IABD 60: Blood Hunger

The undead troll loomed above Matthias, long tongue lolling out, arms spreading wide. Beside it shuffled a pack of smaller ghouls, snarling, fangs gnashing. Their claws gleamed in the firelight, wet from snow, resembling fresh blood.

The tendril lashed out, bowling ghouls over as he closed on the troll, blade slashing. The undead giant grabbed for him, but he ducked low, evading its grasp, drawing a gaping wound across its shin. 

Greyish liquid sprayed white snow. 

The monster growled, swiping again, he sprang away, slashing outstretched hands while the tendril grabbed, squeezed and flung smaller ghouls aside.

His attention remained locked on the giant, focusing on its hands.

The warhammer smashed the monster’s fingers on one hand, while his sword lopped every finger off the other. In an instant, the undead giant’s healing began, bones setting, clawed fingers sprouting like weeds, but unlike its rapid healing, the creature’s other movements were slow as it regenerated.

Matthias seized this opportunity.

Sword, hammer and tendril wreaked havoc across the ghoul horde, clearing the field, laying waste to the smaller undead in the time it took the ghoul troll’s hands to recover. 

In the end, the two giants faced each other in the snow—one who had been touched by death, and the other long undead—testing each other. The troll was eager to make a meal of the young warrior, while the greatfolk was eager to tear this ghoul to pieces then burn them.

Snarling, Matthias and the undead giant pounced, the ghoul troll seeking to bury Matthias in a storm of sweeping blows, snow flying in the air from its thrashing.

With his soul constantly pumping life energy, Matthias took a more cautious approach, focusing sword and hammer on both the troll’s hands and its forearms—cutting and breaking—while the shadow-tendril lashed around its ankles, working to capsize the massive body.

Blow by blow, sword and hammer pulped the troll’s lower arms, turning them to clumps of decaying meat. Matthias began backing toward the hermit house, quickly risking a glance over his shoulder and glimpsing the raging bonfire before looking up at the troll; its hands were already regenerating. When he reached the broken front door, his shadow-tendril stretched, wrapping around a wooden stake poking from the ground then pulling it free. It shoved the cloth-wrapped end into the blaze. 

The cloth ignited, and Matthias brought the burning torch around.

The massive ghoul troll recoiled, the young greatfolk advanced, brandishing the burning brand then thrusting the flaming stick into the creature’s pulped flesh.

Undead flesh hissed.

The ghoul troll screamed; there would be no more regeneration for those monstrous claws.

Desperately, the towering ghoul leapt at Matthias, teeth snapping at his face. Its opponent dropped sword, hammer and torch; wrapping both arms and the tendril around the troll’s chest, squeezing as the monster snapped and flailed.

Grunting from strain, he hoisted the undead giant above his head, shadow tentacle and muscles working in tandem. 

The creature kept flailing, it kept screeching, but Matthias held on. Muscles bulging, he trudged toward the outer wall, and—with a roar that came from the pit of his gut—hurled the ghoul into the wards.

Its screeching echoed through the courtyard; released by the young greatfolk and caught by racing wind, piercing stone, and cremating flames, it turned to ash in seconds.

Matthias watched it disintegrate; a smile taking his face.

A feeling of triumph soared through him; and he roared with the ferocity of the demonic-beast tiger, the sound rising to the night skies.

Retrieving his weapons, he turned to face the wards. His breath came heavy, his heart was pounding, and his soul steadily pumped life energy through his channels.

He had never felt this alive before. He reached down and gripped the stone hanging from his belt.

The ward in the gap extinguished, and with an eager smile, he spoke a single word: “more.”

He had no idea how long he fought after that.

In the rush of combat, seconds seemed like minutes and minutes seemed like hours. Time after time, he let the ghouls slip through the wards, continuing to obliterate them well into the night.

It could have gone on for hours.

He tried keeping track of the number of ghouls he killed, but as the number grew, he lost count: they were blending into a grey tide of corpses and ash, piling up in the snow. His one-man war only stopped when control over his soul’s contractions began to slip. 

 He paused, wiping his sword in the snow, taking stock of the ghouls pacing around the ward, watching him as they did. There was an intensity in their eyes.

Was it hatred…caution?

They didn’t seem quite as eager to charge him as they once had.

Matthias snarled. “That’s a start.”

He raised his sword, pointing at them. “I’ll be coming for the rest of you,” he promised, before turning his back to them.

Some---but not all---vocalized, screeching in answer, taking up stones and other debris to throw after him, but every object was caught by the wards, vanishing like their kin had; in roaring wind, piercing stone, flashes of flame, and swirling ash.

He walked back to the hermit house—flames raging before and behind him—his head was held high, and triumph danced in his heart. Matthias returned to the shelter of the ruin, finding Beggahasta crouching on the other side of the fire, watching.

Watching, wordlessly.

A wave of nerves ran through him. “How did I do?”

She cocked her head. “An odd question, my son. How did you do?”

For a time, he considered his reply: her words were something of a riddle to him. Quickly, though, it dawned on him what she’d meant.

“I did well. I did not lose control of my soul for the entire battle; not once did it stop pumping life force through my body. Not once did I lose concentration. I triumphed over the enemy,” he said. “But…all was not perfect, mother.”

“And how was it not?” she asked.

“…there were only so many ghouls I could fight at one time; against too many, I wouldn’t have been able to move fast enough to stop them all. I also was not strong enough to overpower the ghoul troll as quickly as I would have liked. If there were more than one, I would have been in trouble.”

“I see.”

“Oh, there’s more. I could have probably thinned the ghouls’ numbers using my gauntlets, but I didn’t want to use up my life energy too quickly. Hmmmm…I should have opened by using a torch on the troll rather than smashing its body first. Let me see...what else…” he paused. “I believe that’s it. Oh! And as I solidify my foundation…I’ll be able to use the Way of Stone without risk—since I’ll no longer be at risk of unbalancing my energies—I could toughen my body and kill them faster.”

“I see,” Beggahasta said again. “And why did the battle end?”

“Control over my soul slipped. It didn’t distract me, but there was no point in continuing the exercise if I wasn’t training. I might have made a mistake, and a mistake against that many ghouls could have cost me my life.”

Beggahasta gave him a long, searching look. “And you made that decision despite the fact that you were enjoying yourself?”

Matthias paused. “How did you know?”

“I think your laughter and that cave lion’s roar you let out were strong clues,” she said.

“Oh…I won’t deny it,” he agreed. “Well, to me…I don’t know. I’ve never enjoyed a fight like that before. Wait, that’s not quite true. I enjoyed the battle against Bregindoure this morning, but…this was different. This was a battle to the death, but it was one of the most thrilling things I’ve ever taken part in.”

“And yet you didn’t wish to continue after control of your soul slipped?”

He thought on that. “I wouldn’t have minded fighting some more, for sure, but I didn’t want to continue pointlessly.”

She nodded, then. “Then I can declare that you have passed my test. I will not only allow you but encourage you to go into Windstone Abbey. We can start in the next few days.” The smile she gave him was radiant. 

“Look at you, my son. You have grown so much and so quickly. It’s like these past few months have made you bloom like a rose. An iron rose.”

He blushed. “Thank you.” Matthias moved closer to the fire and settled in. “Thank you for your praise and for helping me, mother.”

She reached into the folds of her cloak, removing a small canteen from her belt. Beggahasta tossed it to him. “Here. Wine from bloodberries; there’s not a lot, but come, share a drink with me in celebration. You are growing so well.”

Matthias smiled in gratitude. He’d had sips of mead and smallbeer before, but nothing stronger. He was eager to taste the wine. He uncorked the small canteen and stretched out beside the warmth of the bonfire.

His mother took out her own wineskin, raising it to him. “To your growing strength. To your growing maturity. I’m proud of you, my son.”

He smiled, taking a swig of the bloodberry wine. 

It was good.

By the fire they sat, sipping wine, and chatting for a time, going over his battle. Around them ghouls kept howling and screeching; he could hear their growing frustration as they paced through the snow, keeping clear of the wards. 

Knowing they could not reach him or his family, Matthias let himself relax, and in that moment, even the miasma did not seem so bad; it was almost comforting, in its own way.

He considered the battle he’d just been through; and as he unwound from the thrill of combat, a question came to him. “Mother, did you ever enjoy fighting? I mean, really enjoy it? I found it almost addicting, and that surprised me. Even with my life at risk, even surrounded by blood and death…it was thrilling. It’s true that I’m touched by death: but is that why I so enjoyed being a reaper, of sorts?”

Beggahasta gave him a long, penetrating look. “I do not know if how you felt has anything to do with how your soul was touched by death, but I do know that some warriors experience what you describe. I have experienced it myself, in some ways: it’s called blood hunger.”

“Blood hunger? What’s that? Sur Friya never mentioned anything like that to us.” 

“Because it’s not necessary for training, and she disapproves of it. Sur Friya tries to train disciplined fighters. She trains fighters who would fight for a cause, for our realm or for duty. Blood Hunger is something different. An entirely separate motivation to enter combat. How best to describe it would be…”

She thought for a time.

“For most, killing and battle can be somewhat similar to eating boiled dandelion greens. Most do not enjoy the bitter taste of them, but if that is all you have to feed yourself, then you eat it. You will stomach it if you must just to keep living and feeding your body. You might never gain a taste for it, but—in enough time—you become better at pinching your nose and wolfing it down. For most, that is what battle and killing are like.”

She looked up at the sky through the hole in the hermit house’s roof. “Battle and killing…they are not pleasant, when you really look at it. Your heart quickens. Your breath tightens. Your thoughts shut down as your mind focuses only on what will let you survive. Fear grips you and your hands shake as you grapple with another being, all the while, your life is in the balance. Many warriors come to the path of the spear and the sword and the bow and axe out of necessity. In Evalmera that is often because of Blood Duty, while in the midlands, it’s often because a lord or lady gathers their subjects together to send them into battle. All the world over, some cannot make a living using their wits, or with the plough or other tools, and must take up weapons and live the life of a mercenary.”

Beggahasta’s jaw clenched, as though she was grimacing at a memory. “Even if one survives a battle of life and death, their body might have terrible injuries, and their mind often does as well. One’s hands shake after a fight, and it takes minutes to calm your breath. Sometimes you dream of blood and wake up screaming in the night. Such was the way for some of my uncles and for many warriors I knew growing up. For others, though…battle and killing is different.”

“What is it like for them?” Matthias asked.

“To them, killing is not like eating bitter greens. It’s more like eating a fresh slab of venison cooked in its own juices by a master chef. It’s a delicacy to be savoured.” Her eyes reflected the firelight, like pools of flame. “These folk are the predators of the battlefield. They do not baulk at death, and fighting and killing is its own reward that brings its own pleasures. That is not to say they are blood drinking monsters, it’s just that…the rush of battle, the tension, the risk of combat…is not a horror to them. It’s a wonder. To them a monster is not something to be feared, it’s a challenge to be conquered. A thrill in the making. I admit, I have some of that blood hunger in me…and from the sound of it, so do you. Your brother too.”

“Oh, I see,” Matthias said, not quite knowing how he felt about that.

A part of him was a little horrified.

But another part fully accepted it.

Was even pleased by it.

If he was a warrior, wouldn’t it be better if he enjoyed being a warrior?

“Then if that is the way it is, that is the way it is. But I will not let such a thing control or overwhelm me. I will direct this blood hunger and enjoy combat, but not randomly, only when I think it is worth it to fight,” he said with conviction.

Beggahasta laughed then, a golden sound that rolled into the night.

“What?” he asked.

“Oh, no, it’s just funny. I once said something very similar to my father, that’s all. It’s strange how life can repeat itself if you live long enough,” the warrior woman said.

Matthias didn’t quite know what to say to that.

For a time, he reflected on this idea of blood hunger. 

Was it different from how his tormentors preyed upon him?

He thought it was.

Matthias had no desire to bully and terrorise the weak, unless they were filth that needed to be wiped away. He would always repay cruelty with greater cruelty. But, other than that? It was more thrilling to him to prove himself against the strong.

Crushing a giant undead monster or wiping away a horde of slathering ghouls appealed to him; tormenting the defenseless was not only disgusting, but held no challenge, no satisfaction, only shame.

No thrill at all.

Rather than bullying the weak, the idea of testing himself against the ghoul knights drew his interest far more.

He desired that.

As he contemplated these things, he felt drawn to explore Windstone’s deepest layers.

Was that due to his blood hunger and want for a challenge?

Or was that because of something else…something that called to him because he was touched by death.

By the end of his time here, he aimed to find out.

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Author's Note

So Blood Hunger is not a true psychological condition/framing. It is loosely based on how certain people have different reactions to violence, combined with fictional characters like Kenpachi from Bleach.

Just wanted to say that it's not 1:1 with any real life psychological observations, in case people were curious haha.