#murder death kill

[ribcageteeth]

[our-found-family]

I keep thinking...  this is a team of warriors, to be sure. Each one of them (as far as we know) became immortal at a time when they were also a soldier. They’re trained, experienced, capable, and absolutely brutal when needed.

But, I don’t subscribe to the idea that they’re “killers.” I don’t even think they’re really mercenaries, at least not in the “gun for hire” sense.

Copley’s board is filled with photos and articles of things they’ve done that go far beyond mercenary-type work. They’re in the civil rights movement, they’re at the Berlin Wall, they’re caring for refugees, they’re preventing nuclear war — and countless more acts that went undocumented.  Even South Sudan was supposed to be a rescue mission.

Nicki is the one who says it, keeps reminding them: “we can do some good ... this is what we do.”

[josiahthegreat]

[sheriff-caitlyn]

At the end of the day

9 cannon shots can be heard in the distance...

District 1 and District 12 are tied for the most kills. District 6 is on shaky ground, having lost half of their members before the sun even set.

[talesfromthegameff14]

Prompt #10: Avail

[CW: More murder and PTSD, edgy and self indulgent. Mood Music: https://youtu.be/O3bfRBassAQ]

Roughly 3 years ago. What benefit did a tool have that was broken? None at all.  There was no way to use something that was damaged, unless one was to repair it.  Pottery was often repaired with gold or silver, the thoughts behind kintsugi being akin to wabi sabi. Life left behind flaws that were meant to be repaired, and not just repaired but celebrated.  Gold highlighting where use created a break, turning it into a thing of beauty.

Scars on a body were the same way, badges of honor that blood and flesh had been given in service to a higher cause.  At least in the life of a ronin pledged to the Doman Liberation Front that is how they were viewed.  The women at the table behind the xaela tittered quietly over the scars seen on his arms and shoulders where his sleeveless togi left skin and scale bared to the air.   Snippets of the conversation were caught by his horns, speculation on if he was one of the strange foreigners who were rumored to be part of the rapidly dwindling resistance now that Hein had disappeared.  Were the puckered marks from chasing a fading dream, or was he a simple savage passing through and not to be trusted?  In the end, they decided that he must be a savage, the idea of a xaela pursuing a life of honor too strange to be true. The entire time Khenbish sat there, drinking glass after glass of sake, tail going from a steady sway when the women first arrived to almost completely still by the time they finished their tea and left.  The owner of the tea house recognized the yards long stare of pink rimmed eyes at nothing for what it was, approaching the xaela to offer a quiet apology and top off the bottle of sake without being prompted.  The man walked away at a steady pace despite the distasteful curl of lips that bared fangs in a silent snarl, the xaela’s only reaction to the apology. 

The hyur knew he had nothing to fear, he had fought once too, understood what gripped the man who sought out this place to drown his demons for the short time that the sake would allow.  It was a comfort the hyur had availed himself of more than once, and still did when the past hung like a monkey from his back.  After all, there wasn’t enough gold dust in the country to repair the broken minds of the ronin who had seen too much.  Even the ones with family to tend to them still trembled within their skin when the memories were upon them, ceaseless as the moon guided tide.  The bottle was emptied several times before the tea house closed its doors for the evening, Khenbish not having uttered a word the entire time he was there.  His tail never relaxed back into a more usual sway no matter how much sake was poured down his gullet to flood his blood and fog his mind. The xaela reacted to nothing at all as the day passed too slowly and too quickly for a booze addled mind to follow.  That is until a tall, busty woman with a flirtatious smile reached out to brush a finger along well tended scales only to have her wrist gripped by scarred and calloused fingers, just shy of crushing force, then flung away hard enough to cause her to stumble backwards into the nearby wall.  

The commotion that followed was of no interest to the ronin who was deep into his cups, only brought back to his awareness when a blade crashed into his bottle, shattering it and sending the dregs pouring over the table.  Words were being spoken, incomprehensible as the light glinting off the weapon unlocked the flood that Khenbish had spent hours avoiding. Slowly, the xaela lurched to his feet, eyes pinned upon the unseen scowl of the roegadyn who took offense at the treatment of his sister.  The only word that was clear was the forcefully shouted, “OUTSIDE!”, from the doorway to the tea house’s kitchen.  The memories recognized that voice, it should be respected they whispered. The xaela unsteadily pivoted and made his way out the door, hand resting on his katana, fingers idly stroking the worn grip.  Khenbish would have kept walking into the falling night, the pale and angry eyes of the roegadyn already swept away by what rose up from the quaking depths of his mind.  It was the bright blaze of pain across the back of his shoulders that reminded the xaela that he walked away from an enemy.  <”Foolish.”>, is muttered under his breath, swaying slightly as he tried to find his balance and center.  More words assaulted him, but under it he heard the singing of metal cutting through the air and stepped away from the sound, avoiding the next blow that would have sliced across the scales the woman so admired.  Adrenaline was a wonderful drug, restoring balance and highlighting the perceived threat to be more than it was.  A katana is only drawn to kill after all, that ‘truth’ driven into his mind so deeply that it was impossible to forget.  Another moment to listen, head tilting down and to the side just enough to make out the bulky form of the blade wielder behind him.  Then a breath drawn in.  The same breath eased out. Movement follows, the xaela’s reach exceeding matching the roegaydn’s by a few, scant ilms. 

Blades dance, passing each other without touching.  Red blooms across the roegadyn’s throat, faint surprise showing in eyes that quickly turn flat and cold.  By the time the body hit the ground with a resounding thud, Khenbish had already sheathed his sword and turned away.  Walking along the path he found before the other man’s blade struck. Only the sound of the bird singing the day to sleep followed him until a wail of grief sent the roosting birds back up into the sky. 

Maybe something broken has use after all.

[alleinimdunklenwald]

MDK (1997) DOS box cover art - Source

PC-CD-Rom version North America box cover - Source

[josiahthegreat]

[talesfromthegameff14]

Prompt #9: Lush

[CW: PTSD, murder.  Mood Music: https://youtu.be/Qhj10cEoWd0 ]

Duality.  If only one word could be applied to the tall male that hunted the streets of Kugane in the dark hours before dawn that would be it.  Deep within the hidden recesses of his soul sat the spirit of a tribal born xaela, savage some would say.  A man that yearned for the lush expanses of the grass lands as deeply as many a man yearned for the lush curves of the woman who exited the building with a fake giggle and the stench of sex upon her form.  

Same word, two decidedly different meanings.  But wasn’t life that way for many?  The man who watched his prey saunter away with an exaggerated sway, a movement that faded once she was certain eyes were no longer on her and she could set aside the game for a moment and simply be a worn soul struggling to survive. 

For however much longer her heart would beat that is.  The hunter had spotted his prey. 

The man who would don the mien of kenshi and master when the early rays of dawn faded and the day began drew upon the discipline of Doma to stay patient, slipping from shadow to shadow to keep the woman in eyesight even as he ignored what it taught. 

The kenshi was a proper example of how a xaela could be reformed, broken and reforged into something less savage, respectable even some within the noble houses of Doma would whisper with an odd pride as he walked among them.  Yet, how can a man’s base nature truly be banished when the ones that condemned it sent him out to unleash again and again and again in their name? 

The answer laid in how the xala moved within the darkness as if it was his own.  Hair pulled up and hidden, skin covered with ash that darkened it like he’d learned how to do stalking Garleans through bamboo forests.  Quiet, careful steps with feet clad in soft soled boots as to not disturb any loose cobbles on the ill kept streets of Kugane’s red light district.  A different local, a different quarry, but the same type of hunt in the end. 

They all ended with a breathless gasp and the ceasing of a heart. 

That point came faster than either xaela or the woman expected, Ayanga reacting without thinking when the opportunity presented itself.  She turned a corner into an ally, a short cut home she’s taken more times than she can remember.  These streets were home to him once, so the fast dash from where he stood to the only point she could emerge was instinct.  He made no more noise than the rats scuttling about to find food in the livings of the night, leaving the hyur with no warning except a prickling of the hairs on the back of her neck that she was too tired to heed. Wooden shoes made a distinct clatter that told him when to step out, when to slap a hand over her mouth, when it was right to pull her close and break her neck like a twig before geta clad feet could even kick at his shins. 

Fast, clean, and easy.  It was almost disappointing after the earlier hunt on the steppes where the prey was as dangerous as the xaela that stalked it.  The throbbing of his shoulder reminding him of that particular dance, half healed bite marks still ignored in favor of tending to his mate. The pain acting as an anchor to a mind that wandered in the haze of memories that shrouded him. 

So much blood in his sight, yet there was none on his hands as he hoisted the corpse up into a bridal style carry.  He tucked her head in the crock of his shoulder to keep it from lolling about too much as he started to take the staggering steps of a drunk man with his lush companion on their way home.  People saw what they wanted and one less lady of the night on the streets would never be missed.  Not by anyone that could do something about it that is.

It helped that he was the only one that saw the blood that covered her body, smelt the coppery tang, felt the hot slickness of it as his fingers dug into lifeless flesh so he didn’t lose his grip on the slippery mess. No one else felt the quaking of his soul as the honor bound kenshi wept at what his hands had done even as the savage basked in the pride of providing for his expecting mate.  The chorus of voices chanting of savage and monster only sounded in his horns, a soundtrack for the macabre reel of memories that played over and over in his head as he tried to make sense of it all.  The unending conflict pulling at opposite sides of the cracks, widening the fractures within a mind that could ill afford further abuse. 

Above it all the slim crescent of a moon, the shining visage of the one that claimed Aya’s mate and demanded so much, watched on in sublime approval while the xaela carried the to be meal off someplace private to butcher it before returning home.  There was a reason why he was one of Chaand’s favorites.