Categories > Original > Fantasy > Shadow of the Moon
Dreams engulfed in flames.
0 reviewsHis dreams of living out his life in peace where engulfed in the same flames that engulfed his village. The fires were no accident. They were caused by the bloodthirsty bandits who killed all who l...
2Original
fic: Shadow of the Moon
rating: 18+
characters: Romulus, Rosco
a/n: slowly making my way into the world of original fiction.
feedback: please! this one of first original fiction I hope to post.
warnings: violence, possibly gore, maybe a little angst, furry, slash, anthropomorphic creatures!
disclaimer: what the hell am I saying?!? I own Romulus and Rosco! So no taking without asking!!!
Rosco watched the flames. He was memorized by their dance in the dark night. He didn't know whether if he should be horrified by the sight of his small village burning down or by the shrieks of pain, sorrow, and cries of death. Then there were the roars of triumph, bloodthirst, and joy in the complete destruction of male, female, and cub a like.
The diverse bloodthirsty pack did not care if they killed the weak, young, or female. They enjoyed seeing the carnage they brought to the once peaceful village. The whole scale slaughter and genocide of the village was brought on by nothing more then the greed of their leader and the lust for blood, gore, and death.
Rosco could no longer stand there on the hillcrest that overlooked his home without doing anything. He had left his home to become a great warrior-mage and had hope to return to his peaceful village after his years fighting in the war against the wyrms. In the years he was gone, all the wolf longed for was the peace of his village and to just watch the stars on the very hill he now stood on. He had finally returned and his dreams were not going to becoming true.
And in that moment on the hill, all he felt was the engulfing fires of rage!
"Ahroooooooooooooo!!!" he howled the battlecry he had hope to forget one day and charged down the hill, sword drawn and magic dancing on his other gauntlet covered hand.
None of the murders of his friends and family would survive this night. The cruel band of fiends would pay in their own blood.
-------============----------===========--------
Once his blade tasted the familar taste blood and the scent of his magic crackling through the smoke heavy air, the scent of the blood of the villagers and his first unprepared opponent, the scent of singed fur, burned flesh, pain and hopelessness, the fiends had no chance. One by one he cut them down with his blade forged by the very dragon king he fought for and by the magic he learned from the king's magician. Sometimes he forgot his sword and magic, and at those times he tore at them with claws and fangs. If there were survivors of his village, they would have been terribly shocked by the killing machine that was son of the gentle wolf who ran the town trade store.
The blood of his enemies drenched his fur, weighing the once gray and white fur down. The blood of his enemies stained his fangs and claws, and also dripped like mini rivers from fang and claw. His muzzle was a blood soaked snarl show of bloody fangs. Bits of flesh and fur from his enemies where dangling from his jaws like bloody strips of a banner.
Rosco sliced through the band of fifty armed morphs like a hot butter knife through butter. It was as if they weren't putting up a resistance against the beserker wolf. But they were... They were just no match against such beast he had become.
"Ahhhroooooooo!!!!!!" his battlecry echoed through the burning village.
He was triumph. He stood on the lifeless corpse of his enemies. But he wasn't through just yet. The leader of the fiends was charging right towards him with a bellowing roar of challenge.
The other morph was impressive. He was a minotaur, a big one at that. He had to be at least 10 feet tall with pair of horns just as big at nearly 4 feet long. The leader was a massive bull and heavily muscular with black fur covering him. His insane bloodlusting red eyes were locked on the smaller wolf. And the ax that was nearly as big as Rosco completed the minotaur's monsterous image.
Rosco was extremely dwarfed by the minotaur. He, at 6'8", would have cut an impressive figure if he wasn't next to a minotaur. His frame was composed of muscles made by hard work, fighting, and dedicated training. Normally, he was covered in thick gray and white fur. His tail was nearly six feet long and bushy, but like the rest of his fur it was drenched in blood. He wore dark pants, vest, and his gauntlets.
Not at all intimidated by the massive charging beast, wolf morph rushed the minotaur head on. Meeting the downward swing of the axe with an upward swing of his broadsword, he knew that he couldn't match the minotaurs strength. He deflected the axe and struck out with his lightning magic'd claws of his other hand. He opened the minotaur up like a fresh kill. The leader stumbled back with a cry of pain holding his stomach.
Smelling the minotaur's blood, Rosco when for the kill. He rushed the other morph once again. This time he knocked the axe out the the bull-man's hand and swepted his legs from beneath him. Before the minotaur could even begin to think of getting up, Rosco was on him. His blade cut deep and true through the minotaur's throat.
The leader of the marauders died drowning in his own blood.
The tight hold of the beserker rage loosened its claws from his mind. Rosco looked at the havoc he wrecked upon the murders and the carnage they did upon his village. He knew there were no survivors. Ears flat against his skull, he wiped his blade clean on the tunic of the minotaur's corpse before sheathing it. He jumped off the lifeless form and walked from the smoldering ruins of his home.
Never once did he looked back. The book had closed on the past life he had hope he could return to someday.
rating: 18+
characters: Romulus, Rosco
a/n: slowly making my way into the world of original fiction.
feedback: please! this one of first original fiction I hope to post.
warnings: violence, possibly gore, maybe a little angst, furry, slash, anthropomorphic creatures!
disclaimer: what the hell am I saying?!? I own Romulus and Rosco! So no taking without asking!!!
Rosco watched the flames. He was memorized by their dance in the dark night. He didn't know whether if he should be horrified by the sight of his small village burning down or by the shrieks of pain, sorrow, and cries of death. Then there were the roars of triumph, bloodthirst, and joy in the complete destruction of male, female, and cub a like.
The diverse bloodthirsty pack did not care if they killed the weak, young, or female. They enjoyed seeing the carnage they brought to the once peaceful village. The whole scale slaughter and genocide of the village was brought on by nothing more then the greed of their leader and the lust for blood, gore, and death.
Rosco could no longer stand there on the hillcrest that overlooked his home without doing anything. He had left his home to become a great warrior-mage and had hope to return to his peaceful village after his years fighting in the war against the wyrms. In the years he was gone, all the wolf longed for was the peace of his village and to just watch the stars on the very hill he now stood on. He had finally returned and his dreams were not going to becoming true.
And in that moment on the hill, all he felt was the engulfing fires of rage!
"Ahroooooooooooooo!!!" he howled the battlecry he had hope to forget one day and charged down the hill, sword drawn and magic dancing on his other gauntlet covered hand.
None of the murders of his friends and family would survive this night. The cruel band of fiends would pay in their own blood.
-------============----------===========--------
Once his blade tasted the familar taste blood and the scent of his magic crackling through the smoke heavy air, the scent of the blood of the villagers and his first unprepared opponent, the scent of singed fur, burned flesh, pain and hopelessness, the fiends had no chance. One by one he cut them down with his blade forged by the very dragon king he fought for and by the magic he learned from the king's magician. Sometimes he forgot his sword and magic, and at those times he tore at them with claws and fangs. If there were survivors of his village, they would have been terribly shocked by the killing machine that was son of the gentle wolf who ran the town trade store.
The blood of his enemies drenched his fur, weighing the once gray and white fur down. The blood of his enemies stained his fangs and claws, and also dripped like mini rivers from fang and claw. His muzzle was a blood soaked snarl show of bloody fangs. Bits of flesh and fur from his enemies where dangling from his jaws like bloody strips of a banner.
Rosco sliced through the band of fifty armed morphs like a hot butter knife through butter. It was as if they weren't putting up a resistance against the beserker wolf. But they were... They were just no match against such beast he had become.
"Ahhhroooooooo!!!!!!" his battlecry echoed through the burning village.
He was triumph. He stood on the lifeless corpse of his enemies. But he wasn't through just yet. The leader of the fiends was charging right towards him with a bellowing roar of challenge.
The other morph was impressive. He was a minotaur, a big one at that. He had to be at least 10 feet tall with pair of horns just as big at nearly 4 feet long. The leader was a massive bull and heavily muscular with black fur covering him. His insane bloodlusting red eyes were locked on the smaller wolf. And the ax that was nearly as big as Rosco completed the minotaur's monsterous image.
Rosco was extremely dwarfed by the minotaur. He, at 6'8", would have cut an impressive figure if he wasn't next to a minotaur. His frame was composed of muscles made by hard work, fighting, and dedicated training. Normally, he was covered in thick gray and white fur. His tail was nearly six feet long and bushy, but like the rest of his fur it was drenched in blood. He wore dark pants, vest, and his gauntlets.
Not at all intimidated by the massive charging beast, wolf morph rushed the minotaur head on. Meeting the downward swing of the axe with an upward swing of his broadsword, he knew that he couldn't match the minotaurs strength. He deflected the axe and struck out with his lightning magic'd claws of his other hand. He opened the minotaur up like a fresh kill. The leader stumbled back with a cry of pain holding his stomach.
Smelling the minotaur's blood, Rosco when for the kill. He rushed the other morph once again. This time he knocked the axe out the the bull-man's hand and swepted his legs from beneath him. Before the minotaur could even begin to think of getting up, Rosco was on him. His blade cut deep and true through the minotaur's throat.
The leader of the marauders died drowning in his own blood.
The tight hold of the beserker rage loosened its claws from his mind. Rosco looked at the havoc he wrecked upon the murders and the carnage they did upon his village. He knew there were no survivors. Ears flat against his skull, he wiped his blade clean on the tunic of the minotaur's corpse before sheathing it. He jumped off the lifeless form and walked from the smoldering ruins of his home.
Never once did he looked back. The book had closed on the past life he had hope he could return to someday.
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