Tales of a Metalcrafter #5

Left arm, two scars, one on either side, parallel to the bones.

His face is right in mine, bald head encrusted in tattoos, eyes wide and bloodshot, mouth contorted in a death’s-head grin. Pain courses up my left arm where he has rammed a giant knife in between the bones. I push the pain aside and summon my power, ramming him away and forcing him to release the knife. His unplanned flight ends at the far wall of the hovel, knocking over the small table full of drug paraphenalia and the pile of skulls of his victims (mostly human). In a flash, I whip out my Glock 26 and try to plant three rounds in his center of mass one-handed. I am marginally successful. At least one must have landed near his heart given how quickly the rushes on the floor appear to be soaking up blood. One must have nicked his spine considering his PCP-saturated brain still can’t seem to bring him back to his feet. I missed entirely with the third. Oh well.

Right hand. Small finger doesn’t bend.

Pop It’s funny how little noise dislocating a finger makes. The pain, however, is mind-boggling. I try to choke down the scream, but I really can’t – it rips out of my throat despite my wishes. The other vampire floats into my field of vision beyond the tears. “Tell me where the White Council’s West Coast Base is and I can end the pain for you, Warden Baker.” I try my best to shove the pain aside. I find all that I can really do to respond to him, though, is to simply glare and grit my teeth. “Very well.” He nods to someone outside of my field of vision and I feel the pressure increase on my dislocated finger. I almost pass out when the first bone segment shatters.

Left temple. Scar running back into hair.

zzziiiPP-CRACK I didn’t even hear the crack, really. I usually add it in my memory because… well… probably because Gabriel showed me too many action movies. My head is ringing. My sight returns to a view of the sere Arizona desert and my blood soaking into the sand around my head. I can’t hear. My eyesight is wavering. I feel dizzy. I know, however, that there are two ghouls somewhere uphill from me. One of them evidently has a high-powered rifle. I draw as much of my power as I can even though my focus wavers so savagely that I can barely control it. I am able to create a wall of fire six feet tall and over twenty feet wide. I push hard and, with what seems like the last of my will, I thrust the wall uphill. As it proceeds, I watch the glass solidifying in its wake until two charred, distorted skeletons appear. I relax my grip on the power and the wall disappears. The plunge into weariness catches me by surprise. As my vision narrows down to a pinhole, I consider that I may have used too much power on that wall.

Bite marks on left calf – werewolf.

Burn scars on right torso – idiot warlock playing with fire.

Three claw marks on left hip / buttock – surprise attack by an outsider during training for new Wardens.

Am I nothing more than scars now?



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