[Week~4][P]Richmand S. Blackwater (Ragnarok) <Prologue: Flashforward>

Go down

[Week~4][P]Richmand S. Blackwater (Ragnarok) <Prologue: Flashforward> Empty [Week~4][P]Richmand S. Blackwater (Ragnarok) <Prologue: Flashforward>

Post  Ragnarok on Sat Jul 21, 2012 9:42 am

It was dark on the ship painted in shadows; it was dark outside, well past midnight and going on into the early hours of the morning. Things were dark in general all around, the mood on the ship while quiet was dark for the few who were awake and for those who slept their dreams were filled with dark outcomes and ambitions. Up on the front of the ship, sitting cross legged on the bowsprit, sat Ragnarok the Destroyer, captain of The Fourth Horseman and wielder of the thirteen blades he called his own. The aforementioned swords were behind him; each wrapped in a single chain and bound them all in a single bundle. They leaned up against the edge of the bowsprit, the end of the chain up on it with its owner.

Ragnarok gazed up into the cloudy sky as his ship rocked beneath him, the waves gently pushing the black haul back and forth as though they were a pair of children playing catch with one another with his ship. A flash of lightning lived for a brief moment in the clouds before disappearing entirely – a storm would be coming along soon, perhaps in a few hours. The captain of the ship made a mental note to warn all those awake of the storm before going to his quarters himself. “It’s not far now,” he said to himself, referring to their destination. Mock Town – how long had it been since he had set foot there? At least four years he was sure, far too long. He had far too much fun in that town to not stop there at least once a year, so why hadn’t he gone the past four? He wasn't sure, but it was probably his reputation proceeded him and tended to make him a target for other pirates to kill. That would happen when a pirate began to attack other pirate ships for the sake of taking their swords. Either way, it didn’t concern him. He had a loyal crew, he had plenty of swords – all he needed to do now was take some time off. For the past four years it had been nothing but work, work, work day in and day out. He deserved a day or two off, and Mock town was where he planned on taking that day off at.

Letting out a sigh, Ragnarok looked down at the dark waters. They were growing more and more violent, choppy was the popular word to use. If the storm got really bad, he might not be able to sleep all that well, more over, he might be asked to get up and help. He loved his crew, god bless ‘em, but they were a useless lot sometimes who didn’t seem to have much common sense in their heads. At least, he didn’t think so. Bless them anyways. With a happy sigh and a smile at the thought, Ragnarok looked up from the ever darkening waters and turned around. He uncrossed his legs and stood up, stretching his arms over his head and walking forward at the same time. He hoped down from the bowsprit and picked up his wrapped up babies with both of his arms, bending his legs and hauling them over his shoulders. Normally, he would just drag them along beside him. He had just ordered the deck to be scrubbed clean though and didn’t feel like trampling over his crews’ work by scuffing everything up again.

There were few of his crew members up on the deck, even fewer who were awake. One was lying against the cock boat, fast asleep. Another was in the crow’s nest, also asleep. The only other member aboard who was awake was at the wheel, guiding the ship as was his job. Ragnarok walked up the steps past the mizzenmast and his personal quarters to get to him on the quarter deck. Nodding to one another, Ragnarok said simply, “A storm’s a coming.”

“Aye sir,” said the crew member. He was a newer one, didn’t yet know the pecking order as Ragnarok made it so. Such formalities were almost a taboo on his ship. He was new though, so he would let it slide for now; not much longer though. Ragnarok made it a point in his mind to memorize the man’s name later on when he had the chance. “Keep us out of its wake,” Ragnarok said, patting the man’s shoulder lightly. “I’m heading down to my quarters for the night and would rather not be awakened by falling out of my bed, can you promise me that much?”

He nodded with a polite, “Aye sir,” and started to pull the ship to a sharp left turn to avoid the oncoming storm all together. Ragnarok let out a mighty yawn and spoke through it, “Good lap dog,” before turning away and heading back down the stairs past the mizzenmast. Taking a right turn and then an immediate other, Ragnarok stepped into his quarters, ducking his head as he did. Gently, he shut the door behind him.

Letting out another stifling yawn, he set his bundle of blades gently down onto the floor just to the left of the door. Bending down on his knees, he pushed the bundle gently to the right while keeping his left foot on the end of the chain, sending the bundle sprawling. Unraveled, it held each blade individually exactly two feet apart from each other for a total of over thirty feet of chain. To make the whole thing come undone, Ragnarok had to pull on it until it was on the other side of the captain’s quarters entirely. Once completely unrolled, Ragnarok went and one by one unhooked the swords from the chain. Once they were unhooked, he would take each one individually and put it on its place on the wall just above his bed. The two blades that had ended Gol D. Roger’s life he kept up above his bed. His thirteen swords were not the only ones hung up on the walls. Ragnarok’s room was decorated with the blades of each fallen captain he himself had slain. Dozens of swords from would-be-captains of ships, dozens more from would be challengers who had fought and died at Ragnarok’s blades. There was so many that his walls were covered top to bottom with them.

Sitting down on his bed, Ragnarok let out a third yawn and pulled his arms out from his captain’s coat so that it just hung on his broad shoulders. Shrugging it off, he turned his body half way and picked it up, folded it, and sat it gently on the floor. The next thing to come off were his boots, he kicked them off one at a time. He sat for a moment, hunched over on his bed, his hand in between his legs, crossed over at the wrists. He let out a sigh and closed his eyes. Reaching up, he took a hold of one of the many wrapped folds of cloth on his head and gave it a tug. Then he reached up with his opposite hand and tugged at another and then another and another until after several minutes his head was completely free from the cloth. Taking one end of the six foot long cloth in his hand, he wrapped it around his palm until it was completely bundled and sat it down on the small personal dresser beside his bed. Lying down, he crossed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes – to sleep once more and die once again for a few hours.

When he awoke, it was to the troublesome knocking at his door. His eyes snapped open and his head jerked up to look at the door. He hadn’t moved all night from the position he had been in. Instinctively, he reached over to his right side to pick up the sword he had slept with but was disturbed to find there was none there. That’s right, he had forgotten to grab one before going to sleep the night before. “What is it?” he asked, bringing his hand back up to the back of his head. “Mock town is in sight,” one of his crew informed him. “We’ll be there within the hour.” Letting out a grunt of approval, Ragnarok kicked his legs over the side of his bed and he hunched over, putting his hands between his legs. He looked over to his right and saw the bundle of cloth. Reaching over, he took a hold of it and let it fall to the floor in his grip. He brought it up to his head and began to wrap it around slowly and mechanically in a pattern he had mastered making on his own head.

In three minutes time, his head and neck were completely covered in cloth, his boots were on his feet and his jacket was hanging on his shoulders like a cape. He stepped out of his room of blades, looking around at his already busy crew. It was early morning; the sun hadn’t risen but a few degrees past the horizon. Mock Town was off on the starboard side, maybe four miles off in the distance, a little more possibly. He walked over to the starboard side of his ship and looked out over it, putting his hand on top of the bow for support. There it was, Mock Town, where he had first made this crew of miscreants and had first been known as Ragnarok of the Thirteen Swords. He had quite the reputation now… he needed to uphold it, even while he was just relaxing. So, he would carry with him four of his blades into town. Even without a reputation, one always needed a form of protection of some sort in places such as these. Nodding, he turned and walked back to his quarters to pick and choose which four swords exactly he would be taking with him.

As promised, within the hour they were docking in Mock Town. While Ragnarok’s crew attended to the process of actually getting docked, Ragnarok himself hopped over the side of his ship and landed on the edge of the dock, his legs bending and his body bending forward along with them to better absorb the shock of landing. His leap sent a shock wave of kinetic energy throughout the dock that made it sway ever so slightly. Standing up at his full height, he took in a deep breath through the cloth and said brightly, “Ah, it’s good to be back in Mock Town!” Turning around, he looked up at his still docking crew and said, “Go a head and meet me in town at our favorite pub you lot! You know the one, Kilkenny!” Turning away from his ship, trusting it entirely to his crew, he headed into town with four bland katanas on his person. Two were strapped to his hips and two he held in his hands.

He strode through the town as if he owned it, with a swagger that let people know that he honestly was carefree for the moment and that he meant only to relax and have a good time while he was in town. Those who saw his huge stature approaching looked at him with a mixture of curiosity, quaintness, and humor, easily laughing at a man who bandaged his face up as though he were injured and then strut around town like a peacock. Ragnarok didn’t mind the snickering; he was used to it by now. Even if he weren’t he’d find it hard to care about it at the moment, he was simply in too good a mood to care.

He knew his way around Mock Town well, and within half an hour he was at his destination – the Kilkenny Pub. It was a small, quaint little place full of unhappy sailors and unlucky pirates. The place stank of piss and vomit and all of the tables were sticky. You could hardly fit twenty people inside and the lighting was terrible. The only things to drink were alcohol that was left over from other pubs who didn’t want them any longer and water so hot you could swear it was boiled before hand. It was stuck right in the middle of two substantially larger bars, had only one door and a sign that was in dire need of a paint job. This bar, the Kilkenny Pub, was Ragnarok’s home away from home, god bless the whole thing! He walked inside merrily and was met with the many glares of the few inside, including the one bartender who was the same as what Ragnarok remembered him to be – a black Cyclops with a funny accent that was rare in this part of the Blue. Ragnarok liked to call him Bull’s-eye. As the door shut behind him, there was a tense moment of silence before Ragnarok shrugged and said, “Top of the morning to you drunken bastards!” Instantly, all frowns turned to grins and every man in the pub raised their glass and gave him a cheer. “Welcome back Thirteen!” someone called. It was a nickname that had stuck with him for obvious reasons in this particular pub. Ragnarok smiled and thanked whoever had said it with the full vulgarity of an injured naval veteran, which he was. Making his way over to the bar and subsequently to Bull’s-eye, Ragnarok put his sheathed katanas a top the bar and said, “So how’s business been without my company Bull’s-eye? Slow I take it? Well don’t worry any longer; me and my crew have returned and we plan on staying indefinitely!”

“”Well isn’t that merry?” Bull’s-eye said with a chuckle. He was just as tall as what Ragnarok was though not nearly as stout. His hair was thick and kinky, kept in dread locks and tied at the top of the back of his head in a bob. He was wearing his finest suit, one that Ragnarok himself had bought him several years ago. It consisted of a black vest over a white shirt with a red bow tie and nothing else. Bull’s-eye never stepped out from behind the bar until everyone left under any circumstances, and so felt no need to wear pants. Ragnarok had asked him once where he did his business at and got only laughter as an answer. He was easily one of Ragnarok’s best friends “I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you, since you plan on improving my business,” Bull’s-eye said. He turned around and picked up a shot glass from the top shelf which wasn’t very high and set it down in front of Ragnarok. “I’ll give you a shot of whatever you want, free on the house.”

“Bull’s-eye, you’re too kind!” Ragnarok said, “But what to choose?”

“You know what I’ve got, don’t waste my time by telling you your options.”

“Still selling piss and scum as beverages then?” Ragnarok asked with a merry chuckle, tipping his empty shot glass affectionately. “Just got a nice warm batch made not five minutes ago,” Bull’s-eye said with a chuckle that was unique to him. “I remember you like yours cold.”

“Your memory serves you far better than your eye ever did,” Ragnarok said, setting his glass up straight and smiling beneath his bandages, knowing full well that mentioning his long since gone eye was one of the few things that got Bull’s-eye going. As if on cue, Bull’s-eye stiffened up as if stung by something fowl and frowned something fierce, his one good eye glaring at Ragnarok with intense aggravation. “If you like I can serve you nothing you wee dandelion prick!” Bull’s-eye said, swiping away the shot glass from Ragnarok. Ragnarok laughed and shook his head, picking up one of his katanas and pointing it at Bull’s-eye. “Only if you want to die you cyclopean fuck,” he said, still chuckling. There was a moment of silence between the two before each of them were falling over laughing at one another. Ragnarok dropped his sword back onto the bar top and Bull’s-eyes dropped the shot glass on the floor, shattering it. “To hell with the drink for now! We can catch up before that, how’s pirating been to you?” Bull’s-eye asked. Ragnarok shrugged and said, “Pirating is pirating. I’m a pirate among pirates, what can I say?”

“Aye, I know you are,” Bull’s-eye says, leaning up against the bar and looking both ways as if worried someone would hear him. “The rumor is that you’re starting to go soft Thirteen, what’s up with that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ragnarok said, tilting his head to the side. “I’m just as tough today as I was four years ago, any member of my crew will testify that!”

“Oh aye?” Bull’s-eye asked with a smile. Reaching beneath the bar, Bull’s-eye produced a guitar and a lute and held them up, saying loudly so the whole pub could hear, “Well then, you won’t mind proving it by joining me in a verse or two of the famous Kilkenny Anthem!” There were several cheers of approval from the members of the pub, drawing a frown on Ragnarok’s face beneath his bandages with each positive word. “you sorry son of a bitch,” Ragnarok said slowly, “You pulled that one over my eyes like the eye patch on that hole in your head!”

“Aye, aye, I did,” Bull’s-eye said. “Are you to prove me correct by not joining me?” he tempted, moving the lute over the bar for Ragnarok to grasp or deny. With a groan of regret, Raganarok took the lute in his hand which ushered in cheers from the men in the bar. Standing up, Ragnarok positioned the lute so that he could play it while Bull’s-eye did the same. They looked at each other for a moment, matching the beat and reassuring that they both were on the same tune. Then they began to play, the guitar as the background instrument and the lute up front in the music with a merry melody that sent heads bopping. After a few seconds of this sweet ballad Ragnarok began to sing:

“Sure as I was drunk when I walked in, I was weaned on whiskey but raised on gin! Drinkin’ so long since I was born, never been so high as a kite in a storm!” Here, Bull’s-eye joined in the singing, harmonizing with Ragnarok and keeping up pace with him through the chorus: “Hey, ho! Whataya know, when you're outta good whiskey, you're out on the road! Way to Kilkenny where liquor is plenty and people are friendly wherever you go! Hey, ho! Whataya know, when your glass is empty, you're bound to go back on the job just to earn a few bob for good liquor and grub at the Kilkenny Pub!” Those drunk were clapping and cheering with all their might, those drunker were laughing from the entertainment. Everyone was having a good time, even Ragnarok who, though appearing reluctant at first had been waiting for Bull’s-eye for him to sing the Anthem as it was he who had helped write it. Stepping forward, Ragnarok took another solo in singing and said, propping his leg up on the nearest table: “Well I left my home when I was twelve. I was on the road like a bat out of Hell! Looking for work at the county of Cork with a thick-headed dummy named Paddy O’Rouke!” Here, Bull’s-eye joined in for a second chorus and the two even began to dance. Some of the people got up and started to dance as well, linking arms and holding up their glasses as they moved around in a circle. Ragnarok looked over his shoulder at Bull’s-eye and saw the look in his eye, knowing that the fastest part of the song was up next. Stepping back over to the bar, Ragnarok took a seat on a stool and looked at his friend as they began to sing together in harmony: “Kickin' and splashin' and pissin' and cussin' and guzzlin' and laughin' and blowin' yer load! Dancin' and singin' shilaylees are swingin' we're arm in arm as we're staggerin' home! Diddlee-aye, diddlee-aye, diddlee-aye, aye! Diddlee-aye, diddlee-aye, diddlee-aye, aye!” They repeated this last part once more and then a final chorus before cutting off their instruments at the same moment. The pub erupted with applause, stupid and drunken and full of alcohol. Ragnarok and Bull’s-eye both laughed and sat their instruments down, glad that Ragnarok had made his way back to Mock Town.

And they ruined everything. They came into the pub, silent and bulking, two of them tall and rather large, one of them quaint and muscular. They were wearing regular every day clothing for Mock Town, which was little more than rags, and they had a mean look in their eye. When they opened the door, the light of day from the outside world flooded the pub and made most look towards the door, the ones who were still sober enough to look at least. “Ah, shit,” Bull’s-eye said, placing his hand on the bar top and tapping his fingers. Ragnarok looked at him, his eyebrows furrowed beneath his bandages and asked, “What’s with the long face all of the sudden? Are these three friends of yours?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call them friends, no,” Bull’s-eye said, flicking his eye up to the three still standing at the door way. “More like a bunch of assholes who decided that it was alright to start trouble in my pub is all.”

“Is that right?” Ragnarok asked, placing his hand on the hilt of one of his swords and slowly peering over his shoulder. Catching the slight of his hand, Bull’s-eye said frantically, “Oh no, you’re not about to start a damned fight in my pub! I just cleaned the bloody floors!” At this point, the three had decided amongst themselves silently to head over in their direction. Momentarily they were upon Ragnarok, standing behind him like a dark cloud over a pleasant evening. The little one couldn’t have been any taller than four feet, he was almost a midget. Or perhaps he just wasn’t finished growing yet, a young smart-ass who thinks his shit doesn’t stink. Whatever the case, this little one thought it wise to put his stubby little hand on his wide hips and say with some sort of imagined authority, “You’re in my seat stranger.” Ragnarok was still for a moment, his hand still gripped on his sword. He looked up at Bull’s-eye who shook his head once, all the signal Ragnarok needed to not use his blade. Taking in a deep breath, Ragnarok slowly turned around to speak to the small man. The moment he did, one of the round and large gentlemen, to the small man’s right, raised his gigantic hand into a fist and brought it smashing into the side of Ragnarok’s bandaged head, shortly followed by the same from the other large man. The blows made his go limp as they sent him in both directions before slumping backwards onto the bar top, his arms stretched out to his sides on the bar as well. Ragnarok could taste blood; he must have bitten his tongue while being struck. He let out his breath and swallowed the blood in his mouth. He’d be fine until he swallowed a pint of the stuff.

“Now what did you go and do that for?” Ragnarok asked, slowly pulling himself back up to a straight position only to be walloped by the same two piece combo. Despite that, he didn’t budge from his stool. “Quite a glutton for punishment aren’t you?” asked the little man. Was his voice that squeaky before when he had told him to move from where he was sitting? Probably, it was just that now that he had been struck a total of four times he was actually paying attention and was getting tired of being hit already. Taking in another deep breath, Ragnarok took a hold of two of his blades and thrust his legs out simultaneously, wrapping his feet around the little man’s throat. He twisted his entire body, sending him and the man sprawling down to the floor before the big hulks had time to react. To insure they did nothing, Ragnarok pressed his left hand blade to the man’s throat. To make doubly sure, he slashed out behind him with his right hand blade and drew blood from the closest behemoth behind him, causing him to scream and fall to the floor, grabbing his wound. His right hand blade ended its movement by pointing directly at the second body guard’s stomach, barely an inch away from his flesh.

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Ragnarok said, further pressing his blade up to the little mans’ throat. “I’m just here trying to relax! Take a few drinks, sing a couple of songs, but then you come in with a bad reputation and a demanding tone in your voice, obviously unaware of who I am despite my very distinct features. That reminds me for whatever reason,” he said, turning and looking at Bull’s-eye while rotating his blade so that it was jutting into the man’s chin. “Exactly what is it that these little bitches have done to this pub I love so?”

Letting out a sigh, Bull’s-eye said, “Well, last week they came in and basically trashed the place, turning tables and such because I wouldn’t give them free drinks, a few days before that they were threatening a few of my loyal customers, and a few days before that they were assaulting a customer as they tried to enter… you know, usual brutish stuff.”

“What are you just standing around for?!” the little man asked his cohorts. “Get this bandaged freak off of me!” With a couple of grunts, the two turned to Ragnarok, the wounded one standing up before hand, and raised both of their fists above their heads, intent on bringing them down on Ragnarok’s spine. As fate would have it however, Ragnarok turned around and slashed both of them across the chest in a cross movement of his swords. The already injured one cried out and clutched his chest as he fell back, the other just stood stunned for a few moments before Ragnarok lifted up his right leg and smashed his booted foot square in the middle of his chest and the middle of the wound. This strike caused the air to escape his lungs and fall backwards with his colleague. With both of the body guards taken care of for now, Ragnarok turned to Bull’s-eye who was glaring at him, his jaw set and twisted.

“What?” Ragnarok asked, “I’ll clean it up! Don’t I always when I start a fight?” Bull’s-eye grunted and spat on the floor, to further Ragnarok’s job later on and said, “That’s not the point boy-o! I told you not to use your swords because I just cleaned up everything!” Ragnarok chuckled and raised his hand, waving it limply at Bull’s-eye and saying, “Relax, I’m actually saving you trouble in the future. You’ll thank me later, and you’re welcome.” Turning back to the little man who had scooted away from Ragnarok during all of this, Ragnarok walked forward and placed his foot on the man’s chest, leaning forward over his own knee and crossing the edged of his blades against his throat. “Hi,” he said curtly, getting straight to the point. “You’re going to pick up your goons and walk out of this pub. You’re not going to come back to this bar or,” he said, moving one of his blades behind him and pointing it at the man’s crotch, “I’m going to take off your balls.” It was quite a sight to see his eyes widen with sudden fear. The steadiness and solidarity in Ragnarok’s voice is what drove the point home that he was serious about what he was going to do if he didn’t leave. “I’m going to send one to Logue Town and the other to Karate Town press release style. Listen, this pub isn’t owned by you, it’s owned by Bull’s-eye. He gets your drinks, he gives you entertainment; he guards you while you’re passed out drunk.” Taking a break from his speech, Ragnarok pulled his blade away from the man’s throat and leaned in even closer to him. “Do not, fuck with Bull’s-eye. Are we clear?”

The man numbly nodded twice, looking directly into Ragnarok’s bandaged face. Tilting his head, Ragnarok took his foot off of the man’s chest and stood in between his legs, his blade point still pressed up against his crotch. Glaring slightly, he moved his blade forward a little bit and said, “On second thought…” Now fearful once again, the little man squeaked out, “No!!” in defiance to his fate. Turning from him, though keeping his blade pressed to his flesh, Ragnarok looked at the two hulking men who were beginning to get up and said to them, “You two! Heed that warning and get out of the Kilkenny Pub and never come back!” Turning back to the now terrorized man, he continued saying, “As for you, you’re coming with me. Stand up. Bull’s-eye,” he said, looking at the owner of the bar. “Keep an eye on my swords; I’ll be back in a little while…” Setting his right hand blade on the bar top, Ragnarok dragged the squeaky man to his feet. He watched as the two hulks left the pub, cradling each other out the door because of their injuries. Normally, they would wait outside for Ragnarok to emerge. But because of their injuries, they couldn’t afford to wait and let them fester. They needed medical attention and soon. To be safe, Ragnarok waited at least five minutes before grabbing the small man by the collar and dragging him out the door with the reassurance that when he returned he would buy a drink for everyone, including Bull’s-eye.

Stepping out with his captive, Ragnarok directed him at sword point to one of the narrow ally ways beside the Kilkenny Pub, into the shadows of the larger pubs beside it. Mock Town was busy outside today, so no one would see them and if they did, they’d be wise enough not to do anything. The man was blubbering all the while about forgiveness and payment and letting him go. As he thought, this man wasn’t a man at all without his bodyguards. Deeper they went, and more he squealed. “Please! I’ll give you any amount of money you want, even if I don’t have it I’ll get it, just let me go unscathed!”

“No,” Ragnarok said. “You made me go against my best friends’ wishes and mess up his bar with your body guards’ blood. You can’t be forgiven for that.” He pressed him up against the back of the ally wall and pulled his sword away from his back. “Stay like that for a moment,” Ragnarok said, looking at the quivering form of the man, trying to decide just what to do with it. There were so many ways to cut and maim a human being, far more than there are to have sex with one. There was nearly an infinite number of choices, and when working with a glob of clay such as this, still quivering and cringing from the pain it was imagining it made the molding process that much more fun. In the end though, he knew exactly what it was he was going to do. Setting his blade down gently on the ground, he walked forward and took a hold of the top of the man’s hair, pulling his head back and wrapping his hand around his throat. He let out a little squeak and looked up at Ragnarok’s bandaged face, his eyes full of fear of the unknown. “Oh don’t look at me like that,” Ragnarok said, taking a step forward so that their bodies were as close as could be. He leaned in low and close to the man’s ear, whispering, “I promise you it won’t hurt much.”

Letting go of the man’s hair, Ragnarok reached up and took a hold of one of the wrappings on his head, just under hid nose. The little man’s eyes widened even more and his mouth fell open with fear, suddenly realizing who it was that he had threatened. At long last he remembered the stories of a man who keeps his face wrapped up so no one can see his face, the stories of a man who rides on the Fourth Horsemen of the apocalypse, Ragnarok the Destroyer. His body went limp, now loosing all hope for his escape or being let go. The stories of Ragnarok the Destroyer were widely known, especially here in Mock Town. The things he has done to people, what he does to those who make him angry… he had almost believed that they were just fairy tales to scare little children. Pulling up on the wrapping, Ragnarok revealed his open salivating mouth, his teeth sharp and yellow. Leaning in fully, Ragnarok bit down on the man’s face, encompassing both of his cheeks and his nose, blood squirting into his mouth like warm wine, mixing with what little of his own was left. He reached up with his hand and clamped down on his victim’s mouth, stifling his screams of pain and fright. Lifting up his leg, he kneed him in the spine and eased him to the ground, digging his teeth further in and then dragging them across his face to tear off the first bite of flesh in ages, roughly two years had it been since he had last bit into someone like this. It was a treat that was long since over due. Pulling away from the squeaky man’s face, Ragnarok chewed on the flesh he had removed from his face and pinned his head down to the ground, taking a firm grip on what remained of his cheeks and causing his blood to ooze out onto the ground. Yes, far too long had it been since he had last feasted.

Switching hands, Ragnarok leaned down and bit into the man’s neck, knowing that it was not only the juiciest place to bite into but also the quickest way to silence his already stifling screams completely. He could feel his esophagus beneath his tongue, constricting and trying to keep the blood from flooding into its throat. It was a beautiful feeling in Ragnarok’s opinion, there were few places in the body where you could feel the life force of a person leave their body. He stayed like this for a few minutes, his teeth clamped down on this little man’s throat and his hand stifling his ever lessening screams. When he was done twitching and squealing for dear life, Ragnarok pulled back away from the man, blood leaking out form his own lips. His bandages were now covered in the man’s filthy blood; he let out a sigh and spat on the ground. Upon consideration, the man wasn’t worth eating – the taste simply wasn’t sweet enough. He had gotten a nice snack out of his face though, he would give him that much.

Standing up, Ragnarok took the bandages off of his head completely and stuffed them into his jacket pockets. He looked down at the dead man at his feet and wondered what he would do with him. He didn’t taste good enough to eat then and there, but it was such a waste to just dispose of the body with all of that meat… He knew what he would do. Turning around, he picked up his sword from where it lay on the ground, flipped his hair out of his face and walked out of the ally. When his crew arrived at the bar, he would have three of them take the body back to the ship for him to cook up later. That was the one good thing about people that didn’t taste good: you could always add an ingredient or two and make them taste wonderfully.

Stepping out of the ally, he walked back into the pub, his face now exposed and went back over to the bar, placing his sword down on top of it with the others. “Bloody fucking Hell!” Bull’s-eye said. “So that’s what you look like under there? It’s been so long since I’ve seen your face I honestly forgot boy-o!” Ragnarok chuckled and ordered a drink, saying, “Don’t get used to it… my bandages got all messy during that, do I took them off. I’d rather not be the absolute face of terror tonight, I came to Mock Town to relax, and relax is what I’ll do… along with my crew, of course.” Not a moment after he said that, the door of the Kilkenny pub opened up and in walked Ragnarok’s crew, all smiles and cheer, calling out to any they recognized including Bull’s-eye. The subject of what Ragnarok had done to the man, though never brought up, was eliminated from all thought between those who had witnessed Ragnarok walk out of the bar. For the next few hours, after Ragnarok cleaned up the blood he spilled, he and his crew and Bull’s-eye and the other drunks of the pub did little else but party and drink and smile, the beginning of their vacation starting off with a bang.
HF Moderator
HF Moderator

User Title: : Prince of Blasphemy
Posts : 49
Join date : 2012-06-29
Age : 24
Location : The Inferno

Back to top Go down

Back to top

- Similar topics

Permissions in this forum:
You cannot reply to topics in this forum