User blog:The Dicer/Paws Of Steel

Disclaimer: This is a rather dark story (as I am bad at writing cheerful ones) and will be quite horrifying/disgusting/whatever. Just a heads up.

This runs parallel to my other story "The Shadow Jester" and characters may and will interact from the two novels.

Hands of Steel

''I consider there to be five states of mind; five layers, so to speak. The first is the one of normality, that most creatures reside in; nothing to mention about it really, so let’s move on. The second stage is one that I consider “normal” madness (as normal as madness gets). It ranges through a huge variety of symptoms, but you can easily tell when one resides in this layer. Creatures are normally born with this madness, and very rarely do events in one’s life cause someone to ascend to this layer. No, events much more often propel them to the third layer; the madness of anger. Though some creatures are born with this (Bloodwrath in badgers being the most known example) this is typically caused by the deaths or tortures of loved ones at the hands of enemies. This madness typically grants incredible resolve and determination to its bearer, and is much more helpful to them than it is hurtful. Then, there is the fourth state, the one that I like to call gibbering madness. The patient is “broken”, so to speak, and ruled by fear. They often laugh a lot, or cry, and it nigh impossible to get someone out of this state, which is normally caused by extreme pain. But it is the fifth layer which is the most worrying; what I call beyond madness. The creature will seem almost normal, but there is always an insane laughter in their eyes, even when there are things that should not be laughed about. And nothing good comes from those who reside in the fifth layer.''

-Unknown

Chapter One
Damian leaned back, content, resting against a solid oak log he had dragged over several hours before. The young ferret was watching a group of girls near a fire they had built; they had brought themselves some firewine, and were now all drunk of it; precisely why he was watching. All of them were beautiful; Clana in particular, her gorgeous yellow eyes enchanted by the redness of the firewine, her slim figure illuminated seductively in the light of the blaze. They were right next to the ocean; the waves were unusually quiet tonight, gently lapping at the coastline. The night sky was free of clouds, filled instead with hundreds upon hundreds of stars, and the huge disk of the full moon.

Down on the beach, the girls exploded into cries of laughter as one of them tried to stand up, drunk, but fell back down. The ferret shrugged dismissively; Sonia was the least pretty of the lot, and she was mean and rude. Not at all who Damian came to see. No, it was Clana, who looked even prettier laughing than she did normally, her perfect white teeth almost glowing in the night. Damian had meant to ask her to be his wife tonight, but, as usual, his courage had failed him, and he was again content to watch them revel.

Shira, a cute brown-furred fox, drunkenly stood up and began dancing, to the cheers of the others. Damian leaned forward; though Clana was prettier, Shira was gorgeous herself, with a slightly full but still excellent figure. And then, out of nowhere, an arrow thudded into her head, and she crashed down without a sound, dead. The other girls screamed and turned toward the sea; Damian has jumped up, and now saw a boat there, filled with shadowy figures. One of them was standing up, holding a crossbow in his hands. He jumped onto the shore, and the firelight illuminated a rugged weasel’s face, scarred, but yet smiling wickedly.

“Glad to see that this has caught your attention, ladies,” he sneered, licking his lips. Indeed, the corpse of their dead friend had a sobering effect on them, and they clustered together, horrified.

Clana called out, her voice high and filled with fear, “W-who are you? W-what will you do to us?”

“Oh, you don’t need to be scared,” he replied, grinning wickedly, “we’ll have a nice little talk and ask you a few questions; if we like your answers, you’ll be free to go. If we don’t like your answers… let’s not go into that, shall we? How about I introduce you to the rest of the cast, hmm?”

Damian realized he was standing there, motionless and horrified, and sat down again, desperately trying to figure out what to do. He could try to make it back to the village, but they were a good hour away, and he wasn’t confident that they would stay there for two hours. Then he would have to try to take them on his own; would he have a chance? The weasel looked down at the fire, and listened intently.

“These two here are Rusty and Snarl; you’ll be hard pressed to find better cutlass fighters than them,” the weasel said, as two wicked looking ferrets clambered out of the boat, covered in tattoos; both looked almost identical as they grinned, showing their long fangs. One of the girls gave a sob of terror.

“Then, we have my son, Blinder.” A stocky, muscular weasel with jet black fur climbed out; in his hands was a short spear, to his back fastened a longer one. Around his waist was a belt with several knifes fastened to it.

“And I call myself Skinner,” he said, with a slight chuckle. The girls offered no reply; only their eyes roved the group, as they stayed perfectly still with fear. Damian, turned away, rapidly thinking. The two ferrets were no doubt good fighters, but he had trained with a quarterstaff his whole life, and there were few weapons to better counter cutlasses than quarterstaffs. Skinner looked to have a deranged strength about him, and he had a crossbow, but there was no way he could fire it off before Damian got to him; all he had besides that was a long knife at his belt. And his son, Blinder, looked to be the most dangerous of the lot; well-built and well-armed, it was him Damian would have to go for first.

With that in mind, he began going down through the thick underbrush, trying to move as quietly but as quickly as possible.

Meanwhile, down on the beach, Skinner leered as he said, “Now, ladies, are you alone on this island, or are there others here?”

Clana, looking around to see if no one else wanted to answer, replied in a shaking voice, “T-there’s a town a few m-miles west of here, following the b-beach. T-that’s where we live.”

“Mhmm,” thoughtfully replied Skinner, “and about how many of you are in this town of yours? And call me sir; it makes me feel important.”

“A-about two hundred,” replied Clana, before quickly, fearfully adding, “s-sir.”

“A bit too much for our little crew to take, wouldn't you say, Rusty?” Skinner asked the ferret, who dutifully nodded.

“How many of your beasts,” continued Skinner, addressing the girls once again, “can actually put up a fight? You know, pose some sort of a threat to us?”

Clana seemed unsure, but replied, “I-I think there’s around a hundred w-who can fight, sir. I-I’m not really sure.”

“Not really sure, eh? That’s not good, not good at all…” Skinner said, stroking his crossbow. “If you can’t come up with a better answer, I may have to… punish you.” He used the arrow to gently lift up Clana’s head; she whimpered and closed her eyes, terrified.

And that was when Damian struck. He was a whirlwind that exploded from the shrubbery, his quarterstaff spinning in his hands. His first two blows nailed the twin ferrets in their heads; one hit was enough to knock Rusty out, while Snarl stumbled away, crying out in agony. Skinner let loose a bolt that by sheer luck Damian blocked with his staff; it still knocked him back a few paces. That saved his life, as Blinder’s spear streaked by where his face was moments ago. Damian dashed toward the stocky weasel, jabbing him in the stomach with quarterstaff, before smashing him over the head; once, twice, three times! – until at last he fell over.

He barely had time to whirl around and block Snarl’s cutlass, which embedded itself into the staff. Damian kicked out, and the ferret reeled away in pain, holding his stomach. Then, the weasel dashed toward Skinner, who had finished reloading his crossbow only to see the staff smash the device, breaking it beyond repair. With a curse, he sprung away, flinging the now useless contraption at Damian in a desperate try to stop him. But Damian was already dashing away, towards Snarl, who was now defenseless. He rained blows upon the ferret until two resounding hits to the head were enough to knock him out, and Snarl too toppled over.

Throughout this battle, the girls had not moved, and as Damian turned, he saw Skinner holding up one of them, a brown furred maiden named Anna, and his knife was at her throat. She sobbed with fear and stared imploringly at Damian as Skinner snarled, “Throw the staff down or the girl dies! As do her friends!”

Damian stood for a moment, before jumping forward, his arm fully extended, his staff hitting Skinner right in his eye. The weasel was knocked away, managing only to make a deep cut running parallel to Anna’s face instead of killing her; she collapsed, screaming, as Damian jumped after Skinner. A cleverly placed blow was enough to knock the knife out of his adversary’s hands, and Skinner stood unarmed before Damian, his eyes quick, darting, a bruise already forming over his eye.

“Now,” he panted, “would be an excellent time to help.”

Before Damian knew what was happening, a beast with immense strength lifted him up into the air, pulling his arms behind his back. The weasel screamed as he felt tendons ripping in his shoulders, so awfully powerful was the strength of the monster, who pulled his arms further and further back, unheeding Damian’s screams of agony. Then, as soon as it started, it was over, and Damian fell limply to the ground. The thing grabbed him by his neck with one huge, furry white arm, and easily lifted him up, choking him effortlessly. Damian stared into two huge blue orbs, the eyes of the beast, cold and remorseless, with no emotion in them at all. And then the world went black.

When Damian awoke, it had gotten considerably darker; the sun had almost set. He was tied to a tree tightly, but there was no need; his throat was bruised and felt crushed, so much so that he could hardly breathe, and his shoulders burned with such a fierce agony that he cried out, despite the pain it caused. He wasn't the only one hurt, however. Rusty lay on the ground, holding his head and moaning, and Snarl scowled fiercely, teeth clenched as he wrapped a bandage around his head. Blinder stood shakily, one hand clasping his forehead, the other leaning on the spear he was using to support himself. And Skinner gritted his teeth in pain as he bandaged his wounded arm.

Damian turned his head, wincing with pain as he did so, trying to find the girls, and saw them a little way off. They were all hanging from a tree, every last one of them dead. He gasped in fear, and turned away quickly. Near the boat was the last member of the group, that had remained hidden until Damian attacked. A huge, monstrous beast, it was a giant white wolverine, towering above the nearby Blinder. On its back was a huge broadsword, its pommel a large, perfectly round sapphire.

Upon seeing Damian awake, Skinner strode over to him, no longer smiling, his eyes boiling with fury. The ferret shrank back fearfully as Skinner walked towards him. The weasel snarled, “Your hastiness made me mad, and I, in my anger, took it out on these beautiful ladies. You killed them boy, you and your desire to be a hero. Do you understand?”

The ferret didn't reply quickly enough, and Skinner grabbed him by the throat, spittle flying from his mouth as he yelled furiously, “Do you understand!!!”

Through screams of pain Damian forced out, “Y-yes!”, and the weasel dropped him, the fury retreating from his eyes. The metallic taste of blood was all too prevalent in the ferret’s mouth, but he ignored it, for the fear that gripped him was more powerful than any physical pain.

“Come, boys, gather round! We must decide about what to do with this,” Skinner spat out, “filth.” Snarl walked over, dragging his brother, who moaned louder and clutched his head; Blinder tottered over as well, although he stumbled once, but was caught by the wolverine.

“I forgot to introduce you to the last member of our crew,” Skinner said mockingly, grinning now.

“Meet Bertrand, the finest wolverine warrior on this side of the Great Ocean.” The wolverine gave a nod of acknowledgement.

“Now, what should we do with you? Personally, I would like to skin you alive over the course of several days, burning your flesh off at points, maybe putting ants or spiders on you… What do you say?” The weasel leaned in close, his foul breath in Damian’s horrified face as Skinner grabbed his chin.

Snarl called out angrily, “As long as I get my revenge, I agree with you, captain!”

Then, his brother moaned, “Kill him, I don’t care how, just kill him!”

Skinner turned toward the wolverine, who calmly said in a deep voice, “You know my stance on this, captain. Interrogate him, and give him a quick death. Torture is not honorable, and I will not partake in it.”

Blinder snarled, and stepped forward. “I propose a different idea. I will… acclimate him, and he will join our crew. Then, I’ll give him a few days to heal, and he personally will lead the assault on his home village; I’ll accompany him to make sure he doesn't do anything…rash. He’ll have to kill his family in front of me, or he’ll feel such agony that he’ll scream all the way to the Hellgates. Then, we’ll make him our slave at Sampetra.”

As Skinner gave a slow nod, starting to grin, the terrified Damian shouted, “I’ll never do that! I’d rather die than kill my own family!” Blinder leaned forward with a demonic grin, his eyes filled with a burning madness that took hold of Damian and made him shrink back in fear, and the weasel whispered, “Oh, you will. You’ll be my little puppet before I’m done with you.”

He pulled out a knife and cut Damian’s ropes, then motioned with his knife for him to stand. The ferret did so, his shoulders screaming in pain, and he leaned away fearfully from Blinder. The wolverine lifted Rusty effortlessly up into the boat, and Snarl and Skinner climbed in as well. Blinder looked at Damian and said, “Which one of these girls was your sweetheart?”

Gulping, Damian replied, “I-I didn't have a sweetheart.”

“You lie!” Blinder screeched, and gripped the ferret’s shoulder, sinking his claws into Damian’s flesh. The ferret screamed in agony, tears pouring down his face, and yelled out, “T-the one who talked! The one who talked!”

Blinder released him savagely, and Damian fell to the ground, sobbing. The weasel called over Bertrand and told him to take Clana off the tree. Grim and silent, the wolverine obeyed. Blinder hoisted him up, holding Damian to keep him standing, a knife at his throat. Bertrand pulled down Clana effortlessly, and brought her over. Even dead, she was beautiful, a thin trickle of blood down her face defacing her otherwise perfect, somehow peaceful features. The weasel called out, “Hold her up, Bertrand, like she’s standing!”

The wolverine did so, although disapproval lined his features. Blinder leaned over and whispered into Damian’s ear as the weasel recoiled, “Kiss her.”

“What?!” replied Damian, shocked.

“Kiss her. You've always wanted to, now’s your chance.”

Horrified, the ferret said, “No! That’s awful!”

“You will kiss her,” threateningly replied Blinder.

“No!”

Without a word, Blinder sunk his claws into Damian’s shoulder, and screaming in pain, the ferret blacked out. When he woke up, nothing had changed, except that it was darker. Blinder hoisted him up, and snarled, “Kiss her!”

His shoulder hurting so much he could hardly think, Damian hesitantly leaned over and pecked her on the lips.

“Not like that, full on, like it’s your first kiss!”

Disgusted and horrified, Damian nevertheless complied, kissing her like he would a real person. When he came away, he was sobbing, his eyes wide open with horror.

“I think,” Blinder whispered with a smile, “that we’ll have a fun time together.”