Morning comes with the marching stomps and clattering armors vibrating toward the village.
THUD-CLUNK-THUD-CLUNK-THUD-CLUNK…
The noise scattered petals from underfoot, squashing pollen against dirt, their sweet perfume clashing against the bitter brown.
Cock-a-doodle-doo! Ruff-ruff! Oink-snort! Cluck-bwak! Baa-baa! Grroh!
The village came to life as it always does—roosters crowing over barking dogs, pigs snorting in chorus with clucking hens, and goats bleating alongside the lowing buffalo. Laughter spilled through open windows, mingling with the shrieks of children washing off nightmares' edge.
The air awakened with the clatter of pots and the sizzling of breakfast eggs and sausages, the familiar symphony of yet another day in this eternal village—a day filled with the same old M'tis' routine. Everything was as it should be—the river whispers, the flowers bloom, the bees buzz, the birds sing. Everything was perfect except for the rumbling stomps of crusaders drawn by the awakened aroma.
Perhaps they were hungry. Perhaps all they longed for was some golden sausages sizzling beside a velvety egg whose yolk flows like liquid gold. A tender muffin, glistening with mulberry honey, perched delicately alongside a steaming cup of persimmon tea.
What a beautiful story of love and friendship that would be—a story that may melt your heart. But that is not this story.
In this story, they came like a solar eclipse; their shadows shackled the feet of bustling children and hurried parents. Everything froze in their shade.
Laughter died. No one moved. No one blinked. Somewhere, a clay cup shattered. Dusted hands hovered over rising dough. Sausages left sizzling, now charred to the pan. A dog whimpered, dashing for cover beneath a cart.
The stall feels like an eternity.
Then, the M'tis gathered to greet the guests as they always do, but this arrival was too sudden for greeting attire. Whispers escaped from anxious lips: 'Was something wrong with this month's harvest?' 'Why would they come unannounced?' 'They are not beastkin' 'Are they merchants? Slave traders? Or something worse?'
Not a twitch from the crusaders. Their helmets stared ahead, hollow and empty. Hungry. There was no doubt they were hungry, but what was it that they craved? What would they take when the best harvests had already been offered to Gorsmurd?
The elder stepped forward. He bowed low—back bent like a burdened tree. A shaky head glanced up at the crusader's blank, hollow stare. His weak voice began to speak: "Welcome to Vine—"
Shiiiing—the air shattered.
His head spun upwards, jaw still moving, teeth joggling, lips twitching with silenced words. Red petals bloomed from the severed vocal cords, blood trailing, arcing, blossoming after the pirouetted head.
Time stalled. World standstill.
"Eeeeiiiihh!" his widow shrieked—a glass-piercing cry.
The river froze—fish stuck in mid-motion. Birds silenced—beaks locked open. The sky twisted: yellow, red, gray. Then—empty.
THUD! The head hit the ground, whispering "—rden…" through dirt-caked lips. His body collapsed, fingers tracing forgotten prayers in the dirt.
Shing-Shing-Shing—fifty swords unsheathed in unison, their blades tracing the pale faces of the villagers like an artist replicating a painting of "The Scream."
Panic detonated. Hearts slammed. Feet tore free, rushing and scattering. The M'tis trampled over each other—no sight, no feeling—just boots cracking on fallen bones. A mother clawed at the air, her arms empty where her child had been. An old man fell, his son's heel crushing his cries. No villagers here—only chaos, only the will to survive. Screams dissolved into silence. Breathe, exhausted. Bodies fleeing, desperate.
The crusaders charged. Laughing. Taunting. They captured one. They cheered. Another captured. Thrill surged like fishermen hauling in their first catch. Triumphant cries rattled through the stampede. Eyes burned with relentless hunger.
They sang to the quivering prey under their blade:
Glory to the Lord of Hosts. Blessed is His name.
The lamb is slain. For him is the kingdom of heaven.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice!
His kingdom has come! His will is done!
Blades bit deep with each stutter of sharp kisses—Slash-Slash-Slash—Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice! Skins parted with a rip, a tear, a burst of liquid—easy as ocean current—the edges curling away like petals, releasing a slow trickle of crimson. Beneath the surface, a delicate butterfly layer of fat glistened white-gold in the light, beading with tiny, bursting jewels of blood—Plop. Plop. Plop.
The M'tis twitched reflexively—Scratch, Whump, Ugh-Ugh—its body arching and convulsing to expose jewel-toned viscera—a twisted, pulsing mass.
Blood splashed—warm, thick, bubbling like molten butter. The aroma rose, heavy and maddening. The crusaders inhaled deeply: "hooah." Their craving eased—just a little. The pressure lessened—just a little.
But it was not enough. It never was. The more they tasted, the more they craved. Breaths turned ragged. Eyes flared—wild, unhinged. Movements contorted into frenzied spasms. Ripping out of gleaming divine garments, they emerged as mindless beasts. Fully exposed. Shameless. Guiltless.
Their madness crunched the prey at hand. Rrrrip, an arm comes apart—"Aaaaah!" Rrrrip, comes the other—"Eeeooo!" Crrrunch, the ribcage dented, the stomach contorted—"Uuuuuuh!" Ssplorch, organs bursting from the seams—"Ahh..."
Thud! The body hit the ground, but they weren't done yet. Their boots came down in a relentless rhythm—Gloop-Gloop-Gloop—squeezing out every last drop of life. They sang as they smeared the blood on their faces, shoulders, chests, hands, legs, and even toes.
Oh, anointed oil.
Oh, the essence of life.
Oh, flows of the spirit.
Oh, nectar of the soul.
Fully anointed, they turned to the fragile, flailing thing beside the lifeless mass. Wild hands roamed her body, grasping, pinching, and probing. Fingers dug into her flesh, tender and ripe, the only thing her worthless mass of a father managed to offer to God.
She struggled in their grip like a small fish trapped in a net. Her tender fists flailed, punching and slapping desperately, while her feet kicked and thrashed—Thud, Thud, Thud—a frantic, futile beat.
What followed was neither lust nor hunger but a twisted brew of both. Nails carved crescent tides in the downy swell of her breast. "Hhhhaaaahhhkkk! Eeeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhh!" she hitched a sharp, gasping cry that rose to a shrill, painful scream.
Fingers pinched and pulled. Hands crushed and slapped. Squeeee-Whap! Squeeee-Whap! Her body trembled like a leaf in a hurricane.
Then, teeth pierced the tender peaks. "Rrrrrhhmmmhhmmmrrr!" throats growled with animal sounds. A warm, metallic taste filled their mouths—not just blood but something dark, something ancient. It was the flavor of ocean depths, of secret temples, of forbidden fruits.
Jaws worked compulsively—Slurps, maw-maw-maw-maw—grinding, crushing, and sucking. Their tongues lapped with greedy, slurping sounds. Dancing fingers traced the curves of her hips, digging into her soft delta, tearing apart her innocent—Schluck-Schluck-Schluck.
Their touch sparked a swirl of agony that convulsed beneath her skin, like the frantic thrashing of a fish on a hook. Her body contorted in anguish, gushing in pain.
Under their siege, she became a lost coral—once vibrant, now fracturing into pale shards beneath relentless currents. Their devotion left pearlescent tracks glistening across her skin, a perverse baptism that blended her tremors with their moaning, hymn-like growls.
Uuuuu-ah... Praise the Lord...
Mmmmm-oh... Praise the Giver...
Aaaaa-ah... Praise the Holy One...
Ooooo-oh... Praise the Everlasting...
Then—came the thrusting. Thwap… Thwap… Thwap... Slowly but growing ever more violent. Thwap-Thwap-Thwap. Her cavern bulged out. Thwap-Thwap-Thwap. Her insides spilled forth. Rose-red dripping—Plip-Plop, Plip-Plop, Plip-Plop—flesh tearing from the inside as they mercilessly gutted her.
Every shaft invaded her, every cavern, every opening. Her begging eyes fluttered shut. Her praying limbs stilled. Her womb bulged out like a net full of writhing fish—each one struggling to break free.