turn in to a balverine. Neither option sits right with me, but I had to choose I’d rather die.
Another howl echoes down the hall louder this time. They’re getting closer. They must have finally caught on to my scent. Again. Persistent arses.
It’s my own fault, really, being in this situation. I let greed get the better of me yet again. An tomb that had yet to be raided? The possibility of riches beyond my imagination? How could I resist? Common sense said that there was a reason that it had never been successfully plundered, but I over estimated my abilities this time. There was no way out this one, that had already been made terribly clear.
I start using my long sword as an impromptu walking stick, stabbing it in between the cracked cobblestones of the floor for balance. My legs were losing their strength, and I could feel the change coming. The easiest way to describe it is just that I was hungry. No, really, that’s what it felt like. Ever fiber of me was beginning to tell me the same thing: “I want meat.”
God dammit, dying was uncomfortable to say the least.
Making a management decision, I decide that it’s time to stop walking. Because, let’s be honest, there is trying to survive and then there is just outright refusing to die, and I just didn’t have the energy to do either anymore.
I sit and against the wall, setting my blade and torch down, drawing my pistol and resting it in my lap. A stray cough comes out of nowhere, shaking my entire body. It brings a metallic taste with it which I spit out revealing (I’m not surprised) blood. Great.
I can hear growling in the darkness, just out of reach of my torches light, and I can’t help but smile. I’m right here, you ****s. Come and get me.
A white balverine steps into the torchlight, snarling. I don’t regard it with fear or repulsion, just a tired resignation.
It stood there, watching me, looking me in the eye no less. Just… waiting. It took a minute for my addled brain to catch up and make the connection, but when I figured it out I couldn’t help but throw my head back and laugh at the absurdity of it all.
They were waiting for me to change.
“Heh, I guess we don’t give you guys enough credit. Smarter than you look, that’s for ****ing sure.” If the creature understood me, it didn’t show it. It didn’t even show any sign that I had spoken. It just… watched.
Well then, I’ll just have to give it some incentive then, won’t I? I raise my pistol in line with its head. It gave me just the reaction I was looking for; the balverine hunched over, taking up an aggressive stance snarling, drool leaking out of its mouth.
I cracked a tired smile, “You or me, bud. What’s it gonna be?”
It lunged just as I pulled the trigger.
Crack!
