The Sluagh, flying souls on the wind that love to steal the spirits of others. In Ireland they use to keep westerly doors closed to keep them out. Yeah, that’s now how they really work. Sluagh are from another plane, another realm, so when the Fae brought them here it all went to shit in the olden days. Now I get hunted by the damn things.
Just like the one trying to devour my ribs and my arm. Pain spiked in my body, I heaved as my advanced healing kept it a bay. We were in an abandoned field as we fought and I thanked the gods no one was going to get hurt. ‘Good thing, little one.’ Spoke the spirit in my mind. ‘We would not wish such a horrible fate on anyone.’ Another tooth ripped into my skin, blood was drawn and I gritted my teeth harder than a vise. This thing was not going to let it go, and it was sapping my strength somehow so I couldn’t summon my spear. I used my free hand to to tear at the things skin. My nails were as hard as metal and shined like flaming bronze the moonlight. I got a good grip the nails causing enough leverage to where I felt like they would rip out of my fingers.
“You can try all you can Bright One,” coughed the Sluagh. It’s body was formed two bodies stitched facing together there was no face, only an eye and an open mouth. How it spoke I really have no clue, but it sounded like rocks cracking from pressure.
“I killed the last one, and sent it back. I’ll do the same,” I growled. I closed my fist on my injured arm and pushed hard against it. The teeth of it dull and yellow, yet not rotten held. I looked around, what could I do. My fire red hair swished from side to side as I tried to think of an answer. What if I —
‘Summon the Ripper. the Spear of the Hound,’ Morgan called in the depths of my skull.
“I can’t do that he’s got my spear arm,” I sighed.
‘You don’t need it just call for it and it will come,’ she said. To summon my blade I did so my reaching into the between, the empty that existed across the world. But now, how was I supposed to pulled a weapon from it’s hidey hole?
I cringed, my teeth were already giving under the pressure from my gritting, and I swear they were starting to crack.
“I call the Boar RIpper,” I gasped in Old Irish.
‘Used your blood, paint the spiral,’ she said and I felt an image come to mind of her idea. With my free arm I drew my finger near my wound and after a minute I painted a rough lopsided three-pronged spiral.
“This will have to do.” I breathed, feeling the air rush out of my lungs as I closed my eyes as I pressed my hand against it.
More Next Time.
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