#NOT EVERYTHING IS ABOUT KINNING YOU PIECE OF SHIT LOSER | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

keeroo92 · 4 years

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Be My Nightmare Ch16

Fight and Flight

Warnings for gore, in depth description of invasive surgical procedures and murder.

Word count - 4,290

~~~Previous Chapter~~~

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Your hand trembled around the slim handle of the knife. This was a choice you could not reverse, an action that had no path back. You had to be certain there was no other way, that this was what you really wanted.

What do I want?

“Where’d you find that loser, anyway?”

Your kin scratched his ass and wandered back to the living area, plopping onto your couch and reaching for the remote. As if he lived here, as if he weren’t an invader. As if he was welcome in your life. What you wouldn’t give to have him disappear...

...I could make that happen.

You caught your breath. It would be so easy, to just sink the blade deep into his gut and twist. Tear his body open and watch the light fade from his eyes. Even thinking about it gave you goosebumps.

But you weren’t a murderer. What was wrong with you, having such dark thoughts? Not to mention enjoying the visuals. No, killing your father wasn’t the answer. There had to be another way.

Maybe I can incapacitate him somehow?

“Whasamatter, cat got your tongue?”

You pursed your lips and forced your hand to relax, releasing the blade from your iron grip. There was one alternative, though it was extremely risky. It might even end up killing him anyway, but there was a chance he’d survive. Manslaughter, not murder.

You couldn’t think of anything else and you didn’t have time to waste. Every second that passed was one more that V could’ve been caught, could’ve started spilling all your secrets. The knife wouldn’t do. A more precise tool was required.

“Something like that,” you replied at last, opening a nearby drawer that held your prize. Voices on the television faded in the wake of the dull roar resounding in your ears.

No more hiding.

A grunt of acknowledgement was your only response. Your fingertips closed on cool metal and you shuddered, knowing the dark history of the procedure you had to perform. So much could go wrong, but what else could you do?

Sliding the drawer closed, you took a moment to prepare. The rage and pain of V’s sudden departure, the fury and resentment you held for your father, the itching desire to break free… All your distorted emotions spread out like a buffet of misery. They would only distract you. Unacceptable - focus was imperative.

One by one, you visualized them in your grasp. Tufts of pain and threads of mirth, strings of shame and rebellion all went inside an imaginary steel box, the lid too heavy for the pesky things to break free. The storm inside calmed with each addition to the box, and as you mentally clicked a padlock in place, a sense of calm descended upon you.

It’s time.

Steady feet carried you to stand behind your father. The patch of baldness on the crown of his reclined head was barely disguised by greasy strands of brown and the light of the screen added a blueish pallor to his skin, as if he were a corpse.

In a few moments, he very well might be.

“Breaking news - an escaped killer believed to be responsible for the recent killings downtown has been spotted near the financial district. The police are in pursuit and shots have been fired. Law enforcement is advising residents to stay indoors and call immediately if you see the suspect.”

Your stomach sank as an image of V popped up on the screen, green eyes sparkling over a twisted smirk. Shots fired. Police in pursuit. Could this possibly get any worse?

“Holy shit… holy shit, your boyfriend’s a murderer?!”

You just had to ask.

The incredulous eyes of your father met yours, his lips spreading into a sly grin. No doubt the bastard was already imagining ways to use this to his advantage, force you to do whatever he wanted. Harness your mind for nothing more than gambling, all the while treating you like a pile of dog shit he had to scrape from his shoes. It almost made you laugh.

Not this time, dad.

“Yes, he is,” you replied.

And then you slammed the handle of your tool into his temple as hard as you could.

His expression went slack, a thin trickle of blood trailing from where you split the skin. A quick check of his pulse revealed a thready but stable heartbeat. Perfect.

You angled his head and lined up the slim metal stick. Last chance to change your mind. It was a longshot that you could pull this off properly; you’d never done it before and research only helped so much. The slightest mistake may lead to patricide. Not to mention the risk of infection; your apartment wasn’t exactly a sterile operating room. The best case scenario meant the obliteration of his personality.

Courts could only charge me with manslaughter, not murder. I’m not a murderer.

You took a deep breath and steadied your hands. There was no time, he could wake at any moment and the longer V had to run, the more likely he’d be captured. The moral ramifications could wait. Consequences be damned.

The metal chopstick slid past your father’s right eye with ease to tap at the frontal bone hiding behind it. Tiny blood vessels surrounding his eye socket burst from the pressure, lines of red that would turn black by the end. With the heel of your unoccupied palm, you struck the chopstick, over and over until the bone gave way with a sickening crack. It didn’t take much - the bone was thin.

You felt the slightest resistance before his brain tissue gave way. It was softer than you would’ve expected, easy to tear through. Like a tender piece of steak, the meat falling off the bone. The chopstick slid forward as if it had always been there, embedded in your father’s eye socket.

“Here goes nothing…” you whispered.

With a gentle twist, you rotated the utensil forty degrees and wiggled it, severing neurons with every motion as you approached the midline. Trickling blood leaked from the entry point, but not much. It truly was an extraordinary technique, somehow both invasive and not. Simple, yet effective. Grotesque, yet elegant.

The perfect punishment for the misdeeds of your blood.

You spent several minutes ripping away the connections between the frontal lobe and the thalamus. It didn’t have to be perfect, nor did you expect it to be. All you could hope for was that it was enough to prevent him from reporting you to the cops.

But you wouldn’t know for sure until he woke up.

Which could happen at any time. I’d better hurry.

The left eye went much more quickly, your wrist already learning the motions needed to do the job. You paused to check his pulse, finding it racing but steady. About what you would’ve expected for someone undergoing brain surgery.

One last wiggle of the metal instrument and you sighed. Surely that would be enough? How long was this supposed to take? How did you know when you were done?

Doesn’t matter. I have to get moving.

You withdrew the chopstick at the same angle as the initial entry, cringing at the quiet slurp when it came loose. Blood coated the metal, and a few greyish particles you’d rather not think about. A scent similar to egg whites and copper tinted the air. How long should you wait before leaving him to his fate? Whatever the result of your procedure, there wasn’t much you could do for him now.

Five minutes, then I go. Just to see if he stops bleeding from his eyes.

You set a timer on your watch and spent the scant seconds gathering the essentials, papers and clothing, food and water. The items you were sure to need if you followed through with the barely cognizant plan still forming in your mind. How had it come to this?

It didn’t matter. The reality was that your old life was gone, and there was no turning back now. You were past the point of no return, had been for days. The second you decided to help the murderous artist at the museum instead of turn him in, you had made your choice.

Your watch chimed; time to go. You had everything you truly needed, the essentials snugly arranged in your old university backpack. The worn out straps slid home across your shoulders as you approached your father for what was most likely the last time.

“Dad? Can you hear me?”

His eyes were still closed, drying lines of blood lining his cheeks. Purple bruises marked where you’d done your work, dark shadows not unlike a black eye. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest seemed almost normal. At the very least, you hadn’t killed him outright.

You pursed your lips and shook his shoulder. It would be best if you knew how coherent he was before leaving.

“Hnnn… what happened…?” he murmured.

Language center intact; a good sign. Hopefully.

“You okay, dad? You passed out,” you replied.

He blinked owlishly, the bruises a stark contrast against the whites of his eyes. His gaze was clear, but something was gone from his expression. “I think so, just got a headache.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

A wrinkled hand rose to pinch his nose, smearing the blood still wetting his face. He paused and stared at the red streaks, perplexed but not alarmed. “You were behind me, and the news was on… saying something about that guy of yours?”

Memory and basic motor function intact; that could be good or bad. You took a seat beside him and feigned nonchalance, forcing yourself to portray calmness. If he still planned to take advantage of the situation, what were you going to do? If a damned lobotomy didn’t do the trick, how far were you ready to go?

“He’s in trouble, yeah? Huh… did he hurt someone? But he seemed nice enough...”

The confusion would fade in time. If you’d done the procedure right, the inability to make decisions would not. Only time would tell, and you’d wasted enough. He was alive and able to speak, you’d have to take your chances on the rest.

“Yeah, something like that. Listen, I gotta go for a while but make yourself at home.”

The words were bitter on your tongue, but if he left… no doubt he’d cause trouble. The man had a knack for it. Even just a few minutes of his oddly calm demeanor was a shocking contrast to his normal attitude. Had he ever gone this long without insulting you or implying your lack of worth? You didn’t think so. That had to be a good sign, right? That his emotions were no longer able to influence his decisions?

Whatever. Good enough.

“Okay, hon. See ya later,” he replied. “Love you.”

You forgot how to breathe for a moment. Words you’d never heard him speak until now, uttered so casually as if they meant nothing. You should have lobotomized him years ago. Maybe then you wouldn’t be so broken, wouldn’t have ended up chasing after a serial killer.

Doesn’t matter. Time to go.

With a final nod at the man you called father, you stood and headed for the door, swiping V’s beanie from the coffee table almost as an afterthought. What came next, you weren’t entirely sure. All you knew was that your career was dead and your friendships (if you could even call them that) were built on lies, and the only person who spoke truth to you was out there, running for his life and being shot at.

~~~V~~~

The soles of his shoes slapped against pavement as V ran, pumping his legs as fast as possible. Both Griffon and Vergil howled at him to turn around, go back to where he was safe and hidden, but he ignored them. Besides, the police wouldn’t catch him unless he allowed it. They were fools and he, a genius.

He didn’t bother trying to hide as he darted past the vehicle, instead focusing on speed. His options were limited, damn he should've held onto that knife, but he could manage.

Mere seconds passed before the blaring siren erupted behind him. He didn’t look back; it would only slow him down. With his eyes trained forward he’d be better able to spot a way to elude the idiots in blue.

“This is the police! Stop and put your hands up!”

Not likely.

He vaulted over a picket fence, landing on his feet and dashing off again. How foolish he’d been to hide in the first place, playing house with you as if he could ignore his calling. Idiocy, he should’ve known better than to believe there might be someone who could share his dreams. A companion would be nice, but it wasn’t necessary. He didn’t need you.

He simply wanted you.

Faster, Van Gogh! We gotta book it!

The artist didn’t respond, too busy panting as he slid under a decorative banner. Apparently, the fishing festival was coming to town.

“I said stop!”

He almost rolled his eyes. If the fools didn't wield guns, he’d already have them by the throat. However, without a weapon of his own a direct confrontation was suicide. Running was his best option, until he could arm himself. Even a length of pipe would do, he didn’t have the luxury of being picky.

A soft grunt slipped from his lips as he shoved aside a passing civilian, trying to throw the confused imbecile into the police officers’ path as he fled. Perhaps he ought to shatter a window and use the glass to rip them apart? No, it would take too long.

If only he’d had more time, spent his energy on learning the area and all its hidden secrets instead of on luring you to his side. A city this size always had shortcuts and navigational oddities, things he could’ve exploited to hasten his escape. Instead, he had to improvise. Street traffic wouldn’t be enough to lose his pursuers.

Can’t risk taking an alley; I don’t know which are dead ends. The roofs, perhaps? No, nowhere to hide…

He palmed a sign pole, spinning to change direction and sprinting off once again, his breath a staccato rhythm matching his steps. The police siren blared behind him, blue and red lighting the brickwork to his left as the vehicle’s tires squealed through the sharp turn, straight through a red light. Ordinary folk stared at the spectacle, wide eyed and sheeplike in their foolishness. Soon enough, they would learn the truth.

“Stop or we will open fire!”

The artist dared to glance over his shoulder, gauging the likelihood of the threat coming to pass. The police cruiser was less than two car lengths behind him, and the officer in the passenger seat had his weapon drawn, muzzle pointed to the sky but clearly at the ready. He’d have less than an instant to dodge. Far from ideal…

He growled and wove his way between passerby, doing what he could to shelter in their wake. If this was to be his technique, he needed to find a more populated area. The wrong choice spelled his doom. Which way, which way?

A crack of thunder split the sky, yelps of alarm echoing a beat behind. The idiotic onlookers crouched and covered their heads, fear twisting their features as they tried not to get in the way. A harsh chill danced up V’s spine.

He’d seen faces like this before.

Don’t think about it, this isn’t the time. Just keep moving.

Sweat prickled his brow, goosebumps breaking out across his bare forearms. Images of blood and terror filled his mind. The past was not so easily ignored.

“V, what the hell?! Get down!”

He gritted his teeth and ran on. Dwelling on Nero was the opposite of helpful now, he needed to focus. Every step he took could be his last taste of freedom, if he wasn’t careful. Isolating the officers would be the first step, but how?

Jade eyes continuously scanned the street as the artist ran on, forcing himself not to stop despite the growing fatigue tugging at his limbs. A dead sprint was not easy to maintain, but he had no choice. Just a little longer, an opportunity would present itself soon. It had to.

“Take care of her…”

He shook off the memory. Someone screamed as another crack of thunder echoed through the air. V forced his legs to keep going, keep running until he found a way to fight, but he couldn’t go much longer. Soon, he would have no choice. The human body had its limits, he knew that better than most.

Salvation took the form of a subway entrance, graffitied and smelling of human piss and sweat. He didn’t hesitate, taking the stairs three at a time and vaulting over the turnstile without looking back. Every second counted.

The telltale rumble of an approaching train fanned the flames of hope in his heart. Almost free, just a few heartbeats more and he could pause, catch his breath. The only disappointment would be the lack of blood left in the wake of his flight, but perhaps it wasn’t too late for that. Being stuck in a metal tube full of idiotic commuters might be just what he needed to forget the sting of leaving you behind.

He followed a group of nearby civilians, letting them lead him to the tracks as shouts echoed down the stairwell. A young woman smiled at him as he passed, her hair a pale reflection of your auburn and slate locks. He should slit her throat for daring to look him in the eye, but there was no time.

There - a voice, announcing the impending arrival of his freedom.

“710 to North Riverside, now arriving on track A.”

He paused and scanned the signs above, clever eyes finding his target quickly. Left, then right and down. Almost there. The subway would carry him to safety, set him free to pursue his work once more. It may even serve as a backdrop, get his mind back where it needed to be.

Focused on his masterpiece.

The horde of lambs surrounding him thickened as he neared the platform, the cries of his pursuers fading away in the chatter of the masses. They discussed meaningless drivel, the actions of famous fools and the latest news about fashion. As if there were nothing of higher importance; the artist curled his lip in disgust. Hopefully, a few of them would board his train and be his latest canvases. Their bleached hair and perfectly made up faces held such potential, how delightful they would be twisted into agony. Their painted lips frozen in grimaces, their eyes forever wide with fear…

Focus! We are not yet safe.

V grunted and shoved past men in suits carrying briefcases and slipped between distracted students, their textbooks heavy on their backs. He wove his way closer until at last, his feet moved from the stone platform to the metal tube that would save him. Still, even aboard the subway he didn’t dare relax. There may yet be those nearby who could capture him, or those who would do him harm. No, not until his work was complete could he afford to be lax.

As the subway screeched into motion, he made his way forward to the next cabin. Few of his fellow travelers paid him any mind, but all it took was one. His eyes swept across every face as he moved, ever watchful for his next canvas or a sign of recognition. Another cabin, then two, until he could go no further and only eight souls shared his air. Still too many for his liking, but he grasped a pole and held tight for balance anyway.

“Next stop, 21st Avenue Station.”

A pair of youthful faces on his left shifted, their bodies not far behind as they prepared to disembark. Two down, how many to go? Six? Depending on their temperament he may be able to slaughter them all.

The artist bent his knees as the momentum shifted, the cabin slowing to a stop. A soft chime sounded from the overhead speakers a moment before the doors opened, releasing passengers and inviting new ones aboard.

“Nobody move! This is the police!”

Oh, no…

Adrenaline once again flooded his blood as V watched two figures in blue board, holding out badges as they scanned the cabin. Of course they’d followed him; it can’t have been hard to determine which line he took. There were only so many, after all.

“What’s happening?” asked a spectacled passenger in a fancy business suit. “You’re going to make me late for my board meeting!”

The officers barely glanced at him. V lowered his face and feigned disinterest, yet his entire body was coiled and ready to spring. If they came close enough, there would be no escape. All he had to do was wait; his prey would do the hard part for him, then he could make his escape.

“We have reason to believe a fugitive is on board. Has anyone seen this man?”

Just a little closer…

Freshly polished black shoes entered his field of view, their every step echoing like war drums in the artist’s skull. His fingers tingled in anticipation, visions of crimson dancing behind his half-closed lids. Goosebumps erupted across his body and he drew in a shaky breath, his need almost too powerful to bear. Only the knowledge of impending satisfaction kept him from losing his composure and striking too soon.

“Are you people serious? Clearly I’m not a fugitive, why can’t I leave?” the irate businessman crowed.

A thin smirk twisted the artist’s lips. If the man continued, he may become a useful distraction.

“Sir, please calm down. We’ll have you out of here as soon as we can,” replied one of the officers, a young man by the sound of his voice.

“But ‘soon’ isn’t now. You see the issue?”

The shiny black shoes turned; the officer now faced the foolish man. Perfect.

Ebony hair fluttered as V bolted forward, snarling as he slammed the closer officer’s skull against the pole he’d moments ago held for balance. A sickening crunch rewarded his efforts and the blue-clad man crumpled to the ground bonelessly as blood leaked from the fresh indent in his head.

The passengers cursed and screamed, horrified expressions only serving to feed V’s bloodlust. He spun, making a circle in the growing bloodstain with his toes as he faced his next adversary, a blond officer not much older than himself. A fool, seeking justice in a world that granted none. If only he knew the truth.

No matter - soon enough, they would all see.

The officer’s shaking hands struggled to release his firearm, panic clear in the dilation of his widened grey eyes. Still, the weapon cracked as the lad squeezed the trigger, spewing death to any who were unfortunate enough to be in its haphazard path.

The artist ducked, moving faster than he should've been able to as he avoided lethal hits. A single bullet pierced his thigh but he ignored it - he’d seen worse and the victims had kept fighting. It would dishonor their memory if he faltered now.

Instead, he bolted closer to his assailant, wrapping his long fingers around the poor young man’s neck to slam his delicate skull against the thick glass behind him. A smear of red marked the point of impact, the only remnant of his final breath.

With the immediate threat resolved, V smirked at the crowd and waited, content to revel in their horror. It mattered not whether his remaining foes chased him down or wandered into his path unaware, the end result would be the same. Crimson, a massive swatch of life blood decorating the walls and floors of the subway. Reminding those who used it that the transport was built on the spines of slaves. Nothing to be proud of.

“Run,” he growled.

The terrified group gaped at him, eight souls too shocked to realize they were free. Eight new voices to spread his message, to tell the tale of an unarmed man taking down two police officers bare handed. The thought brought a wicked grin to his face and he licked his lips, catching the taste of scarlet on his tongue. Delicious.

He raised an eyebrow at the nearest passenger, a young woman on a seat whose pants featured a wet stain between her legs. Terrified tears streaked her perfectly applied blush, dark with her runny mascara. “Now, little lamb.”

She trembled but managed to rise, her shaky legs carrying her to the platform and to the relative safety it offered. The other seven witnesses weren’t far behind her, all of them staring at him as they fled the scene. Alone at last, V surveyed his handiwork. Two dead police officers, not much of a mess but enough to whet his appetite.

If only he had the time to properly utilize their corpses. He’d yet to create a public display, and it excited him to imagine the far-flung reach such a bold act would elicit. They would whisper his name to their children, tell tales of his deeds and fear the dark as they always should have, these people. These sheep.

But he couldn't afford to linger, and there would be other chances. It was beyond time to refocus on his goal, his masterpiece. Enough tomfoolery.

V smirked as he stepped to the still open door, pausing to pick up a discarded or forgotten cell phone. No doubt it would prove useful in his exploits. He couldn’t wait to get started.

~~~~Next Chapter~~~~

#Be My Nightmare #fanfic #my writing #v x reader #v x oc #reader insert #tw: gore #tw: mental health #tw: blood #dmc #dmc v #darkfic

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canid-slashclaw · 4 years

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The Outliers - A Guildwars Love Story

Chapter 3

Echos of laughter and revelry were thick in the smoke-filled tavern known as the Jotun's Corpse. Ulfgar Svaldmere had opened the establishment just outside of Claypool some thirty years ago. He gave up his life as a hunter and trapper after his beloved wife, Glorina, had succumbed to an unknown illness.

Behind his massive eight-foot plus tall frame, were eyes that had witnessed many triumphs and tragedies. He had encountered so many people of different races in his lifetime that he sometimes got their names and faces mixed up. However, he did know the names and faces of practically every patron who frequented his establishment. And because of that fact, his regular customers treated him with a great deal of respect. Some of them trusted him even more than they did their own kin.

Kaleb and his lifelong friend, Brad Pendragon, muscled their way through the drunken crowds until they found a couple of empty barstools near where Ulfgar was serving drinks.

"It's about time you two laggards showed up. Whaddlit be? I just got some Elonian bourbon in last week if any of yous are interested," the massive norn said with a smile.

"The stronger the better. This cupcake's training starts tomorrow," Brad said as he jokingly punched Kaleb's shoulder. "Ow! Was that a hit or was that a hit!" ��Kaleb said as he returned the favor to Brad's left shoulder. "You wince like a sissy. I'm hedging my bet that you won't even last a week in basic," Brad sniped with a grin. Kaleb held up his hand making a v-sign with his fingers. "Two lagers for two losers, Ulfgar." The norn nodded as he leaned over to fill their steins. "Who are you calling a loser? Loser. Aren't you still living with your mamma and daddy?" "Hey. It takes one to know one right? After all - yer the one who's been dumb enough to be hanging out with me all these years," Kaleb replied with a laugh.

Suddenly, both men nearly jumped from their seats when they heard a feminine voice coming from behind.

"So who here is the loser and who's the sissy?" Brad immediately slid off his stool nearly falling over as he made a very rapid attempt at performing a military salute. "Two losers reporting in, sir!" Cynthia Waterstone returned the salute as she promptly commandeered Brad's now-empty stool. "At ease, soldier. Just a half pint of ale for me, Ulfgar." "Commin' up." The norn snatched a smaller stein from the bottom of the bar as he began to pass out the already-filled drinks to the two men. "Come tomorrow, I'm going to be expecting you to do the same thing Kaleb," Cynthia said as she pulled back a stray lock of auburn hair that had dangled over her face.

"Tomorrow is the operative word. Tonight, I'm still citizen Kaleb - royal subject of the Queen," he said as he scarfed down a drought of the deep amber liquid. Brad chimed in and raised his glass. "And basement rat to your parents abode." "Get your facts straight, skritt-face. My dwelling place is in the attic."

The lively banter between the two young men went on for the next fifteen minutes as Cynthia offered Brad his seat. After each of them had a couple of lagers in their bellies, Kaleb turned to his best friend and began a new conversation on a much more serious note. "I'm supposed to be reporting at a garrison base somewhere in Kessex Hills. I didn't catch the name, but I do know it's near a battlefront. I guess they want to throw us to the wolves as soon as possible." "Don't stress over it too much, Kal. Both you fellas will be under my command and I'll do everything to ensure you get the best training possible," Cynthia said with a smile. "So what's it like in the Seraph? I heard you guys have been slugging it out with the centaurs for the past two years." "Their attacks have gotten bolder in recent months. I'm not going to lie to either of you - it's a messy business out there and taking prisoners is rarely the standard protocol for either side."

Brad let out a sigh. "At least I'll have the benefit of being past basic. Once you are through with that, I'll have your back one hundred percent, bro." "I'd expect no less. In fact, I need to get out there on the battlefield as soon as possible because I doubt anyone else would be willing to save your sorry ass," Kaleb replied with grin.

"Yeah. Speaking of asses... when was the last time you seen Trish?" "Not since last week." Kaleb gestured for another round. Cynthia butted in. "So, did you get any... ass?" Kaleb looked down into his drink. "Well. She and I haven't... you know, for quite some time." "For what it's worth, I'm single and if you need any, you know, I am available," Cynthia winked. "That would feel like incest. We've known each other since we were pups. That would just feel weird." She then gave a wide-eyed smile and replied. "What made you assume that I was talking to you?" "Woah now! Isn't fraternization with a commanding officer a floggin' offense?" Brad said with trepidation. "Oh. Lighten up you two. I was just trying to get in a few jabs before the serious stuff begins," Cynthia replied as she took a few sips from her stein of ale. "Speaking of... what's the deal, Kal? You're normally the life of the party. What's gotten you all down?" Brad queried. Kaleb turned to his best friend and replied. "Yanno. The pappa thing. Father's been pestering me about taking over the family business. He's afraid that I'm going to get wounded or killed fighting in some far off godsforsaken land. The thing is, I really have no desire to be a fifth generation wagon maker." "Have you given marriage a thought? I know you and Trish don't see each other that much, but the two of you make a really cute couple. Besides, rumor has it that her family's loaded. Hitch up with her and you won't have to worry about lifting so much as a shovel," Cynthia asked curiously. "I dunno. She's a fine looking girl, but our personalities are so far apart. It's hard for her and I to relate to each other sometimes." Brad thrust his fingers into Kaleb's rib cage as he pointed towards a slender blond-haired blue-eyed girl. "Speak of the devil! Your lady-in-waiting is here." "Great. She'll be really pissed if I don't get to say goodbye to her directly," Kaleb said with a heavy sigh. "I suppose I'll give her a farewell hug." Standing just inside the main entryway, Patricia Fairweather gazed around hoping to catch a glimpse of her boyfriend, Kaleb. At just under five feet, the petite blonde had trouble seeing over some of the taller patrons in the tavern. Kaleb whistled as he beckoned to Patricia. "Hey, Trish. Over here." She stomped over in his direction then chided him in a harsh tone. "Next time, please don't whistle at me like I'm some damn dog. I have a name in case you had forgotten." "My, my. So touchy tonight, aren't you? Were you slurping down some of your mamma's cough syrup before getting here? Your breath smells like overpriced whiskey." Patricia glared at him angrily. "Ugh! Do you not know when to shut it? I came all the way down here in the middle of the night just to see you. You ought to be grateful." Kaleb began to stagger around as he smiled at her with a glassy-eyed stare. "Oh, but I am... grateful that is. I'm also four sheets into the wind so try not to be too offended if I should say something that may come across as being crass." "Oh gods. You are even more shit-faced than me," she said while pulling out a small flask that she had kept discreetly tucked away under her garter. She uncapped the bottle then proceeded to take a long drought. "Yeah. I'm feelin' those lagers now. Ya wanna dance?" He asked her.

"No babe, I wanna screw! You and I haven't done it in so long and I'm really feeling lonely right now," Patricia replied as she clamored all over Kaleb. "You are also feeling really drunk right now as well. What is that crap you've been hiding up your skirt anyway?" "Mmm. Let's go to someplace private and find out," Patricia smiled as she planted her beet-red face into his broad muscular chest.

Like blind folk attempting to lead each other around an open pit, the inebriated pair navigated their way towards Ulfgar's bar.

"Hey Ulf. Where are Brad and Cynth?' The old norn looked at him and replied with a grin. "They are currently committing a floggin' offense together." "Sluts, both of them!" Kaleb commented.

"Hey! Weren't you going to ask him if we could get a room?" Kaleb's girlfriend chided mockingly. "Sorry, lass. Rooms are full at the moment." Ulfgar said with an apologetic tone. "That's okay. I'm really not in the mood anyway. Ulf - can I get another round?" By this time, Patricia's anger had boiled over. "If you have no interest in screwing me, fine! But don't think I'll feel bad if anything happens to you on the battlefield. I'm outta here!" With that comment, Kaleb's girlfriend spun a one-eighty on her left heel then promptly staggered towards the egress. The inebriated young man stared briefly at the door before turning his gaze towards the old norn. "Yup. She's pissed. I really went and done it, haven't I Ulf?" "She just wants a shiny piece of metal on her finger, boy. Are you sure that's something you're even cut out for?" "Marriage? Oh gods no. I mean sure, yeah... maybe... sometime in the far future. But right now, I'm not even sure what I want in my life let alone anyone else's." Kaleb could feel a massive headache coming on as he tried to fight the force of gravity that was pulling on his unsteady body.

"Listen pup. Yer way too strung out to be going home to your folks. If yer pappy saw you in your current intoxicated condition, he would tan my hide. Tell ya what - I'll let ya stay the night in that extra spare room upstairs," Ulfgar said as he let out a call for last rounds. "Thanks, Ulf. You've been a good friend to me and my family." "Yer pappy and I go way back. It would be ashamed for his only son to come home on the day he's to join the army still plaster-faced from the night before. Don't worry, I've got an old norn recipe that will have you fit as a fiddle by morning," Ulfgar said with a wink.

#gw2 fanfic #tyrias-library #the outliers #gw2 writing #kaleb grimwald #gw2 stories #tyriaslibrary

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