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(NSFW!)Hangover - Short Story


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A short story based years later than the novel I'm writing, featuring the same main character. This one is based in the year 1317...


The follow-up to this is available HERE












The rain and the wind rasped her skin, cold as ice and sharp as razors.


Other than her tan, you’d think she was one of the locals, what with her red hair, freckles and green eyes. But she wasn’t, she hailed from Aquitaine where the weather’s normally quite lovely all year round, unlike here.


She wasn’t used to such a climate, it wasn’t right to her. To top it off, a band of old hags had gone and buggered all the weather and it’d last for another decade more, at least. They’d hailed it as the “age of s***” and brought it about when they’d stolen her womb and used it to birth the son of an Incubus who’d raped her at the stroke of her sixteenth birthday as she slept. The hags, the demon and the cambion didn’t live for long after that, but she’d not been able to fix the weather—not even God himself could do that, or perhaps he just didn’t care to.


Her name was Ysabel de Bayonne. She was a witchslayer and a demonhunter of the Sisterhood of St Arianne. She was also cold, thirsty, tired and angry at the bastards waiting for her judgement down the road.


They’d robbed her sword as she’d slept. It was a most precious thing, over a thousand years old and from lands far to the east, beyond the dragons and the mountains that mark the edge of what’s known. It’d been used once, long ago, to slay a foul demon. His name was inscribed on the base of the long, curved blade in ancient lettering neither she nor no-one else could read. The handle and its pathetic little disc for a guard was rubbish compared to that of Christian swords, but it swung like no other weapon she’d ever known, slashing through the air in the blink of an eye.


She’d followed the bastards’ tracks all day and found them in a tavern, pissed as farts. Everyone’d cleared out of the place when she’d kicked in the door. They were but farmers and petty workmen, not looking for a fight with a mad woman tooled-up with every weapon known to man. But the bastards had held their ground and tried it on. She’d kicked the first one in the face, smashing his front teeth and breaking his nose. The second had come in at her right and she’d ducked his lumbering attack and smacked him in the back of the head with her elbow. The third just gave-in when he saw his mates fall to their arses. “Have it back!” he’d cried, tossing the sword to her feet. “Aye,” she’d replied, “but you’re done for no less.” He started to sob as she picked it up and came towards him. Seeing what a little whelp he was, she’d then told him to tie-up his mates or he’d lose his manhood. He didn’t argue, and he’d tied them up as she’d asked. Then she’d tied him up as well, but didn’t know what to do with the three of them and so left it for the night and guzzled some local brew.


And so came the morn. The weather was s***, her head pounded and her belly was still loaded with ale. Every burp reminded her of the taste and she wanted to batter the man who’d brewed it.


As she walked back to the tavern from the bush where she’d slept, one of the local lads smiled and winked. She recognised his face but she was sure she hadn’t; she’d remember being humped by such an ugly sod. She gave him a famous English salute and he soon stopped smiling.


Someone was hammering something far away and a horse was trying to tell the world about something no-one gave a s*** to hear. Every time the hammer came down and every word the horse tried to say made her head throb. She wanted to find the hammer and use it to put the horse into a nap and then shove it down the sodding hammerer’s throat.


She suddenly had to stop for a moment as some beer bubbled into her mouth. It burned in her gullet and she couldn’t help letting it onto the ground. She spewed up a good pint or two of dark-brown water and orange chunks of carrots, half of it coming out of her nose. Disgusting. She wouldn’t be drinking that stuff again, even if they’re selling it for close to nowt.


A group of lads were laughing at her from the other side of the street. She couldn’t help the vomit in her hair. “f*** off,” she snapped with her mildly French accent.


“That’s not a lady’s mouth,” one called back in his own accent.


“This lady’ll drive her sword into your gut.”


“Hey,” said another, “I’ve heard you and Gwyn enjoyed a sweet cwtch last night and he drove his sword into your gut!” The group of lads creased themselves.


“f*** off before I fulfil my promise,” she said as she spat a slimy trail away.


“Alright then, my lovely. We’ll f*** off as you ask.” The lads stopped their laughing and walked on. She wiped her face and flicked it to the floor.


She hated Pembroke, such a grim little town built on such an eyesore of a rock. She wasn’t even supposed to be here, she was supposed to be in Carmarthen by today to meet with the man who’d summoned her. She couldn’t even remember his name, but it didn’t matter. They’d know who she was—an armed French lass is a rare thing in Wales.


She stood back up and carried on marching down to the tavern. Everyone was setting out for the day and the streets were filled with crowds of dirty-faced people gazing at her. They were either looking at her impressive kit or her messy hair. Or, perhaps they were just looking at the girl who’d caused a stir the night before. She didn’t know. She didn’t care.


She reached the tavern and kicked the door in again, it’s hinges still knackered from last time. The bastards were still there, tied up on the floor. She thought about what to do with them for a while as she paced up and down. It suddenly came to her.


“Landlord,” she called out. There was no answer. “Landlord, you smelly stack of dog’s s***!”


He finally came running wearing no shirt and rubbing his eyes. “Morning, milady.”


“I’ve decided what I’m to do with these bastards.”


“Yes, milady, let’s hear it,” the landlord said as he yawned.


“Take this coin.” She tossed him a little purse. “Get the three of them pissed on the rancid shite I drank last night. That’ll be a sound punishment come morn.”


The landlord chuckled and nodded.




Edited by demidekidasu
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Reading it anyway....I am one of those that reads the last page of a book first so it doesn't bother me! *goes off to read*

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Ha ha haa..loved it. I remember a morning after not so different from that. 'Cept it was chicken noodle-o's out the nose. Haa haaa.


I could feel her anger and her just...well around here we'd say madder than a hornet. You got the bit of back story you needed to place her and not have it be complete confusion. Well done. Short stories to me are harder than novels. So difficult to get all you need in a little space. Nice.

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Ha ha haa..loved it. I remember a morning after not so different from that. 'Cept it was chicken noodle-o's out the nose. Haa haaa.

Oh boy, that sounds rough... lol. I think my worst story is when I got plastered one night on some nameless stuff in the local pub. I dug up the memory to describe parts of Ysabel's hangover, haha :D


Thanks for the reply(-ies). Am I correct to assume you are a writer? I'd love to have a read if you've got anything shared on here!

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I write..badly...just terribly. lol

The best thing I have ever posted here was long ago and was actually a true story about when I was little and almost died. Not really fun reading. :)

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