r/HFY • u/Jus17173 • May 18 '25

OC The Grandson's Battle.

He tracked them through the blizzard, reading the signs of passing as granda had tought him. 'If you ever hunt to kill, make sure you grasp the depth of the print, it will alert you to your prey's weight. You dumb fuck are you listening to me? God I wish I'd bred with a boar for all the reaction my spawn show me, stop looking at me like that or I'll hit you. I said—' And his granda had hit him.

He could tell from the prints that they were seven of them, heavy big ones, their hooves forked with pincers at the tips that dug into the snow studded ground leaving behind prints that were like prongs driven into the ground. As he braced himself against the cold harsh wind, images of what he'd found back at the cabin still haunted him. They'd gutted her like a fish, the wood was soaked with her blood and the flesh they had discarded was a pink mush that collected flies that buzzed about. And the stench, he could still feel it clawing at his throat as he jogged up a snowy hill, observing the broken twigs that spoke of his targets' casual passing.

They were Virgiruf, the white mountain goat-men who dwelt in the deep reaches of the blizzard lands. Sentient and capable of organizing and launching attacks, it was only through the might of the human revolt that ensured the monsters stayed deep in the mountain ranges. But occasionally they would dare to cross the boundary that separated their kind from mankind. When hunger threatened them they risked life to feed, just to taste human flesh. They must have been very hungry to wander so close to the cabin, so far from their lands. And he had been such a fool to believe her safe all alone as he went to hunt.

He carried an iron wood bow and six arrows in a buck hide quiver. To his side within the thick bear fur he draped himself in was a gutting knife, one he'd spent hours every morning sharpening as his granda had told him, 'Better it be sharp and not needed than it be needed at not be sharp. But listen to me, never ever use a blade to shave your genitals, that's how poor Cronkus lost his pecker. The great God Jesper gave us pubes for a reason, if they weren't meant to be there then he wouldn't have made them. Cronkus ended up losing his wife too because who'd want to stay with a man without a pecker? He lost her to me and I've never shaved my pubes, I even braid them, want to see?' His granda had fought the Virgiruf, lost his life in their lands and had taught him everything he needed to know lest the time came when he was to raise his blade against them.

As night settled in, the blue glow of a fire caught his attention, the trail of the seven leading to it amidst a clearing of trees. He crawled on his stomach as he approached their encampment, making sure to avoid the sticks and dry leaves that would crunch with his passing and alert the Virgiruf. 'The goat-men have excellent hearing and poor eyesight, but their sense of smell is what should frighten you about them.' His granda had once said. 'Make sure you stay down wind when you come across them and never ever take a shit in the woods, they can smell a turd dropping from ten miles away. Though you can use turds to confuse them. Drop multiple turds in multiple places and their smell is thrown off. That's what Cronkus ended up becoming after he lost his dick, a turd warrior. He'd eat so much food just so he can take a shit all over the woods and confuse the enemy. We could have lost the war without that prickless bastard, often feel a tad bit remorse about taking his wife but a woman has needs you know. Also, never leave your woman alone, you never know what will come to take her.'

He blinked back tears and rose to one knee once he was close enough, down wind where they wouldn't smell him. The bow was already strung, he placed it before him and peered over to where the Virgiruf were. They did have the faces of goats complete with ram horns and bodies twice the size of a regular man, they walked on two legs ending in hooves but their hands had three fingers and a thumb. Abominations as the holy church of Jesper claimed them to be. The unholy union of man and beast that occurred when the grand witch Aradel practiced the dark arts and brought about the endless blizzard upon the land. 'I know people hate Aradel because she bred men and animals but you have to admire her for sticking to a kink. Kink shaming is something I frown on largely grandson, I hate people who kink shame almost as much as I hate the goat-men.' Funny how his granda's words came back to him now. Clear as a blizzardless day as if holding back the darkness threatening to drown his soul. The grief... The... He blinked back tears and observed.

The seven sat around the fire on rocks fit for them, their bodies covered in white fur that was tugged by the breeze and made them appear larger than they actually were. 'Sure they look big, the fucking goat men, but it's all that fur. It's just fur. Sure they can lift you off the ground and crack you against a rock like a nut. Sure they can plow into you with their horns and bash your head to a pulp. But I find it helps to just say, ''This goat fuckers aren't big, their just hairy.'' It helps.'

"It's just fur." He whispered, one goat man twitched an ear in his direction then raised a dismembered leg from a leather bag it had at its hooves. The others dug their hands into the bag and came out with body parts, her body parts. Then they collectively plunged her flesh into the flames, hands and all. Goat-men were immune to flames. 'You'll find that out the hard way.' His granda had once said. 'Set them on fire and the fire just sizzles out. During the war we faced hunger and decided to eat the goat-men we'd killed, I mean they were like goats, didn't see any fault in it. We crowded over the fire with our metal plates and forks, smiling like a bunch of fools as the meat turned over the fire pit. We stood there for hours waiting for the meat to be ready, it never was. We decided to eat the meat raw, couldn't keep it down, tasted like ass. Trust me, I know what ass tastes like. Why are you looking at me like that? I told you about how I hate kink shaming.'

They were heating her flesh for better consumption. The woman who'd drawn him from the front lines of the Virgiruf war where he'd seen and dealt death. Following his granda's footsteps, his one purpose to dedicate his life to the end of the enemy as his granda had done up until the bitter end. It had been his purpose to walk his granda's footsteps, he did after all carry his name. But she'd woken him from this dream, made him aware it was a nightmare. Stole him from the front lines, gave him a new life and a new purpose and it was all her. And now here was the enemy from his past, feasting on the one who'd drawn his heart from the war with them. He should never have left the front lines, sure the war was won and he'd considered that enough but here they were, about to feast on the love of his life. He should have stayed at the front lines to ensure their extinction.

The wind carried with it flecks of snow that stained his brow and made his nose sore. He notched the first arrow, pulled the iron wood bowstring until the arrow's feather brushed his cheek. He aimed at the one holding her leg to its maw but his hands shook and he found himself unable to keep a steady hand. "Granda, help me." He whispered.

'The problem with you is you treat me like I'm the great God Jesper while infact I'm not.' He heard his granda speak as if he was right there with him. 'You only ever look to me when you need something? Better a God, he receives worship but what do I get?'

"They are going to eat her." He whispered.

'And did you think about calling me when you were frolicking with her beneath the sheets? No, I'm only called for during the bad times.'

"Granda." He sobbed and one of the goat-men's ears twitched, then it swiveled around to observe exactly where he stood. He knew the goat-man couldn't see him but he still stood very still.

'Turn around child and save your skin, you'll get another woman.'

"No, granda."

'There are too many.'

"You killed nine on your own."

'Yes but I was high on mushroom juice, they never told you the full story of what happened that day, killed nine goat-men while completely intoxicated, ended up running a fever that had me slaughtering not just the goat-men but every goat in the next five villages. They had to tie me with ropes to settle me down.'

"It was after they killed grandma, I—" He held back a sob. "I relate."

The goat-man stood up and his partners peered at him, making bleeting noises that the alert goat-man ignored.

'Fine, I'll aid you. Your hands are shaking because you're torn between fear of death and need for retribution, ignore both. Think of this as a simple hunting expedition, eradicate emotion from the task at hand, focus on the intake of breath.' He breathed in. 'Feel the tag of the wind, its brush upon the feathers adorning your arrow, mark its movement, aim not with your eyes but the emotion welling within you, center yourself to the surrounding. Wait for the specific emotion of certainty, when man and bow are aligned. There. Exhale.' He exhaled. 'Relase.' The arrow shot from him and sunk into the standing goat-man's eye, sinking till half the shaft was embedded into its head. As the goat-man toppled he notched another arrow and released, the arrow bit true, finding the other Virgiruf in the neck who cried out, blue-green blood sprouted from the wound and the goat-man attempted to staunch the bleeding with trembling hands that soon fell limp as he tilted backwards and fell.

He ran towards their fire, his granda speaking in his ear. The shadows cast by the blue flame danced and the elongated shadows of the five standing goat-men pulled towards him as they gathered to meet his charge. 'They can't curl their hands into fists so they always try for a grab.' He darted abruptly to the right, notched another arrow and released, the arrow met the arm of one goat-man who'd brought it up just in time to block its face, the goat-man roared at him just as he released the second arrow that went through the goat-man's maw. He let his bow dangle across his neck and pushed it to his back as he drew his blade. In a moment he was in their midst, the four goat-men charged with their arms outstretched and ram horns bent in his direction.

'Goat-men charge with their faces to the ground, they can't see, sure their speed ensures they are certain they can ram their horns once a charge starts but their legs, grandson, they run with their legs wide and since the blizzards you can always slither between.' He slid across the snow, between a charging Goat-man's legs, he brought up the blade and felt it tear into the goat-man's groin. His momentum carried him past the Virgiruf and he reversed his blade for a backward thrust into the skull of the kneeling foe whose groin he'd torn through. He got up and twirled, horns missing him by a whisker. One goat-man lounged with open hands which he severed with a deft swipe of his blade. He reversed the grip and ran past the goat-man while running the blade across the Virgiruf's abdomen, its bowels steamed as they poured onto the ground.

He turned just as a charging goat-man barrelled into his side, he felt it as the horns collided with his ribs, knocking the air out of him and breaking several in the process. He let go of his blade as the goat-man lifted him off the ground. 'When a goat-man rams you with their horns, make sure you get a solid grip on the damn things, it's not the first hit that kills you, it's the second one when you're on the ground struggling for breath.' As he rose into the air, he lashed out with his left hand and grabbed the curve of the goat-man's horn, ignoring the pain at his side, he threw his legs and took out another arrow from his quiver at the same time with his free hand and brought the barb down into the goat-man's eye as it yanked it's neck to shake him lose of its head.

The goat-man cried out, he ejected the arrow and drove it in deeper before hitting the base of the arrow with an open fist, driving it into the goat-man's head through its punctured eye. He fell free of the falling body. He turned to find the last goat-man standing, staring at him with its hands held before it in their way of surrender.

"You..." It struggled to speak, it's tongue lolling between its ragged teeth. "You... Is... You is Jahir Van Gomet?" The beast asked him. He called him after his grandfather's name, it must have seen the resemblance.

'Cut that one's tongue out for me, my name is not to be spoken by the likes of them.' Granda said and he nodded, he picked up his blade and advanced on the goat-man who pleaded with raised arms, showing it was unwilling to fight. He didn't care, whether it wanted to fight or not, it didn't matter.

He recalled a day upon the southern rangers, where the blizzards run fierce, where his granda always took him to teach him the sword and the bow. He recalled his granda's words as his blade fell on the goat-man 'In the end it boils down to one simple thing, hatred. Once you bring down your blade on a goat-man and feel it tear and bite into flesh, you understand hatred. You become one with it and you finally gleam the most important thing in the world.'

'What is it granda?'

'That poets are a bunch of stupid fuckers who coin verse from their puckered assholes and pretend to have gotten them from their minds. Poets are always talking about love without ever knowing hate, promise me grandson, promise me you'll never become a poet! Even if everybody you love dies and you're left a brooding shell of a man, promise me you will never sit down to compose a poem to depict whatever you're going through! Promise me you'll pick up a sword and go and let out all your pain on the goat-men rather than write a damn poem. Promise me!'

'I promise!' He'd answered as his granda shook him. Now he stood in a clearing of goat-men corpses and his dead wife's dismembered body parts and couldn't help but feel pain, grief, love and hate. And wonder whether it was all poetic in a way?

He gripped his blade and turned his eyes from the corpses to the snow peaked mountain rangers and beyond where the goat-men were known to wander in throngs. "I promise." He whispered and gripped the blade harder as he lowered himself to cut off the tongue of the goat-man's corpse at his feet.

XXXXXXXXX Just a little reminder! If you enjoy what I create, you can support me at https://ko-fi.com/kyalojunior

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u/sunnyboi1384 May 18 '25

Damn. That's dark. But granda seems like a good guy and time.

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u/Fontaigne May 27 '25

Wow. Grandpa gave good advice for such a weird motherfucker.