The snow had been falling heavily all day, laying thick and fast on the streets of Paris; covering the filth and dirt with a coating of white. It almost made the streets look beautiful with its purity. Almost.
The purity of the snow had been tainted by red. Blood had seeped through the white forever defiling the snow it flowed over. There was too much of it and in the centre was a young man, badly beaten and freezing in the cold. His broken body lying still almost as if he was dead but if one looked closely he was still breathing shallowly as he was abandoned by his attackers and they skulked off into the night.
What had happened? The night had started out pleasantly enough despite the weather, he had been to the tavern with his brothers but had left early, feeling exhausted from the challenges of the day. He had quickly noticed that he was being followed and had attempted to confuse his stalkers by heading down a nearby alley. It hadn’t worked.
He had been expecting the first blow and blocked it. He put up a good fight, he was a strong fighter after all, but there were too many of them and they quickly overpowered him. He felt himself hit the floor as he heard accusations from his attackers over the incorrect assumption that he had tried to seduce one of the men’s wife. He had tried to defend himself over these accusations but the men could not be pacified. The beating continued.
He had no idea how long it went on for but eventually the blows ceased and he was left alone in the snow. In his half-conscious state he was vaguely aware of his injuries. He knew he had at least two broken ribs and his arm was refusing to co-operate. The warm blood against the cold snow indicated to him that he was losing a lot of blood and quickly. He knew that he had to move.
That was easier said than done. Despite his brain shouting at him to get up and move his body wasn’t listening. He could do nothing but lie there in the snow and slowly freeze. Time meant nothing any longer as the minutes stretched out, feeling like hours. He welcomed the numbness that accompanied the unconsciousness that descended upon him. It was easier than feeling the pain.
“Mon Dieu,” a voice permeated the darkness. He thought he recognised the voice but he was too tired to figure out who it was. He just wanted to sleep. “What has happened to you d’Artagnan?”
He couldn’t respond. He didn’t have the energy to. Everywhere hurt so much he just wanted to pain to go away. He let out a small cry of pain as he felt the familiar man hoist him up and hold him securely in his arms. He had thought that it was impossible to feel any more pain than he was already in. He was wrong.
“I’m sorry,” the voice apologised. “I will try to be gentle.” D’Artagnan felt himself being carried through the streets, the voice keeping him from succumbing to the darkness. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful for that or not. “Please,” he managed to gasp, not even sure what he was pleading for, the pain to stop or to be left alone.
“It’s all right, you are safe now. No-one’s going to hurt you,” the voice was comforting and for a moment, in his haze, d’Artagnan actually believed it.
“Help,” he whispered softly as he felt the sweet pull of unconsciousness take hold and he fell into a blissful oblivion.
Re: Gen- d'Artagnan gets the absolute hell beaten out of him (Extreme violence) P1
The snow had been falling heavily all day, laying thick and fast on the streets of Paris; covering the filth and dirt with a coating of white. It almost made the streets look beautiful with its purity. Almost.
The purity of the snow had been tainted by red. Blood had seeped through the white forever defiling the snow it flowed over. There was too much of it and in the centre was a young man, badly beaten and freezing in the cold. His broken body lying still almost as if he was dead but if one looked closely he was still breathing shallowly as he was abandoned by his attackers and they skulked off into the night.
What had happened? The night had started out pleasantly enough despite the weather, he had been to the tavern with his brothers but had left early, feeling exhausted from the challenges of the day. He had quickly noticed that he was being followed and had attempted to confuse his stalkers by heading down a nearby alley. It hadn’t worked.
He had been expecting the first blow and blocked it. He put up a good fight, he was a strong fighter after all, but there were too many of them and they quickly overpowered him. He felt himself hit the floor as he heard accusations from his attackers over the incorrect assumption that he had tried to seduce one of the men’s wife. He had tried to defend himself over these accusations but the men could not be pacified. The beating continued.
He had no idea how long it went on for but eventually the blows ceased and he was left alone in the snow. In his half-conscious state he was vaguely aware of his injuries. He knew he had at least two broken ribs and his arm was refusing to co-operate. The warm blood against the cold snow indicated to him that he was losing a lot of blood and quickly. He knew that he had to move.
That was easier said than done. Despite his brain shouting at him to get up and move his body wasn’t listening. He could do nothing but lie there in the snow and slowly freeze. Time meant nothing any longer as the minutes stretched out, feeling like hours. He welcomed the numbness that accompanied the unconsciousness that descended upon him. It was easier than feeling the pain.
“Mon Dieu,” a voice permeated the darkness. He thought he recognised the voice but he was too tired to figure out who it was. He just wanted to sleep. “What has happened to you d’Artagnan?”
He couldn’t respond. He didn’t have the energy to. Everywhere hurt so much he just wanted to pain to go away. He let out a small cry of pain as he felt the familiar man hoist him up and hold him securely in his arms. He had thought that it was impossible to feel any more pain than he was already in. He was wrong.
“I’m sorry,” the voice apologised. “I will try to be gentle.”
D’Artagnan felt himself being carried through the streets, the voice keeping him from succumbing to the darkness. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful for that or not. “Please,” he managed to gasp, not even sure what he was pleading for, the pain to stop or to be left alone.
“It’s all right, you are safe now. No-one’s going to hurt you,” the voice was comforting and for a moment, in his haze, d’Artagnan actually believed it.
“Help,” he whispered softly as he felt the sweet pull of unconsciousness take hold and he fell into a blissful oblivion.