Today’s snippet, titled “Scars”, is a piece I wrote about my current character, Mim, to sort of demonstrate her experiences with a major in-game event.
Be forewarned, there are mature themes and naughty language below.
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Sweat glistened upon her brown flesh, the corded muscles beneath flexing as she raised the falchion. Mim stepped into the blow and grit her teeth in advance of the impact. A mighty, muted thunk; the strange ancient stone swallowed the sound but it could not absorb the brute force of this big, pissed off bitch and her blade.
“Hah!” She yanked her weapon free. Kicking at the sundered lid, she pushed it aside with her toe. A frown darkened her face. “What the fuck?”
“Who is it?” Someone asked from behind her.
Mim shook her head, puzzled. “Its empty.”
The others were making important decisions and discussing the distribution and division of wealth. More power to ’em, she muttered to herself, her hindquarters planted firmly on the ruined coffin as she worked the teensiest nick off the edge of her weapon. After the day we had, the mind fuckery… can’t blame anyone for wanting not to think about it.
Mim had given up counting her new scars and bruises. The powerful magic of the ring she wore mended them so quickly – even the most hideous and grievous of wounds hardly registered anymore. Hells, after losing her skull to a demon lord’s vorpal sword – and then regenerating it – Mim had begun to feel, more or less immortal.
Pain is fleeting, she told herself, trying not to focus on the blistered stripes she wore beneath her mail. It’ll pass and I’ve got to be ready for whatever comes next.
Another horrible dragon, belching cinders or swamp water at them? More unsettling undead, as at the Tower of Bone or like that whip-wielding madman whose lashes had nearly felled her with the intensity of their black, profane energy?
Maybe more gorgons or cultists or gargoyles?
Or perhaps the next time Kenzi sank a weird key into an ancient lock, they would wake up in a different marble sarcophagi – laid out with the day’s date carved into the headstones as their last.
“Are we ready?”
Mim glanced back over her shoulder. Azielle’s voice had a strained quality to it; returning from the afterlife had that affect on a woman. She stood proud, a mane of gold framing her elven features. Despite the alien twilight of this place, her complexion looked as healthy as before. Eric too, had fully recovered from his death – how odd it is to think of it that way, she thought – and was as glowingly handsome as ever.
She had no looking glass to confirm it, but Mim was certain that even though the scars had healed and the bruises faded, evidence of every battle she had waged remained upon her face. Twenty-four years old, strong as a bull, tall and hale, she wondered if she would live long enough to exact vengeance from her family, if she would endure long enough to have time etch itself upon her face.
Probably not… she decided, standing. With a resigned, grim expression, Mim slid the falchion into its scabbard.The image of her name upon that tomb, today’s date as her last, swam across her mind and she swallowed hard. Today’s as good a day as any… to die.
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Note: Featured Image, “Texture”, by klsa12 from SXC.hu