story #1, will be updating til its done

kail · story #1, will be updating til its done

Aeldra Story #1

Mutant-Slayer

Jared Mokaisson was a slave to a local family in the village of Zyntharia. As he was leaving their mansion at the edge of the Village, he began to wonder about his own village, on the light side. His parents, his land… what was left now?
Of course, this is all completely irrelevant, as less than a minute after leaving the house, he was dead, his brains splattered all over the ground around him.
“Ugh… what is wrong with these creatures, why can’t they see what they’ve got in their heads is MINE??" Kyrem Longfang asked to no one in particular, as there was no one around to be asked. He watched as the cancer-like growth attached to his wrist shrank down and slurped into a fist on his right arm. The arm was attached to his torso, as it should be, however it was attached just below the arm attached to his shoulder.
Having four arms was always an advantage, in Kyrem’s mind. But then, he also enjoyed the fact that he had a 7ft tail that ended with a razor sharp blade made entirely of bone sloping out of his coccyx. These little “changes” in his body were blessings to Kyrem, and he accepted them and took full advantage of them. One of his personal favourite mutations was the venom that was injected into some of his luckier victims through his tail, that seemed to grow longer every day.
Now, let us pause for a moment to explain away any confusing issues here. A full description of Kyrem “Soulbane” Longfang will be necessary, and here it is:
Standing at 5ft 7” tall, he was not very tall, but this didn’t bother him, being tall attracted far too much attention. Two large, knobbed horns sprouted from his head, curving slightly and pointing towards the sky. His face was pale, and would have been considered attractive if not for the curving, intricate tattoos covering most of the skin of his face. His eyes were keen and narrow, coloured white where others would be blue or green. His teeth were pointed fangs, a stunning white colour, and his tongue was long and red, pointed at the end. His ears were, surprise surprise, pointed toward the sky. His hair hid the top points, and was coloured a vivid black. He had an even figure, not that small but not that bulgy either. His two lower arms were usually hidden, pressed against his body in a way that they quite literally became a part of his torso. He always wore a long black robe with a black hood that covered most of his face. The reason that his victims who were stung by his tail were “lucky” was that those victims died instantly and relatively painlessly, and the corpses of the bodies were left alone because almost instantly the bodies stood up and started stalking around as Ghouls, with low intelligence but high speed, strength, agility and terrible hunger. These Ghouls would always stalk around near Kyrem, and some of them took his victims as good excuses for food and would hungrily tear into the flesh of the victim, as they were doing now to poor Jared Mokaisson. After a few moments of violent feasting, there was quite literally nothing left of this latest victim. Kyrem smirked, pulling up his hood, and stepped into the shadows to find some new recruits.

Meanwhile, on the other side of Zyntharia, an Elf Rogue, a Dwarfen Warrior and a blue skinned Dracomancer were sat in a seedy tavern, drinking potentially deadly amounts of alcoholic substances and loving it. The Elfen Rogue was tall, as all elves are, with pale skin and a wild mop of blonde hair. His eyes were a deep ocean blue, and his face was smoothly angled. He wore loose, black cotton pants for stealth and manoeuvrability, with a black baggy shirt. This Elf, named Dor Mauranse, usually hid his face with a bandana, sight goggles and a wool cap. At all times, he was barefooted. The goggles (like thinned wind goggles) were currently hung around his neck, the bandana was on the table and his cap was perched snugly on the top of his head, concealing his hair. The Dwarf, Riok Sturnum, was stout, short and wide, wearing intricate armour. It was light, but harder to break than a Halflings eating habits. His skin was dark, as if repeatedly burned, and his hair was in a large red Mohawk. His beard was relatively short, as Dwarf beards go, only a few inches long. Riok’s eyes were dark brown, and his left ear had several piercing running down the length of his ear. He was extraordinarily muscled, his fists at least the size of a leg of ham. Perched against the table where he was sat, was Riok’s axe. The axe was made of the same metal that his armour was designed from, and covered with intricate runes that would glow brightly when in battle. Finally, the Dracomancer. His name was Zarek Mankorrhen. He was humanoid in form, but his skin was covered in sky blue scales. His eyes were devilishly red, with no pupils, the entire globe was red so it was hard to tell where he was looking at any given time. Two short horns sprouted from his forehead, curling backwards before pointing sharply forward. Zarek’s hair was pure white, cut short around his head. He wore simple clothing, usually shirtless and brown baggy pants, his tail protruding from a hole at the back.

This group was not just a random group of drinkers. They were Slayers. And word had hit of a monster infesting Zyntharia. this monster was said to be a mutant of terrible power, a servant of the Dark Lords. Naturally, the Slayers answered the call and were spending their initial fee on drinks and food and lodgings, having just arrived in the village a few hours ago. Some commotion was happening at the bar, a man, a bard by his clothing, with wings attached to his shoulder blades had just knocked out the bartender and was talking to an Amazonian that was accompanied by a wolf and a working girl that Dor had become quite interested in.

The group’s focus was distracted as a huge Minotaur stepped over to their table and crashed his gigantic, curved blade into the wood. “Freaks!! We don’t need none o’ your sort ‘round ‘ere, so get out before I gets you out!” he growled, his speech slurred and very ill cultured, before flying half-way across the tavern, landing in the middle of a table occupied by a group of Skaven who set about devouring him quickly, sucking the last remnants of meat from his tattered bones before the whole group of Rat-Men left the bar, squeaking and snarling as they ran excitedly back to their sewer dens. Dor blew the smoke from the barrel of his obscenely powerful flint-lock pistol, grinning. It had taken roughly a third of a second for him to aim his pistol at the Minotaur’s skull and fire.
“By the Gods, you have to teach me how to make these, Riok” Dor said, in a cultured voice that could be listened to for hours.