Log: Complete

[favored-son.livejournal.com]

When: April 3, evening
Rating: R
Characters: Pyramid Head [redhorror] and D [favored_son]
Summary: It's difficult to bring down the son of Dracula, but not impossible if you know where to strike first.
Log:

The evening was quiet, and after having another argument with the parasite residing in his left hand, D determined to leave the flat for a short walk. Short, by the Hunter's standards, meant a promenade lasting several hours. He followed the streets towards the forest, as always armed with his sword and a selection of weapons specific to hunting vampires. Left Hand was uncharacteristically silent after another round of threats in response to his troublesome loquaciousness. D had been sufficiently irked by the creature's boldness of late to take more satisfaction from his victory than was typical of him.

Comments

[redhorror.livejournal.com]

Enhanced he may be, but Red Pyramid is as strong as the guilt you carry. If it defeats you, He defeats you.

The boot ground the tiny bones in the Killer's hands together with delicate pops, and cracks, his right hand still forcing the condemned's throat straight, and his head up.

The left neatly pivoted the hilt of the Great Blade, and with a mighty thrust, buried a foot of the massive cleaver into the earth.
Now free, he took hold of the Killer's sword hilt, meaty fingers curling around D's own and crushing his fingers against the hilt.

Hands raised from the crackling earth, the crimson fluid running from the edges of the helmet; strings of sinewy flesh threading between the grasping hands, and the Executioner.

The monster drew D's blade along with him, and strained against the dhampir's resistance.

A woman with ice blue eyes...her dark hair plastered to her cheeks in sticky red chunks clawed her way over the tangle of limbs, and flesh...

Slowly but surely, the Red Guard turned D's own sword against him, the blade angled toward D's solar plexus.

The woman's eyes, so full of questioning pain, met D's own, her ruined throat twitching and moving as she spoke. The esophagus tissue whistling as it tried to draw air.


The Executioner fought D's struggling mind, and struggling body...

The woman opened her mouth, and a flood of sticky blood streamed out.
Her voice a memory of beauty was superimposed over a gurgling shred of sound; something between a moan, and a cry of pain...

...The Executioner's strength overcame; fueled by D's own guilt...

Why? she begs...

..As the sword slid home through the bone and muscle of D's chest, piercing the fleshy disc between the spinal column segments.
With a vicious twist, the Red Guard severed the spinal cord as a simultaneous roar of stygian thought-made-solid broke from the metal helm, and pierced the killer's mind.

GUILTY!

[favored-son.livejournal.com]

The dhampir screamed as his blade twisted in his flesh. He did not attempt to block out the pain. He was deserving of every moment of it. Blood rushed from the wound in a swiftly growing pool. D's cry only ceased when he had no more strength to utter it. His remaining hand closed around his blade in a futile effort to remove the weapon so he could heal.

[redhorror.livejournal.com]

This was more familiar.
The condemned was finally quiet.
Finally accepting of his judgment.

...And so, the Executioner went straight back to business.
Calm, and clinical. Done with cruelty for there was no longer need.

The condemned wept for pain. For loss, and in repentance.
The Executioner seemed to nod the great razor-edged helmet once, as if to say; Now, you understand.

With the chest trauma, and the dark blood flowing freely from the dhampir's chest, the Executioner released the protruding hilt of the sword, and batted D's hand away from it easily.

Ponderously, his hand now free the Executioner jerked the Great Blade from the earth, and lifted the edge, then took his time aligning himself with the prostrate condemned.

He raised the blade, and with another surprising display of surgical dexterity with such a massive weapon, drew it sharply across the killer's throat.

A river of blood to match the lake within the condemned's mind; to match the oceans of blood and carnage the killer left in his wake.

JUDGMENT ALWAYS FINDS YOU


Bleeding, and weak, it was no trouble to gather his burden, and his weapon up, one under his left arm, and the other dragging behind with the halting grinding noise the Executioner was accustomed to.
The darkness receded as the Red Gaurd's footsteps did.

Darkness fading back into the night.