He fell in front of the fire with a searing pain. He could hear Taymon cackle through the ringing in his ears, and watched the twisted man kick the limp body of Uundah into the wall of the shelter. Despite the pain, he tried to move for his sword, but nothing happened. He panicked internally, trying to kick his legs, or swing his arms, but he was completely paralysed. Taymon saw the panic in his eyes, and laughed louder.
"Ya' really made that all too easy" he said, sauntering towards his prey.
He layed Murphy flat, and casually removed his favourite black cloak, tossing it to the side. He then sat him against the wall, away from the warmth of the fire, and removed his belt.
Sitting back in front of the fire, he smiled at the terrified young man and rifled through his things.
Murphy was struggling to breathe under the weight of his own chest, but whatever the rogue had done to him was merciful enough to let his lungs work, if you choose to see it as a mercy at least.
"I marked ya' right away ya' know. Knew I was gonna rob ya'" he continued, as he pulled things carelessly from Murphy’s backpack. "But then I 'erd you tell the ol' bitch your a Wark, after that I wanted ta' hurt ya' too".
That made Murphy feel like an idiot. He didn’t want to die feeling like an idiot, but knew in his heart that no matter how he died, he would probably do it feeling like an idiot. The paralysis made no effort to numb him, and he could feel the burning wound in his stomach weeping warm blood, he was starting to get dizzy.
"I won't kill ya' now" he continued. "That's 'ow they know ya' see. As much fun as I'd 'ave, it'll keep my nose clean if I leave ya' fa' the animals."
He went quiet while he looked the potions over, smiling.
"That's right" he said, snapping his fingers. He walked back to Murphy, and showed him a small vial. "This is an ol' trick my friend Dahrey showed me, but I doubt ya' know 'im" he said with a smirk. He grabbed Murphy’s hair, and jerked his head backwards. Murphy choked while he poured the bitter syrup down his throat. "That should slow ya' bleedin'. So you won't die too quick. I guess I'm pretty soft like that". He sat back at the fire, and continued taking stock of his loot.
The naive Warlock had already bled enough to dull his vision, but he fought against it, and kept his eyes firmly on the enemy that was now chewing through his jerky. Uundah remained silent and lifeless, and the guilt from ignoring his caution was settling in fast. Something calmed him however, once he started down that line of thinking. It was a familiar calm, one that he had grown accustomed to over the recent years. Despite his fluffy body being entirely un-animated, Uundah was telling him that he was somehow okay. That realisation gave the Warlock a sense of determination. He would do anything he could to make sure his friend stayed safe, and he stared Taymon down with a demonish gleam. The man noticed the look, and sighed.
"Now don't ya' go gettin' any ideas" he said, shaking a finger. "You'll 'ave an easier time if ya' just take it."
Murphy managed a grunt, and Taymon laughed again.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"Ya' must be a special kind of stupid to just walk into the wilds with a stranger". He opened Murphy’s pouch, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Might keep this one for me-self". He started pulling the books out to look them over, quickly and carelessly discarding each of them to the side of himself. That's when Murphy had an idea.
He started to try and move again. It was painful, and he could feel the bullet move inside of him whenever the occasional muscle twitched, but he persisted in trying to move his fingers. Looking down his nose at the blood on his tunic, he could see an aspect mixed within. He recognised it immediately. It wasn’t exactly the same, but it looked remarkably close to the aspect of containment. The day his master taught him about it, he was able to witness how the old man removed the paralysed beetle's prison. Callus had force fed the thing Melt pellets, made from the metallic dust. He wanted the beetle for its milk, and told Murphy to pay attention. He always thought the old man wanted him to learn how to milk a bug, but the point of the lesson became suddenly apparent. He had seen first hand how Melt seemed to destroy aspect, and he had just figured out a practical use for it. Though his body was paralysed, he could still move the magic within him freely. With a mental sigh of relief, he got to work on his plan. He had no idea how his body worked, or what he was risking, but he began to push his magic into his own flesh around his wound. It was excruciating, but he resisted the scream. While he burned in silence, Taymon continued to pull books from the pouch. Murphy concentrated, and thought hard about drawing everything he had into his wound. He felt his fingertips grow cold, and he knew it was working. His wound oozed a clot of black dust and blood, but the rogue didn't notice. He tried to move his fingers again, and felt a twitch in his pinky, so he pushed harder.
Taymon paused in his search, finding something that caught his interest. "Ah, that's better" he said, pulling the fuzzy grimoire from its safety. "A mage book will sell easy, don't know 'bout the rest though" he elaborated, not bothering to look at his victim.
"Glad you like it" Murphy said with struggling words.
Taymon looked at him in shock. "Now 'ow did you manage that?" He growled. He grabbed Murphy’s sword and stood.
"Maybe" Murphy coughed. "You’re just a bad shot". He remained still, not daring to give away even a hint of his plan.
"Maybe I need to remind ya' who has the gun" the ugly man hissed. He walked the few steps it took to be standing above his prey. "Or maybe I'll cut ya' pretty mouth up with my new sword, I'm thinkin' that'll shut you up."
Murphy chuckled, and coughed sticky blood onto his chin. "If you think I'm pretty, this is a nasty way to get my attention."
Taymon sneered. "I'm goin' ta hurt ya' now, and then we'll see 'ow smart ya' get."
Before he had a chance to raise the sword, Murphy groggily punched him in the groyne. It wasn’t the best hit, but the effect still had the desired outcome. Taymon flinched, and dropped the grimoire in his other hand to protect his manhood. Murphy rolled, grabbing the book as he did. He felt the bullet move, and his gut spewed blood into the dirt. The sound of metal hitting dirt followed closely behind him, and a cold sting licked his shoulder. He hastily made a gesture with his fingers, and turned in time to see Taymon raising the sword above his head. The rogue swung down, but the blade got caught on the roots of the ceiling, giving Murphy enough time to raise his hand, and release the spell.
Fire erupted from his palm in a blinding orange light. While he pushed it out, he forced more of his power into it than he needed, looking to blow the rogue to pieces. The Fireball tore towards Taymon. He tried to spin out of the way, but was hit in the side of the face before he could completely dodge. It continued past him, and tore through the wall of the burrow with ease, exploding somewhere outside. Taymon fell at first, but immediately started to stand again. Murphy’s first instinct was to grab Uundah and run, but with everything that had happened he was taxed, and he couldn’t summon the strength to his legs. The rogue stood above him again, his face shining with blood and blackened with char. "This is why I hate fucking mages" he screamed, right before throwing the sword down and lunging at the nearly unconscious Warlock.
He pummelled Murphy with his fists, punching him in every vital area he could find. Murphy screamed when he felt the man's dirty thumb enter his wound for a goresome blending of whatever it could reach. The brutilation lasted longer than he could keep track, but eventually the man grew tired, or bored, or maybe even both. Taymon stood, and decided to bring his tutorial on beating a lifeless body to an end.
Murphy groaned, and looked up at the man through swollen eyes. He heard the sound of a belt loosen, then felt the demoralising and warm trickle that comes from a man pissing on you. He sobbed, and tried to groan for mercy, but just spluttered more blood and spit into the dirt. The last thing he saw before the torment ended, was the grime covered heel of a heavy boot being dropped into his face.