[Story] Marianne
All was dark and quiet in Keel Harbor, save for the sound of the waves rolling in on the beach, breaking against the lighthouse. The older woman looked out of her darkened windows, and gripped a cast iron skillet in one hand. From her place beside the hearth, she listened. Her husband had left the spare rifle in her hands, and a box of bullets, before promising to find their errant little girl.
Little, Marianne scoffed to herself. Their little girl was hardly little any more. She reached up and gripped the pendant around her neck, the feeling of the holy symbol warm and assuring in her hands. She'd always been a pious woman; the Light had given her strength from throttling her husband many a time in his sleep, and so she found it prudent to continue to be faithful.
Even on nights like this, when the cold crept so thoroughly and deeply into her bones it was hard to breathe. A fire should've been roaring from a wood stove, sending sweet-scented smoke into the air. Ryon should have been home, reading the latest news from the City, complaining about the newest set of taxes and citations coming from on bloody high. Tomorrow, she would return to her office at the fishery and figure out how to beat the competition with a little panache.
A shadow passed across the window, vaguely human with eyes of unnatural yellow. Marianne didn't shriek like she wanted to. Her hands were surprisingly steady as she put her skillet down on her lap and lifted the rifle. It was just as Ryon had said: soft breath, exhale slowly while you aim.
"Go tae th'nether, ye bloody fuck," Marianne hissed as she pulled the trigger. Ichor and brains splattered against the ground outside, sending several of Marianne's prized hens to squawking. The battle for Keel Harbor had begun.
Across the town, shots rang out and furious cries of "Fer Gilneas!" were colorfully peppered with seaborn expletives. Marianne knew she wouldn't have long, and ducked around a corner as two Forsaken burst into the door, a third and forth hammering on the back door. Marianne cursed and took her rifle, bullets, and skillet up the stairs with her. The widow's walk would be best; up high, she could avoid the deaders for a few minutes while she caught her breath.
"Where th'ell are ye, Ryon?" she whispered and looked behind her. There was a terrible noise in the dining room. She heard something blunt shatter her china cabinet, the sound of some twenty plates crashing to the floor and felt a fury rise up in her. She hadn't even gotten to break that set in yet. "Come'n get me, ye sons of dried up whores!" she shouted and fired another shot at the first pair of golden eyes to stare unblinkingly up at her from the bottom of the stairwell.
At which point Mrs. Kinsey found it prudent to turn and head for the widow's walk. She ducked into her daughter's room. It was still decorated for a little girl; a neatly made bed, chest of toys, and a hope chest that would probably never be used were hardly obstacles. With a groan, she pushed the little dresser against the door.
She crossed the room after, pushing open the window and heading across the narrow walkway. Below, all she could see were her friends and neighbors, fighting the good fight. Winning in places, losing in others. She knelt a moment and aimed another shot down into the Riggles' yard. The shot went true, the deader going down like a sack of bricks, and for a moment she thought she might lose her footing. Marianne allowed herself a high, hysterical laugh as she made her way to the little rigged ladder to the shed.
Look at you, Mary, she told herself as she put one foot below the other. Didn't you tell yourself they wouldn't catch you dead on this rickety thing? And now look. Like a bloody lass. With a huff, she stopped and looked up. There were dull thuds coming from Saphina's room, but Marianne didn't give herself time to think much more about the room she'd so lovingly kept pristine while their daughter gave herself to the Light and turned for Ryon's tool shed.
It became very clear after an hour or two that the Forsaken were beginning to hunt for her. Many of them had retreated, beaten off by fishermen and their very angry wives. But the last four were certainly hunting her. She'd gone in and out of the house, into the root cellar, back up into her bed room and now found herself in the same place she started: the dining room. Marianne waited in the dark, her hand on her pendant, her cast iron skillet well in hand, dirtied with the brains and blood of half a dozen Forsaken soldiers. She felt an odd sort of peace now. Her husband might be dead somewhere, her daughter gone as well. She couldn't imagine how her sweet little Phinny-fool had handled herself, but was fairly sure she'd done it as a Kinsey would - by bringing a bloody pack down to the nether with her.
Marianne smiled to herself and nodded, pushing a ragged, limp brown curl behind her ear. The first two Forsaken burst through the broken front door again, brandishing their weapons.
"I'll show ye some honest an' true Keel Harbor hospitality, deaders," Marianne whispered and lifted her skillet. The first one's brains splattered against the wall, but it was the second one who overtook her.
She didn't feel the blade slip between her corset boning and ribs at first and pushed the blackguard away. "Izzat all ye've go'?" she hissed. There was a tang of copper at the back of her throat, and she cried in pain when another knife found its way into her back. Her limbs weakening, Marianne lifted the weighty skillet and bashed the second Forsaken in the head.
Eight, she thought, as the world began to blacken and turn cold. Eight wasn't a bad number. She was too far gone when the evil creatures sank their teeth into her flesh and tore it away in bloody gobbets. It wasn't enough to kill her and claim their victory, oh no.
The human had to be punished.
Little, Marianne scoffed to herself. Their little girl was hardly little any more. She reached up and gripped the pendant around her neck, the feeling of the holy symbol warm and assuring in her hands. She'd always been a pious woman; the Light had given her strength from throttling her husband many a time in his sleep, and so she found it prudent to continue to be faithful.
Even on nights like this, when the cold crept so thoroughly and deeply into her bones it was hard to breathe. A fire should've been roaring from a wood stove, sending sweet-scented smoke into the air. Ryon should have been home, reading the latest news from the City, complaining about the newest set of taxes and citations coming from on bloody high. Tomorrow, she would return to her office at the fishery and figure out how to beat the competition with a little panache.
A shadow passed across the window, vaguely human with eyes of unnatural yellow. Marianne didn't shriek like she wanted to. Her hands were surprisingly steady as she put her skillet down on her lap and lifted the rifle. It was just as Ryon had said: soft breath, exhale slowly while you aim.
"Go tae th'nether, ye bloody fuck," Marianne hissed as she pulled the trigger. Ichor and brains splattered against the ground outside, sending several of Marianne's prized hens to squawking. The battle for Keel Harbor had begun.
Across the town, shots rang out and furious cries of "Fer Gilneas!" were colorfully peppered with seaborn expletives. Marianne knew she wouldn't have long, and ducked around a corner as two Forsaken burst into the door, a third and forth hammering on the back door. Marianne cursed and took her rifle, bullets, and skillet up the stairs with her. The widow's walk would be best; up high, she could avoid the deaders for a few minutes while she caught her breath.
"Where th'ell are ye, Ryon?" she whispered and looked behind her. There was a terrible noise in the dining room. She heard something blunt shatter her china cabinet, the sound of some twenty plates crashing to the floor and felt a fury rise up in her. She hadn't even gotten to break that set in yet. "Come'n get me, ye sons of dried up whores!" she shouted and fired another shot at the first pair of golden eyes to stare unblinkingly up at her from the bottom of the stairwell.
At which point Mrs. Kinsey found it prudent to turn and head for the widow's walk. She ducked into her daughter's room. It was still decorated for a little girl; a neatly made bed, chest of toys, and a hope chest that would probably never be used were hardly obstacles. With a groan, she pushed the little dresser against the door.
She crossed the room after, pushing open the window and heading across the narrow walkway. Below, all she could see were her friends and neighbors, fighting the good fight. Winning in places, losing in others. She knelt a moment and aimed another shot down into the Riggles' yard. The shot went true, the deader going down like a sack of bricks, and for a moment she thought she might lose her footing. Marianne allowed herself a high, hysterical laugh as she made her way to the little rigged ladder to the shed.
Look at you, Mary, she told herself as she put one foot below the other. Didn't you tell yourself they wouldn't catch you dead on this rickety thing? And now look. Like a bloody lass. With a huff, she stopped and looked up. There were dull thuds coming from Saphina's room, but Marianne didn't give herself time to think much more about the room she'd so lovingly kept pristine while their daughter gave herself to the Light and turned for Ryon's tool shed.
It became very clear after an hour or two that the Forsaken were beginning to hunt for her. Many of them had retreated, beaten off by fishermen and their very angry wives. But the last four were certainly hunting her. She'd gone in and out of the house, into the root cellar, back up into her bed room and now found herself in the same place she started: the dining room. Marianne waited in the dark, her hand on her pendant, her cast iron skillet well in hand, dirtied with the brains and blood of half a dozen Forsaken soldiers. She felt an odd sort of peace now. Her husband might be dead somewhere, her daughter gone as well. She couldn't imagine how her sweet little Phinny-fool had handled herself, but was fairly sure she'd done it as a Kinsey would - by bringing a bloody pack down to the nether with her.
Marianne smiled to herself and nodded, pushing a ragged, limp brown curl behind her ear. The first two Forsaken burst through the broken front door again, brandishing their weapons.
"I'll show ye some honest an' true Keel Harbor hospitality, deaders," Marianne whispered and lifted her skillet. The first one's brains splattered against the wall, but it was the second one who overtook her.
She didn't feel the blade slip between her corset boning and ribs at first and pushed the blackguard away. "Izzat all ye've go'?" she hissed. There was a tang of copper at the back of her throat, and she cried in pain when another knife found its way into her back. Her limbs weakening, Marianne lifted the weighty skillet and bashed the second Forsaken in the head.
Eight, she thought, as the world began to blacken and turn cold. Eight wasn't a bad number. She was too far gone when the evil creatures sank their teeth into her flesh and tore it away in bloody gobbets. It wasn't enough to kill her and claim their victory, oh no.
The human had to be punished.