#void shit

CW: Violence, gore, weird shit, general grossness -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The wind of her opponent’s swing sends waves through the hair not already matted to her face from sweat, embedding his axe in the sands next to the sea wolf’s foot. A window had just flung itself open for her, and she wasn’t about to miss it. One long, worn down primal shout rushes from her lips as she charges shoulder first into the armored man’s chest, knocking him from his weapon and on to the flat of his back. With the roaring crowd cheering her on, she plants her boot onto his breastplate and raises one of her hooked cleavers up high. The bloodlust of the crowd was infectious, and even the Gamemaster seemed to be leading a chant that filled the forefront of her mind.

“FINISH HIM! FINISH HIM! FINISH HIM!”

The point at the peak of one of her massive blades comes driving down like a pick, driving through the other fighter’s helm right between the eyes and sinking in like it’d been driven through loose dirt instead of steel, bone, and flesh. Blood ran like a river out of the back of his skull and through the thin visor as the entire arena erupted in cheers. Though she’s plenty vain enough to bask in the moment of triumph, something immediately set to nagging her even as the fuzzy words of her championship victory played at the edge of her awareness. With her boot still holding the bulk of his form in place, she violently rips her blade from the remnants of his head and then reaches down to pull his helm free to look her opponent in what was left of his face.

Staring blankly back up at the sea wolf was a familiar face, though not one she’d ever faced in the arena before. Where her blade should have left a bleeding gash, there was an old bullet hole, and most of the backside of his head was missing. Neither wound looked fresh, discolored with the draining of blood and set in notes of rot battered her senses. The man’s jaw hung slack, with the the torn root of where his tongue used to be hanging in plain view. Even as horror rushed in and sent her reeling away from the corpse, the audience and Gamemaster continued raining praise down upon her. Words like hero and champion continued to batter her mind as she stared at the half decayed body.

A violent jolt runs through the armored body, and then another. The movement worked it’s way to being focused on the opening on the back of the tongueless man’s head until finally a pair of jet black, pointed limbs push through. After digging into the sand there’s a roll from whatever hidden joint was still inside, shaking more of their length loose and pulling the wound further apart for more of the limbs to start pulling free. The body itself goes into violent flailing as it’s shaken around the arena to the sounds of a still joyous crowd, the motions matching a spider pulling out of an old skin while molting as more and more of the slime coated beast within pulls free. By the time the arachnid beast finally shakes off his split open frame the beast was standing more than triple Brem’s height and a dozen times as massive, somehow having been hid in the much smaller form before. 

In her terror she bolted to the nearest member the guard, screaming out for help in wild, wordless panic. The man only laughs and points her towards the Gamemaster, who’s holding a long blade of dark purple metal unlike anything she’d ever seen before. “What’s wrong, Champion? Do you not wish to receive your Boon? You deserve it!” A grin far too wide for his features stretches over his lips as he takes the hilt of the blade into one hand and stretches the other arm out. Though she tries to focus on the behemoth of a spider scuttling around the arena, and all of it’s empty eyes staying locked on her, it was if she was frozen watching the blood sport ringleader instead. The tip of the ceremonial dark blade sinks into his opposite wrist under his own power, though instead of the jet of blood that should come with it there’s a slow oozing of tar-thick black ooze, causing the skin it runs along to sizzle and the sand it falls on to blacken into glass. The carving works up the length of his arm, splitting the flesh open until he’s reached the inner bend of his elbow, letting ever more of the dark fluid run out. Pushing out of the sickly ichor is a pair of writhing limbs not unlike those sending the giant monster around the arena, jerking against the opening to claw their way to the sand and start hauling itself out of the laughing man’s body. “It’s not like you have a choice anyway!”

Even as the words leave his lips, a pressure builds against the back of the pale woman’s skull, starting as pulses and building to hard slams against the bone from inside. Her hands fly to the sides of her head as she collapses into the sands, acting if she were going to somehow quell things by squeezing her head tighter. Agonized, nearly breathless cries rock the giant as bone began to crumble and a pair of dark, slime coated points drive out of the back of her head. From that point the split out, dragging along her scalp to drip it open to make way for it’s exit, leaving her to do anything but scream ...

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Parot & Armorfinish