Tathrella [Explicit Content]

weiming

If you are offended by gratuitous content, please do not read the following piece.

They Say Tathrella Fell in a Day

The sun seemed to hide in shame behind the dark, rolling clouds which scudded low over the Ishtur, the river that surged past Tathrella—a once thriving riverside town. The great river coursed along between low hills and sloping pastures, now bare at the end of an unusually dry autumn, spilling past rock outcroppings nearer the coast and finally emptying itself into the Cantal sea. No fishermen, ferrymen or merchants plied their trade along the river this day, as raiders from the Gol in the north had come sweeping down upon the fortified but otherwise undefended town and now lay pressed against her walls, like hounds at bay, snapping their jaws hungrily and waiting.

I remember blood. The copper stench of blood, the smell of fear mingled with feces and the unmistakable rot of death that hung in the air. The siege of a town was not at all like that of a fortress, the defenders had made only hasty preparations, were unorganized, and had not even taken down their dead. Arrow riddled or dismembered bodies still hung over the parapets where they had fallen, dark stains trickling down the rough hewn stones of the external wall, while carrion crows picked at rotting flesh through chinks in broken armor.

The shanty town of tiny cottages and thatched huts huddled outside the walls of the town had been captured on the first day, most of the smaller dwellings razed to the ground. We had come upon them so quickly that only most of the peasants there had had time to snatch up their belongings and flee to the relative safety within the walls. Some who had been foolish enough tarry had been caught and now made gruesome mannequins outside of their homes, their ruined bodies pinned to their doors with javelins, or bound and strung up from poles facing the town walls, their feeble dying moans met occasionally only by a vicious stab from a passing man.

After witnessing the weakness of their first defensive, our commander had ordered us to complete the attack today. The weeks spent crossing the plains to Tathrella had left food scarce, and bellies rumbling. More than one fight had broken out over food and the latest had ended in blood spilt. Our pack of wolves had begun to tear at itself in frustration and hunger. But we had been told to hold the attack until dusk, just as the darkness and the fear would come upon the defenders.

I squatted, and waited. We were under constant watch from the parapets, armored troops from their garrison paced here and there, and shadows moving behind the merlons gave away their archers. As dusk approached, light and smoke issued up from false campfires several hundred paces away from the walls. Our forces lay crouched behind and inside the few huts purposefully left standing. I picked at my nails with a long dagger, scowling at how they were always so filthy no matter how much I dug at them. My stomach rumbled, hunger biting down on my abdomen like a vise, but I kept my eyes on the knife, its honed edge glinting dimly in the approaching darkness.

The sign came, the low but insistent call of a pheasant, repeated three times three, growing in intensity. I could hear a rustling and rattle as men left their crouched positions and swords left their scabbards. Almost silently, long wooden ladders were drawn out of the houses. More men rushed up to the walls to hammer pegs into the ground that would hold the ladders in place with swift blows from mallets that would soon be laying crushing blows across bone instead of wood.

Our movement was spotted, and a shout came down from one of the men on the walls, more shouting and pounding feet could be heard as messengers ran along the walls. Claxons rang and torchlight flared, bathing the parapets above in a ruddy glow and throwing our eyes beneath our helmets into deep shadow.

We had to be fast, javelins and thrown axes would not reach the tops of the walls, but the first men up the ladder had these strapped to their backs and the men behind them would use them, providing some little cover for those in front. As the first men went up the ladder, a lightly armored man on the parapet grabbed his face and screamed; an instant later he lay at the footings, a crumpled tangle of arms and legs at wrong angles.

I mounted the ladder and climbed one rung at a time. Head down. I felt a certainty that my death was streaking toward me from somewhere, like an invisible arrow, but I ignored this, ignored everything but my blade, bathed in red light, bathed shining blood. The man before me leapt over the wall, his body instantly going stiff as an arrow thudded into his face, he reached out in his death throes, entangling himself in the men crowding the parapet and fell onto them awkwardly.

I struggled to push around him, leaning far out and over to the left. Some blunt weapon smashed into my helmet the packed furs inside did little to absorb the blow. The metal edge of the helmet cut painfully into my left ear as it slid sideways on my head. Motes of light swam briefly before my eyes and my left hand fumbled, in slow motion it seemed, for the edge of the ladder. Darkness closed in from the edges of my vision, but from that darkness there was a sudden glinting teeth and jaws, snapping hungrily.

My hand shot out and locked onto the last rung of the ladder. My sword shot forward, finding its home just above the boiled leather breastplate of a defender. The blade must have pierced his lung, as his scream faded to a gurgle and he fell clutching his throat, blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth. A hand grabbed my belt from behind and pushed me over the ladder onto the parapet. I nearly stumbled, found my footing, and spun to my right, ducking just in time to avoid a vicious slash from the man who had now freed himself from the stiffening fingers of my dead companion.

His attack was made in terrified haste, and therefore overpowered. The weight of his two-handed weapon carried him off balance, his arms much too high. My blade snaked forward and plunged in and out of his exposed armpit. He fell, gasping and clawing awkwardly at his side. The two men behind him stood staring at his body on the ground and then lifted their eyes to my face, each taking half step backwards.

Before I could step forward I was shouldered aside as two more men came surging over the ladder beside me. I raised my sword and grunted, taking an involuntary step forward, feeling as though a giant fist had hit me from behind. Pain shot up my back and down my leg, I turned to find an arrow sticking out of the back of my leather curiass, near my waist. Only the very tip of the arrow had pierced the armor. With a roar I snapped it off and turned, running for the archer who was hastily retreating into the embrasure of the nearest merlon and fumbling to knock another arrow. But in the torchlight, I could see the sheen of sweat on his pasty brow and taste the stale odor of fear about him as my blade lashed forward, shattering his bow and the fingers wrapped around it. He fell clutching his ruined hand and blubbering as more of our men surged past me, crashing into the defenders bodily and forcing them back.

Screams seemed to come from every quarter, on the opposite wall a torch was dropped and caught the oil intended for our intruders, setting the wall alight and bathing the outer keep below in bonfire brightness. Our men had the run of the walls and poured down the wall-stairs, into the outer keep, sweeping through the lanes and alleys and crushing the defenders before them. I shook my head to clear the spots that still swam at the edge of my vision and ran down the wall-stairs as well, trying to catch up to the men in front of me.

A group of five or so broke left down an alley and I followed, eyes darting left and right, looking for a light burning in the windows of the houses we passed. The men ahead of me turned a corner, shouting and the clash of sword on sword ensued. I heard a door slam behind me and spun around.
Motes of dust still hung in the air where the door had slammed shut. An occupied house meant food. I rushed back down the alley and threw my shoulder against the door. The thick wood creaked under my blow, and I saw the door quiver in the jamb, someone was leaning against it from inside! I bashed against the door again, a light blow followed immediately with my full strength, throwing the person inside off balance. The door flew open, knocking against the inner wall and rebounding. I stopped it with my arm and stepped into the house.

A sword gleamed in the firelight and I raised my blade immediately. An armored defender stood in the middle off the room, back to the lit fireplace, and face in shadow. I stepped into the room and to the side, teeth bared. He was small in stature and his stance open, feet side by side and shoulders squared, his blade held in two hands in front of him although it was a one-handed weapon. My grin deepened, could it be…?

I stepped forward, feinting an attack. The defender lunged forward, in response. I stepped back, easily avoiding the sloppy riposte, which put the defender off balance. I stepped forward and to the right, using my body to obstruct the next attack and smashing the metal-tipped pommel of my weapon into the side of the defender’s head, who stumbled to the side with a grunt, a woman’s grunt.

A new pain seized my midsection as I realized the person who stood before me was female. I grabbed the collar of her tunic, before she could recover her balance and tore off her helmet. Long coils of brown hair came spilling out as her face spun to face mine. Her large, luminous eyes shone with loathing. Her face was too fine for peasantry, a fair complexion, high forehead, well turned cheekbones, and full, well turned lips above a proud but delicate jaw. In the moment that I was taken aback by her beauty, she fumbled on the table behind her with her right hand, snatching up a pewter mug and smashing it against the side of my helmet with a scream of revulsion. My ear stung furiously and I shoved her away, sending her sprawling backward into a table.

Clenching my teeth in rage and pain I raised my blade and leveled it at her throat, she leaned back over the table, trying to escape the point of my weapon. I swiftly lowered the blade and grabbed her throat with my left hand instead. Her hands shot up, prying at my fingers to no avail as she sputtered for air. Grabbing her shoulder I quickly spun her around and shoved her forward. She fell over the table and I smashed her face into its surface, dazing her. She screamed as I slammed my blade home into the table, trapping her hair under it. “Move, and die.” I said, teeth bared.

I snatched my dagger from its scabbard and slashed through the buckles of her curiass, and the material beneath. As the layers fell away, they revealed a slender frame in the first flush of womanhood. The pale sides of her ample bosom flattened outward, pressed against the table, and her slender waist flared out to a rounded buttocks which strained against her undergarments. She choked and sputtered a string of curses as I tore through her armor. “Don’t you touch me, don’t you dare touch me!” she said, fury competing with fear in the quavering of her voice.

I wrenched impatiently at her sweat-soaked undergarments and all at once they tore free, the lily-white, ample mounds of her backside quivering with the sudden movement. She jerked backward, crying out in pain as her hair, pinned by the blade, nearly tore from her scalp. Her sudden enraged thrust backward sent her buttocks pressing into my groin and desire knotted my loins, engorging my manhood and nearly making my head spin with lust. Her hands thrashed around behind her to no avail and I grabbed her wrists up in my left hand, fumbling at my own waist knot with my right. My leggings dropped to the wooden planks of the floor and the stench of my unwashed genitals mingled with the heady aroma of her now exposed sex wafted up and into my nose, making my blood boil.

My leggings off, my turgid manhood swung pendulously, moistness already glistening at the tip in the firelight. I slid my boot forward between her feet and swept outward, forcing her legs apart. She continued to thrash about, but this only caused the sides of her exposed bosom to strain against the table, the sight of which only caused my stiffened manhood to throb.

I reached down with my free hand and guided myself into her, her head lifted from the table as much as her hair would allow, and her back arched as the swollen head of my member spread her apart. Her furious imprecations were silenced as she clenched her teeth together, trying with all her might to squeeze herself shut, but I would not be denied. I thrust again and again at her soft wetness, which became more moist and pliant with each onslaught until with one final push I was quite suddenly and quite completely, buried to the hilt.

As much as she had struggled, the girl suddenly went limp, her arms flopping lifelessly at her sides on the table. My hands freed, I latched onto the mounds of her backside, feeling for the first time the soft mossy hairs at the base of her back. My dirty hands and filthy nails stood out in stark contrast against the creamy perfection of her skin, which gleamed golden in the flickering firelight.

She was completely open to me now, and I thrust with abandon, my member drubbing against the very depths of her womanhood. As my need reached new heights and my thrusting became more insistent, the table began to shift along the floor with each subsequent thrust, the squeaking of wood on wood becoming a perverse staccato accompaniment to my filthy deed.

My uninhibited thrusting soon brought me to the heady precipice of climax. My lower abdomen clenched as though the muscles might tear themselves apart and my seed boiled in my loins, the pressure building as steam in a kettle. Suddenly my hips were thrusting forward involuntarily, I withdrew my manhood and my seed gushed from my member, the yellowish, viscous fluid falling in glistening reams on the whiteness of her back.

My head rocked back on my shoulders, my member flopping lifelessly against her moistness. I could see her at the bottom of my field of vision. She seemed to be whimpering, shoulders moving from side to side…but not whimpering, trying to work the blade free from the table! Having just spent myself, I had ignored her movements, and my reactions were painfully sluggish. The blade jerked free from the table and she swung around as I tried to step back. The blade licked out in a wild arc and just barely kissed my neck beneath the chin, but it was enough. Blood shot out, spraying her face and I clutched my throat, sinking to my knees as wet redness flowed freely between my fingers.

Through hazy vision, I could see her face; wild eyes, and teeth bared, deciding to continue to fight or flee. The blade clattered to the floor as she snatched up the least tattered of her garments and fled around me through the door. I could do nothing but watch dumbly as blood formed in a pool between my knees. Something was wrong with my voice and I could not even shout. My head swam and I felt myself slumping forward, darkness seemed to close in and then, a glinting.

pickarooney

Gratuitous content? Do you mean gratuitous sex/violence or just sex/drugs/violence?
I'm not really a fan of gratuitous anything.

Pedantry aside, I like the first five paragraphs. Will read more after lunch, if I can.

pickarooney

I don't have a whole lot of time, so I'll not go into detail on specific points (there were only a very few typoes and missed words, no glaring grammatical errors that I recall).

The introduction is well laid out, if a little overlong (funny how we see the faults we're guilty of more in others' writing!)

Narrated in the first person and the past tense, we expect the hero to be alive at the end and telling his own story. It looks unlikely by the final line that this is the case and, fair enough, these may be his final thoughts before death or he may have made a miraculous recovery. Either way, it looks as though his part in this war is done and thus the story ends here.

So the whole story is essentially a tense build-up to a ****-fantasy with an abrupt ending. The protagonist is obviously an educated soldier who shies away from cruder vocabulary and instead uses as many 'polite' words for penis as he can, all the while performing a less than polite act of brutality. (Incidentally, it's curious that the rape is considered more of a misdeed than the multiple killings). This gives the scene, or the recounting of it, a cold, detached quality, not quite in keeping with the adrenaline and bloodlust of the attack of the castle.

As soon as I read the word 'person' in "throwing the person inside off balance" I knew exactly what was coming (well, that and the warning at the beginning gave it away) so I kind of found myself getting bored as the scene played out. The punishment and revenge at the end seemed like a bit of a cop-out. I feel if you are going to venture into potentially shocking territory, you should keep this up. For instance, if, at the end the door had burst open and an enemy soldier had burst in and hesitated just long enough between attacking the protagonist and taking advantage of the prone woman that the main character was able to slay him, it might have lent a more thought-provoking twist. Or if the main character had simply killed her and gone about his business it would avoid the rather linear sequence of
- support main character in his quest
- despise main character for his lack of humanity
- feel justice that main character is punished for his actions

Overall I was a little disappointed in the story although not enough not to read it a second time.

weiming

>pickarooney: There's not a single thing in your critique that I disagreed with and indeed felt the same exact way on many points. In fact the longer this piece stayed up here, the more I have come to dislike it.

The reader/response ratio (perhaps the lowest on the entire board) is a critique in itself and speaks as loudly or perhaps more loudly than yours.
I wanted to inject some subtle moral observation into the piece but the more I tried, the more the piece began to fall apart at the seams because it is after all:"a tense build-up to a ****-fantasy with an abrupt ending"

I could not have said it better, and was aware of this, but still could not save it.

Then again, I was fairly satisfied with the mechanics and quality of the writing, since I haven't written anything in years. Without this piece would never have started writing the Ulhud S'harrif stories (yes the second is still in the works) so, it at least accomplished that, and I thought I'd let it see the light of day.

H. Flashman

I like the idea of the sun hiding in shame and the line "I remember blood." Personally I'd have considered starting the piece with a combination of the two - eg. "I remember blood. The copper stench of blood, the sun hid from it, the clouds fled from it and the Gol feasted on it." - or some crap i dunno ... and then maybe considered continuing using the rest of the second paragraph as my opener, perhaps the original first paragraph could be dissasembled and spread between the following ones.

I haven't read all of it so I'm not going to comment on the rape scene apart from one thing and I know this is probably beside the point but a bit of dialogue even if it's just the girl throwning a few curses in his direction wouldn't hurt.

weiming

Looking back, I think the intro is a bit much. I agree that it could use some changing. As far as dialogue during the rape scene, I just wouldn't know how to handle it. There is no motivation for them to talk/talk to each other other than for the woman to threaten or plead, both of which I would find trite, or for the man to threaten the woman or add insult to injury by verbally molesting her as well and that doesn't fit his character in my mind.

His motivation is not anger or punishment, as is so common with rape, he's simply taking what he wants because he's "starved for it". I can imagine a starving man that suddenly finds food stuffing his mouth with shaking hands and maybe mumbling a word or two, but not pausing to comment on his situation. I think dialogue would also seem to pander to the reader a bit, making the piece seem even more like a..."**** fantasy" as >pickarooney put it.

Matt Holck

I couldn't get through all the action
it kept going and going
like a 50 car pile up