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Don't laugh
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Wicked Grin (Razorgrin's short stories)
Re: Wicked Grin (Razorgrin's short stories)
The lil fuzzy bastard <3
While we're waiting for more of this story, here's my attempt at fan art. I used office supplies.
Don't laugh
<3
While we're waiting for more of this story, here's my attempt at fan art. I used office supplies.
Don't laugh
<3
Re: Wicked Grin (Razorgrin's short stories)
These are absolutely lovely.
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Razorgrin
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Re: Wicked Grin (Razorgrin's short stories)
Micah Arclight, now “Razorgrin,” passed through the grand double-doors of the area that the Templars called the Crucible. He hadn’t expected to be met with a full service bar and a bartender. He also hadn’t expected the very high ceilings, the polished marble, or the fine deep-plush carpets. It was very at odds with the wide marble hall behind it that opened up into-- a firing range?
Casting a sidelong glance at the expensive looking bottles and the surly looking bartender, Razorgrin proceeded around the bar and into the marble hall. An exponentially more surly looking man stood in the middle of it, arms folded impatiently across his chest. He was weathered and stern looking, dark haired and sporting an eyepatch over his right eye. He wore simple slacks and a white button-up, but had service medals pinned to the front pocket of his shirt. His right leg was also supported by a metal brace, immobilizing the knee likely after a bad wound. His entire vibe was like that of an angry, retired war-dog who’d been delegated to training the new whelps. He proved Razor’s assessment right when he growled out in a low rumble as he approached, “Christ Almighty, we’ve got our work cut out for us…”
“Brigadier Lethe, I presume?” Razor gave Lethe the cheekiest grin he could muster, holding out the manilla folder containing his dossier. Sonnac had said to hand it over to Lethe, so he was handing it over without too much fuss. In his years in the job force Razor had found life is more bearable under a cranky supervisor if you refuse to cow to their bullshit, give them what they ask for, and not a thing more.
“You presume right. And you must be that *fairy boy* that they dug out of the arse-end of Ealdwick.” Lethe rumbled mockingly, snapping the folder out of Razorgrin’s grip abruptly. He slapped it directly onto a small red and gold table next to him, without even really looking at it.
“I prefer the term ‘pansexual,’ sir, not that it’s any of your business. Whatever happened to ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ is that even a thing these days?” Folding his hands behind his back, Razor gave Lethe an easy smile. It was low-hanging fruit but Lethe still took the bait, looking angrier by the second.
“A comedian, lovely. Listen close boy, I’ll only say this once…” Lethe lurched toward Razor, his gait forcing him to move like a peg-legged pirate, but the barely controlled rage in his one good eye made it clear there was nothing funny in the situation at all. He shook one finger in Razor’s face as he got uncomfortably close, “The Crucible is MY house, and in my house my word is law. Forget your mother’s teat, from now on THIS is your home.” He pointed emphatically at the floor, “This is where you learn to stay alive. You’re a loaded weapon, and if you don’t learn to control yourself you’ll wind up hurting yourself, and others.”
Lethe started to pace around Razorgrin, his leg brace forcing him to sway left and right as he moved, “You have the ability to manifest Anima, your life force, in the physical world. To enhance your strength, your physical attributes. To do magic. Martial magic. None of that fairy stuff.” He paused, pointing meaningfully at Razor’s horns, not giving the cheeky redhead another opening to make more tasteless jokes. “Nevermind why this power has been awakened in you. You’re not the only one, and you’re not the Chosen One. You’re part of an army, our army, and from now on you’ll do as you're told. It’s the way of the Templars.” Brigadier Lethe shook his finger in Razor’s face one more time, for good measure.
The old soldier hobbled toward the firing range, where a series of padded crates and cases had been stacked. Razorgrin could see inside some of the open ones, the foam casing holding rather simple-looking weapons of various types. Razor followed Lethe, and looked over the weapons curiously. “Whatever trinket you hold in your hand is merely a way to direct your powers.” Lethe supplied, waving a hand at the weapons cache, inviting Razorgrin to take a closer look. “We don’t do magic wands here. Through your weapons, you channel and wield your magic. Consider this your playground. It’s not like being on the frontlines, but it’s close enough. We have a choice of weapons for you to practice with, try as many as you wish. When you’re done, you’ll get to choose two to carry. Make sure you’re comfortable with them-- they’ll be the only thing between you and a trip to the graveyard.”
Razorgrin cast Lethe a half incredulous look, raising one eyebrow and smiling. “Fortunately it’s a return trip, for me anyway…” He muttered, not really paying attention if his comment had earned him more of Lethe’s contempt. He was looking ruefully at the piles of guns, side-eyeing the .45s and the assault rifles like he thought they would jump out of their crates and bite him. Razor’s father enjoyed collecting and shooting guns as a hobby, but he’d always been more of a momma’s boy if he was honest about it. He paced past them without touching.
The next case held a katana, something straight out of a samurai movie. Picking it up by its hilt, Razorgrin was surprised to find it was way heavier than it looked. He waved it around experimentally, and found that after two easy swings his arm was already getting tired. Probably a bad idea, he was foreseeing a lot of pushups in his future if he picked up this weapon. Lifting his other hand to the blade, he tried to touch the edge, unable to resist the urge to test its sharpness. Lethe barked out a warning, “Ah-ah!,” an abrupt utterance to warn him off from getting his fingerprints all over the metal. It made Razor jump, causing him to slip his fingertip across the edge, slitting his finger open. He hissed, and it was a measure of control for him to not throw the blade. Setting it down in its case with a rough thunk, he turned to glare at Lethe accusingly while he squeezed the wound shut in his grip. Lethe just glared back at Razorgrin unapologetically, picked up the dropped blade and started carefully polishing its edge clean with a cloth he pulled from his pocket.
The wound on Razor’s finger felt shallow, like a papercut. Opening his hand, he peered at the wound woefully. Fortunately, it didn’t seem like it was bleeding much.
A niggling whisper in his ears pulled Razor’s attention away from frowning at his finger. Looking down, he realized he was pacing toward the sound-- toward a case with a raggedy old red book in it. The book’s cover was splattered and dirty looking, the binding cracked and the pages yellowed. The whispering sound ceased just as soon as his bloodied fingers made contact with the book. It felt right in his hand when he picked it up out of its case, and he’d cracked the book open and started leafing through it thoughtlessly. There was a mounting pressure in the air around him as his eyes flew over sigils that he both understood and didn’t, failing to notice that the blood from his wound had started flowing and freely floating around his hand.
Lethe threw something at him. A small metal object bounced against the pages of the book, and then thumped into Razorgrin’s chest. Razor slapped the open book against his chest to catch it, his shoulders shrugged up with the shock of projectiles shaking him out of his focused reading. He glared at Lethe again, and then leaned the book away from his chest, pinning the object between his belly and its spine. “...Brass knuckles?” Razorgrin asked, retrieving them and slipping his fingers into the grips instinctively. He raised an eyebrow at Lethe while he flexed his fingers around the metal.
“They call you lads ‘Ravagers.’ Blood mages primarily, naturals at thaumaturgy, but you’d best have a backup weapon. Most pick fist weapons. You’ll cast magic from a distance, but if anything gets too close, punch it. Should be simple enough for you.” Lethe added that last bit disparagingly, folding his arms across his chest while he smirked at Razorgrin.
He frowned at Lethe again. “Should be simple enough for you, bleh bleh bleh.” He parroted in a pinched voice, grimacing as he lifted the book. Still, he slipped the brass knuckles into his pocket while he turned his attention back to the fascinating pages.
Lethe hobbled over and then snatched the book out of Razor’s grip. When he looked up to scowl at the brigadier, Lethe used the book to gesture at Razorgrin’s hand. “Pay attention boy, and get that under control before you bleed out all over my firing range.”
“What?” Razor asked flatly, then finally looked down. What he saw there was a crimson orb, roughly as big as a basketball, floating near his knee. The wound on his finger was dripping at an alarming rate, several drops per second floating down and joining the orb and increasing its size.
The room spun. There was the pull of gravity, a thud, and the boney clatter of horns bouncing on marble.Then Razorgrin realized how big and pretty the golden chandeliers on the ceiling were, just before they went dark.
“Oh for God’s sake…” Lethe cursed, then hobbled over to where Razorgrin lay. Bending at the waist, he sighed impatiently while he swung out a rough calloused hand and slapped the redhead’s cheek. When that didn’t work, he called in backup.
The backup was the first thing that greeted Razorgrin’s sight when he opened his eyes again. Another Templar, this one wearing the ornate black, white and red uniform, whose features were best described as “heroic.” The man had a scrap iron jaw, a cleft chin and heavy arched brows. His eyes were a brilliant shade of blue, his hair was black, and he was clean-shaven. “...Superman?” Razorgrin muttered at the man in confusion. All that was missing was the curl of hair in the middle of Superman’s forehead, but this man’s short hair was neatly brushed straight back.
“Superman” gave Razor a puzzled look, and then looked up at Lethe for guidance. The brigadier gave an exasperated sigh and ordered, “On your feet, soldier. You’re just fine, Templar ‘Anathoth’ patched you up. Get him upright, Templar.”
Razor’s finger had been bound in a simple bandage, and all of the blood he’d lost was just mysteriously gone. It was either a magic thing, or the bartender had wandered over with a bucket and mop while he was knocked out. Either way, with Anathoth’s help, Razorgrin sat upright. Anathoth then easily pulled Razor to his feet as he stood up from where he’d crouched. Razor’s eyes went wide when he was fully upright, and the Templar just sort of… kept going, until he unfolded to his full height, probably a good three or four inches taller than the top of Razor’s towering horns. He was likely a full foot taller than Razorgrin, sans horns, and Razor already stood at six feet without them. He was also probably twice as broad as Razor, with the shoulder-to-waist ratio of an inverted Dorito chip. ‘Superman’ seemed closer to the mark after all, but Razorgrin tried anyway, “Uh--thanks… Anathoth, right?”
He smiled sheepishly, and nodded. It seemed like he was going to stay silent until he shyly added, “Well. It’s-- it’s correctly pronounced ‘Ahn-toh-tee,’ from the Hebrew, but- but that’s how everyone pronounces it. Even me now, heh.” He then shrugged, and then looked away from Razorgrin uneasily.
Razor was peering up at him with his mouth hanging open. Anathoth’s voice had been rumbling deep, like rolling thunder, but he was so timid that he’d mumbled and was borderline hard to hear. Razorgrin was gawking at him, mind racing at both the effort of making out what Anathoth had said, and realizing this humanoid mountain had all the force of personality of a wet blanket. The disparity boggled the mind.
“Alright, social hour is over. Anathoth, you’ll be helping to train Razorgrin here in Fist Weapons. You can have this back when you’ve proven to me you’re less of an idiot.” Lethe said, waving the blood-magic book at Razor.
“Yes, sir!” Anathoth replied, loudly and clearly, suddenly standing at attention before Brigadier Lethe. It was a hard swerve from before, and Razor raised his brows while watching the Templar switch gears at light speed. He could suddenly imagine Anathoth in another life, a more normal one where he was a uniformed cop, or a marine. Or maybe a basketball player… He was also betting that Anathoth’s real name was probably, unironically, Chad.
“Um… this way?” Anathoth was smiling sheepishly at Razorgrin, trying to get the redhead to follow him over to a bank of practice dummies past the firing range. He smiled softly at the shy Templar, and followed.
When they reached the “practice dummies,” Razor’s reaction was… less than noble. When he looked up from his feet, he saw that they were more or less alive, skeletal humanoid figures with freakish proportions chained to the ceiling and floor by their hands and feet. They had massive teeth that would have put The Xenomorph Queen to shame, their eyes blindfolded by a dirty black leather strip. They breathed raggedly, shuttering and rattling their chains. The first thing Razorgrin did was emit some high-pitched, strained squeak, followed by leaning into Anathoth’s back at full force. It was unabashedly a “take him, not me” maneuver, Razor tried to shove Anathoth at it just before turning and running away. Unfortunately Anathoth had twice Razor’s body weight and the Templar wasn’t swayed, he just turned and looked back at the fleeing redhead in confusion.
Lethe was a few steps behind them, and he reached out and snagged Razorgrin by his collar before he could get too much further away. He swatted at Lethe’s hands and was still trying to backpedal, but the brigadier held him fast. “What the f*ck-- what the f*ck ARE those?!”
Face splitting into a horrid grin, Lethe started to drag Razorgrin back toward them, despite the struggling. “Those things are called Rakshasa, they’re basic hellhounds. We keep them chained. They used to make such a mess of the new recruits…”
Razorgrin didn’t find that comforting in the least, and he continued struggling to escape. Lethe just kept rambling, smirking at Razor’s discomfort, “You’re to use them for target practice. Don’t worry, they don’t feel a thing, and they’re unworthy of mercy.”
He shoved Razor at Anathoth, and the Templar caught him, both to steady him and to keep him from running again. Once Razorgrin came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t getting away, he blurted out, “You want me-- to walk up and HIT that thing?!”
Lethe chuckled. “Use your time in the Crucible well. There’s no point in rushing things. Out there, the demons aren’t chained up, and you won’t have me to save your sorry arse. Well, go on then. Get started. Anathoth will offer some guidance along the way.” The brigadier was waving his hand dismissively as he hobbled away, still laughing at Razor under his breath.
Anathoth and Razorgrin both stared at each other wide eyed, Razor in terror and Anathoth coming to the realization that he was now partially responsible for a deer-horned coward. It took a lot of quiet, overly-polite coaxing, but Anathoth eventually talked Razorgrin into donning the brass knuckles and stepping up to the Rakshasa.
Razor had both fists up in a boxer’s stance, one that he’d seen in movies, but it took an awful lot of bouncing around to actually work up the courage to make contact with the demon’s body. The light tap of his knuckles against its flesh resulted in an uncomfortable squelch, and Razorgrin howled and backpedaled, bouncing and slinging his hands while his skin crawled, “BUHHH--ugh-ugh-ugh! I’m gonna barf!”
“Please don’t!” Anathoth pleaded, and Lethe could be heard in the distance, absolutely cackling. Razorgrin’s time in the Crucible was going fabulously, so far.
Casting a sidelong glance at the expensive looking bottles and the surly looking bartender, Razorgrin proceeded around the bar and into the marble hall. An exponentially more surly looking man stood in the middle of it, arms folded impatiently across his chest. He was weathered and stern looking, dark haired and sporting an eyepatch over his right eye. He wore simple slacks and a white button-up, but had service medals pinned to the front pocket of his shirt. His right leg was also supported by a metal brace, immobilizing the knee likely after a bad wound. His entire vibe was like that of an angry, retired war-dog who’d been delegated to training the new whelps. He proved Razor’s assessment right when he growled out in a low rumble as he approached, “Christ Almighty, we’ve got our work cut out for us…”
“Brigadier Lethe, I presume?” Razor gave Lethe the cheekiest grin he could muster, holding out the manilla folder containing his dossier. Sonnac had said to hand it over to Lethe, so he was handing it over without too much fuss. In his years in the job force Razor had found life is more bearable under a cranky supervisor if you refuse to cow to their bullshit, give them what they ask for, and not a thing more.
“You presume right. And you must be that *fairy boy* that they dug out of the arse-end of Ealdwick.” Lethe rumbled mockingly, snapping the folder out of Razorgrin’s grip abruptly. He slapped it directly onto a small red and gold table next to him, without even really looking at it.
“I prefer the term ‘pansexual,’ sir, not that it’s any of your business. Whatever happened to ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ is that even a thing these days?” Folding his hands behind his back, Razor gave Lethe an easy smile. It was low-hanging fruit but Lethe still took the bait, looking angrier by the second.
“A comedian, lovely. Listen close boy, I’ll only say this once…” Lethe lurched toward Razor, his gait forcing him to move like a peg-legged pirate, but the barely controlled rage in his one good eye made it clear there was nothing funny in the situation at all. He shook one finger in Razor’s face as he got uncomfortably close, “The Crucible is MY house, and in my house my word is law. Forget your mother’s teat, from now on THIS is your home.” He pointed emphatically at the floor, “This is where you learn to stay alive. You’re a loaded weapon, and if you don’t learn to control yourself you’ll wind up hurting yourself, and others.”
Lethe started to pace around Razorgrin, his leg brace forcing him to sway left and right as he moved, “You have the ability to manifest Anima, your life force, in the physical world. To enhance your strength, your physical attributes. To do magic. Martial magic. None of that fairy stuff.” He paused, pointing meaningfully at Razor’s horns, not giving the cheeky redhead another opening to make more tasteless jokes. “Nevermind why this power has been awakened in you. You’re not the only one, and you’re not the Chosen One. You’re part of an army, our army, and from now on you’ll do as you're told. It’s the way of the Templars.” Brigadier Lethe shook his finger in Razor’s face one more time, for good measure.
The old soldier hobbled toward the firing range, where a series of padded crates and cases had been stacked. Razorgrin could see inside some of the open ones, the foam casing holding rather simple-looking weapons of various types. Razor followed Lethe, and looked over the weapons curiously. “Whatever trinket you hold in your hand is merely a way to direct your powers.” Lethe supplied, waving a hand at the weapons cache, inviting Razorgrin to take a closer look. “We don’t do magic wands here. Through your weapons, you channel and wield your magic. Consider this your playground. It’s not like being on the frontlines, but it’s close enough. We have a choice of weapons for you to practice with, try as many as you wish. When you’re done, you’ll get to choose two to carry. Make sure you’re comfortable with them-- they’ll be the only thing between you and a trip to the graveyard.”
Razorgrin cast Lethe a half incredulous look, raising one eyebrow and smiling. “Fortunately it’s a return trip, for me anyway…” He muttered, not really paying attention if his comment had earned him more of Lethe’s contempt. He was looking ruefully at the piles of guns, side-eyeing the .45s and the assault rifles like he thought they would jump out of their crates and bite him. Razor’s father enjoyed collecting and shooting guns as a hobby, but he’d always been more of a momma’s boy if he was honest about it. He paced past them without touching.
The next case held a katana, something straight out of a samurai movie. Picking it up by its hilt, Razorgrin was surprised to find it was way heavier than it looked. He waved it around experimentally, and found that after two easy swings his arm was already getting tired. Probably a bad idea, he was foreseeing a lot of pushups in his future if he picked up this weapon. Lifting his other hand to the blade, he tried to touch the edge, unable to resist the urge to test its sharpness. Lethe barked out a warning, “Ah-ah!,” an abrupt utterance to warn him off from getting his fingerprints all over the metal. It made Razor jump, causing him to slip his fingertip across the edge, slitting his finger open. He hissed, and it was a measure of control for him to not throw the blade. Setting it down in its case with a rough thunk, he turned to glare at Lethe accusingly while he squeezed the wound shut in his grip. Lethe just glared back at Razorgrin unapologetically, picked up the dropped blade and started carefully polishing its edge clean with a cloth he pulled from his pocket.
The wound on Razor’s finger felt shallow, like a papercut. Opening his hand, he peered at the wound woefully. Fortunately, it didn’t seem like it was bleeding much.
A niggling whisper in his ears pulled Razor’s attention away from frowning at his finger. Looking down, he realized he was pacing toward the sound-- toward a case with a raggedy old red book in it. The book’s cover was splattered and dirty looking, the binding cracked and the pages yellowed. The whispering sound ceased just as soon as his bloodied fingers made contact with the book. It felt right in his hand when he picked it up out of its case, and he’d cracked the book open and started leafing through it thoughtlessly. There was a mounting pressure in the air around him as his eyes flew over sigils that he both understood and didn’t, failing to notice that the blood from his wound had started flowing and freely floating around his hand.
Lethe threw something at him. A small metal object bounced against the pages of the book, and then thumped into Razorgrin’s chest. Razor slapped the open book against his chest to catch it, his shoulders shrugged up with the shock of projectiles shaking him out of his focused reading. He glared at Lethe again, and then leaned the book away from his chest, pinning the object between his belly and its spine. “...Brass knuckles?” Razorgrin asked, retrieving them and slipping his fingers into the grips instinctively. He raised an eyebrow at Lethe while he flexed his fingers around the metal.
“They call you lads ‘Ravagers.’ Blood mages primarily, naturals at thaumaturgy, but you’d best have a backup weapon. Most pick fist weapons. You’ll cast magic from a distance, but if anything gets too close, punch it. Should be simple enough for you.” Lethe added that last bit disparagingly, folding his arms across his chest while he smirked at Razorgrin.
He frowned at Lethe again. “Should be simple enough for you, bleh bleh bleh.” He parroted in a pinched voice, grimacing as he lifted the book. Still, he slipped the brass knuckles into his pocket while he turned his attention back to the fascinating pages.
Lethe hobbled over and then snatched the book out of Razor’s grip. When he looked up to scowl at the brigadier, Lethe used the book to gesture at Razorgrin’s hand. “Pay attention boy, and get that under control before you bleed out all over my firing range.”
“What?” Razor asked flatly, then finally looked down. What he saw there was a crimson orb, roughly as big as a basketball, floating near his knee. The wound on his finger was dripping at an alarming rate, several drops per second floating down and joining the orb and increasing its size.
The room spun. There was the pull of gravity, a thud, and the boney clatter of horns bouncing on marble.Then Razorgrin realized how big and pretty the golden chandeliers on the ceiling were, just before they went dark.
“Oh for God’s sake…” Lethe cursed, then hobbled over to where Razorgrin lay. Bending at the waist, he sighed impatiently while he swung out a rough calloused hand and slapped the redhead’s cheek. When that didn’t work, he called in backup.
The backup was the first thing that greeted Razorgrin’s sight when he opened his eyes again. Another Templar, this one wearing the ornate black, white and red uniform, whose features were best described as “heroic.” The man had a scrap iron jaw, a cleft chin and heavy arched brows. His eyes were a brilliant shade of blue, his hair was black, and he was clean-shaven. “...Superman?” Razorgrin muttered at the man in confusion. All that was missing was the curl of hair in the middle of Superman’s forehead, but this man’s short hair was neatly brushed straight back.
“Superman” gave Razor a puzzled look, and then looked up at Lethe for guidance. The brigadier gave an exasperated sigh and ordered, “On your feet, soldier. You’re just fine, Templar ‘Anathoth’ patched you up. Get him upright, Templar.”
Razor’s finger had been bound in a simple bandage, and all of the blood he’d lost was just mysteriously gone. It was either a magic thing, or the bartender had wandered over with a bucket and mop while he was knocked out. Either way, with Anathoth’s help, Razorgrin sat upright. Anathoth then easily pulled Razor to his feet as he stood up from where he’d crouched. Razor’s eyes went wide when he was fully upright, and the Templar just sort of… kept going, until he unfolded to his full height, probably a good three or four inches taller than the top of Razor’s towering horns. He was likely a full foot taller than Razorgrin, sans horns, and Razor already stood at six feet without them. He was also probably twice as broad as Razor, with the shoulder-to-waist ratio of an inverted Dorito chip. ‘Superman’ seemed closer to the mark after all, but Razorgrin tried anyway, “Uh--thanks… Anathoth, right?”
He smiled sheepishly, and nodded. It seemed like he was going to stay silent until he shyly added, “Well. It’s-- it’s correctly pronounced ‘Ahn-toh-tee,’ from the Hebrew, but- but that’s how everyone pronounces it. Even me now, heh.” He then shrugged, and then looked away from Razorgrin uneasily.
Razor was peering up at him with his mouth hanging open. Anathoth’s voice had been rumbling deep, like rolling thunder, but he was so timid that he’d mumbled and was borderline hard to hear. Razorgrin was gawking at him, mind racing at both the effort of making out what Anathoth had said, and realizing this humanoid mountain had all the force of personality of a wet blanket. The disparity boggled the mind.
“Alright, social hour is over. Anathoth, you’ll be helping to train Razorgrin here in Fist Weapons. You can have this back when you’ve proven to me you’re less of an idiot.” Lethe said, waving the blood-magic book at Razor.
“Yes, sir!” Anathoth replied, loudly and clearly, suddenly standing at attention before Brigadier Lethe. It was a hard swerve from before, and Razor raised his brows while watching the Templar switch gears at light speed. He could suddenly imagine Anathoth in another life, a more normal one where he was a uniformed cop, or a marine. Or maybe a basketball player… He was also betting that Anathoth’s real name was probably, unironically, Chad.
“Um… this way?” Anathoth was smiling sheepishly at Razorgrin, trying to get the redhead to follow him over to a bank of practice dummies past the firing range. He smiled softly at the shy Templar, and followed.
When they reached the “practice dummies,” Razor’s reaction was… less than noble. When he looked up from his feet, he saw that they were more or less alive, skeletal humanoid figures with freakish proportions chained to the ceiling and floor by their hands and feet. They had massive teeth that would have put The Xenomorph Queen to shame, their eyes blindfolded by a dirty black leather strip. They breathed raggedly, shuttering and rattling their chains. The first thing Razorgrin did was emit some high-pitched, strained squeak, followed by leaning into Anathoth’s back at full force. It was unabashedly a “take him, not me” maneuver, Razor tried to shove Anathoth at it just before turning and running away. Unfortunately Anathoth had twice Razor’s body weight and the Templar wasn’t swayed, he just turned and looked back at the fleeing redhead in confusion.
Lethe was a few steps behind them, and he reached out and snagged Razorgrin by his collar before he could get too much further away. He swatted at Lethe’s hands and was still trying to backpedal, but the brigadier held him fast. “What the f*ck-- what the f*ck ARE those?!”
Face splitting into a horrid grin, Lethe started to drag Razorgrin back toward them, despite the struggling. “Those things are called Rakshasa, they’re basic hellhounds. We keep them chained. They used to make such a mess of the new recruits…”
Razorgrin didn’t find that comforting in the least, and he continued struggling to escape. Lethe just kept rambling, smirking at Razor’s discomfort, “You’re to use them for target practice. Don’t worry, they don’t feel a thing, and they’re unworthy of mercy.”
He shoved Razor at Anathoth, and the Templar caught him, both to steady him and to keep him from running again. Once Razorgrin came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t getting away, he blurted out, “You want me-- to walk up and HIT that thing?!”
Lethe chuckled. “Use your time in the Crucible well. There’s no point in rushing things. Out there, the demons aren’t chained up, and you won’t have me to save your sorry arse. Well, go on then. Get started. Anathoth will offer some guidance along the way.” The brigadier was waving his hand dismissively as he hobbled away, still laughing at Razor under his breath.
Anathoth and Razorgrin both stared at each other wide eyed, Razor in terror and Anathoth coming to the realization that he was now partially responsible for a deer-horned coward. It took a lot of quiet, overly-polite coaxing, but Anathoth eventually talked Razorgrin into donning the brass knuckles and stepping up to the Rakshasa.
Razor had both fists up in a boxer’s stance, one that he’d seen in movies, but it took an awful lot of bouncing around to actually work up the courage to make contact with the demon’s body. The light tap of his knuckles against its flesh resulted in an uncomfortable squelch, and Razorgrin howled and backpedaled, bouncing and slinging his hands while his skin crawled, “BUHHH--ugh-ugh-ugh! I’m gonna barf!”
“Please don’t!” Anathoth pleaded, and Lethe could be heard in the distance, absolutely cackling. Razorgrin’s time in the Crucible was going fabulously, so far.
Re: Wicked Grin (Razorgrin's short stories)
Oooo...I'll look forward to reading this over the coming weekend 
"So much pain can be avoided by not devising stories that further upset us."
~ Derren Brown
~ Derren Brown
Re: Wicked Grin (Razorgrin's short stories)
Great story, i hope you will write more soon:)
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Razorgrin
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Re: Wicked Grin (Razorgrin's short stories)
Ask and ye shall receive xD Kingsmouth was kind of my least favorite of the zones, so I do feel like the writing was speeding through that area, but oh well-- this is all just for fun anyway.
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Razorgrin
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Re: Wicked Grin (Razorgrin's short stories)
It took Razorgrin roughly a week of training to get used to striking the ungodly Rakshasa in the training hall. Most of his problem was coming to terms with the fear and the sensations of lashing out at demon flesh. Anathoth was there to help him off and on, but most of the time Razorgrin was dealing with Lethe. As a Templar in the Enlisted Order, Anathoth had his own missions and assignments to attend to. Brigadier Lethe would spend a lot of time standing back and shouting at Razor, which he supposed inspired him to want to hit something.
When Lethe finally relented and handed over Razorgrin’s blood focus, it was like a long-awaited reward for all of the pushups and demon-punching. He was never much of a bookworm, but something about the power held in the book called to him. Razor didn’t even blink when Lethe gave him an athame to go with it, a ritual knife for the blood sacrifice required to power the spellwork. All of the training with the world’s nastiest practice dummies had punched the squeamishness right out of Razorgrin, he only hesitated for a moment before slicing into his own palm to power his first spell. It felt good, felt right even, and fainting wasn’t a problem anymore. As long as he paid attention to the amount of blood he was spilling, he found it easy to control the corruption forced through his veins by the dark magic. It was like he had been born to it.
It wasn’t long after that Sonnac gave Razorgrin his first mission. Solomon Island, dark forces at work, find the root of whatever doom affects the island, et cetera. Razor was on board with Sonnac’s speech, right up to the part where he said he wasn’t going there to rescue anybody. That made Razorgrin frown, but he was in no position to argue with Sonnac’s orders. He was in a position however to point out the difficulties in setting foot outside the Templar headquarters, namely two difficulties that were currently attached to his skull.
Sonnac scooted a box on his desk toward Razorgrin. Inside was a hood, a nondescript looking brown one made of rough old material and designed to sit across the shoulders under a coat. He gave Sonnac a side-eyed glance and then donned it, finding that flipping the hood up over his head caused his antlers to just… vanish. The material passed through the horns as if they weren’t there, and suddenly they weren’t, as long as the hood was up. Not so much for his ears though-- they stuck through the cloth stubbornly. He raised an eyebrow at Sonnac, and the Templar shrugged, telling Razorgrin that would have to do. Many of Gaia’s bees ran around looking rather quirky, hopefully one with a penchant for “fake” elf ears wouldn’t draw too much attention.
His worries about looking out of place quickly vanished as Razorgrin entered the Ealdwick Underground, passing through a verdant portal to Agartha for the first time. The Great Tree, the golden realm and its endless twigs left him gobsmacked, and after the help of a kindly old Stationmaster, he was sent screaming across an open void via magical jump-pad to another portal taking him straight to Kingsmouth. Terrifying, but speedy.
Kingsmouth… turned out to be the most horrible, disgusting experience of Razorgrin’s life. He thought the Rakshasa were awful, but they only somewhat prepared him for zombies. Actual zombies, shambling undead. He vaguely remembered cracking wise to D.I. Shelley that he was a Romero fan. That was only a week or so ago, but after landing in Kingsmouth he wasn’t much of a zombie movie fan anymore. He couldn’t decide which was worse, the smell, the odd shrieking, or the fact that they moved in packs.
Meeting the people of Kingsmouth was particularly trying in its own way. Sonnac saying that Razorgrin wasn’t there for a rescue mission made his heart sink every time he spoke to Sheriff Bannerman, stubborn old Norma Creed or that crazy mechanic Edgar who was diligently trying to soup up an old school bus to be zombie-proof. Razor’s heart particularly ached for Danny Dufresne, he was just a boy. A resourceful boy who liked to spy on people with a webcam mounted on an RC plane, but still just a kid. Razor couldn’t help but worry about his fate the most.
The strangest denizens of the town was a camp full of hippies, led by a sleazeball named Che Garcia-Hansson. They were part of a group called “Morninglight,” a new age cult that promised self-improvement in exchange for cash. ‘Sign over all your worldly belongings and we’ll build you into a better you. Enlightenment can be yours for a starting price of $19.99.’ Razorgrin remembered reading the rhetoric on one of their creepy pamphlets, not the exact wording but something like-- ‘be reborn in the light of the new dawn.’ It was predatory and evil, but that didn’t mean they deserved to be eaten by zombies. Che was just there on the island peddling his ‘religion’ at the worst possible time-- during a zombie apocalypse.
Razorgrin’s eyes would glaze over when Che started pontificating, but the redheaded elf had still managed to win the hippie’s favor when he accidentally rescued one of Che’s “messengers.” Some clueless guy carrying a package-- it was probably drugs. Razorgrin didn’t care, may the hippies smoke themselves to a happier place. Razor might even ask for a hit, considering how dreary the whole situation was turning out to be.
The awful truth of it all was that they were probably all stuck there, suffering until the US military finally signed off on nuking the entire island into orbit. Even the Orochi scientists who were researching in the area were stuck, unable to get their helicopters past the ominous fog surrounding the island.
Why Razorgrin couldn’t just gather up these innocents and herd them through the Agartha portal to safety was beyond him. Maybe Gaia had decided they all weren’t special enough to pass through Agartha for some unknowable reason. Sonnac had certainly decided they weren’t worth saving. The ‘greater good’ could kiss his ass, Razorgrin thought.
He was feeling pretty somber and hopeless by the time he finally tracked down the infection to its source: Joe Slater. All of the evidence so far pointed to the terrible fog being led here by a fishing trawler called the Lady Margaret, and a fisherman who had brought back something ominous from the deep. Something that had lured the townsfolk of Kingsmouth out to sea, to drown themselves and rise again as the walking undead. Tracking Joe Slater into the sewers beneath Kingsmouth Town, Razor’s heart sank all over again when he locked eyes on the fisherman and his sorry state.
“Look on your face says even my good side is worse for wear....” Joe gargled out in a voice that sounded half-drowned. His skin had gone green and bloated, his one good eye gone bloodshot, the other eye socket occupied by a barnacle. His right arm was also covered in them, forming the limb into a giant club. His left side looked withered and burned bloody, with flailing green tentacles poking out from around his bandages.
Razorgrin kept his distance. Slater was obviously in the process of becoming a Draugr, one of the drowned undead. He still had his mind and control of his body, but he was in pain and losing the battle. He answered quietly, mustering up a smile for the poor man, “Gotta be honest, you’re not lookin so good, Joe.”
Joe gave a raspy chuckle, nodding and twisting bloated lips into a wry smile. There was a twinkle of appreciation in his remaining eye, maybe a small comfort that he was still recognizable to someone. He didn’t recognize Razorgrin, but it encouraged him to continue his sad tale, “I've been trying not to think about the... changing. Like it could all be a bad dream I ain't woken up from. Nightmares, all nightmares, since that storm blew us off course. Off the compass, off the map. We didn't tell anyone about the shit we saw... About the dead ships all caught up in red weed as far as you could see. About the things moving in the fog... in the water. About what we saw beneath it all, deep into the abyss. Or what I found there.”
Cautiously stepping closer, Razor crouched near Joe Slater’s huddled form. This was the information he’d been hunting-- what had Joe brought back to Kingsmouth? He nodded to the fisherman encouragingly, urging him to keep going.
Joe Slater held up his burned hand, showing Razorgrin where the fingers had been burned to a crisp by whatever he’d grasped in the abyss. “In that dungeon darkness, it shone like a signal flare. Like something fallen down from heaven above, you understand? A blade made of pure light, a thing of terrible beauty. I could hear its siren song, just... calling me. Last I remember was the Creed boys hollering as I took a hold of it. Or it took a hold of me. I wasn't strong enough, I know that now. They told me it pushed back the fog and the waves while I was out cold. Told me it saved us... It didn't save us. That thing brought the fog back to Kingsmouth. I brought the fog back to Kingsmouth.”
A blade, made of light. Well, that narrowed down his search, Razorgrin supposed. While Joe was taking a moment to wallow in regrets, Razor looked him over to see just how far gone he was. His whole body looked like it was dead and bloated. It was probable that Joe Slater was already undead, just kept in his right mind by having come in contact with the artifact that caused all of this. Razorgrin was wondering what the right course of action would be. ...Would he have to put the fisherman out of his misery?
Just when Razorgrin was coming to that dread realization, Joe lurched at him, scrabbling desperately. He pleaded, “And I still hear that siren song! I know you hear it too. You could find it. You could stop the god-awful noise, put that burning brightness back where it belongs, in the deep, in the dark.”
“Yeah… I hear it, Joe. I’ll take care of it, I promise.” Razorgrin said, and he’d been lying at first. He didn’t actually hear shit-- until he dared to touch Joe’s withered hand to pat it comfortingly, where the fisherman clung to the lapels of Razor’s coat. When he did, he heard a distinct melody carried by a beautiful, female voice. It alternated mesmerizingly between humming and vocalizing, “La, la la la…” When he focused, he realized that the song was coming from behind him, and he could follow the sound. He stood up and promised again, with more conviction this time, “I’ll take care of it.”
Joe Slater stayed crouched in the shallow sewer waters, nodding to himself and gently rocking back and forth. He seemed satisfied with Razorgrin’s promise, but lapsed back into dark thoughts, “I wonder what woulda happened if I never left that red sea. Maybe Joe Slater never did... and all this is just some pitch dark dreaming.”
Razor didn’t have an answer for him, but he had a lead to follow. Joe hadn’t asked to be put out of his misery thankfully, and maybe the dead fisherman had his own reasons for hanging on for so long. Wishing he could do something for Joe but realizing he couldn’t, Razorgrin left him to his dark dreaming and followed the song out of the sewers.
When Lethe finally relented and handed over Razorgrin’s blood focus, it was like a long-awaited reward for all of the pushups and demon-punching. He was never much of a bookworm, but something about the power held in the book called to him. Razor didn’t even blink when Lethe gave him an athame to go with it, a ritual knife for the blood sacrifice required to power the spellwork. All of the training with the world’s nastiest practice dummies had punched the squeamishness right out of Razorgrin, he only hesitated for a moment before slicing into his own palm to power his first spell. It felt good, felt right even, and fainting wasn’t a problem anymore. As long as he paid attention to the amount of blood he was spilling, he found it easy to control the corruption forced through his veins by the dark magic. It was like he had been born to it.
It wasn’t long after that Sonnac gave Razorgrin his first mission. Solomon Island, dark forces at work, find the root of whatever doom affects the island, et cetera. Razor was on board with Sonnac’s speech, right up to the part where he said he wasn’t going there to rescue anybody. That made Razorgrin frown, but he was in no position to argue with Sonnac’s orders. He was in a position however to point out the difficulties in setting foot outside the Templar headquarters, namely two difficulties that were currently attached to his skull.
Sonnac scooted a box on his desk toward Razorgrin. Inside was a hood, a nondescript looking brown one made of rough old material and designed to sit across the shoulders under a coat. He gave Sonnac a side-eyed glance and then donned it, finding that flipping the hood up over his head caused his antlers to just… vanish. The material passed through the horns as if they weren’t there, and suddenly they weren’t, as long as the hood was up. Not so much for his ears though-- they stuck through the cloth stubbornly. He raised an eyebrow at Sonnac, and the Templar shrugged, telling Razorgrin that would have to do. Many of Gaia’s bees ran around looking rather quirky, hopefully one with a penchant for “fake” elf ears wouldn’t draw too much attention.
His worries about looking out of place quickly vanished as Razorgrin entered the Ealdwick Underground, passing through a verdant portal to Agartha for the first time. The Great Tree, the golden realm and its endless twigs left him gobsmacked, and after the help of a kindly old Stationmaster, he was sent screaming across an open void via magical jump-pad to another portal taking him straight to Kingsmouth. Terrifying, but speedy.
Kingsmouth… turned out to be the most horrible, disgusting experience of Razorgrin’s life. He thought the Rakshasa were awful, but they only somewhat prepared him for zombies. Actual zombies, shambling undead. He vaguely remembered cracking wise to D.I. Shelley that he was a Romero fan. That was only a week or so ago, but after landing in Kingsmouth he wasn’t much of a zombie movie fan anymore. He couldn’t decide which was worse, the smell, the odd shrieking, or the fact that they moved in packs.
Meeting the people of Kingsmouth was particularly trying in its own way. Sonnac saying that Razorgrin wasn’t there for a rescue mission made his heart sink every time he spoke to Sheriff Bannerman, stubborn old Norma Creed or that crazy mechanic Edgar who was diligently trying to soup up an old school bus to be zombie-proof. Razor’s heart particularly ached for Danny Dufresne, he was just a boy. A resourceful boy who liked to spy on people with a webcam mounted on an RC plane, but still just a kid. Razor couldn’t help but worry about his fate the most.
The strangest denizens of the town was a camp full of hippies, led by a sleazeball named Che Garcia-Hansson. They were part of a group called “Morninglight,” a new age cult that promised self-improvement in exchange for cash. ‘Sign over all your worldly belongings and we’ll build you into a better you. Enlightenment can be yours for a starting price of $19.99.’ Razorgrin remembered reading the rhetoric on one of their creepy pamphlets, not the exact wording but something like-- ‘be reborn in the light of the new dawn.’ It was predatory and evil, but that didn’t mean they deserved to be eaten by zombies. Che was just there on the island peddling his ‘religion’ at the worst possible time-- during a zombie apocalypse.
Razorgrin’s eyes would glaze over when Che started pontificating, but the redheaded elf had still managed to win the hippie’s favor when he accidentally rescued one of Che’s “messengers.” Some clueless guy carrying a package-- it was probably drugs. Razorgrin didn’t care, may the hippies smoke themselves to a happier place. Razor might even ask for a hit, considering how dreary the whole situation was turning out to be.
The awful truth of it all was that they were probably all stuck there, suffering until the US military finally signed off on nuking the entire island into orbit. Even the Orochi scientists who were researching in the area were stuck, unable to get their helicopters past the ominous fog surrounding the island.
Why Razorgrin couldn’t just gather up these innocents and herd them through the Agartha portal to safety was beyond him. Maybe Gaia had decided they all weren’t special enough to pass through Agartha for some unknowable reason. Sonnac had certainly decided they weren’t worth saving. The ‘greater good’ could kiss his ass, Razorgrin thought.
He was feeling pretty somber and hopeless by the time he finally tracked down the infection to its source: Joe Slater. All of the evidence so far pointed to the terrible fog being led here by a fishing trawler called the Lady Margaret, and a fisherman who had brought back something ominous from the deep. Something that had lured the townsfolk of Kingsmouth out to sea, to drown themselves and rise again as the walking undead. Tracking Joe Slater into the sewers beneath Kingsmouth Town, Razor’s heart sank all over again when he locked eyes on the fisherman and his sorry state.
“Look on your face says even my good side is worse for wear....” Joe gargled out in a voice that sounded half-drowned. His skin had gone green and bloated, his one good eye gone bloodshot, the other eye socket occupied by a barnacle. His right arm was also covered in them, forming the limb into a giant club. His left side looked withered and burned bloody, with flailing green tentacles poking out from around his bandages.
Razorgrin kept his distance. Slater was obviously in the process of becoming a Draugr, one of the drowned undead. He still had his mind and control of his body, but he was in pain and losing the battle. He answered quietly, mustering up a smile for the poor man, “Gotta be honest, you’re not lookin so good, Joe.”
Joe gave a raspy chuckle, nodding and twisting bloated lips into a wry smile. There was a twinkle of appreciation in his remaining eye, maybe a small comfort that he was still recognizable to someone. He didn’t recognize Razorgrin, but it encouraged him to continue his sad tale, “I've been trying not to think about the... changing. Like it could all be a bad dream I ain't woken up from. Nightmares, all nightmares, since that storm blew us off course. Off the compass, off the map. We didn't tell anyone about the shit we saw... About the dead ships all caught up in red weed as far as you could see. About the things moving in the fog... in the water. About what we saw beneath it all, deep into the abyss. Or what I found there.”
Cautiously stepping closer, Razor crouched near Joe Slater’s huddled form. This was the information he’d been hunting-- what had Joe brought back to Kingsmouth? He nodded to the fisherman encouragingly, urging him to keep going.
Joe Slater held up his burned hand, showing Razorgrin where the fingers had been burned to a crisp by whatever he’d grasped in the abyss. “In that dungeon darkness, it shone like a signal flare. Like something fallen down from heaven above, you understand? A blade made of pure light, a thing of terrible beauty. I could hear its siren song, just... calling me. Last I remember was the Creed boys hollering as I took a hold of it. Or it took a hold of me. I wasn't strong enough, I know that now. They told me it pushed back the fog and the waves while I was out cold. Told me it saved us... It didn't save us. That thing brought the fog back to Kingsmouth. I brought the fog back to Kingsmouth.”
A blade, made of light. Well, that narrowed down his search, Razorgrin supposed. While Joe was taking a moment to wallow in regrets, Razor looked him over to see just how far gone he was. His whole body looked like it was dead and bloated. It was probable that Joe Slater was already undead, just kept in his right mind by having come in contact with the artifact that caused all of this. Razorgrin was wondering what the right course of action would be. ...Would he have to put the fisherman out of his misery?
Just when Razorgrin was coming to that dread realization, Joe lurched at him, scrabbling desperately. He pleaded, “And I still hear that siren song! I know you hear it too. You could find it. You could stop the god-awful noise, put that burning brightness back where it belongs, in the deep, in the dark.”
“Yeah… I hear it, Joe. I’ll take care of it, I promise.” Razorgrin said, and he’d been lying at first. He didn’t actually hear shit-- until he dared to touch Joe’s withered hand to pat it comfortingly, where the fisherman clung to the lapels of Razor’s coat. When he did, he heard a distinct melody carried by a beautiful, female voice. It alternated mesmerizingly between humming and vocalizing, “La, la la la…” When he focused, he realized that the song was coming from behind him, and he could follow the sound. He stood up and promised again, with more conviction this time, “I’ll take care of it.”
Joe Slater stayed crouched in the shallow sewer waters, nodding to himself and gently rocking back and forth. He seemed satisfied with Razorgrin’s promise, but lapsed back into dark thoughts, “I wonder what woulda happened if I never left that red sea. Maybe Joe Slater never did... and all this is just some pitch dark dreaming.”
Razor didn’t have an answer for him, but he had a lead to follow. Joe hadn’t asked to be put out of his misery thankfully, and maybe the dead fisherman had his own reasons for hanging on for so long. Wishing he could do something for Joe but realizing he couldn’t, Razorgrin left him to his dark dreaming and followed the song out of the sewers.
Re: Wicked Grin (Razorgrin's short stories)
I hope you have fun writing it, becouse i will definitly like to read more :p
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