Lshoan Harah (Fiction)
The life of a Sheriff is neither glamorous, nor friendly. Good thing there are kindred like Austin to take care of the cleanup. As with most of these stories, this one contains adult themes, violence, and is in no way indicative of my own personality. Remember folks, it's only a game.
--
His mind slowly surfacing from the heavy depths of torpid slumber, Austin could feel something move against his chest, almost timidly. Far more sluggishly than he was accustomed, he pieced together where he was, and where he had fallen. He was secured in the flophouse he had used before, locked into the bathroom, with Winni Foster, or was it Ingles, prone beneath him. She had come to him staked, delivered by the whole of the Nosferatu Clan waiting outside in the hall. Something hard and sharp moved against his chest again as he fought the urge to sink back into sleep -- not easily roused, he knew this was a moment for action. With a looming realization, he knew what was moving against him; the stake he had put in her chest two nights prior.
Feeling the weight of his years, the agonizing effort exhausted to animate his limbs during the day, he nevertheless surged with all of his might at the intruder. A sickening crunch and a muffled cry were his reward as his body fueled itself to that rapidity for which his Clan was known, a second fist following the first, faster than his opponent could see. Bones broke and blood sprayed as the blows landed.
"I'm not trying to hurt you man," the twenty-something cried out, attempting feverishly to open a small mason jar, having successfully pulled the broken table leg from Winni's chest. His cries fell on deaf ears. Attempting pitifully to deflect the onslaught of Austin's fists, with one final effort he threw the jar at the torpored form in the bathtub, the rich and potent-smelling vitae inside coating Austin, Winni, and the shower. With one final, celerity-fueled punch, the man was sent flying back into the hallway, his face unrecognizable.
About to turn to his charge, two men appeared in the small doorway, frightened yet holding pistols. As they looked woefully at their fallen companion, blades seemed to appear in Austin's hands from nowhere, his arms a blur as he drew his cruel-looking twin hunting knives. His grin savage, fangs fully extended, the blood of their friend running down his hands, onto the blades, his stance was low, coiled, and ready for them to make the first move. With terror in their eyes, they began to raise their weapons.
They never saw Erickson appear behind them, and never saw his thick arm reaching for a neck. With preternatural strength Austin could appreciate, the first man's neck was snapped before he could cry out. His fellow, distracted, couldn't react before he found Austin's blades buried to the hilt in his chest, the wild-eyed predator laughing in his face. Riding the body to the ground, his thoughts turned to the stake, removed from Winni's heart by the first dead man. Grabbing it and spinning around, he could feel the weight of the day press on him, the flurry of combat spending his reserves. Taking a lurching step, he willed his body to strike true as he fell, the dark and cold waters of his daily rest finally taking him.
Marcos was furious. As she rose that evening, the smell of stale blood permeated the air. There were three bodies in the hallway, next to the bathroom door they obviously removed from its hinges. Looking quickly inside, her fears were alleviated -- there lay her Sheriff, covered in blood, his hand still wrapped around the stake's handle, planted firmly in Winni Foster's chest, his last waking action having succeeded.
She didn't know what was worse -- having to order the death of the former Malkavian Primogen for all the trouble she was likely to cause, or the realization that she spent the day surrounded by Nosferatu ...
--
His mind slowly surfacing from the heavy depths of torpid slumber, Austin could feel something move against his chest, almost timidly. Far more sluggishly than he was accustomed, he pieced together where he was, and where he had fallen. He was secured in the flophouse he had used before, locked into the bathroom, with Winni Foster, or was it Ingles, prone beneath him. She had come to him staked, delivered by the whole of the Nosferatu Clan waiting outside in the hall. Something hard and sharp moved against his chest again as he fought the urge to sink back into sleep -- not easily roused, he knew this was a moment for action. With a looming realization, he knew what was moving against him; the stake he had put in her chest two nights prior.
Feeling the weight of his years, the agonizing effort exhausted to animate his limbs during the day, he nevertheless surged with all of his might at the intruder. A sickening crunch and a muffled cry were his reward as his body fueled itself to that rapidity for which his Clan was known, a second fist following the first, faster than his opponent could see. Bones broke and blood sprayed as the blows landed.
"I'm not trying to hurt you man," the twenty-something cried out, attempting feverishly to open a small mason jar, having successfully pulled the broken table leg from Winni's chest. His cries fell on deaf ears. Attempting pitifully to deflect the onslaught of Austin's fists, with one final effort he threw the jar at the torpored form in the bathtub, the rich and potent-smelling vitae inside coating Austin, Winni, and the shower. With one final, celerity-fueled punch, the man was sent flying back into the hallway, his face unrecognizable.
About to turn to his charge, two men appeared in the small doorway, frightened yet holding pistols. As they looked woefully at their fallen companion, blades seemed to appear in Austin's hands from nowhere, his arms a blur as he drew his cruel-looking twin hunting knives. His grin savage, fangs fully extended, the blood of their friend running down his hands, onto the blades, his stance was low, coiled, and ready for them to make the first move. With terror in their eyes, they began to raise their weapons.
They never saw Erickson appear behind them, and never saw his thick arm reaching for a neck. With preternatural strength Austin could appreciate, the first man's neck was snapped before he could cry out. His fellow, distracted, couldn't react before he found Austin's blades buried to the hilt in his chest, the wild-eyed predator laughing in his face. Riding the body to the ground, his thoughts turned to the stake, removed from Winni's heart by the first dead man. Grabbing it and spinning around, he could feel the weight of the day press on him, the flurry of combat spending his reserves. Taking a lurching step, he willed his body to strike true as he fell, the dark and cold waters of his daily rest finally taking him.
Marcos was furious. As she rose that evening, the smell of stale blood permeated the air. There were three bodies in the hallway, next to the bathroom door they obviously removed from its hinges. Looking quickly inside, her fears were alleviated -- there lay her Sheriff, covered in blood, his hand still wrapped around the stake's handle, planted firmly in Winni Foster's chest, his last waking action having succeeded.
She didn't know what was worse -- having to order the death of the former Malkavian Primogen for all the trouble she was likely to cause, or the realization that she spent the day surrounded by Nosferatu ...