No Time To Cry (PG-13, violent images.)

[Korkskrew]

Alright, I was kind of bored and I need something to do, so I started writing. To those of you in the RPT, I borrowed some material and names so I hope you don't mind, but I wanted to use Vergil as the protagonist and I can't picture him without Orum. Please pick it apart and critique as much as you can. It's just a few paragraphs but I'd really like some feedback.

Thanks.

No Time To Cry

by Will Munro
(AKA Captain Awesomepants)

Prologue

Dreaming used to be a great escape. I was good at it too, really good. I would always find myself in a bright room, full of colorful doors. I could open anyone I wanted, yet I would always open the same one. Bright, gleaming mahogany, my families crest printed upon the knocker. From here I would find my way into a sprawling room, full of portraits and tapestries, painted by artists long starved to death (as most artists are prone to do).

That was before I was forced to grow up.

Most children wouldn't have to grow up until they were at least thirteen, (and for royalty even later), but I wasn't "most children". I was a Kairn. Born and bred for war and nothing else, whether I chose it or not. I suppose some would have taken it upon themselves as a blessing. After all, who wouldn't want to be a demi-god? Well, once you realize that all you can and will ever do is kill, the novelty wears off very quickly.

Now there is but one door. Withered and ravaged by one individuals scarred mind. One and only one, and I am given two choices. To open it and face the horrible truth, or ball up and cry. Cry until my eyes bleed. Cry until I wake up in a cold sweat and get to do it all over again, this time in real life. Where did it all start?

The seventh year of my life was one full of trials and hardships. I remember this was when my father's decline truly began. We always knew something was terribly wrong with him, but we never spoke of it. After all, it's wretchedly impolite to speak of someone behind their back, and speaking to my father's face about his past was something fools did when they were tired of life. We were terrified. Terrified of the truth, about what would happen if we knew what had happened to him all those years ago.

He left for war a great man. A legendary vanquisher and a figurehead of human excellence. He came back a shriveled husk, barely able to lift a sword. Sanguinary, they had called him, one who lusts for blood.

Those who returned from the campaign he led were asked no questions and if they were, would have given no answers. The war was over and that was all that mattered. Those who asked questions were put to the sword, and that was the way it always was for the children of Telheim.

But questions needed to be asked, whether it spelled ruin or not.



Chapter One


With every false step he took Orum cringed. Every time his armor clanked he wanted to slice his wrists open for being so foolish. It was eerily quiet. No white noise whatsoever, not even the merciful drip of water on stone.

Of the eighty men placed under his command, thirteen remained, but they were the thirteen most valiant and stalwart soldiers Orum had ever commanded, and in this, he took great comfort.

His thoughts drifted far from his mind. Back home, in Telheim. He thought of Jerum and Sindri, his best friends and long time traveling companions, only now enfeebled, traveling partners. They were once in his cohort, resolute men willing to fight until they were no use to anyone, for a king they'd never met. Truly they were the perfect soldiers, and it was a shame that Orum refused to be a sheep like they.

No, Orum was no sheep. Nor was he a wolf as the oft' spoken metaphor might suggest. He was a butcher, plain and simple. He was learned in the ways of the massacre and knew what valuable tool it was. He lost no sleep putting it to good use. However times had changed.

During the civil strife, putting a cities population to the sword (exterminatus) was an excellent way to gain the fear and respect of your enemies. Demons however, were quite the antithesis to this. Demons loved to both give and receive a massacre. They invited you to spill their guts all over. In fact, many soldiers found it very unnerving to execute a demon, as many never truly stayed dead.

They were deceitful vermin. The more powerful ones able to live on inside the body of another, leaching off their soul until they are too weak to resist, then taking over and going berserk in a wild killing frenzy.



I'll add more later, this is just a half hour of writing and goofing around. I'll probably do some revisions tomorrow and finish the first chapter.

[Kallysti]

Hey, for goofing around it's really not a bad start. Looking forward to more :)

[Korkskrew]

Thanks Kallysti, I appreciate it.
Here's all I've written up to this point. I'd just like to mention that some serious critiques would be greatly appreciated as I'm trying to improve my writing, so don't hold back, I won't take it personally.

No Time To Cry

by Will Munro
(AKA Captain Awesomepants)

Prologue

Dreaming used to be a great escape. I was good at it too, really good. I would always find myself in a bright room, full of colorful doors. I could open anyone I wanted, yet I would always open the same one. Bright, gleaming mahogany, my families crest printed upon the knocker. From here I would find my way into a sprawling room, full of portraits and tapestries, painted by artists long starved to death (as most artists are prone to do).

That was before I was forced to grow up.

Most children wouldn't have had to grow up until they were at least thirteen, (and for royalty even later), but I wasn't "most children". I was a Kairn. Born and bred for war and nothing else, whether I chose it or not. I suppose some would have taken it upon themselves as a blessing. After all, who wouldn't want to be a demi-god? Well, once you realize that all you can and will ever do is kill, the novelty wears off very quickly.

Now there is but one door. Withered and ravaged by one individuals scarred mind. One and only one, and I am given two choices. To open it and face the horrible truth, or ball up and cry. Cry until my eyes bleed. Cry until I wake up in a cold sweat and get to do it all over again, this time in real life. Where did it all start?

The seventh year of my life was one full of trials and hardships. I remember this was when my father's decline truly began. We always knew something was terribly wrong with him, but we never spoke of it. After all, it's wretchedly impolite to speak of someone behind their back, and speaking to my father's face about his past was something fools did when they were tired of life. We were terrified. Terrified of the truth, about what would happen if we knew what had happened to him all those years ago.

He left for war a great man. A legendary vanquisher and a figurehead of human excellence. He came back a shriveled husk, barely able to lift a sword. Sanguinary, they had called him, one who lusts for blood.

Those who returned from the campaign he led were rarely asked questions and if they were, gave no answers. The war was over and that was all that mattered. Those who asked questions were put to the sword, and that was the way it always was for the children of Telheim.

But questions needed to be asked, whether it spelled ruin or not.

[Korkskrew]

Chapter One

With every false step he took Orum cringed. Every time his armor clanked he wanted to slice his wrists open for being so foolish. It was eerily quiet. No white noise whatsoever, not even the merciful drip of water on stone.

Of the eighty men placed under his command, thirteen remained, but they were the thirteen most valiant and stalwart soldiers Orum had ever commanded, and in this, he took great comfort.

His thoughts drifted far from his mind. Back home, in Telheim. He thought of Jerum and Sindri, his best friends and only now enfeebled, traveling partners. They were once in his cohort, resolute men willing to fight until they were no use to anyone, for a king they'd never met. Truly they were the perfect soldiers, and it was a shame that Orum refused to be a sheep like they.

No, Orum was no sheep. Nor was he a wolf as the oft' spoken metaphor might suggest. He was a butcher, plain and simple. He was learned in the ways of the massacre and knew what valuable tool it was. He lost no sleep putting it to good use. However times had changed.

During the civil strife, putting a cities population to the sword (Exterminatus) was an excellent way to gain the fear and respect of your enemies. Demons however, were quite the antithesis to this. Demons loved to both give and receive a massacre. They invited you to spill their guts all over. In fact, many soldiers found it very unnerving to execute a demon, as many never truly stayed dead.

They were deceitful vermin. The more powerful ones able to live on inside the body of another, leaching off their soul until they are too weak to resist, then taking over and going berserk in a wild killing frenzy. It wasn't a common occurrence, but when a demon broke free you knew. Most people who see it can't bring themselves to live a normal life afterwards.

It started as a slow decline, as if the host had some sort of disease eating away at their soul (and truth, it was in some ways). Their behavior would begin to take on that of the demon infesting them. Many became vessels of rage and fury, whilst others became morose and brooding. The worst by far however, were those that took on a lustful demon. When a lusting demon broke free, if it was left to it's own devices, it would **** and kill every single woman and girl until it literally perished from sheer exhaustion. Seeing a demon do this would be very frightening of course, but to see your own father, husband, or brother commit these despicable acts was nauseating to say the least.

Orum had seen many possessions break free in his time as a general, and though each one was different, they all ended the same. Another of his soldiers dead and their legacy forever left to rot in another nameless grave. Such was the plight of the Kairn. Their lord had said it was because they were so strong. Demons loved strong hosts. This was a bold faced lie and Orum knew it. It had nothing to do with their strength. It was the blood.

The sticky crimson ichor that was so necessary for life, yet so wretched to look upon. The very thing Orum had become addicted to as one would become addicted to alcohol. If blood were a drink their's would have been the ambrosia. The perfect mixture of demon and human that only a warped mind could concoct. That was one thing that always bothered Orum. Where would someone get the idea? Was it an accident? After all, many women were raped by demons, although next to none of them survived. Perhaps it was on purpose. Orum could easily see his "benevolent leader" ordering eighty women to let captured demons defile them. That would explain why he never knew his mother or father(although he probably wouldn't get along with his father anyway). Yes. This was a satisfactory explanation.

This answer didn't particularly bother Orum. After all, he was a peerless fighter. The demon that desecrated his mother must have been a very powerful one indeed. Also, it gave him closure, and Orum hated unanswered questions. He always thought of them like an open wound. He wished his metaphors were more clever, but demons were not clever(and after due deliberation, he decided his mother likely wasn't either) and so he would have to settle for being the pinnacle of physical excellence only.

However, his father must have had some degree of intelligence. Why else would Orum be made captain of his cohort if for no other reason than his basic grasp of tactics and strategy? His father must have been an overlord. The demons not bound solely to their animal instincts. He liked to think that many men had given their lives in his fathers capture, made him feel somehow important.

Abruptly, his thoughts snapped back to reality as a shadowy figure bolted in their direction. The sound of it's feet slapping against the hard stone was oddly entrancing, like some deranged tribal beat. Orum might have enjoy it had it not been followed by a wretched screech and the sound of thick blood splattering against cold steel.

Dal had gotten this one. His blade through the demons leathery hide and into it's heart before it even knew what it was fighting.Nothing fancy, but brutally effective and relatively silent. Orum's preferred target however, was the neck. Especially when the head was cleaved clean off the shoulders and that delicious fountain poured forth from their severed stump.

Orum quickly withdrew his head from the clouds and motioned for everyone to move forward, while Dal finished wiping his blade off on his already ensanguined tabard. They crept towards their targets, unflinching and silent. As they emerged from the tightly packed tunnel, they were greeted by screeching hordes of demons on either side of them, and their target, two massive cathedral style doors, a bowshot away. The time for subtleties was over.

Fire and embers sprouted from each massive warrior and began to encompass their thick armor. Just another nifty trait that graced the Kairn. Orum had no explanation for it (the demons had not mastered this trait), and in all honestly, didn't really need one. All he knew was it only burned those he wanted it to, and it made a great morale breaker(who would want to be burned alive after all?).

Quickly yet without needing to be ordered, Orum's small but imposing force positioned themselves in a wedge, with Orum at the head. The demons crashed against their line like water on rocks as they split through the river of screeching and hissing vermin. Relentlessly, Orum crashed into them, using his bulk to plow the demons out of his men's way. The line wavered but did not buckle as they continued their charge, nearing their goal. Orum was knocked on his back for a split second, and managed a glimpse of the looming ceiling. Although it was the work of demon artisans (and therefore, incredibly haunting and ghoulish), it was a very impressive monastery in it's own right. However now was neither the time nor place for gawking.

Rather than stand and fight the beasts toe to toe they decided it best to ignite themselves to the point that any assailants would be burned horribly. Although many of the demons stayed back and let them charge through, the Kairn were still hopelessly outnumbered, and it was beginning to look as if they would not reach their goal before the flames were extinguished. Something would have to be done quickly if they were to have any degree of success in their endeavor.

Orum turned on his heels and grabbed the soldier nearest him: Mairtin, his second in command and brother in arms. Without even weighing his actions, Orum lifted his blade with one hand, while gripping Mairtin's skull with the other. In a voice cold and emotionless he spoke.

"I'm sorry brother..."

Those were the last words brave Mairtin would hear, for as soon as they were uttered, his captain -- his friend -- drew his blade across his throat and severed his head. He felt no pain, but it made no difference in the long run. He was still as dead as he would have been if he had suffered. All Orum cared about now was the mass amounts of warm demon blood flowing from his comrade. Like vicious scavengers, the demons leapt on his limp form and began devouring him in a mad frenzy. Warm meals were always welcome to demonkin.

Seizing the opportunity, Orum and the others bolted while the demons feasted. Unfortunately, his brothers sacrifice would not be enough. Demons eat rather quickly and just as Orum's band broke through the horde, they resumed the chase once more. It became a gauntlet of sorts as the warriors leapt over corpses and stone while staving off the encroaching throng on their rear. One of the Kairn -- Orum didn't recognize him in the chaos -- could not keep pace and was soon ripped apart in a flurry of gnashing teeth and claws. Orum spoke a soft prayer for him but kept his pace, ever nearing their goal.

As they came upon it, two massive beasts dropped down from the roof, landing with a thunderous crash on the blood stained marble. Orum leapt at the first, using his massive body to knock it on it's back. It felt massive hands reach into it's gaping maw and begin to pull as hard as they could. With a furious screech and the sickening sound of bone and cartilage snapping, Orum ripped the top of his victims head off. The Kairn blood lust was beginning to take over. As the rest of his cohort pinned and thoroughly dismembered the beasts partner, Orum barreled into the massive doors. His gargantuan form crushed the aged wood and left a large smoldering hole through which the rest of his comrades entered.

"Fiann! Lunn! Into the breach! Stave the ravenous fiends off! The rest of you, with me, our time is short."

[Korkskrew]

"Fiann! Lunn! Into the breach! Stave the ravenous fiends off! The rest of you, with me, our time is short."

Although not a brilliant tactician by any measure, Orum knew how to shout orders(although often they were neither timely nor relevant) and inspired confidence in those around him. Now was a time confidence was needed.

A great darkness began to envelop and surround the party as the ebony walls seemed to close in. Their mark was close, however it was still unclear who was on the offensive at this point. Fiann and Lunn -- although far exceeding normal standards in combat prowess -- began to wane as more and more demons threw themselves recklessly into the swirling fiery melee. The horrid smell of burnt demon flesh wafted through the stale air. Orum could take no more and called out his opponent.

"Abreniar! End this madness, come forth!"

Almost on cue, a great ball of flame descended from the lofty ceiling and landed in a great inferno. All but Orum were forced to look away as the searing heat emanated from the beasts skin. It was not like the others. It's legs bent forwards, like a human, and it was only a mere seven feet tall. The only distinguishing demonic quality about it was it's great ebony wings. How his massive form was able to get airborne was a mystery, but Orum would ponder that later, for now he had more pressing issues (like the flaming mass of feathers and blades bearing down on him for one).

Orum nimbly rolled out of the great beasts path (surprising considering his stature and the amount of armor he was wearing) and managed to get a quick slash across it's flank. He felt the blade dig, but not deep enough to do any real damage. Before he could press the attack, it was upon his comrades. Devilishly fast and strong, it ripped Dal to shreds as he thrashed about madly, screaming defiantly. It swept three of the Kairn away with a wide backhand whilst impaling two others on it's bladed limbs. Swiftly, Orum dodged between it's blows and delivered his own to it's torso. Slashing and stabbing recklessly, more of his Kairn brethren joined him.

The great fiend fell on it's back with a bloodcurdling screech, his blade still digging into it's writhing neck, Orum stood on it triumphantly. He could see nothing through the blood, but as Abreniar began to die, a black mist began to flood from his body and force it's way into Orum. The remaining contingent of demons started their retreat at the sight of their leaders death while the five remaining Kairn routed and eventually eradicated them. As the red in his vision began to clear, Orum felt a strange vertigo come over him, and before he could steady himself he had passed out. The demons wretched laughter the only sound he could make out.


Chapter 2

That laughter, that wretched unceasing laughter. It plagued his dreams, and made him fear sleep. It was the familiarity that bothered him. The fact that it knew who he was and wanted him to know, wanted him to come after it. His father had always told him to never chase after ghosts, but his father... his father...

A cold open palmed slap greeted his face as his eyes flashed open. Squinting at the streams of light sifting through the now open windows, he looked at the familiar surroundings. Wondering what had awoken him he looked around once more, his eyes finally adjusting to the harsh glow that before had made sight impossible. The stern face of Captain Uilliam met him, the man's pale grey eyes staring intensely into his own.

"Sorry to bother you Vergil, but war waits for no man, no matter how young he is."

"Can't it make an exception just this once? I'm a little tired of massacres Captain."

"We fight for the man with the deepest pockets, and that man wants a lot of people dead."
"I wouldn't mind it so much if they could fight back sir. I'm really not a fan of killing women and children. Makes me feel somehow "demonic"."

The Captain's eyes widened at his last statement and before Vergil could react, he struck him across the face. He was wearing his studded gloves. Vergil hated those things, especially when they were used against him.

"Don't ye ever speak of demons around me boy, or next time I won't spare you the blade."

"Aye sir..."

Aye... Vergil had grown to hate that word. It seemed so vulgar and barbaric. He missed the old tongue of Telheim. Although many thought it an archaic and dead language, he loved it's flowing nature and soft words. He wondered if he still remembered any. He wondered when he would see Telheim again, if he even wanted to. Telheim...

"Telheim! That's where we'll be in seven days men. Our employer has ordered yet another Exterminatus. Every last man and woman, put to the sword. You should all know, this city is the birthplace of the Kairn (Vergil felt a spark in the back of his mind at this word he could not explain), and although their lineage has long been wiped out, it is still home to many fierce warriors of wars long past, so don't go throwing your lives away. The lord has even promised us a small contingent to help in the preliminary storming, so I suggest we let them take the brunt of the resistance, after all, I'm sure those mindless fools would love nothing more than to die for lord Ezekiel." There was a strange hint of scorn in his voice that everyone seemed to share.

The ride to Telheim would have been a great time for him to think, and contemplate his past, as he was often far too busy to think, but it was not in the stars. For as soon as light broke on their second day, they found themselves surrounded by the forces of Telheim. How they had mustered a force so large and so quickly was beyond Uilliam, but he stood his ground, those fierce eyes Vergil had come to loathe were now fixed on the massive warriors the had encircled them. Vergil however, had become a whirlwind of emotion. He hadn't seen his kind in years, and wanted so badly to go back to them, but he knew deep down, they would not accept him. His blood was impure, he was an outcast, and that would never change.

Nineteen years. In nineteen years Vergil had seen more horrors than most men would ever see if they lived to be 200. When other boys were playing with wooden swords, Vergil was butchering his own kin with the real thing. None of his comrades could explain his prodigious skill with a blade, but they didn't need to. Most soldiers laughed at Vergil for fighting so young, but he soon learned that an enemy would not find it so easy to laugh with a blade in his throat. And this was how Vergil lived his life. Scrounging by from kill to kill, war to war (there were many to be fought) and bounty to bounty. No one knew of his past and no one asked, and so it was for nineteen years.

The Telheim army now began to close in, showing the same lack of mercy Vergil remembered seeing in his father. A whirlwind of spears and swords would soon be upon them. Without giving it another thought, Vergil took his worn blade and walked defiantly up to his Captain, the bastard son of demons long forgotten (officially, they never existed), and with a single crushing blow, rammed it straight into Uilliams rib cage, twisted it, and withdrew a bloody husk of steel and bone.

The Telheimians bore down of the wavering band of mercenary's with a blood lust unseen in normal society. So many were the dead the Vergil was barely able to walk, but he found a clear path and as the battle raged, he slinked away, into the woods, and away from sight. He was now completely alone in the world, with no possessions save his rusted blade and the clothes on his back. He did gain one thing however: independence. He was no longer a sheep, and it felt good.

He looked over his shoulder to see the last of his "comrades" engulfed and dismembered.

[Rookie]

Nice Kork
keep it up, this has some good stuff in it