Cabal Prompt-athon
In celebration of the release of the third book tomorrow, I thought it might be fun to do a comment prompt game on the comm...
HOW IT WORKS
Comment with a prompt for fanfic or fanart (since we have a pretty small fandom, atm, I'm going to suggest that you not specify fanfic or fanart, but you are free to do whatever you want).
Fill other people's ( Read more... )
HOW IT WORKS
Comment with a prompt for fanfic or fanart (since we have a pretty small fandom, atm, I'm going to suggest that you not specify fanfic or fanart, but you are free to do whatever you want).
Fill other people's ( Read more... )
He stalked towards his quarry, his sabre a reassuring weight in his palm as the naked blade flashed in the light from dozens of flames that surrounded them.
Cabal stood before him, holding his legs in that dainty fencer’s stance, thin blade held vertically as he waited for Marechal’s advance. The calculating stare was captured almost perfectly. Marechal swung his sword and Cabal parried. There was the slightest surprise in Cabal’s eyes, the first flash of real concern as he felt a crushing blow. Marechal’s arm was calculated for killing, and his sword no stranger to it. This was a blade meant to slice, stab, thrust, and crush bones. Cabal’s sword was meant for quick attacks and retreats, death by a thousand cuts.
Then came the moment that Marechal relished.
Cabal faltered, a mistake, a gap between the drop of his blade and the realization that Marechal’s sabre was arching towards him, coming in for a wound that would be lethal. It was so lovely on Cabal’s arrogant, sarcastic face --- the realization that Marechal had won, the simultaneous search for a solution as impending doom grew in his eyes.
The blade sunk into Cabal’s stomach. There was a strangled scream and some flailing before he died, and the image faded into ashes seconds later, blending in with the blood red sand that coated all of hell.
Marechal breathed, grin wild and maniacal as sweat dripped from his brow.
He heard footsteps behind him. “Guten Tag, Marechal.”
He turned around to see another Cabal standing there, holding a revolver that he knew to have one shot at him. He fired once, and Marechal rushed him, grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm at an impossible angle until he heard a crack. The gun dropped onto the sand, and Marechal held the squirming Cabal under him, cackling. “Why. Won’t. You. Just. DIE!?” His hands snaked around the throat of the other man and squeezed. There was a sharp sting from Cabal’s switchblade digging into his stomach, but he felt so alive, so exhilarated, that it was barely a bite. Cabal was starting to panic, twisting underneath him, silently begging for breath, for mercy.
“No,” Marechal whispered, “no mercy. Not for you. Not. Ever.” Undignified dribbles of spit were coming out on his gloves.
“Oh, Marechal!” Someone called out.
“Just a minute!” Marechal yelled back.
“It’s tea time, my friend.”
Marechal’s grip faltered, and he turned around to see the devil standing at the entrance to the dark, cavernous room. “Oh, is it? I completely lose track of time in this place.”
Satan grinned. “That’s because time doesn’t technically exist here.”
Marechal rolled back onto his hips, releasing the gasping Cabal’s throat. “Well, I can hardly miss out on tea. Real Mirkarvian cedar smoked tea, I presume?”
“Naturally.”
“Ah,” Marechal stood and brushed himself off, barely taking note of Cabal rolling over, crawling futilely, towards his discarded pistol. “Just give me a second to clean up,” Marechal smiled, pulled his service revolver, and shot Cabal twice in the back. The image faded to dust.
Marechal lived his dream in Hell, again, and again, and again.
~~~
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