Book 2: Chapter 1: You are what they ate.

Book 2: Chapter 1: You are what they ate.

The dream was the same as always. A reoccurring one Id been having for a few weeks now. Way less interesting than being murdered by Santa.Updated from novelbIn.(c)om

There were strangers in white robes, kneeling in reverence at the base of a bloody hill, which was strewn with endless corpses; some of the bodies wore armor, others camouflaged fatigues. Some were warriors in armor pulled from ancient battlefields, others were soldiers from more modern conflicts.

Many were human, many were not. Various weapons lay scattered about, everything from longswords to sawed off shotguns to magical wands and staves. None had done their wielders any good. Above them, in the reddened sky, a black sun rose in malignant magnificence, bringing unholy illumination to the endless carnage, revealing how the bodies stretched back for miles. Dozens of miles. Hundreds.

This was Hell.

The Hell of endless conflict. The beautiful horror of utter futility. The definitive answer to the question all those who fight must eventually ask of themselves: Was it worth it? Was any of it worth it?

Heh. Of course, it wasnt!

But dont tell them that. Its much funnier when they realized it on their own.

At the peak of the red hill, atop a rusting throne, sat the smiling warrior with his crimson hewn axe laying across his lap. His blackened armor was pierced with arrows, daggers, and bullet holes. It was ashen from burns, scorched by magic, corrupted with radiation.

The warrior' remaining eye blazed with merriment beneath his blood-matted hair, and although his face had been ruined by battle and madness, his boundless joy was obvious to any who saw him sitting there; waving happily at his admirers and eagerly waiting for the next hero to come take a swing at him.

My axe is wet and stained with red,

and in its wake left countless dead,

spread endless hate and misery,

And made me feared eternally!

Some stay and fight, some try to flee,

Its all ever the same to me.

The living reaped what they had sown,

And know that hope has from them, flown,

Their choices led them all astray,

To this, their very judgement day.

Now daybreak finds me on my own,

resting atop my scarlet throne.

The battle won, the killing done,

Ive had my fill; It sure was fun!

Til slaughter calls me from my rest,

To leave me be, would be what's best,

as those around you would attest,

Memories gently drifted into my mind as I searched. This had been a tavern. A gathering place for angry locals. I couldnt remember the name. I couldnt even remember why Id come here. There had to have been a good reason, right? Nothing in my life happened due merely to chance. It was a carefully regulated unending nightmare.

Walking to the exit, I stepped outside and read: The Feral Fang. It was hand painted across a big wooden sign nailed to a post out front. Walking back inside, I hopped behind the bar and the tap, poured myself out a big foamy mug of whatever the local specialty was, and downed it immediately.

I can drink alcohol like water. I could inhale it like air. It never hurts me; nothing can hurt me.

Tossing the empty mug aside, I sat on a stool and considered my options. I needed new clothes, but I could just make those on my own. In fact thats exactly what I did after cleaning the blood off my body with a rag and a fresh mug of beer.

Now, what else? I wanted some money, but even if I had some, there was nothing to spend it on. I should probably just leave. Now. This place was filled with mutilated corpses, but that didnt mean everyone was accounted for. Other members of the community could show up, and that would be a hassle. What if some kid walked in looking for his father?

Obviously, that would be hilarious, but then what?

A groan emanated from a room out back, catching my attention. Inside, an old man hung from the wall. He was held in place by the walking cane that jutted from his chest where it had been shoved through him. He stared blankly at me, mouthing words that he didnt have the strength to speak aloud, blood gently dribbling down his mouth. This seemed like a bad way to go.

Oh, well, I thought. Better him than me.

Still, it seemed like a particularly cruel way to leave someone to die. Maybe I should do something about it? No one could accuse me of being overly caring for the fate of my fellow man, but that didnt mean I had to be callous all the time. After looking around the area, I found a bloodied knife clenched tightly in a severed hand. It was clutched too tightly; I had to break one of its fingers to release it.

With the weapon now sufficiently unhanded (heh), or better yet, "disarmed" (heh heh), I returned to the backroom, prepared to slit the hanging mans throat. Before I completed the act, however, a thought suddenly occurred to me: What sort of man could survive being impaled through the chest for so long? It really wasnt humanely possible, was it?

Now curious, I lifted a corner of the mans mouth and saw that his teeth were elongated and very sharp.

Oh. The Feral Fang, huh? That was kind of clever.

Kind of.

Well, that would explain his toughness. A well-fed werewolf was a bastard of a thing to kill. Not that that seemed to be of any help to this particular pack, or this prick in particular. Had he been the pack master? Left to die a slow death while bearing witness to the horrifying destruction of his people? He looked old enough, beneath the blood.

Well-fed on what?

Curious once more, I roamed around the tavern until I found the kitchen.

Theres cause and effect, yknow. Things never happened in life Just because. If a bunch of stupid lycanthropes got together and built themselves a janky little tavern, that wasnt reason enough to grind them into mulch. They had to have done something. Drugs? Uh, who cares? Prostitution? More likely to be customers than pimps.

Murderers? Well, that just went without saying, didnt it? But what kind of murderers were they?

I opened the larder.

I closed it immediately.

I wish I hadnt done that. I really wished I hadnt done that. Memories came flooding back to me. Unpleasant memories.

So, theyd been those kinds of murderers, huh? Well-fed, indeed.

Returning to the back room, I buried my new knife tip-first into the old bastards eye and spat on him when he tried to scream. Then I returned to the bar and drank some more beer. Should I burn this place down? Nah. I was going to hang out here for a little while and see if there were any other members of this pack. Its not that I disapproved of cannibalism, you see. I think I could logically understand the urge, right? Sometimes you just needed a snack.

But there are depths that some people allow themselves to sink, which I find disagreeable.

Hanging children on hooks next to the salted pork?

Yeah, I was going to be thorough with killing these idiots.