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Chapter 1 - Vitamin Z

Trails of crimson ran down Goreblaster's limp arm. His dark hair, matted with sweat, hung over his lowered head as his breath was deep and ragged.

“Had enough already, Snoreblaster?” the octo-ghoul laughed, six large arms flexing, jagged poison-coated claws twinkling in the death throes of dusk.

Beneath the dampened curtain of long hair, the barbarian grinned and raised his head.

‘Big Hunger’ had turned out to be a far more challenging foe than expected. Twice as tall as even a troll, with greater wit, which wasn’t exactly difficult. Where its tongue wasn’t dripping with pointed derision, it was dripping with foul ichor. The overbearing stench of the lumbering behemoth was only matched by the apparent desire to make a snack out of Goreblaster.

“It’ll take more than that to stop me,” the barbarian sneered, raising his sword arm in his still-capable off-hand. He didn’t think his usual wielding arm was broken, but it certainly wasn’t functioning as desired.

“Try avoiding the attacks,” Percy called, helpfully, from some out-of-sight hiding place. For all that could be said about the spherical little man, he certainly did exist.

Pureheart, the magical sword that belonged to Goreblaster (or was it the other way around?), lit up in a blue glow as he levelled it at the gawking ghast gob. “He will be the one having to avoid my attacks,” the barbarian half-slurred and full-stumbled towards the hulking monster.

“Perhaps you need a holiday, Boreblaster, getting old and slow?” The two malicious eyes in the sunken face of the mega-ghast gleamed with sinister intent as its mouth twisted into a snarling grin.

“Lately my metabolism has felt like it has- no! I’m fine, but I’m about to give your head a vacation from your neck,” Goreblaster growled and started a lopsided sprint towards the huge creature.

The talons slashed downwards, as Big Hunger lashed out with each of his six arms, striking the soft ground and sending plumes of dirt into the air as the missed strikes withdrew. The ghast turned, a sweeping strike again missing the suddenly very agile and blue barbarian. Powdered dirt created a screen that the witless fighter was using as obscuring cover.

Suddenly a blue flashing arc came from the side, slashing a crimson arc across the foul flesh of the tall monster. With a roar, Big Hunger punched downwards (not cool, man) with half of his fists in an attempt to crush the lightning-fast muscle-bound stud.

A second slash severed one of the hands clean off from the wrist, cutting down the post-bathroom hygiene requirements of this undead abomination by… oh, none because it’s undead already and has poison claws, right? Washing his hands would be mostly counterintuitive.

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Big Hunger stumbled backwards in shock at the missing appendage, doubly so as the wound on his leg caused his steps to shake awkwardly. By now, this was enough advantage for the injured Goreblaster to build momentum; a flicker of strikes billowed out from his magical sword, hewing chunks of rotten flesh and thick ichor from the bewildered monster.

As the uber-ghast dropped to his knees to clasp at the stumps of once-upon-a-time hands, the barbarian ran up his back, fur-lined boots gripping against the pallid and soft flesh like a stairway away from heaven. A bright blue sheen enveloped the ruined cathedral as Pureheart cut a swift arc through the bulbous neck, sending the shocked head dropping to the floor with a moist blomp.

“Looks like your trip is all-inclusive, for death!” Goreblaster stumbled down from atop the slumping creature, tripping and rolling along the filth-covered old stone floor of the long-forgotten building.

“Are you okay, Gore?” Percy scarpered out of his safe place like a bowl of jelly on wheels.

“Eeff,” the barbarian confirmed? It was hard to tell as he was talking into the floor, being face down and all.

With much physical anguish, the assistant/manager barely managed to roll the meat-wall over onto his back, Goreblaster exerting a long hiss of escaping air, a pained expression on his face determined that he probably wasn’t doing it for fun.

“Let me look at that arm,” Percy scowled, adjusting the very thick spectacles that hid his eyes but enabled him to see.

“You have my permission,” Goreblaster managed to wheeze out, eyes closing as his fingers at the end of the hand at the end of the good arm clenched.

On the long list of things Percy wasn’t, a Doctor was one of them. Neither was he a medic, healer, nurse, nor surgeon. Body things were icky and strange to him, and he mostly relied on the barbarian’s natural ability to heal, avoid danger, or ply the help of the thankful masses after a job was completed.

In this instance, however, they were alone in the middle of an abandoned town where this ghast had taken residence. “Have you been taking your vitamins? You know it’s in your contract, right?”

A low groan was the only response from the prone man.

Percy prodded the limp arm. It looked lacerated and had a weird sheen to it that shouted out for it to be cut off - not literally shouting though; that would be even more disturbing. The oblong companion had neither the strength of will nor the strength of arm to do such a task, however. Plus, Goreblaster would no doubt hold it against him - the act of removing the arm, not the arm itself.

“Fernando-” he began to call, but the mule was already there off to the side, in his usual stubborn way of being just where you needed him at the right time. Percy swore under his breath. Although it wasn’t in the contract for him to keep a family-friendly image, he didn’t want Fern to think any less of him.

“I’m going to get help, Gore,” he threw a shawl over the mostly bare man to shield him from particularly dense predators. “Just don’t die for a little bit; I’ll be back.”

Goreblaster just felt cold, and tired. When he awoke a short time later, the moon had risen and cast pale light across the ruins around him. It wasn’t like him to feel the cold though, but even as he stood, he didn’t shiver.

His arm was also functional again, despite still looking like a health hazard. Everything felt heavy and stiff though, like he was a walking corpse.

Oh, that wasn’t a metaphor.