The Bloated One
Well-Known Member
Hi Everyone,
I am writing a hard hitting Vampyre novel and need to understand what level of violence and death is acceptable. In the context of the plot, this gentleman has to die, and the manner of his death is an indication of his killers beliefs and motivation.
Any thoughts on grammar and tone are also most welcome.
The Death of Lord Ralston
He awoke to the sound of his bare feet, blooded and bruised, being dragged through freezing water along a gravel floor. He was moving quickly down a passage toward a light, his tortured body held firm by two men. A steady stream of blood flowed from his nose, filled his mouth and made him wretch. Reaching the light, he was thrown to the floor. Squinting, he looked up at the silhouette of a third man coming toward him, blocking the light and taking the hurt from his eyes. Lord Ralston raised himself up on his elbows.
"Why do you hate us?” He shouted, expelling a mouthful of blood.
"Hate you Lord Ralston? We do not hate. Hate is an emotion for animals, animals like you. You are an abomination to be hunted down and killed. We are justly ridding this world of your kind. It is not hate. It is love, our love of mankind."
"You are being used,” wheezed Lord Ralston, “the Ancient doesn’t want to share with you, or the rest of your people.” He coughed up more blood before continuing, “You will never see his promises!"
Grabbing Ralston’s head, the man yanked it backward and brought him to his feet.
"So, you think the Ancient is using us do you!” A ripple of laughter went around the room. "You are one of many we have killed. My Father, his Father and his Father before him dedicated themselves to lancing the vampyre puss that is you—you are a plague on this earth. It is our destiny. No one controls us!” Murmurs of approval went around the room.
Lord Ralston’s hands were untied and secured in manacles hanging from the cell ceiling. What remained of his strength gave out and he hung limply. The third man stood back and smiled.
"Before we send you on your way,” he said, flicking dust from the shoulder of his Saville Row suit. “I will need something from you. Where is the book and map," he asked quietly. Lord Ralston didn’t speak.
"You can do your race one last favour and save countless lives. Where is the book and the map!” Lord Ralston hung in silence, bowed but not beaten.
"Again, where is the book, where is the map. We know you have them."
Lord Ralston looked up, and defiantly spat blood at him. Calmly, the third man took out a monogrammed silk handkerchief and dabbed his suit. Shaking his head, he snapped his fingers and a wooden pole crashed into Lord Ralston’s bloated face, knocking him sideways. His mouth fell open, his jaw smashed. A ball gag was rammed into his broken jaw.
"Take his teeth."
The pain of flesh, teeth and gums riping and tearing, sent Lord Ralston into shock. Two six inch, curved ivory teeth covered in blood and gore were soon presented to the third man.
"You are nothing without these," said the third man, throwing them on the floor.
A colleague handed him an ancient samurai sword, just as two metal bolts thudded into Lord Ralston’s chest, piercing his heart. Bewildered Lord Ralston looked up as the blade swept down and decapitated him. The third man cleared his throat, and with a practiced hand ran the bloodied blade through his handkerchief and passed it back to his colleague.
“Anyone for tea?”
I am writing a hard hitting Vampyre novel and need to understand what level of violence and death is acceptable. In the context of the plot, this gentleman has to die, and the manner of his death is an indication of his killers beliefs and motivation.
Any thoughts on grammar and tone are also most welcome.
The Death of Lord Ralston
He awoke to the sound of his bare feet, blooded and bruised, being dragged through freezing water along a gravel floor. He was moving quickly down a passage toward a light, his tortured body held firm by two men. A steady stream of blood flowed from his nose, filled his mouth and made him wretch. Reaching the light, he was thrown to the floor. Squinting, he looked up at the silhouette of a third man coming toward him, blocking the light and taking the hurt from his eyes. Lord Ralston raised himself up on his elbows.
"Why do you hate us?” He shouted, expelling a mouthful of blood.
"Hate you Lord Ralston? We do not hate. Hate is an emotion for animals, animals like you. You are an abomination to be hunted down and killed. We are justly ridding this world of your kind. It is not hate. It is love, our love of mankind."
"You are being used,” wheezed Lord Ralston, “the Ancient doesn’t want to share with you, or the rest of your people.” He coughed up more blood before continuing, “You will never see his promises!"
Grabbing Ralston’s head, the man yanked it backward and brought him to his feet.
"So, you think the Ancient is using us do you!” A ripple of laughter went around the room. "You are one of many we have killed. My Father, his Father and his Father before him dedicated themselves to lancing the vampyre puss that is you—you are a plague on this earth. It is our destiny. No one controls us!” Murmurs of approval went around the room.
Lord Ralston’s hands were untied and secured in manacles hanging from the cell ceiling. What remained of his strength gave out and he hung limply. The third man stood back and smiled.
"Before we send you on your way,” he said, flicking dust from the shoulder of his Saville Row suit. “I will need something from you. Where is the book and map," he asked quietly. Lord Ralston didn’t speak.
"You can do your race one last favour and save countless lives. Where is the book and the map!” Lord Ralston hung in silence, bowed but not beaten.
"Again, where is the book, where is the map. We know you have them."
Lord Ralston looked up, and defiantly spat blood at him. Calmly, the third man took out a monogrammed silk handkerchief and dabbed his suit. Shaking his head, he snapped his fingers and a wooden pole crashed into Lord Ralston’s bloated face, knocking him sideways. His mouth fell open, his jaw smashed. A ball gag was rammed into his broken jaw.
"Take his teeth."
The pain of flesh, teeth and gums riping and tearing, sent Lord Ralston into shock. Two six inch, curved ivory teeth covered in blood and gore were soon presented to the third man.
"You are nothing without these," said the third man, throwing them on the floor.
A colleague handed him an ancient samurai sword, just as two metal bolts thudded into Lord Ralston’s chest, piercing his heart. Bewildered Lord Ralston looked up as the blade swept down and decapitated him. The third man cleared his throat, and with a practiced hand ran the bloodied blade through his handkerchief and passed it back to his colleague.
“Anyone for tea?”