Aubrey ducked behind a tall tombstone and narrowed her eyes, watching them warily as they approached the freshly dug grave she'd climbed out of. They muttered amongst themselves, their voices low and indistinct, but as they neared the grave, the words became clearer.
One of the men stepped up, holding the lantern over the gaping hole in the ground.
"This ain't right—the dirt's all turned up," he said, his voice rough and raspy. "Someone's been here."
The others glanced at each other, their expressions guarded and uneasy.
"Look, there's footprints. Someone's been walking around here," the shortest of the four men said, gesturing at the ground.
The four men peered around nervously, their gazes darting from the ground to the darkness beyond the flickering circle of light. Aubrey held her breath, pressing herself tighter against the tombstone, praying that they wouldn't look in her direction.
"Come on, we can't let them get to the loot first!" the fourth man hissed. "Whoever it is, they can't be that far ahead."
"What 'bout that deathly wail we heard earlier? Might've been this 'someone' they're talking about!" the short one added in a whisper.
Aubrey winced as she recalled the cry of anguish that she'd released earlier—the one that had seemed to shake the whole graveyard.
"It's just the wind—there's nothing to worry about!" The largest of the four waved off the suggestion impatiently. "Now stop dawdling, and let's get this done before someone else does!"
"Maybe we should wait and come back later—"
"Don't be a coward!" The big man pointed his shovel at his companion. "We can take 'em if it's just one guy." He hefted his shovel in one hand and gestured at the others to follow his lead. "Let's move!"
The shorter man cursed, then followed, clutching his own shovel tightly. The other two glanced at each other, hesitating, but then trailed after them with reluctant nods.
Oh no...
They're coming.
Aubrey's mind raced. Should she flee? Hide somewhere else? Or stand her ground and fight? Her earlier outburst seemed to show that she wasn't entirely helpless... but something told her that going toe-to-toe with armed thugs might not end well for her.
Too late.
The light from their lantern shone on her hiding spot, illuminating her in the moonlight.
The men froze in their tracks, their eyes wide as saucers. One of them dropped his shovel in shock, the heavy tool clattering to the ground. The other two staggered back, their faces pale with terror.
"Oi! That lass ain't right, look at her eyes!" the one with the raspy voice holding the lantern muttered, taking a step back.
"Blimey, she's an unhal—unhallowed!" The bald one stumbled over his words in panic, pointing a shaking finger at her.
"We should get out of here!" The shorter one yelped, fumbling to turn back.
"No, no," the big man with a scar across his cheek, argued. "Might just be some poor lass lost 'er mind, wandering 'bout." Despite the tough demeanor he tried to put on, the edge in his voice betrayed his fear.
"Yeah? Well, looks like we got us a live one!" the bald one jeered, waving his shovel at her. His confidence returned, bolstered by the presence of the others.
Aubrey swallowed hard. Her gaze darted from one man to another, her mind still scrambling for a plan. Maybe she could reason with them... play up the distressed maiden card, act confused and innocent...
She stood up, doing her best to compose herself.
"Um... hello?" she greeted them, raising her voice loud enough to be heard clearly. "Can you tell me where I am—I think I've lost my way." She gave them her best lost-and-confused-girl impression, with a shaky smile and a quiver in her voice. "I've... I've gone a little mad, I think... from grief... but I don't want any trouble." She fidgeted with her torn, stained skirt, trying to appear as helpless and vulnerable as possible.
"See, it's nothing. She's just some poor soul who's cracked her gourd, is all." The scar-faced man barked out a harsh laugh, though the sound trembled and cracked. He shot a dark glance at his companions, who looked back with dubious expressions.
"Just some crazy bint, wandering around a graveyard... and that unholy cry we heard earlier... yeah, right." The raspy-voiced man sneered, spitting into the dirt. "Methinks she's the one who disturbed the corpse. Don't like the sound of this, mate."
"Aw, quit yer bellyachin', ya bloomin' gutless chickenshit!" The big man snarled at the other three. "No crazed lass coulda' raised that hellish screech! Yer just trying to scare yerselves, ye bunch of ninnies." He snorted with disdain. "Ain't gonna make me lose none of my sleep!"
His words didn't convince anyone, especially not himself, and Aubrey saw him clutch the handle of his shovel tighter.
This isn't working... they're not buying it...
Aubrey backed away a few steps, eyeing the four of them warily. The short one picked up his fallen shovel, brandishing the tool with a determined look. The one with a raspy voice held the lantern high, squinting at her in the weak, flickering light.
"Hold on, mate—she looks different..." he murmured, peering at her as he rubbed his chin. "The unhallowed I've seen don't look so... decent."
The men exchanged glances, then moved closer to her. The one holding the lamp turned back to the grave she'd clawed her way out of. "Somethin's definitely off here. Still looks like she just crawled out of her grave, dunnit? Can't be a livin' girl, no sirree! We should get her in chains, quick-like... there's bound to be a pretty penny for her catchin'."
"Aye. Could be worth a fortune, she could. Heard the Twilight Cabal be payin' good coin for unhallowed of her sort. They'll be 'appy to get their hands on her, sure 'nuff." The bald one who had been quiet for a while finally chimed in with a snaggletooth grin, licking his lips.
Twilight Cabal... I don't like the sound of that... and neither did the other two, judging from the way they bristled at the name.
"But what if she's cursed?" the short one whispered, his shovel shaking in his grasp. "We should call the Knights of the Cogsworn Order, let them deal with it."
"Gah, who's more likely to end up cursed—them sanctimonious poncey knights or us?" the bald one spat. "Only chance we got is to sell her off to the highest bidder, before she turns into some ghoul or wraith. An' if it means a hefty pile of coin for the lot of us—then we're gonna keep our mouths shut an' pray for luck. Aye?"
The short one shook his head, unconvinced, but the big one grumbled in agreement, stepping forward.
"All right, lovey—you'll come nice and quiet with us now, won'tcha?" His crooked, leering grin gave her goosebumps.
Aubrey backed away faster as they drew nearer, holding out her hands in a gesture of surrender. "Stop—don't come any closer! I—I... please, leave me alone!"
The men fanned out, their movements now cautious, as if stalking prey. Aubrey's mind spun as she tried to decide what to do—fight or run? Her gaze flicked around, searching for any avenue of escape—but no matter what, there was always someone blocking her path.
The distance between her and the group of men shrank.
Damn it... If only she had her guitar—even a staff or a club of some sort. Hell, she'd settle for a nice rock to throw—or even a stick. Even just a distraction, a chance to get away...
Aubrey's mind scrambled for options as she glanced around furtively. Her gaze slid over the shovels that they wielded, noting the coarse, rusty iron heads, the chipped wood handles, and the layers of dirt and grime caked on them.
The short one had a small knife on him—that she could snatch and stab... but it was tucked in the belt at his waist—easy for him to draw if she got close.
She stole a peek at her own fingernails—long and claw-like—then at the fine, pale skin of her bare hands.
Am I... actually considering fighting them?
Aubrey scowled, dropping the damsel-in-distress act. "Seriously, guys—go away...or... or else." The words tumbled from her mouth before she could think twice.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The four men snickered, glancing at each other in disbelief. "Or else, she says!" the big, scar-faced man mocked. "Ye gonna scream us ta' death, sweetie-luv?"
His eyes leered down her body, lingering on her curves, exposed by the sheer, diaphanous gown she wore. He licked his lips, then grinned.
"Hey, lads, think she's got enough meat on her to keep us warm 'n fed for a couple o' nights, eh? Might even break some of our celibate streak, if ye know what I mean."
“I ain’t touchin’ no Unhallowed, no matter how bewitchin’ they is.”
Aubrey shivered at the revulsion that came with the disgusting words. She'd dealt with her fair share of creepy fans and rude paparazzi in her career... but the unbridled, lecherous intent in that gaze and smirk was like nothing she'd ever experienced.
That was a side of human depravity that she'd never known before... but she knew it now.
What could she do? Maybe she could let out that scream again… the one that cracked the gravestones. That should deafen them enough for her to slip away…
[The free one-time use of the Bashee ability “Final Dirge” has been expended. You must acquire the ability normally from here onward.]
Aubrey nearly jumped at the System's notification—then inwardly swore at the implication.
So, that was the equivalent of a freebie...?
The men pressed closer, spreading out to surround her. Aubrey shifted her stance, moving onto the balls of her feet. Her breaths came faster, and her heart pounded in her chest. She clenched her hands into fists, readying herself.
"Stay away from me!" Aubrey's voice sounded stronger in her ears, no longer the pleading tones of a frightened girl. Instead, the words rang out like a battlecry.
The four men hesitated, caught off guard by her sudden change of attitude. The lantern-bearing one laughed nervously, spreading his hands in a placating gesture.
"Heh, listen, lass—we ain't lookin' to hurt yer none; we jus' wanna talk..." He took a step forward, the lantern bobbing in the air as he lifted it higher. Its wavering light cast shadows across their faces, leering at her through the gloom.
Aubrey retreated until her back pressed up against the gravestone. Her fingers grasped the cool stone as her skin prickled with awareness of the approaching men. Their stench filled her nostrils—the rancid smell of unwashed bodies, filthy clothes, and rank breath.
The first shovel swung through the air at her head.
It came so fast that she barely had time to react—just a split second to lean back, and the dull metal blade clanged against the tombstone with a spray of sparks.
Aubrey pushed away, avoiding a second blow that hit the gravestone where she had stood a heartbeat ago.
The third swing came too swiftly to dodge. The crude weapon glanced off her shoulder, drawing a sharp line of pain across her skin. She hissed, wincing as blood trickled down her arm, then leapt to the side to avoid the next attack.
She cried out, ducking as a fourth swing sliced through the air where her head had just been. A fifth strike—aimed lower—grazed her leg, tearing the thin fabric of her dress and biting into her thigh. Aubrey shrieked, falling to one knee, and narrowly evaded a final, overhead swipe that sent dirt flying.
"Shit! I cut her!" The bald man panicked, staring at the blood-covered shovel.
The scar-faced man cursed, kicking her in the ribs as she knelt, sending her sprawling onto her side.
Pain flared through her body. Aubrey gasped, clutching her side.
"She's bleedin' red, not black! She ain’t an Unhallowed?"
"Don't care! Get the restraints!"
Aubrey scrambled back as they closed in on her, the short one reaching for a coil of rope hanging off his belt. She grabbed a fistful of loose dirt and flung it at their faces, causing a few to flinch and falter, covering their eyes.
"Get her, damn it!"
A fire of defiance burned inside her, ignited by disgust and hatred. She didn't care—she was tired of feeling afraid, tired of trying to be reasonable. It felt like she was already on the verge of losing it, anyway—of completely flipping her lid and just snapping.
Fuck it, I've had it!
Amidst the shouts and curses, music began filling her ears—a wild, frenzied tune that filled her with a strange, feverish energy. Aubrey could almost see the notes dancing in the air—tiny, glowing, twinkling dots of light.
[Harmonic Synesthesia initiated]
The next moment, visual cues started to manifest, as if in response to her internal rhythm. Aubrey's vision swam with color and texture; the colors shifted and blended into patterns of hues and tints—almost like a psychedelic trip.
What the...
She saw the wide arc of a shovel blade—its trajectory traced by a shimmering, ghostly line that trailed in front of the swing as if predicting its path. A pulsing icon led her eye to a potential dodge point, where a soft, glowing blue circle floated in the air.
Acting on instinct, she threw herself sideways towards the glowing circle. The shovel blade passed harmlessly through the space where she had stood.
[Successful Evasion: Con Brio!]
She blinked, dazed, but the rhythm and beat of the music remained. Her mind latched on to it, syncing to the cadence. It felt natural—effortless, almost.
The next moment, more visual cues manifested. The time and place where each shovel blow would land, along with the timing and point of impact. They flickered, then coalesced into visible traces that she could easily discern.
Aubrey thrust her hand forward, into a bright orange target marker that shone brightly. A sound—a dissonant buzzing noise—rang out, and the tip of her finger glowed, becoming outlined with an eerie, reddish light. It slammed into the scar-faced man, staggering him and making him drop his shovel.
A momentary flash of golden light glimmered where she'd struck him, accompanied by the sound of a cymbal crash.
[Successful Counterattack: Con Brio!]
What the actual...
The rhythmic music flowing through her mind became louder, more insistent, and the visual cues and patterns strengthened with it. The next series of attacks flowed like a choreographed dance, perfectly aligned with the beat and tempo of the music.
She twisted and danced among the shower of swings and strikes, ducking under a horizontal chop, and leaning back as a vertical blow swept past her face. She rolled to the side to dodge the next attack, then sprang back to her feet.
Another sequence of rhythmic visual cues flashed around her—cues for her counterattacks. She didn't question it—instead she just let the music guide her.
The red-and-orange glow of an incoming strike lingered in her vision. Aubrey kicked off the ground, driving her heel into the bald man's nose with a crunch and a burst of bright crimson blood.
[Successful Counterattack: Con Brio!]
She planted her hand against a gravestone as she spun past it, using it to propel herself back. A moment later, one of the other men ran into it with a grunt, a hollow thump accompanying the collision.
As she completed the acrobatic maneuver, she flicked her wrist and raked her claws across the neck and face of the one with the lamp, sending him reeling back and collapsing in a screaming heap.
"My eyes!" he cried, dropping the lantern, and blindly stumbled away. The glass cover shattered, and the wick snuffed out, plunging everything into darkness. "I can't see—my eyes!"
Aubrey felt a sense of vindication at the sight, and a cruel grin crossed her lips.
The big man roared and charged, swinging his shovel wildly. The ghostly trace of the next swing warned her in time to roll to the side, and the dull iron head struck a gravestone.
In the sudden darkness, she couldn't see well—but the patterns of color and movement around her, overlaid by the music, guided her.
Another series of visual cues appeared—a set of attacks from the big one and the bald one, with overlapping timing.
She tapped her foot, testing the timing, then sidestepped to let one man collide with the other, knocking them both off-balance.
"Oof—get the fuck off of me, you bastard!"
Aubrey seized the opportunity and lashed out with her own strike. Her claws tore into the bald man's chest, opening bloody gashes with a wet, tearing sound. He screamed and clutched at his wounds, stumbling back into a gravestone.
[Successful Evasion and Counterattack: Con Brio!]
Strike, evade, counter, duck, weave.
Over and over, Aubrey fell into a trance-like state, reacting instinctively to the visual cues and rhythmic patterns presented by the music. Was this some sort of foresight?
It was like seeing a second or two into the future—except it wasn't quite that—more like... the music played her fate and she simply danced to the tune.
Every parry, every counter, and dodge—it all fell in sync with the music in her mind, guided by the rhythmic cues. And each successful strike or dodge was accompanied by the melodic sound of a musical note or an instrument playing in the background, layered over the ongoing flow of music that dominated her thoughts.
The grave robbers' confusion mounted as she fought back—and her advantage grew. Aubrey unleashed a relentless barrage of vicious attacks, raking her claws across limbs, faces, and chests. Each slash was followed by the meaty, tearing sound of flesh parting, and the hot, thick scent of fresh blood.
Screams filled the air, growing increasingly desperate and frantic.
Aubrey's skin grew slick with blood, her hands covered with gore and viscera, her nails clogged with scraps of cloth and chunks of flesh.
Through it all, Aubrey never felt the slightest hint of mercy or hesitation. Instead, her fury—the sheer hatred and disgust she felt for these men—only seemed to grow.
With a snarl, she drove her elbow into the jaw of the short one, sending him reeling, and then delivered a devastating kick to the groin of the one with a raspy voice as he crawled along the ground.
Their cries of agony mixed with the constant cadence and rhythm of the music. A sick, sadistic joy coursed through her at the sight and sound.
"N-no! M-mercy! Please!" the raspy-voiced man sobbed, writhing in pain on the ground as he curled into a ball, one hand grasping futilely at a bloodied mess between his legs. The other hand waved frantically in front of him, as if to fend her off. "S-stop! I beg you, please—no more!"
Aubrey paid no heed to the pitiful, wheedling words, instead bringing her foot down upon his back and stepping on him as he writhed beneath her.
Her long, black hair fell across her eyes, obscuring her vision. She paused to brush it back, tucking a few stray strands behind one ear. Her other hand, soaked with crimson gore, left streaks of sticky wetness across her cheek, but she hardly noticed.
As the battle slowed, so did the music. The rest of the graverobbers lay crumpled and bleeding, moaning and whimpering incoherently, as they struggled to crawl away.
Aubrey turned her gaze to the scar-faced man who'd first confronted her. His breathing came in ragged, gasping gulps. His teeth chattered from fear and pain as he cradled a broken, mangled arm.
Aubrey took a single, measured step toward him.
"W-wait—" The words came out in a gurgling rasp as a bubble of blood swelled from between his lips.
She paused, tilting her head as she stared at the man with cold, unsympathetic eyes.
Suddenly, she felt an unfamiliar pull towards that fear, a hunger she hadn't recognized until now. Her pulse raced as she heard his racing heart, pounding wildly, throbbing inside her head. Like a feast of delicacies spread before a starving woman, all her senses focused on it with rapt intensity.
[Variant: Banshee]
[Description: A type of psychic vampire capable of feeding on intense emotions. You rely on your appearance, voice, and personality to provoke strong emotional responses from others. By heightening your prey's emotions, you create a mental link that allows you to feed on your victim’s energy. Emotions of euphoria or terror provide the most nourishment, while emotions of moderate intensity provide less so.]
What? What in the ever-loving fuck...