| Re: Awful - a thread for BAD things
More unfinished juvenile slodge. What kind of name is Borx?
I
At the summit of a gently rolling hill the great silver spires of the Heights rose upward towards the vastness of the summer night sky, where wisps of cloud played across the surface of a sickle moon that hung amongst an array of twinkling stars. Downhill from the towers and temples of the royalty and rich and the lucky the ramshackle slum of the Downs spread out, a mass of crude dwellings and buildings that only the poor, the wretched and the unfortunate called home. Silvistrim was a city of endless contrast; piety and atheism, powerful and powerless, rich and poor, alive and dead.
On this stifling night a troop of guardsmen led by an Adjudicator made their way quickly down a twisting street amongst the twisting warren of the Downs. It was the worst kind of summer’s twilight, the air hung oppressive and streets stunk of rotting waste. The troop were on the northern outskirts of the Downs where the buildings were of better construction than those to be found downhill, sturdy stone and strong timber instead of lank straw and rotting planks.
This particular street was deserted for it was home to some of the stranger inhabitants of the Downs, ones whose tastes or religion ran even too perverse or weird for even the most terminal of outcasts. Past the House Of Animals and past the Lodge Of Geldings the five man band quickly made their way until the Adjudicator raised a gloved hand and they halted before the Hall Of Chexlexus.
The youngest of the guardsmen spat on the rough cobbles underfoot and hitched his sword belt, turning towards his companion Tobarn and let loose a mocking barbed laugh.
“This is a joke,” he sighed.
“Aye it is indeed Torgan,” answered the older man, scratching his forehead,” we’re out chasing phantoms.”
“The Adjudicator seems to believe in phantoms,” Torgan commented.
“Old Borx talks out of his arse. If he had any sense he would find the nearest funny lookin’ foreigner or dribblin’ beggar to take the blame and hang them instead of having us run around after fictitious ghosts,” Tobarn grinned, picking at his ear with a dirty finger.
It had all begun an hour previous. Their nightly patrol had stumbled upon a staggering, gibbering wreck of a man, recognised to be the owner of the Sickle and Scythe tavern on Brass Avenue. Getting no sense out of the man except babblings of demons they had escorted him back to his premises to discover a scene of utter carnage.
The Sickle and Scythe itself had been a ruin, the doors reduced to shards and the large hall was strewn with broken furniture but the most horrific destruction had been laid upon the twisted ruptured forms of the revellers, their blood soaking near enough every inch of the drinking den’s surface and their innards blooming out of red raw gashes torn by something that no sword or axe had carved.
Even Borx the Adjudicator had turned ghostly pale, a man of more than fifty years who had seen death in more wretched forms than he could count from the most heinous torture to poor souls drowned in puddles of excrement.
Torgan had vomited into the gutter until his stomach was empty and he was heaving up nothing.
“By the Rose what a mess,” Tobarn had uttered, picking up a piece of small intestine that was curled on top of a shattered table, examining it then flicking it away with a shudder. Tobarn had turned to Borx who stood grasping the mewling innkeeper in an iron grip and had shaken his head.
“I haven’t seen anything this fuckin’ bad since that mined breach at the siege of Badahoss ten years ago cap’n,” he had stated.
Borx had thrown him a steely look and backed out onto the street away from the scene of death, pulling the innkeeper with him.
NEEDS MORE WORK HERE
Borx paused at the great oak door and turned to view his men sighing inwardly, they were a useless rag tag bunch but they were all he had. The was Tobarn the old soldier who could handle himself and a two fresh faced recruits that looked promising but of the other two, one was blind in one eye and the other had no tongue. Bloody hopeless, he thought.
“Right lads, this is the household of name the old innkeeper mumbled before he passed on, we’re going in but we’re playing it quiet. Don’t mention anything about the massacre in face just don’t bloody say anything at all got it?” Borx growled, puffing his chest out.
The five men mumbled agreement | 
