A warm trickle runs down the side of my neck, my fingers reach around and feel the edge of the blade. The Brightroots face is a grimace of concentration as he aimed in an executioner's swing for my nape.

I roll away from the weapon and onto my feet. The surprise and joy of surviving is crushed by an unrelenting rage that erupts through me. The trickery of these slavers, the sadistic scheming of the Voice who only sought to kill me off until his fake prophet arrived.

“Magnificent hero of Order, you offer the spirit of your enemies for empowerment.” The Reaver whispers in that angelic voice, a different one from the last time.

Suze’s worn grip forms in my hand. Knives favourite blade sinks into my wannabe executioner’s eye, over and over again. Blood wrenches out with each thrust, only to remain frozen in the air as my blade pulls away and thrusts back in. I don’t see the deforming features of the man’s face, only the old Satyr in my mind who will bleed.

A hissing gale cuts my ears as the Reaver screeches in fury like a crescendoing typhoon. I wheel backwards in a panic from the sudden uproar, leaving the blade.

The harvester of spirit lingers in the air with whale fins outspread, arms unfolded like a pouncing spider crab. Its tight lips stretch in a hideous display of bristled teeth and threat.

Dominated, I drop to my knees, but for the first time, I look upon this cosmic horror. I am sick of cowering and waiting for the blade to fall, tired of accusations of weakness by others, by myself.

Momentum distracts from fear, as Toomas taught me, as I discovered in the Depths, I won’t stop moving. Not until these slavers are removed from my path, the rutting Voice is finally silenced by my Will and my flock is led to a haven.

I will not abandon the Satyrs even if Mother was wrong about me, even if I’m not their true Shepherd. The tribe and the Satyrs will not live the rest of their lives in suffering.

“You dare to abuse the Victor’s prayer? Scoffing at Order’s offer of empowerment to strike down your foes.” The Reaver’s spits the words with intense scorn.

“I only want to survive! Then I can bring more spirit to our God. Isn’t that what he wants from an ‘Aspirant’?” I question boldly.

A trident of swirling grey forms in a coral encrusted arm.

“No mortal should presume the wishes of a God, Aspirant or not.” The Reaver thrusts the weapon at my chest.

Stopping as the Nox’s obsidian spirit forms before me.

“I offer this spirit as forgiveness. No elixir of empowerment or strength. Just one last chance.” I stare in defiance of the sharp points only inches from my heart.

The Reaver slowly draws back, revealing the captured dugong creature in its cage of coral. It absorbs the spirit through rainbow waves, rapidly expanding the barnacles and colonies upon the Reaver's frame. Then the sad eyes of the poor animal are hidden in the shadows under the horror’s ribcage where its gut should be.

“This measly soul is all you offer? Order demands more, thou shall not taste the chalice until your penance is paid.” Stating as it fades like dwindling smoke to nothing.

I leap to my feet and charge, in three steps I clear the distance between me and the Brightroot that wields my Riptail. My leather shoes connect with his balls as the leaves begin to fall again. A screech of misery ignites with time as the man collapses, I retrieve my new sword and slash the back of his exposed neck as he keels over. Another thud follows as the other collapses into the ferns with Suze poking out.

Now who’s the executioner?

The moustached leader stands startled as two of his men die in leaf falls. Loosening my grip, I lash out with the extended form. It rips around towards the leader, his honed reflexes rapidly blocking in time. The sturdy metal handle blocks my bronze edge. Only managing to nick a hand, ripping a spray of blood back on its return.

“Bloody Omnia!” Yells the pissing man, trying to pull up his trousers and unsheathe his sword at the same time.

I rush him, he drops his slack pants to the ground unable to tighten his belt in time. His raised sword barely deflects my bone blade, the length closing the gap faster than he expected. Startled by the sudden assault he steps back to retreat and trips on his clothes.

Hacking with a wild tempo, the fallen man can’t defend his exposed legs from the ground. I tear and lacerate flesh till I sever the femoral artery. His blade hits the forest floor as he attempts to hold back his lifeblood, I leave him to his final moments of panic.

I turn as the leader finally gathers his senses, his axe whistles towards me as its edge expands with the swing. Growing from a hatchet to an oversized battle axe on the fly.

“Chaos fiend!” He screams.

I dodge away, narrowly escaping the morphing weapon. It returns to normal size before he swings again, he’s using an ability.

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“The Blackroots will destroy your kind Daemon.” He spits out, going berserk.

I tighten my grip to contract the sword and throw out a series of stabs and slashes with little effect. Not bothering to block or dodge my attacks, his armour plates expand to deflect me.

Rut me, I haven’t faced anyone with Will and my lack of experience is showing.

He throws wild, lumbering shots. Hoping to chop me down with pure strength. Silently thanking my teachers for intense lessons, I’m agile and able to retreat.

Before his next charge, I run my sword over my palm.

Searing blade

Adrenaline pumping, my hand doesn’t register the pain of the cut. He notices the crimson edge and storms forward before I can capitalise the distance. I lash out the extended blade around me in a whirlwind, sweat dribbling into my eyes as I try not to decapitate myself.

The berserker weaves and ducks, a lifetime of intense yoga paying off or this world's version. As I step back the Searing edge catches a trunk, beaming a trench through it and causing the tree to squeal like a boiling kettle.

What in Mother? I see a crooked branch fall to the ground and the telltale sign in the centre as it returns to an eerie silence.

A raging battle cry grabs my attention back to the fight, only a few saplings away. He's getting close enough that I smell his dreadful body odour that leaks like a chemical weapon off his person.

My swirling sword leaves crimson neon lines in the air, I’m spinning faster as he closes the distance while I try to form a plan.

The berserker snaps out an armoured vambrace that warps into a long shield, blocking my Chaotic Will without issue. Rut me dead, Livingston was right.

His axe swings across, this time the handle growing to a pike-length. Expecting a large head, I leap back only for the extending weapon to chase me, smashing into my Ferrum pauldron. The edge is stopped, but the kinetic impact forces me to the ground.

“Rutting sheep lover.” He spits at me.

Blood runs down the handle of his axe as he lifts it high. The hand I caught earlier is leaking like a tap under the pressure of his thundering heart.

I lift my sword to block the overhead blow, his thick boot smashes my nose with a dirty kick, foul play and cliches mean nothing to men of survival.

Whiplash cracks my neck, blood splurts from my nose, pouring down the back of my mouth causing me to choke.

His axe falls, and my sword intercepts with a weak grip, it’s smashed away as my wrist cracks. Evil angry eyes bore into me as the axe shrinks to a hatchet, small and personal.

“I ere Daemon balls are worth a penny.”

Gripping a handful of dirt, I play his way. Throwing it into his eyes, he blocks with a shielded arm and blinds himself for a leaf fall.

Screaming with pent up rage, I crash into his legs. Tackling him feels like hitting a letterbox built into sand, the heavy metal kills my shoulder but manages to teeter him over. He loses the hatchet and grabs a hold of me.

My fist pounds his head until a sharp headbutt crunches my already ruined nose, and lights and blood explode from my dazed skull. Strong leather fingers snake around my neck and squeeze, I throw meek punches at his head but the large man blocks them with outstretched elbows.

Pulling me close to his face. “I wanna see the life leave those eyes, I wanna-

My teeth sink into his nose and lip, he howls as I tear away flesh and moustache like a rabid dog. He rolls us over in his fury, leaning his whole body into my throat.

No air left in me, only his flesh and my blood.

Mirrored Image

I spit the pieces of nose and lip back in his face, it bounces to the ground and trembles. The semi-moustached berserker sees my mental smile as the reaper’s shroud wraps over me.

“You slithering whelp. I’m goin ta make you beg for death.” He froths over me before assaulting me with heavy wet hits.

The cold methodical battering speaks of a lifetime in his profession, my swollen eyes barely see the figure standing over him.

I sputter out with a rasping breath, the pain and head trauma slipping me into unconsciousness.

“Tis death you want now? Where’s ya smiles gone laddy?” He leans down close, his weeping face leaking onto my own mangled one.

“Kill him.” I command.

The blood clone of the Blackroot berserker stands over him, like a deformed shadow. Soft tissue and bone exposed to the elements It leaps onto the man's back and bites a chunk from his neck. Their combined weight presses down on me.

The lack of oxygen and use of Will leave my head swimming and grasping at consciousness like I'm bobbing for apples in ink. The man cries out in surprised anger at the new assailant and releases a hand to pry off the grotesque summon.

I suck down a gasp of air with the slight pressure relief.

“Kill him somewhere else!” I command.

The blood clone kicks off the ground with the berserker entangled in his grasp, they roll away. Taking my chance I look for escape, a mindstrain pounding my brain as I continue to gasp, throat haggard and lungs burning.

The hatchet and Riptail were cast into the fern undergrowth and out of sight, the body with Suze is hidden as well. I chance a glance at my blood clone, the man stamps on its quivering frame, the vibrations indicating that I only have a few leaf falls left.

No rutting uke I will find the weapons in time, I crawl towards the tree trunk with a burnt gash across its midsection. Grabbing the fallen barky limb nestled atop it roots, I wedge myself into a groove, ready to make my last stand.

He screams in triumph as his foot caves into the monstrosity that resembles himself, an explosion of blood sprays out as the clone’s Will dies with it.

The berserker turns to me, pure hatred and malice thriving in his eyes.

“I’m gonna peel ya rutting skin, ya filthy Daemon of Omnia!” He screams stomping towards me. The thin metal plates on the back of his hand morph into a long curling claw.

I hold the limb out before me as if to push him away. As he lashes down to tear me apart, I whack the trunk above my head.

Triggering the living trap.

The Esca snaps, wrapping the man with its powerful limbs. He screams in alarm, kicking out in horror. My body is stuck in a gap between two thick roots, the Esca overhead holds the armoured berserker in place.

The metal plates shift and change, stabbing at the dense barky flesh, but stabbing solid wood does little to help. His vocal cries change from fear and panic to immense pain as the worm's mouth begins to eat.

The blood sprays between the Esca and its prey, showering me underneath.

I try to wriggle away to no avail, the exhaustion of fighting and nearly dying has drained my energy and spirit. Succumbing to fatigue, I lie there as loose guts and body fluid splash down, as the man’s screams turn to quiet moans.

Until only wet squelching and shuddering legs remain. Darkness settles, but my eyes are already closed, my ears covered. Although I feel nothing for this man’s end, the feasting noises make me nauseous.

I don’t care I caused his final moments to be only suffering and panic, I only wish it were the Voice’s corpse above my head. For I will kill and burn any man or woman who tries to enslave my flock.