Rain lashed against the clay-tiled roof of the northern farmhouse, rattling the old shutters like the fingers of something restless in the dark. Thunder cracked in the heavens—an angry roar that seemed to shake the very stones of Sagres.
Inside, young Lara Lopes stirred in her sleep.
Then she heard it.
At first, she thought it was the storm—some trick of the wind. But no. It was singing. A twisted, tuneless melody that clawed its way through the night like some foul nursery rhyme.
"🎵 Fist smash face, hands rip ribcage, so crunchy, so red, so juicy sweet…Now we wish to take its heart… So juicy sweet…🎵"
Her eyes snapped open.
She sat up in bed, heart pounding, breath caught in her throat. That voice—it wasn't just mad. It was wrong. There was glee in it. Hunger. Something not meant to walk beneath Morrslieb and Mannslieb.
She kicked off her blanket and rushed to the window, bare feet cold against the stone floor. Pulling open the warped wooden shutter, she peered into the night through the rain-slick glass pane.
Lightning tore through the sky—and in that brief flash, she saw it.
The chicken house door was ajar, and something moved within.
A figure, hunched low, cloaked in black, its hood dripping with rain and blood. Red eyes shone like coals in the dark. The thing sat kneeling in a pool of gore, feathers floating in the air like ash.
And it feasted.
She couldn't look away.
The figure—Marino, though she didn't yet realize—tore flesh with animal fury. Blood dripped from his lips, smeared across his face. He was surrounded by ruined corpses—some 40 chickens, all ripped and mangled, their bones jutting at odd angles. The mighty cocks that had once ruled the roost now lay shattered and gutted.
He laughed.
"🎵 Peel the skin, suck the bone—oh little chickies, all alone…Chew the neck and drink it dry, let the meat squish, hear it cry! 🎵"
Lara gasped, stumbling back from the window.
"By Sigmar… by the God-Emperor, what is that!?"
A deep, barking growl came from the main room—the family's dog. A second later her father's voice followed, gruff and alarmed. "Lara? What is it?"
Her voice trembled. "There's… someone in the chicken house. I think—Papa—I think something's eating them!"
Footsteps thudded as her father rose from bed, cursing under his breath. "Wake your brothers. Stay inside."
But Lara didn't move. She remained at the window, staring out into the storm, heart frozen. Another flash of lightning struck.
And in that light, the hooded figure slowly turned its head toward her window. The red glow of its eyes pierced the darkness like twin hellflames.
And it smiled.
"Son, what is it?" came the croaky voice of Lara's grandfather from the room to the left. The old man's words were strained, his breath wheezing with age. At forty-nine, he was a relic by peasant standards—a man whose back had long since bowed beneath the weight of hard soil and harder winters. His beard was patchy and grey, his mouth sunken from missing teeth. Every time he moved, his bones creaked like the wooden floor beneath him.
Lara's father, Duarte Lopes, stood in the center of the dimly lit main room. Broad-shouldered and weathered by labor, he had the look of a man who had spent more time with soil and livestock than people. His brow was furrowed as he strode to the kitchen alcove where firewood was stacked beside the hearth. Without hesitation, he picked up the heavy woodcutting axe leaning against the wall.
"Trouble," he answered flatly.
The old man sat up slowly, joints crackling. "What are you doing, my son?" he asked with rising alarm.
Standing at the threshold, axe in hand, Duarte looked back at his father with the calmness of a man already bracing for the worst. "Don't worry," he said, his voice low but steady. "I'm just going to check it out. I'll be back soon."
He forced a smile for Lara's sake and gently patted her head. She stared up at him, eyes wide, clutching her nightgown with both hands. He turned, opened the heavy door, and stepped into the storm.
The wind howled as the door creaked open fully, rain blowing sideways into the house. Beyond the threshold, all they could see was darkness, save for the faint outline of the chicken coop through the sheeting rain.
"You fool!" the old man barked. "Don't go there alone!" He turned to the other room and shouted, "Neymar! You useless sack of olives! Get up and go help your brother!"
In the bedroom, Neymar Lopes stirred with a groan, curled in his straw mattress. Tall, lean, and hardened from labor, Neymar had the frame of a workhorse but the disposition of a mule. "Why?" he grumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Can't my perfect big brother just handle it? Just let me sleep…"
The old man didn't wait for more complaints. Hobbling across the room, he reached Neymar's bedside and began kicking at his legs with surprising speed for a man so frail.
"Get up! You good-for-nothing son of mine! You think we farm for comfort? Get your lazy arse up and go help your brother! Now!"
Neymar growled under his breath, but finally rose, grabbing a shirt and a rusted hoe from the corner. "Fine, fine! You want me to go get pecked by some demonic rooster? Gods above, this better not be another drunk priest sleepwalking again…"
Back in the main room, Lara stood with her mother, both clutching shawls around their shoulders. The wind blew harder now, and in the distance came another flash of lightning—revealing for an instant the silhouette of Duarte approaching the chicken coop.
Then another sound came.
Faint, beneath the wind, beneath the thunder... but unmistakable.
"🎵 Chew the bone, drink the blood—sweeter than the harvest flood…Feast and feast, don't let it waste, flesh and marrow, blood and taste… 🎵"
The voice was childlike… but warped. Gleeful. Insane.
Lara's mother covered her mouth in horror.
"What in Morr's name…?" Neymar whispered as he reached the doorway, now fully awake, frozen at the threshold.
They watched as Duarte neared the coop.
The door was slightly ajar, hanging crooked on its hinges.
The singing stopped.
Standing outside in the rain, Lara's father leaned in and placed his ear to the chicken coop door.
From within, muffled through wood and storm, came a mad voice singing with gleeful hunger:
"So nice and red! So pale and dead! So juicy sweet! Now we wish to make a dish! So juicy sweet! Hahahaha!"
His heart hammered in his chest. His breath quickened, but he clenched his jaw and forced himself to move. Gripping the axe tighter, he slowly slid open the door.
Inside, lit only by flickers of lightning from the small ceiling window, knelt a hooded figure—Marino, though barely recognizable. His cloak and face were soaked in blood, his red eyes glowing with something unholy. He sat amidst scattered feathers and corpses, chewing flesh with grotesque delight. The air reeked of death and madness.
The man froze. Shock gripped him—then, slowly, his eyes narrowed with recognition... or at least what he thought he saw.
"Greenskin…" he whispered with rising hatred.
The creature lifted its head, eyes glinting as it reached into its cloak.
"Die, you Greenskin scum!" the man roared, charging forward as he raised the axe.
Marino jolted to the side, rolling off the blood-slick floor just as the axe came down hard—CRACK!—splitting the wooden boards and slicing clean through a mangled chicken carcass.
Blood and offal exploded outward.
Marino stumbled back, wide-eyed, pressed against the wooden platforms. His heart pounded. The haze of madness had lifted just enough for fear to claw back in. He had no training. No experience. Just a stolen bread knife and sheer desperation.
The axe came again.
"DIE!"
Instinct took over—Marino dropped to the floor, curling into a tight fetal ball. He squeezed his eyes shut.
CRACK! Splinters flew as the axe struck again—missing him by inches, embedding into a support beam.
"Oh, come on!" the man snarled, tugging at the stuck weapon.
Marino's eyes snapped open. This was his chance.
With a cry, he lunged forward, driving the knife upward. It sank deep—under the ribs, through the gut. The man gasped, his body buckling as Marino's momentum slammed them both to the ground.
Now on top, Marino ripped the knife free, blood spurting hot across his face and cloak.
The man thrashed, grabbing at the blade with blood-slicked hands. He tried to fight back, but his strength was fading—his hands shredded, his breath ragged.
Marino didn't think—he just moved.
Stab. Slash. Stab.
The blade tore across flesh, knuckles, cheek, shoulder—deflected, deflected, then landed deep in the man's flank. He cried out, tried to twist free. But Marino stayed on him like a rabid animal.
Desperate, the man lunged for the knife. Their hands collided. One last chance.
The blade drove into his palm, slicing through muscle and bone—but still he fought.
**Now it was a contest of raw strength—**one pushing up, one pushing down. Their screams clashed in the rain.
"AAAAAAA!"
"AAAAAAGH!"
Marino bared his teeth like a beast, blood smeared from chin to brow. Slowly, the blade sank down, closer to the man's eye. The older man writhed, legs kicking wildly.
The tip kissed flesh.
The eye bulged.
And still Marino pushed.
Just as the tip of the blade pressed into the soft flesh of the man's eye—
BANG!The door to the chicken coop burst open with a crash of thunder. A figure charged through the rain-drenched threshold—Neymar.
"BROTHER!!" he shouted.
In a blur of motion, Neymar threw his full weight behind a forward kick. His boot connected hard with Marino's side—CRACK—sending the boy sprawling backward across the blood-slick floor, knife still in hand. He slammed against the far wall with a pained grunt, feathers and muck clinging to his cloak.
Gasping, Neymar dropped to his knees beside his brother, who now lay twisted in a pool of blood, limbs twitching faintly.
"Brother... what happened to you?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
He took his brother's mangled, bloodied hand in both of his own. The flesh was cold, fingers barely able to curl around his.
The dying man's remaining eye fluttered open, unfocused. He gurgled on his own blood as it bubbled from his mouth. With every breath, more of his life spilled out into the muck.
"Protect… the… family…" he rasped, barely audible over the thunder.
His eye lost its light as his chest gave one final rise—and fell, motionless.
"No! Brother, no!" Neymar cried out, gripping him tight. He shook his limp form, sobbing."Stay with me! Please! You can't leave me!"
But the man was gone. The hand slipped lifelessly from Neymar's grip, fingers dragging along the floor.
For a moment, there was only the rain, the creak of the coop, and Neymar's quiet sobs.
Then, behind him—the sound of movement.
Neymar's breath caught as he slowly turned.
Marino stood.
Blood clung to every inch of him—his cloak, his face, his hands. The red light still faintly glowed in his eyes, but the madness had dulled into a cold, bitter awareness. He straightened his aching form, knife gripped tight in his bloodied hand.
They locked eyes.
Neymar's grief twisted into hatred.
His lips curled into a snarl as he rose to his feet, tears still streaking down his face.
"You demon…" he hissed, voice low and full of venom."You'll pay for this."
Then, he turned his gaze down, placing a hand gently on his brother's chest. He closed the lifeless eye.
"Don't worry, brother…" he whispered."I'll avenge you."
He stood, fire now burning behind his eyes.
The rain fell harder. Thunder rumbled once more.
Without hesitation, Neymar charged—feral and unthinking. Marino raised the knife in fear, aiming for the heart, but his stab went wide, sinking into Neymar's stomach instead. The man's fist landed solidly against Marino's cheek, sending him sprawling.
But Neymar didn't stop.
Bleeding, crazed, roaring with fury, he pounced on Marino, hands locking around the boy's throat.
Marino thrashed beneath him, kicking, clawing, panicking. But Neymar's grip tightened. His fingers dug in. Spit and blood dribbled from his mouth as he growled and squeezed.
Marino's lungs screamed for air. His vision blurred. Then—his hand brushed something. The knife.
Without a second thought, he grabbed the handle and yanked it from Neymar's gut. Gripping it in reverse, he stabbed.
The blade plunged into Neymar's neck, punching through the other side. Blood sprayed like a geyser.
The man jerked. His grip loosened. Marino gasped, coughing violently.
But Neymar didn't fall.
Even with a knife through his throat, the man's rage refused to die. He glared at Marino with raw hatred and tightened his grip again.
"What the hell is this guy?!" Marino thought, panic surging.
He grunted and pulled the blade across the neck—slicing it wide open. Blood exploded over him in a crimson arc. He squeezed his eyes shut, drenched.
Neymar staggered backward, hands pressed uselessly to his neck. Blood gushed from between his fingers. He stumbled toward the door, eyes wide in horror and disbelief, head dangling loosely on torn sinew.
Marino stood, coughing and gasping, wiping his face.
Neymar turned one last time, blood pouring from his mouth—and saw Marino smiling.
That twisted, evil grin.
Neymar's mind snapped. He ran, blindly, staggering backwards out the door.
"Taste my Spartan kick, you medieval peasant bastard!" Marino yelled, booting Neymar square in the chest.
The dying man flew backward—crashing out the open door and tumbling down the ramp.
Marino panted, heart pounding, grinning with savage triumph.
But then—
"AAAAAAHHH!" A scream.
He froze. His demonic red eyes turned toward the source.
There, standing in the open doorway of the main house, were three figures. Lara, her mother, and the old grandfather. All staring in horror.
Marino blinked.
"Oh shit," he muttered.
"I fucked up."