C.P.D. Harris's Blog, page 20

Rotblossom Rose (1.14R)

Welcome to the space where I experiment, my weekly serial. It is written raw, not edited at all, and mostly unplanned.

The world is partly based on the background of an unpublished Steampunk game that I worked on with a few friends, which has grown in my mind over the last couple of years. The story is a take on those ultra-violent revenge epics of the eighties where a man’s family is abused and killed, but he survives and seeks vengeance. Needless to say it is a grim, bloody tale, that deals with bad people doing bad things, so be warned.

Here is the first post of this series.

Here is last week’s post.

<>

Discovering that the old bastard was dead had left Rose despondent for days. The act of slashing his nameplate at the crematorium was defiant, but ultimately unsatisfying compared to the visceral sense of satisfaction that she had experienced when she had slashed Kraggor’s open and watched him die.

That act had been the only time that she had truly felt alive, happy? …no, content, since before.

Rose could not sleep, eating was a joyless chore, half of her was dead and without Wraithstone the rot would consume the rest. Death would be a blessing, and end to this, but it was one that she did not deserve.

<>

Lawch was had been easy enough to find, secure in the Bedrock Wards, but he was beyond Rose’s reach. She could have confront him directly, but Lawch was no softborn despite his place of birth. He moved like a striking serpent, and had bested her easily on that day. The old Rose would have said that it was his men that made the difference, but now she knew that it was him. There was something in Lawch that made him fast, deadly, and ruthless, a kind of clarity that she was only beginning to understand herself.

Besides, it was best to save him for last. It would be wrong somehow to cross Lawch’s name off first and end with say, Blackeyes or Stinknob. There was a symmetry to vengeance she supposed.

<>

In the hive they hadthese wonderful street carts, called Tapwagons, that soldalcohol at every time of day. Rose was sitting down near her favourite of these carts, taking the edge off another fruitless day with a bottle Aspith when she encountered the first name that she would cross off her list.

Aspith is a strong liquor, brewed with herbs and moss that were local to The Scab. It was strong enough to numb even Rose, but the same could be said for many Tapwagon favourites. It was thick and dark green, and she was told that it smelled like a cave, or something like that… What Rose liked best about Aspith was that aach taste was different, and it struck her as the perfect drink for a person who wanted to be alone with her thoughts. But, some people have different ideas….

“Oi, bleeder, give us that.”

Aspith was also quite expensive.

“Leave her alone, Grime,” warned the Tapwagon owner.

“Sod off Gragon, if you know what’s good.”

The name Grime was not an uncommon one in The Scab, and yet while the man in question snarled at the Tapwagon owner, Rose snapped into focus. One of Lawch’s band had born the name Grime.

“Come on, Grime, she’s a good customer. Leave her be an I’ll give you a bottle, on the house.”

“No. I wan’t this one. Now fuck off. I won’t ask again.”

Tapwagon owners were a tough lot, for obvious reasons, but Gragon hesitated. He was bigger than Grime, and younger, but he seemed afraid of the man for some reason. A shiver ran down Rose’s spine.

“Its alright, Gragon,” Rose rasped.

The tapwagon owner hesitated, and then pulled his cart away. Grime chuckled, turning to face Rose. Instantly, she recognized him as one of Lawch’s men. It was hard for her to forget them, even the least of them. She remembered seeing his face as she was pinned to the ground watching her husband and son die. She also remembered him from the rape that followed.

“Grime Downbridge?”

“Aye. I’ll take that bottle… by the depths, your an ugly one…”

Rose laughed.

Grime’s face twisted in disgust and he reached for the long-bladed knife that was sheathed at his waist. Most people, when confronted with a person who values life so little that they would stab someone because that person offends their eyes might hesitate. Rose did not.

As Grime Downbridge’s hand found the well-worn handle of his knife, Rose planted her blade just above his groin and stood, using the momentum to push the blade up into him. Hot blood spilled down her hands and Grime grunted and backed away, trying to contain his wound, not quite able to grasp his sudden demise.

“Who…?” he gasped as she came face to face with him.

“You helped kill my family two years ago on the road to Avalain.”

With a surge of strength, Grime pushed past her, but he was to wounded and stumbled as he tried to run. Rose caught him from behind, knocking him to the ground. She grasped his greasy hair and whispered in his ear.

“Should I rape you, now, Grime? I don’t have a cock, but I’m sure this blade will penetrate.”

Grime gurgled blood, struggling weakly. He was more or less dead, Rose realized; she’d done him quick. She drove her blade into the back of his neck to make sure, and then got up and left.

She was so elated that it took her two blocks to realize that she was covered in blood and leaving a trail that any fool could follow. She washed in drain-barrel and took a circuitous route back to her hideout. There, she reverently took out her list of names and slowly crossed one off.

Grime Downbridge

It felt wonderful, and she slept well that night, unbothered by her ghosts.

 

 

Goodbye to 2017; The Year of the Vulture.

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In some ways 2017 is a hard year to parse. Donald Trump’s bumbling cruelty as he both made and reacted to news, created an endless feedback loop that made every week seem like a month and seemed to hit new lows on an almost daily basis.

Trump was certainly the dominant news figure of the year, but his accomplishments were all train-wreck for America no matter how much he trumpeted his ‘triumphs’. The biggest beneficiary was undeniably Vladimir Putin, who flaunted his unfettered access to Trump even as he continued to attack Democracy around the world.

But if you clear aside the tweets, the likelihood of collusion with Russia, and the constant erosion of decency and tolerance coming from this President, you might see a pattern in the Chaos of Trump’s wake.

While Trump lurches drunkenly between the path toward both autocracy and exposure of his criminal enterprises, those who he has rewarded with power are glutting themselves. His cabinet can be likened to Vultures circling the American Dream as it dies an agonizing death crawling toward the mirage of prosperity through the barren desert known as Trickledown.

I wanted to call this essay the Rape of America, but while the analogy is apt, it merits a defter hand than I can muster right now. So I went with Vulture, as in vulture capitalists, namely the oligarchs who are picking America apart.

But what else do you call a tax bill where over 50% of the benefits go to a tiny minority of very wealthy people, including a huge break for real estate developers like Trump?

What else do you call the actions of an FCC commissioner who openly mocks those who want to preserve Net Neutrality, lies, and then hands over unprecedented power to some of the most predatory companies in the US, who immediately turn around and start doing the very things that he said that they would never do?

If not Vulture Capitalism, then what is it when the Education Secretary cancels loan forgiveness and fraud relief for students, while enjoying the rents of her investments in the firms that control said Student debt. Imagine if an Obama cabinet appointee acted this way.

Those in charge of the EPA and FEMA are far more concerned with profits and balance sheets than lead in the water and hurricane relief.

It goes on an on, but the pattern remains the same no matter what the agency. These people, who earn their positions by supporting and grovelling for Trump, then turn around and enrich themselves and their friends at the expense of the American public. They pretend to be engaging in a curbing of government overreach based on conservative principles, but anyone who isn’t an eager Trumpist can see that they are just turning these agencies into tool of extraction and exploitation to make themselves rich. Suck up to Trump; get a license to steal from your fellow citizens…

Perhaps the clearest example of the is the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau. Since its inception in 2011, this agency has clawed back billions of dollars on behalf of US consumers defrauded by large institutions. It is unbelievably successful. When the director resigned Trump put Mick Mulvaney, a man who wants to destroy the agency, in charge. There is only one reason that can be behind this action; he wants to make it easier for the Vultures to get at their meal.

More than the lies and the other aspects of corruption and collusion, it is the unmitigated looting of America by these vultures and cronies that bothers me the most.

On a personal note, 2017 has not been a bad year for me. My boy, Ronan, is two now and a sometimes a handful, but he brings joy to everyone in the family. I have released two books, Bloodlust: The Sum of Hate and The Shadow Wolf Sagas: The Sword of The Fallen King. I have even come up with a cool RPG idea that I am testing out. Mom is recovering well from her hip surgery, and the family is happy and healthy. On a broader note I am happy to see real resistance to Trump and the Alt-Right. I am supremely grateful for all of this, and my amazing friends and fans, especially in a year where so many have been hurt.

Rotblossom Rose (1.13R)

Welcome to the space where I experiment, my weekly serial. It is written raw, not edited at all, and mostly unplanned.

The world is partly based on the background of an unpublished Steampunk game that I worked on with a few friends, which has grown in my mind over the last couple of years. The story is a take on those ultra-violent revenge epics of the eighties where a man’s family is abused and killed, but he survives and seeks vengeance. Needless to say it is a grim, bloody tale, that deals with bad people doing bad things, so be warned.

Here is the first post of this series.

Here is last week’s post.

<>

“Guess you don’t feel comfortable goin’ up with anyone else…” Rose says to Chris Cackles, watching the hate crystallize behind his eyes. She imagines that she can see flecks of Red Wraithstone coalescing to warp him.

Cackles just grunts. His face looks deflated without the customary grin; Rose loves it. Of all of Lawch’s band she hates Cackles the most, she thinks. Cackles had tossed her boy into the septic pit and just… laughed, like it was a joke of some sort. She wants to enjoy his death.

As the last lift vanishes above them, she turns to Cackles. It is difficult to keep from sneering at his cowardice, they are alone, he wants to kill her, but he fears attacking her by himself. Of course, this kind of cowardice has made Chris Cackles a survivor, more dangerous than bolder men.

“I’m going to use the cesspit,” says Rose. “Keep an eye on the goods. If anything goes missing I will know and The Spider will have your head.”

“You having problems, boss? You spent along time at the pit last night…” He manages a weak chuckle. By The One, she hates that grin.

“Yeah, I had the shits, you fuck! Seriously, do I have to add you watching me while I splash my guts out to my reports as well? Fucking old pervert.”

“What do you mean by reports?” Cackles eyes were round with fear now. The Spider was known to punish even minor infractions severely.

“We’ll talk about it when I get back. Keep your sodding wits about you, Cackles, I don’t want any surprises.”

<>

Cackles moves with the quiet grace of a cat, at first Rose thinks it is someone, or something else, stalking her in the dim light. But then he creeps into the circle of lantern-light, his teeth glimmering in a mad grin that seems on the verge of splitting his head in two. In his hand, in a white-knuckled grip, is a particularly vicious looking knife. His fiendish intensity as he closes in on the figure at the edge of the pit is almost terrifying to behold. Indeed, as she watches Cackles slide soundlessly forward, Rose figures that such a grin has probably paralyzed many unfortunates as they glimpsed it, too late.

The silence is shattered as Cackles drives his blade home with a brutal thrust between the shoulder blades. Only Rose is not that figure squatting beside the lantern at the edge of the Cesspit. Cackles grin fades as he realizes it is a dummy, but before he can move, Rose trips a lever and a rope snare closes about his feet and snatches him into the air.

As Rose steps out into the light, Cackles throws his knife at her. Surprised, Rose narrowly, steps aside. He reaches into his boot, but she crosses the distance between them and lands a solid punch on his temple with her metal hand. Cackles immediately ceases to struggle.

<>

Rose has tied Cackles exactly the way she wants him before he begins to stir. His feat, bare now, are dangling in the filth of the Cesspit while a series of ropes hold him above the pit.

“What the fuck, what the fuck! Help!” Cackles begins to shout.

“No one can hear you,” says Rose. “The Lift isn’t even back down yet.”

“You fucking cunt, let me go, let me go.”

Rose spins the wheel that holds the ropes, Cackles sinks to his ankles in shit.

“Oh shit. Please, I don’t want to die,” he whines.

“There is no way you are leaving here alive, Cackles,” said Rose. “You’ve come to the end of your rope, so to speak.”

Rose spins again and Cackles sinks further, screaming in horror.

“Like I said, you are going to die here, Cackles,” Rasps Rose. “But if can answer a few questions, I might just kill you quick and be done with it.”

“What-what do you want to know?”

“Do you remember me, from before?”

“Yes. Your the softborn woman from that little house on the road to Avalain. We did you good… twenty years ago.”

“You understand the irony of your predicament then?”

“What?”

Rose spins the wheel, Cackles sinks up to his thighs, shrieking.

“I don’t understand, I don’t understand.”

“Irony?”

“Yes. What does it mean?”

Rose laughs. “Nevermind. Do you understand where I got the idea to do this to you. What did you do to me and mine where this kind of death might be considered just.”

“Go to hell you rancid fucking cunt!”

This time Rose spins the wheel slowly, lowering Cackles inch by inch. By the time the shit is halfway up Cackle’s belly his defiance has given way to stark terror. He thrashes and screams. Rose stops, baring her teeth as she growls at him.

“What did you do?”

“I killed-killed your boy.”

“How?”

“I threw him in the shit-pit.”

“That’s right. Then you laughed. You and your friends thought it was quite the joke…”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I swear by The One that I am sorry. Please just let me go.”

“Fuck you Cackles. You know I can’t let you go.”

“Why? I won’t tell anyone.”

“Bullshit. But that’s not the reason. You see when you threw my brave little boy down that pit, you laughed, but all I could hear was his screaming. He was yelling for me. I still hear that sound every time I close my eyes. I still dream of that moment EVERY HOUR THAT I TRY TO SLEEP! … I still say his name every time I wake from those nightmares… So, I think you can agree that I have to kill you.”

“No, no, no, no…”

“But if you can answer this last question, I’ll do it quick. Are you ready?”

Cackles whimpers.

“Are you ready?” Rose snarls.

“Yes.”

“What was his name, Cackles? What was the name of my little boy.”

Cackles just stares at her, mute. Rose shakes her head, and then she pulls a rope and Chris Cackles falls free of the web that is holding him, plunging the rest of the way into shit and waste, until only his head remains above. He retches and empties the contents of his stomach into the mess as he struggles.

“You know they say that killing people like this leaves a black mark on your soul,” mused Rose as Cackles struggles, retching, and grunting, to keep his head above the muck. “But I feel damn good about this Cackles. I might actually be able to sleep tonight. Maybe I’ll dream of this moment… I hope so. Enjoy your last breath, you black-hearted bugger.”

Cackles struggles and struggles, but he keeps sinking. By the time Rose was done speaking only his mouth and eyes remained above the shit. Rose meets his gaze one last time, see the hate and the terror, and then he is gone. There is a frantic struggle beneath the surface, and then silence descends once more.

“Rest now, Gared, the bad man is gone,” Rose whispers. Then she turns and begins to take down the rope and pulleys.

Rose was nearly done when a tentacle shot out of the cesspit and snared her leg.

<>

 

Rotblossom Rose (1.12R)

Welcome to the space where I experiment, my weekly serial. It is written raw, not edited at all, and mostly unplanned.

The world is partly based on the background of an unpublished Steampunk game that I worked on with a few friends, which has grown in my mind over the last couple of years. The story is a take on those ultra-violent revenge epics of the eighties where a man’s family is abused and killed, but he survives and seeks vengeance. Needless to say it is a grim, bloody tale, that deals with bad people doing bad things, so be warned.

Here is the first post of this series.

Here is last week’s post.

<>

With money, food, and shelter taken care of, Rose’s mind naturally returned to revenge. She had enough money to get through the gate to the upper levels of The Scab where her family lived, but she was lousy with The Rot, and hideously disfigured; it would not be out of character for the guards to just assume she was some bleedwarpt beggar and shove her into the nearest chasm.

Besides, by now Rose has had a long time to consider why Lawch and his band came into her life. While most of the band were scum, Lawch, she had learned, was born into one of the oldest and best established families in the city. He was a true highborn, Bedrock Ward bred and raised. Family debts had driven him to crime, it was said, though Rose doubts that was anything more than an excuse. After all, she had seen the look in those cold eyes as the man presided over the violation and destruction of everything she held dear. He had looked bored, like a foreman presiding over an especially dull shift at one of the enormous mills along Millstream, south of The Gash. Lawch was the last name on her list, save perhaps one.

While Lawch would have killed her family and presided over her rape without a second thought, had she crossed his path, it seemed unlikely in the extreme that he would have come so far of his own accord. She and Morn had built a fine life for themselves, but even looting the precious metals and custom tools from the forge would not produce the kind of money that would whet the appetite of a man from the richest district in the richest city in the world. Insolvent as he might have been at the time, Lawch thought like any rich man, and would have scoffed at such a small target. Someone must have paid him, Rose was sure.

The last time that she had spoken to her father, the man who had raised her and trained her in the art of the coilsword, the old man had bitterly demanded that she choose between him and Morn. She remembered that day.

“He is a Gengan, Rose, think of the family reputation,” father’s eyes had been hard, like when they were sparring and she had make a stupid mistake.

“Don’t be so provincial, there are Gengans everywhere in the city, in all stations,” she had responded.

“I have stood by quietly while you’ve had your fun, girl,” her father had said. “Give up your affair with Morn, or I will cut you out of the family. Your brother will inherit the school.”

Rose had been on the verge of tears at the hardness of this, but she had drawn her pride about her like a cloak and left the old man, never to return. Now Rose wondered if her father had paid the bastard Lawch to kill her.

It would explain why they scalped her before selling her to the mines.

<>

“Rovert Withiam Redshire, 1723-1797”

Rose read the small plaque above the candle at the crematorium. All around her little candles flickered in shallow alcoves above thousands of similar plaques. The room was empty now save for two figures who seemed lost in thought.

“Looks like time got to you first, you old bastard,” she rasped, feeling a surge of anger at being robbed of the chance to confront the man who had betrayed her.

Swift as a striking snake Rose slashed a jagged little knife across the plate, scoring it. Such was her skill that her attack barely a sound.

“Rovert Withiam Redshire.” the plate now read.

Rose spat and turned around to leave. It would have to be enough.

On her way back to her safehouse, Rose could not shake the feeling that she was being followed, though she never saw anyone.

<>

Rotblossom Rose (1.11R)

Welcome to the space where I experiment, my weekly serial. It is written raw, not edited at all, and mostly unplanned.

The world is partly based on the background of an unpublished Steampunk game that I worked on with a few friends, which has grown in my mind over the last couple of years. The story is a take on those ultra-violent revenge epics of the eighties where a man’s family is abused and killed, but he survives and seeks vengeance. Needless to say it is a grim, bloody tale, that deals with bad people doing bad things, so be warned.

Here is the first post of this series.

Here is last week’s post.

<>

It is time to kill Cackles, Rose thinks, tonight should be ripe for revenge.

She can feel his gaze on her back as her crew, triumphant from the kill, makes their way through the depths. No doubt he already blames her entirely for how the group treats him after she called out his little theft. Chris Cackles is not a man that can stand being humiliated; he will come for her, if he sees an opportunity.

“We make camp here,” Rose announces as they enter a wide chamber dominated by a rocky mound with a lazily flowing stream along one side, out toward a tendril just off The Gash itself. “I want everyone to stay wary. I’ve seen more Bleevers lost to careless mistakes after a delve than fighting dangerous Bleedwarpt.”

“Alright, you heard the boss,” bellows Geb. “I want Scarab and Green Jim on watch, Cackles will boil water, and the rest of you will strike camp. Green Jim, you need to wash the blood off your armour first though; you never know what you might attract down here, Before we eat, I want to check everyone’s tarnish level, understood?”

Rose is briefly annoyed that the crew snaps to it so quickly after Geb’s relays her orders. Sometimes she feels as if they respected him more because he has a penis. It isa sour thought though, and she lets it pass; it is hard for her to resent Geb, who always shows her respect, even if she is occasionally jealous of his easy rapport with others. She used to have it, before.

<>

The mound in the centre of the chamber has been scarred by countless Bleevers making camp here. Rose has been here with various crews twenty-eight times over the years and only been attacked once. That time was another crew, which is rare… and bloody. She remembers the brief, desperate struggle before the attackers broke off and the tense day that followed.

“Captain, I gotta say…” Green Jim was drunk and happy. “I’ve never seen anyone move like you do… by the one! You went up that wall and down like you were on stairs.”

Rose smiles. “Thanks Green Jim. You did well yourself.”

Her voice is a rasp, and she knows that her smile is nothing to look at with half of her face hidden behind a metal mask, but the young man seems pleased at her praise. He even sits up straighter.

“You earned your pay, kid,” says Scarab.

Geb laughs and Green Jim says something. Rose just grunts and nods. Her attention is on Cackles, sitting at a fire on the periphery, shunned by the rest of the crew. He keeps casting dark looks her way, when he thinks she isn’t looking.

Just as planned.

<>

Rose does not really sleep anymore, so she does not worry about Cackles catching her unawares.

<>

“This lift takes three of us at a time, if we divide the gear properly,” says Rose, addressing the crew. “I know it sucks, but The Spider was feeling cheap and did not spring for a better lift. I don’t give a fuck who goes up with who. Scarab, Geb, and myself will carry the booty. I will be on the last lift…”

Naturally, she ended up with Cackles.

“We could switch,” offered Geb.

“Nope. I’ll send the haul back up on the lift. Make sure the men get paid. Cackles is going to have an accident.”

“Oh.”

<>

 

Rotblossom Rose (1.10R)

Welcome to the space where I experiment, my weekly serial. It is written raw, not edited at all, and mostly unplanned.

The world is partly based on the background of an unpublished Steampunk game that I worked on with a few friends, which has grown in my mind over the last couple of years. The story is a take on those ultra-violent revenge epics of the eighties where a man’s family is abused and killed, but he survives and seeks vengeance. Needless to say it is a grim, bloody tale, that deals with bad people doing bad things, so be warned.

Here is the first post of this series.

Here is last week’s post.

<>

Rose remembers returning to The Scab after her escape from the mines and her trip to the ruins of her old life,

The City has been around since before The Bleed was discovered. Far enough back, so far that it is blurred even to the learned, and there was a mountain where The Gash is, and in that mountain was the seat of a great kingdom, dwarves they say. The ruins of that place lie way down in The Gash, now; a place that draws the ambitious and the foolhardy further into The Depths,

TThis kingdom of Dwarves was there when Wraithstone was first discovered. There are conflicting tales of what happened then. Some say that the discovery of the stone undermined the kingdom, others say that the Wraithstone fell out of the sky, shattering the mountain and the Dwarves as it ploughed into the earth.

Since then The City has changed hands hundreds of times in countless wars, been the seat of world spanning empires, and the centre of great events. Countless buildinsg have fallen and arisen, toppled into the depths, or simply been built over in the endless parade of years. All that matters is that The City is built on the source of all Wraithstone, and Wraithstone is the source of magic.

The Scab is what people have call the city for as long as anyone cares to remember. Gazing out at it, Rose thinks the name perfectly appropriate. The City clusters around The Gash, that great wound in the earth, as if trying to cover it, even spilling down the sides of the the web of smaller chasms. There are beautiful parts of the city, she knows. The peaceful parks and gardens of The Bedrock Wards spring to mind, as well as fantastical buildings such as The Silverthread Span, the improbable bridge that connects the two sides of The Gash. But the city as a whole is ugly, and the moniker of scab suits it well. It is a place founded on ruin, built of ambition and greed, all mortared together with the blood of an endless supply of foolish victims.

Rose should have known better than to think that she could escape it.

<>

Her first days back in The Scab were desperate and dangerous. Rose had no coin, and precious little supplies. The streets of The Hive and other, lesser slums were full of those who preyed upon others, from vulgar pimps to vicious cutthroats.

For fear of being mistaken for a Bleedwarpt or a plague victim, Rose kept herself covered and shunned open areas for the relative quiet of back alleys and side-roads. She kept to herself and avoided anyone who might be a threat.

Hunger gnawed at her, but Rose kept herself going with tiny doses of Wraithstone; red for energy, blue for clarity, and green for health. She carried a fortune of the stuff, enough to buy a sizeable house in The Hive, but knew that if she revealed what she carried she would be dead within ten steps. Places like this bred the kind of desperation that led men to kill.

By the time she reached the closest Syndicate trading house, two days later, Rose was gnawing on scraps of wood and discarded bits of food fallen on the streets. She had two close run ins with gangs, but had avoided them by scrambling up the sides of the shacks. She was too weak to outrun a healthy man, but her time in the mines had taught her to climb exceptionally well, and she outpaced her pursuers both times. Of course, had they known the wealth of Wraithstone that she carried, they would not have broken off the chase.

<>

The Syndicate controlled all processing of Wraithstone in The Scab. They were utterly merciless about destroying anyone who tried to compete with them, even sending agents and assassins far afield to eliminate anyone who tried to emulate their business without leave.

The squat building that Rose arrived at on her third day back in The Scab was built like a fortress. Thick walls, solid construction, windows that even a child would have trouble fitting through if they somehow removed the bars. For burly men wearing face-masks and the crimson uniforms of the Syndicate, guarded the entrance.

Rose joined the line. The man in front of her sniffed, and turned, frowning at her stench. Rose showed him her middle finger. She was safe enough now, no one would start a fight here.

“Go die in a hole you festering cunt,” sneers the man, turning away.

Rose wheezes out a laugh.

It takes an hour for the line to shrink enough that Rose is in the trade-house. There she watches men and women in white shirts with crimson vests bearing the heraldry of the Syndicate haggle with those selling them Wraithstone. There is also a line where people are trading tarnished copper, silver, and gold disks for fresh metal. The Syndicate makes a killing on that.

It is more interesting inside the trade house, and time passes quicker. Rose leaves an hour later with enough coin to live comfortably for a while and a few silver disks of her own to draw the residual bleed from her body.

Then she buys a room at a secure inn. The stew she buys in the tavern below it, is the first real food she has had in some time. It tastes so good that she almost cries.

Then she buys a bottle of Hiver Screech, strong stuff, and drinks herself into a stupor before stumbling to bed. The simple mattress is shockingly comfortable and soon Rose has fallen to a deep, silent sleep blessedly free of dreams of her dead family and the wicked, wicked men who killed them.

As she snored, the list of names of the men she must kill rested on the table beside the bed, waiting.

<>

 

Rotblossom Rose (1.9R)

Welcome to the space where I experiment, my weekly serial. It is written raw, not edited at all, and mostly unplanned.

The world is partly based on the background of an unpublished Steampunk game that I worked on with a few friends, which has grown in my mind over the last couple of years. The story is a take on those ultra-violent revenge epics of the eighties where a man’s family is abused and killed, but he survives and seeks vengeance. Needless to say it is a grim, bloody tale, that deals with bad people doing bad things, so be warned.

Here is the first post of this series.

Here is last week’s post.

<>

The Bleedwarpt Berserker’s legs writhe on the floor, while the upper half drags itself toward Green Jim with powerful arms. As it moves it leaves a trail of blood and guts, but it does not seem to care.  Rose, dropping to the ground, sees Green Jim fumble the cartridge for his steamlance, eyes wide as the Berserker looms. He gives up and grabs the lance, using it like an awkward spear.

Green Jim is lucky; the rest of Roses’s crew is well practiced. As the Berserker propels itself at Green Jim, Geb gets in front of it. The beast launches itself at the big man, intestines flapping behind it like some obscene leash. It is horrifically vigorous, and slams into Geb’s shield with a riotous thud. Rose feels her heart lurch, but the big man keeps his feet and smashes it with his shock-mace before backing out of reach.

As two of the men jab it with needle spears, Scarab rushes close and drives a rockbiter piton into the ground beside the thrashing beast . At first Rose is confused by this, but then she realizes that the piton is anchoring the nets that still partially entangle the beast to the ground.

“HARPOON!” she shouts.

One of the men obliges, firing a spring and steam driven spear. There is a pop and hiss, then the barbed spear slams into the berserker torso, a line trailing behind it. Rose helps grab the line, feels it twist as the beats moves, then they secure it to the ground with another piton.

By now Green Jim has reloaded his cumbersome Steamlance. Secured by the net and the harpoon, the berserker torso can do little more than snarl as her steps up and rams the weapon in again. This time he strikes it in the chest, blasting its ribcage open and sending an arm flying off over their heads.

“Woooo!” shouts Green Jim, covered in gore.

Cackles laughs. She tries not to think about killing him.

Rose lets out a breath. No one appears to be seriously injured. The legs are still thrashing weakly, but they posed little danger.

“Not bad,” says Geb.

“Agreed, let’s not let our guard down though,” replies Rose. “The noise and the blood are bound to attract attention. Best carve it up and get out.”

As she speaks, she watches the men descend upon the corpse, hacking at it, looking for the rich deposits of energized Wraithstone on its bones and in the knobs on its skin. Even through the blood, some of the tiny stones glow an angry red. As the others are busy she sees Cackles pocket something from the Berserker’s corpse when he thinks no one is watching.

“Cackles, why don’t you show us what you just pocketed.”

She says it loudly enough that everyone hears. The men stop mid-harvest, looking at Cackles. He might be an old hand, but he is new in the crew, and not yet trusted. Stealing from your crew is a fast way to get rich, but

Cackles looks to Scarab, then to Geb, no doubt hoping that one of them will over-rule her.

“Show us,” says Geb.

Rose hopes it is Wraithstone. That would make it easy. The crew would help her do Cackles no questions asked.

Instead Cackles pulls out what looks lie a well worn necklace, with three disks of gold.  The gold is tarnished from exposure to the bleed, and has lost all of its lustre. Most of the men lose interest immediately: the gold is valuable, but not nearly worth enacting harsh justice. Rose sees an opportunity nonetheless.

“Give it here, Cackles. I will be taking it to the syndicate. Everyone will get a share of the proceeds but you. On this crew we split everything. Got it?”

Cackles hates being singled out for punishment as much as she expects. The humiliation lights the fires of hatred in his eyes, ensuring now that he will act upon his suspicions of her when gets a chance.

Rose pretends not to notice his glare, and goes back to helping the men gather Wraithstone.

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After a few minutes of work, they have filled a small container with gory, glowing red rocks.

Scarab whistles as he puts the last fleck of stone in.

“That’s good stuff captain,” he says. The shade and intensity of the glow is an indication of how energized the stone is.

“Aye,” says Geb. “And a lot of it, too. I could buy a house. A nice one, outside of the Hive.”

“Keep dreaming,” says Scarab.

Rose just smiles. Cackles is still sulking, shooting dark looks toward her. It is almost too easy.

“Hey… that necklace,” begins Green Jim, looking at the half-tarnished silver disk hanging from his wrist. “Was he a delver too?”

Scarab and Geb look at each other, then burst out laughing. Rose rolls her eyes.

“Yes, Green Jim,” she says. “Most of the Bleedwarpt that we hunt were once people like you and I. This poor sod was probably part of a deep delving team that got caught down here.”

“Three gold disks is enough to get down to the real money,” says one of the men. “Dwarf ruins and shit from before the bleed.”

“True,” says Geb. “But we make far more profit off a kill like this then a lengthy, dangerous expedition. Too many of those kind of dives end up with this.”

He points at the berserker. Green Jim mutters, shaken at the idea that their quarry was once like them.

“Enough chatter,” says Rose. “We need to get away from all this blood, clean up, and make camp until the lift arrives. We have some time left, and I don’t want anyone getting sloppy down here. Let’s move.”

The men obey even Cackles, who follows sullenly, shunned by the rest of the men now. Rose can feel his anger.

Fucking Cackles.

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Rotblossom Rose (1.8R)

Welcome to the space where I experiment, my weekly serial. It is written raw, not edited at all, and mostly unplanned.

The world is partly based on the background of an unpublished Steampunk game that I worked on with a few friends, which has grown in my mind over the last couple of years. The story is a take on those ultra-violent revenge epics of the eighties where a man’s family is abused and killed, but he survives and seeks vengeance. Needless to say it is a grim, bloody tale, that deals with bad people doing bad things, so be warned.

Here is the first post of this series.

Here is last week’s post.

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Cackles. In the present he is just a name waiting to be crossed off her list, but in the past the wounds are too fresh and he is a nightmare.

Rose held up the little sword, lost in memory of that Nightmarish day.

She was down, disarmed by Lawch, and held in the dirt of the courtyard. She struggled to regain her feet, but the massive Kolim that held her might as well been made of stone.

“Oh, we’re gonna have some fun wit’ you, bitch,” said a young man with startlingly blue eyes beside her as he fit some kind of strap around her neck. “I cain’t wait… they always make me go last.”

“You know why that is, Stinknob,” said the Kolim. “No one wants the rot.”

Distantly, Rose is surprised at the menace in the Kolim’s voice. The giant beings are generally placid, only violent in self-defence. This one is aberrant.

“That ain’t it, Ogre, that ain’t it. I don’t got it. I don’t got the sodding rot.”

He did, as Rose would soon learn firsthand.

“Take it up with Lawch,” growled Ogre, nearly crushing Rose as he shifted in irritation.

“I–“

What Stinknob was going to say next, Rose would never know, as Morn grunted in pain and Janiye finally found her voice, screaming.

“DADDY”

A figure in a black robe, handsome Avalainian with a beard neatly trimmed to come to a sharp point stood above her husband, a hammer in one hand and a dozen nails in the other. Another nail protruded from Morn’s back where he lay.

Rose struggled. For a moment she thought she felt the mass upon her shift. If she could just get up, and get to her sword she could save them, she could save them all. But her struggles were nothing to Ogre.

“These are excellent workmanship,” the Avalainian, whom she would later come to know as Arthrin the Mendicant said.

“There a point to that?” asked the spindly limbed young man who held Janiye, his hand over her mouth now. Rose could see her daughter’s eyes rolling like a colt cornered by Bleedrats.

She hated herself then. Hated that she had been to weak to stop these wicked, wicked men and too foolish to see them coming. She never really stopped hating that girl pinned under the Kolim, even after escaping the mines; she though of herself as a different person, Rotblossom Rose instead of Rose Before.

“Let him have his fun,” said Lawch, the leader of the band, looking like the lord of the house with his feet propped up on a table. He was dressed in fine clothes and had the look of an aristocrat, smoking a pipe like he was out on the town rather than overseeing a murder.

Arthrin the Mendicant drove another nail into Morn’s back. Her Husband roared in pain. Tears ran out of Janiye’s eyes above the hand that held her mouth closed and Rose screamed.

And then it happened. Her little boy, Gared, burst out of the place where he liked to hide while playing outside on warm days. The sudden motion caused Lawch’s band to bristle, weapons springing to hand. Gared, brandishing his tiny sword ran straight at Arthrin the Mendicant, screaming ‘let him go’ and attacked. He was the very picture of courage and fury, and his lunge was superb. Rose at taught him well.

But he was far too young, and too small, and his heroism meant nothing to these men.

“Ow,” said Arthrin as Gared’s sword slipped past his guard. Then he sent the boy sprawling with a kick.

The rest of Lawch’s band laughed. Morn, Janiye, and Rose all screamed as Cackles picked Gared up. Giddy with amusement, the grinning bandit could barely keep out of reach of her son’s tiny blade.

“Enough,” said Lawch. “Get rid of him.”

Rose screamed herself raw as Cackles walked over to the outhouse and dropped little Gared in.  Cackles turned and laughed, as the horror of the day washed over Rose robbing her of strength.

And what followed after was torture, murder, rape, scalping, and then the mines; a slow dismantling of her life by men and women steeped in cruelty. They took everything from her, even the memory of happiness.

And as Rose regained her senses sometime after finding Gared’s little sword, she swore an oath to kill them all, writing their names with her own blood upon the first version of her list.

And then Rose got up and took a shot of The Blue to chase away the memories. Then she gathered what she could find in the shattered, burnt out remains of her old life, and walked down the gentle path toward the road that would lead her back to the city called The Scab.

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Rotblossom Rose (1.7R)

Welcome to the space where I experiment, my weekly serial. It is written raw, not edited at all, and mostly unplanned.

The world is partly based on the background of an unpublished Steampunk game that I worked on with a few friends, which has grown in my mind over the last couple of years. The story is a take on those ultra-violent revenge epics of the eighties where a man’s family is abused and killed, but he survives and seeks vengeance. Needless to say it is a grim, bloody tale, that deals with bad people doing bad things, so be warned.

Here is the first post of this series.

Here is last week’s post.

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Rose runs and the bleedwarpt berserker thunders after her.

As fast as she is, Rose knows that she cannot stay ahead of it for long in a straight up sprint. She chooses her path accordingly, pacing herself and taking the measure of her quarry as it follows.

Red bleedwarpt generally fall into two categories, hunters and berserkers. This one is the later she is certain; it is big and powerful and easily goaded. Such a creature can rip her in half it gets a hold of her,

They reach what looks like a dead end for her, with a ten foot wall dividing the tunnel into upper and lower halves. Rose pumps a little red serum into her blood through injectors in her mechanical arm and speeds up, sprinting straight at the wall. The beast bellows and runs after her.

A pace from the rock wall Rose jumps, her spiked boots catching the rock. Such is her agility that it appears that she runs right up the rock face. The berserker roars and grabs at her leg as she vanishes over the ledge. Rose rolls out of reach, gains her feet, and keeps running as the beast pulls itself up into the tunnel behind her.

Once, such mad determination would have scared her, but now Rose sees it as a weakness to be exploited. The berserker is intent on her, even as she tries to draw it into a trap.

This one is particularly fast, catching up to her quickly. At least it has not exhibited any other abilities. Reds rarely did, but some could spit flames or had acid blood. Mostly berserkers relied on strength, whatever their form.

It was close now, Rose could feel it looming over her. A rumbling growl sounded and she its felt hot breath on her neck. Up ahead she sees the tunnel split in two, as she knew it would. She had hoped to have more space between herself and the beast still, but the split presents a good opportunity to regain some distance.

A little jolt of The Red quickens her step. She reaches the split and turns down the left tunnel. The beast, a blur in the corner of her eye, moves to intercept, leaping, almost pouncing like a hunting cat. Rose, however, is faking her intent. She stops, turns back, and runs into the rightward tunnel. The berserker flies past her, its massive bulk slamming into the wall, a grasping claw slicing the air behind her.

Rose did not waste time looking back, sprinting as fast as she could. This one was too fast for comfort and the rest of the way left no room for her to gain ground. Soon enough she heard it behind her, heavy tread steadily getting closer and closer and…

Then up ahead she saw the opening that led into the chamber. The bleedwarpt was too close behind her for a graceful entrance. She ran. It followed. Rose reached the edge of the tunnel that led into the chamber where the rest of her team lurked. She shouted and jumped up toward the ceiling instead of down, catching a crevasse and lifting her legs up as the beast’s hand snapped shut inches away from her.

It falls twenty feet, landing with a thud on the chamber floor. Rose watches as a dozen men slip out of side tunnels and alcoves, attacking the bleedwarpt from all directions. The plan had been to lure it into chasing her past Green Jim and Cackles, but it was simply been too fast.

Geb comes at it from the front, all loud and aggressive, drawing its attention. The berserker’s eyes fix on him and it swing a massive arm. Geb blocks with his shield, but the blow sends him sprawling. Two of the other men run in, jabbing long needle-spears into its right side. The beast rears up and slammed down toward them, but they both jump away. As soon as it turns Cackles and Scarab hit it with nets.

The nets hit and wrap, turning the beast into a writhing ball of anger, briefly at least. It is then that Green Jim bring his Steamlance to bear. He chargeds in, expertly ramming the metal point into the berserker’s torso as it pulls the nets, barbs and all, from its body.

The Steamlance is a weapon designed to kill the most monstrous of Bleedwarpt. It consists of a metal lance with a secondary tip that is fired upon impact by an explosive charge.  The steam created by the liquid explosive is directed into the gap created by the secondary tip, creating an enormous wound.

Green Jim strikes well. The lance fires with a distinct rapport. The secondary tip rips through the berserker’s back and it falls into two pieces in an eruption of steam and flesh.

Cackles laughs.

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Rotblossom Rose (1.6R)

Welcome to the space where I experiment, my weekly serial. It is written raw, not edited at all, and mostly unplanned.

The world is partly based on the background of an unpublished Steampunk game that I worked on with a few friends, which has grown in my mind over the last couple of years. The story is a take on those ultra-violent revenge epics of the eighties where a man’s family is abused and killed, but he survives and seeks vengeance. Needless to say it is a grim, bloody tale, that deals with bad people doing bad things, so be warned.

Here is the first post of this series.

Here is last week’s post.

<>

Not even the worst horrors of the depths can rival memory.

Rose dug exceptionally well for a half-dead woman with one arm, even without a boost from the Wraithstone she carried. Long hours in the slave-mines had taught her how to work when injured; there was no pity from men like overseer Kragorr, you either met your quota or you were beaten and denied food. Most people never recovered.

Rose missed her quota three times and still survived. The first was the worst. Kragorr had knocked her down with a vicious backhand, knocking all of the teeth out of the rotten side of her face, When he saw the rot on his favorite set of gloves, along with all of the blood, he’d started kicking her, again and again. Rose could not fight back: the best she could do was curl into a ball and protect her vitals. She thought that she would die then, and hated herself for being so weak, losing even this. As darkness took her, she’d heard Kragorr’s voice.

“Maybe I’ll take a visit to the comfort house tonight Rotblossom, have a poke at your girl while she’s still fresh.”

Something had welled up inside her then, and Rose had pushed herself up, blood spilling from her mouth, ribs feeling like shards of glass in her chest. Everyone looked away except Kragorr.

“I’d say that’s an improvement, bitch,” he laughed, turning his back and walking toward the overseers compound.

Broken bones and teeth hurt plenty, but nothing compared to the hunger that came that day and the next. Had she not found a tiny nugget of The Green she likely would have died.

As she dug into the soft ground of the old outhouse, Rose realized that she was thinking of Kragorr and the mines because she did not want to think about why she was digging, of what she was looking for and why. In a way it was a comfort to think of what she had survived at the mines, all except Janiye, and that sweet sweet moment when she had opened Kragorr’s throat with her shiv. It brought a shiver of pleasure to think of it even now.

“Who says revenge is hollow?” she rasped, knee deep now in the dirt.

Rose dug until the sun was high overhead and she began to feel feint. She doubted there was food worth eating in her ruined house, but the well still drew water. As barren as the lands around The Scab were, it was not for lack of moisture.

The water was cool and wonderful, and Rose took a moment to savour it. As important as her task was, she was not keen to return to it. She had to know the truth of what lay in the remains of the outhouse, but dreaded it all the same. Hope is monstrous, it’s loss even more so.

After gulping down enough water to feel full, Rose fished around in her pouch full of Wraithstone. She found the stone she wanted quickly, without even looking. Later on, she will realize what that means, but for now it was just an unconscious talent.

Rose took the bright green Wraithstone and gently rasped it along a file from Morn’s shop. Even though the file was weathered and warped it was still able to reduce some of the stone to a fine powder.

Rose had been ingesting shavings of Green Wraithstone both to keep the Rot from spreading and to sustain her when she cannot find food. The shavings filled her with unnatural vitality, but they also played havoc with her insides and often left her retching and whimpering as they passed. Powder in water was better.

She drank it, felt strong again, and returned to digging. After a moment she stopped, got out a blue Wraithstone, powdering and mixing it, then drank it as well.

It was late in the day when her spade struck metal. The hole was as deep as her shoulder. Gently she lowered herself and felt around, locating what she had struck, getting a sense of where it lay before prying it out of the damp, fragrant soil with her spade. She holds it up in the light where she can see it.

It is a child-size replica of a coil-sword, made by her husband, Morn, for their son, Gared.

The Blue brings clarity, but it was not enough to shield her from this memory, from the knowledge brought by that little sword. Madness washed over Rose. She was assaulted by the sounds of her son screaming, crying for help, and the laughter of the member of Lawch’s cursed band who caught little Gared up and sealed his fate.

Cackles was what they called that one.

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