short chapter

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Nachgeheim-16,2490 IC

POV of Middenheim Man-at-Arms

A minotaur charged at us as we had mobilized to try and destroy another of those beastman herdstones.

"Move, that thing will tear you to pieces!" I shouted as the ground shook beneath the colossal beast, pure raging muscle barreling into our ranks.

An explosion rang out to our right, and the minotaur covered one of its eyes before collapsing heavily to the ground.

The beast fell face-first, but soon began to rise again, its massive hand clutching part of its face as blood poured down in streams.

When we turned, we saw the Graf… the one from the south. A Sigmarite monster hunter, considered one of the most skilled in bringing such creatures down, advanced swiftly while switching the pistol in his hand.

The minotaur glared at him with pure hatred and charged again with blind fury, ignoring the wound in its eye and roaring like a demon. Another blast echoed, and once more the beast fell, howling. This time the shot had pierced its other eye, leaving it completely blind.

The monster thrashed in agony, guttural cries tearing through the air as the Graf's armored steps rang out, closing in.

Unable to see, the minotaur sniffed the air violently and charged again in the Graf's direction, its resilience terrifying, as though blindness itself was not enough to bring it down.

Nearly every man stood frozen, unwilling to move even an inch for fear of becoming the beast's target. No one lifted a finger.

Suddenly, the Graf began to move quickly, feinting with his legs, making noise with his armor. The disoriented minotaur swung its head side to side, following the clamor, utterly lost in its fury.

In an instant, the Graf's runic sword struck, slicing clean through and severing one of its legs. The monster crashed to the ground, bellowing in pain with a roar that chilled the blood.

Without giving it respite, the Graf leapt and landed atop the beast, grabbing one of its horns and driving his sword deep into its neck, cutting clean through to the throat. The minotaur thrashed wildly, its massive arms flailing backward in a desperate attempt to throw him off, but it was useless.

The final blow came: with a single, clean stroke, the Graf severed its head. The body continued to twitch while the Graf held the head aloft, grotesquely still jerking for a few seconds.

"Come on, lads… no fear, we still have plenty to kill," the Graf said calmly as he reloaded the pistols he had used.

We had the mission of cleansing one of those herdstones, since the beastmen were dwindling rapidly in the area. In a previous battle, thousands had fallen within hours: they came in waves, endured torrents of burning lead, fled only to return again and again to the same punishment… until nothing was left but mountains of smoldering corpses.

But now it was our turn to strike. Using the organ guns against so few enemies was wasteful, and by now we considered "few" to mean less than a hundred beasts attacking together. That was the level of brutality we had grown accustomed to under the southern noble.

Another explosion thundered, and another beastman collapsed face-first, its head shattered. The Sigmarite Graf's aim was almost unnatural: wherever he set his eye, the bullet landed. Even the hardened veteran musketeers of the fortress did not have that level of precision. His shots seemed almost like magic, always striking the eyes or the most vulnerable parts of the face.

Finally, we reached our target a massive black stone, covered in blasphemous symbols, surrounded by flayed skins — a macabre reminder of these abominations' victims.

From the woods came more beastmen, screaming as they charged at us.

Once again, the Graf broke from the group and fired all six of his pistols. Each shot was lethal: six bullets, six corpses collapsing with perfect holes in their skulls. He switched pistols with the speed of a duelist, tossing one aside only to draw another from the holsters strapped to his armor, advancing without fear, step by step.

The lone survivor, a huge gor wielding a crude, badly forged iron axe, raised his weapon and brought it down in a brutal swing. But the Graf stepped aside with a simple sidestep, and the blow bit only dirt and stone.

An instant later, the runic sword whistled through the air, and the beastman's head flew free, spilling a spray of black blood.

"Too easy… get into the caves and kill the rest of the beasts and any corrupted human you find. Someone fetch the Ulric priest," the Graf ordered, rolling his neck and stretching his arms as though the whole affair had been nothing more than a warm-up.

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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.

Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.

I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.

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