She looked up at the man. It's Baldor, from the smithy down the lane at the other side of the village. She remembered seeing him whenever she passed through, on her way to whatever place had a minotaur problem. He had a well-trimmed walrus mustache, greying from age, and coarse skin hardened from years of toiling at a forge and anvil. He was a gruff man of few words, but now he's a gruff man of no words.
She glanced down at her right arm, then quickly looked away--it was a deep red and swollen, practically pulsing, and radiating raw pain every time her heart beat. The condition was limited to her forearm and half of her upper arm. Strangly, she had no trouble moving--she could bend her arm with no problems--and her hand was totally unaffected, other than the fact that it was bleeding.
She bit her lip then looked back towards the sword. How would she handle it? She feared that touching the grip would cause her to black out again. She glanced sadly at Baldor, then quickly ripped off his worn but clean hemp undershirt (after removing his tunic) and wrapped it around the sword's blade, then tugged with both hands until it fell out. She tried her best to ignore the ... the squelching. Though her right arm throbbed, nothing of particular note happened. She fumbled around in the tall grass by the side of the path until she found her discarded sheath and awkwardly slotted her sword back in. Let the blood ruin the blade, she thought. It's not like she wanted to risk another episode while trying to clean it. Though on second thought it seemed that there was nobody to kill.
A tiny part of her mind whispered, "Maybe killing more people will take the
edge off of your stress...! Get it? Edge? Bwahaha!" The voice didn't sound much like her own, and she easily ignored it, though the voice did disturb her. Was the demon in her head? ... Perhaps finding some iron wire and salt and leather would be nice. Since spirits hated both salt and iron, putting them all together might help. She clasped the sheath back on her belt.
What happened, here? She looked around, but only found a lifeless village. Chimneys were quiet, the birds seemed to be staying away, and only a pair of ravens stared at her from their perch on a lamppost with their baleful eyes. One squacked loudly. The last thing she remembered was taking care of a troupe of kobold raiders on the fringes of the Murky Forest, which she could see in the distance. She didn't bother burying their dirty corpses, but she did look through their belongings, as kobolds hoarded, and sometimes she could find things of value. After that... it was all fuzzy, like a fever dream, except that she woke up to find that it really happened. She walked back to town, blade in hand, and killed the guards by surprise, then killed every single person in the town. Some she killed from behind, some she killed after a short fight, some she just killed unaware. She felt sick to her stomach, and nearly threw up. So much death... And she was the one who did it.
So much death...
Try remembering her name! And by that I mean let's name the main character. I mean, unless you guys don't want to ;___;
Edit: I like the idea of no name, though--it provides a small challenge in writing, but it has this unique feeling that I can't describe.
Author
Topic: A bloody sword suggestion (Read 4036 times)