One girl. Two cats. A world full of adventure.
Abbernathy Tells is a twelve year old girl who prefers the companionship of her two cats and a dying tree over others her age. When a horrible tragedy strikes on her thirteenth birthday, robbing h...
Feign liked to work at night. Not because his kind was nocturnal by nature, but because of the way their screams rang out, slicing through the silence as his blade slid across their throats.
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Blood dripped off the polished steel of the ax and splashed against the stone floor, adding to its already reddened hue. Feign leaned against the dungeon wall, a gloved hand tracing the edge of the blade, wiping it clean.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection and chuckled; blood and mangled flesh adorned his breastplate, covering up the Blood Moon crest, the symbol of his king.
Feign's eyes looked tired like the embers of a fire ready to die out. He trudged across the floor, feeling his exhaust in each leaden footstep. The black cloak that marked his rank as Commander, billowed out behind him, skimming pools of freshly spilled blood. He smiled as he strode toward the center of the room where a wide-eyed fe'ren lay splayed and bound to a slab. Feign had done what his king had commanded of him; now, it was time he had his fun.
"It's a curious thing," Feign said, stroking a nearby tabletop strewn with metal blades. They were rusted now and dull from overuse, the perfect instruments for prying tight lips loose. "I never thought blood would make for a good lacquer. But it does, see?"
Feign held his ax in front of himself, his muscles flexing under its weight. It was an imposing weapon, half Feign's seven foot stature with a serrated blade that resembled the hungry, open maw of a demon. Its handle was deep black, and it smelled of rot.
"Have you ever seen anything more magnificent?"
The prisoner stared up at him in green-eyed horror. His long, black whiskers shook. Feign chuckled and slammed his ax down, stopping it a hair's breadth before the cat-man's nose. The prisoner trembled, the rusted metal cuffs around his neck and limbs shaking as he did, making Feign's ears perk up at the welcomed tune.
He was afraid and rightfully so.
In his panic, the prisoner released his bladder, dark spots of urine seeping through his torn linen trousers, pooling on the table. Angered by the smell of piss and the prisoner's show of weakness, Feign moved his ax down the man's neck, a thin trickle of blood staining the man's fur a deep, earthen brown. The prisoner winced at the pain, his screams stifled by the dirty cloth that'd been forced down his throat.
"There we go," Feign said as he ran his fingers along the cut on the prisoner's neck, before smearing the blood on the handle of his ax. Pleased, he slid his weapon through the leather strap on his back. "Ren's been satisfied."
The prisoner looked at him, eyes wide. Feign cackled, his body trembling in delight. "You're wondering who Ren is?" he asked, his attention turned toward a clay bowl a few meters away.
