As the blood-red sunrise cast a crimson hue across Dreadrock Ridge and the temperature of the day began to rise, Vanity lay in the bed of her room at The Dirty Pickle; the thin, stained sheet kicked off and crumpled on the bare wood floor, the sweat glistening on her naked body as she languidly rubbed her slick, smooth pussy with one hand and gently tugged at her erect nipples with the other, squeezing and rolling them as she traced circles on her clit. She felt herself reaching the plateau of climax, the warmth in her body and the swelling of her dark nipples, the quickening of her pulse and she breathed more heavily. The memory of the previous night's sex with the two girls was still fresh in her mind, and the heat in her cunt was hotter than the rising sun outside as she slid three fingers inside herself; her fingertips caressing the sweet spot inside her pussy, her juices running down her ass and inner thighs and dripping onto the stained straw mattress. The room smelled of the delicious cocktail of sweat and sex, sour and sweet, and Vanity bit her lip, tensing as her body began to shudder...
Just as she was about to reach orgasm, there was a knock at the door. "Fuck!" she hissed, frustrated at being interrupted. She rolled off the bed, naked and slick, her thick nipples standing at attention, pushed her messy red hair back from her eyes, and pulled the door open. As she opened the door, she was met by the sight of the busty barmaid from the previous night, dressed in extremely revealing lingerie which barely covered her massive breasts or her plump, firm ass; her own nipples visibly hard through the black satin and lace negligee. The barmaid's eyes looked tired like she'd pulled an all-nighter, but they lit up as they roamed hungrily over Vanity's naked form, taking in every curve and contour of her tits, her dripping, hairless tight pussy, her supple thighs and shapely legs.
"Mornin' sugarplum" she drawled, her gold tooth glinting in the red morning light streaming through the wooden shutters of the bedroom window "Hate to disturb your beauty sleep but some men from the mining company're downstairs and want to meet with you. They heard there's a monster hunter in town, 'pparently they got a monster needing hunted."
Vanity's heart leaped as she considered the potential job. A monster in some backwater tin mine didn't sound like Zoran, but she was always prepared to kill a monster and make a few Thalers on the side. She eyed the barmaids thick, curvaceous body and strong arms, biting her lip again as she imagined being relentlessly fucked by this strong woman, being tossed around effortlessly and used in every way imaginable by her; smothering herself in those huge tits while the barmaids rough fingers fucked her cunt and asshole. Her pussy throbbed, the wetness dripping from her into the floor and the sweet scent of her fresh arousal filling the small room. Plenty of time for that later, she thought; her other great passion needed tending to first.
"Tell them I'll be right down" she said, her voice low and sultry. The barmaid nodded.
"Sure thing, sugarplum." Her eyes trailed down Vanitys body one more time, catching sight of a solitary clear drop of juice hanging delicately by a sliver from her pussy. She reached down and caught it gently on her fingertip, her eyes locked on Vanity's as she lifted it to her lips and sucked her finger, long and wetly, savouring the taste of it. "Well I'll be damned, baby" she grinned. "Sweet as a sugarplum after all." She winked at Vanity, and headed down the rickety wooden stairs to the taproom. Vanity watched her go, aching with need, but she pushed her arousal to the back of her mind as she slipped a barely-there silk robe over her naked form, and a pair of soft hide boots over her petite feet, and made her way down to the smoky taproom.
The reddish morning light shone through the shutters, illuminating the bar. It was still early, and the Dirty Pickle only had a few customers, most nursing coffee or whiskey as the smell of cooking eggs and oats wafted through the room. Sitting at the bar, drinking beer from thick black glass bottles, were three rough looking men, not one of them below six feet tall; arms muscled like knotted rope from years of work and faces leathery from the sun. The eldest was a man looking to be in his late 50's, thick salt and pepper hair oiled back from a broad, not unattractive face lined with age and the sun, several days stubble growth on his chin and circles under his eyes made it look like he didn't get much sleep. He wore a leather vest over a slightly stained shirt, open to nearly the navel revealing a powerful, hairy barrel chest, sleeves rolled up showing off thick muscled forearms dappled with dense black hair and several tattoos; one prominently showing a tally mark of three vertical lines, the third line still relatively freshly scarred. At his belt he wore a large hunting knife and a holstered pistol, and one of his compatriots carried a large, mean-looking long-barreled rifle.
Vanity approached the men, hips swaying as she strode slowly but confidently, the thin, almost sheer silk of her robe barely covering her ass and sticking to her curves with the moisture of her sweat; the red morning light reflecting off her smooth legs as she walked to the bar. The three men gazed at her lasciviously as she leaned against the bar and reached for one of their beers, taking a swig of the meady, dark ale.
"Heard you boys need a monster taken care of" she smiled.
The elder looked incredulously at his companions, and the three of them laughed uproariously; a cruel, sneering, ugly laugh.
"The fuck is this?" he scoffed. "I come here to hire a monster hunter, not to get my dick sucked."
"I got a monster you can take care of, girl" the man with the rifle snickered, grabbing at the bulge in his crotch visible through his woollen pants. "Real big one too, be a real treat for a whore like you."
All three men laughed again. Vanity's expression didn't change; she kept the confident smile on her full lips as fast as lightning, she reached for the elders belt and pulled his knife out. In one swift motion, she spun it in her hand and threw it at the man holding his crotch. The knife embedded deep into the barstool between his legs, less than half an inch under his balled up fist, a mere hair's breadth from his balls. He froze in shock, going instantly pale. The quiet murmur of conversation from the few morning patrons stopped, an uneasy silence suddenly filling the taproom as the knife impaled the wood of the barstool with an audible 'thunk'. The elder reacted fast, face twisted in surprise as he reached for the black iron six-shooter at his hip; but Vanity had already pulled it from his holster in a blur of preternatural speed, and the sound of the hammer cocking echoed through the now silent taproom as she pressed the barrell hard under his chin. Her smile dropped a little as her eyes burned into his, which were now wide with fear and shock.
"Listen up, motherfucker. I'm Vanity Fucking Hellsong. Whether or not Vanity means jack to you ain't neither here nor there to me, but I bet sure as the sun rises red that the name Hellsong means something to a mean old shitkicker like you."
She pressed the gun harder under his chin, and the man nodded slowly but surely.
Everyone knew the name Hellsong. Vanity's father Rudolf Hellsong was the most famous monster hunter in all of Tierra Muerta; a true living legend. The Lich-King Ossisoul of Necropolis and the Vampire Lords of Carnifale were even said to fear him. He may have been retired, but his name still carried a weight to it, even out here on the frontier. Vanity smirked at the glimmer of recognition on the elders face as she pressed the gun harder under his chin. "And I'm gonna need for you to put some fucking respect on my name, motherfucker. Just because I'm pretty, doesn't mean I can't handle whatever kinda problem you got. You feel me?"
The man nodded slowly again, perspiration dappling his upper lip. Vanity released the hammer slowly and deliberately, and moved the gun away from the man's chin, spun it on her finger and offered it back to him, black-pearl handle-first. He swallowed hard and took it, hastily re-holstering the weapon. The other two men sat in stunned silence; the one with the knife between his legs fumbled the rifle and it clattered to the wooden floor, breaking the silence in the room.
"Apologies ma'am if I come across disrespectful" the elder said, voice hoarse as he rubbed his chin where the gun had pushed against the stubble covered skin. "My mistake."
Vanity smiled again and slid onto a barstool, motioning to the server, a nervous looking, shirtless young man in tight leather pants who stood frozen behind the bar. Despite his tight, toned physique his youthful good looks belied his youth, eighteen or maybe nineteen at a push she guessed; younger than her. Vanity bet herself this kid got good tips from the women of the town.
"Coffee and eggs, kid. Throw a little whiskey in the coffee." She turned her attention back to the men. "Don't believe I have the pleasure of your names, gents, nor what sorta trouble you'd like me to deal with."
The elder spoke up.
"Rickard Cole. I'm the foreman o' the tin mine, and 'bout as close as you'll find to somebody bein' in charge of the company. These here are Jack and Francis." Jack, who was pulling the knife carefully from between his legs, and Francis, both nodded respectfully. "Trouble is somethin' in the mine that oughtn't be there. Now, we ain't exactly seen it, but we've heard it, and we've seen what it's done to two o' my boys."
"Go on" Vanity cocked an eyebrow, as a wooden cup of hot, thick black coffee with a scent of whiskey was slid to her by the young server. He stayed by her side behind the bar, half listening to Rickards story, half gazing at Vanitys body; the visible outline of his thick, stiffening cock bulged at the tight tan leather of his pants. Vanity sure hoped it was in response to her and not what Rickard was describing. "I know it's tough, but I need to know what you found, in as much detail as you can stomach. Might help me figure out what I'm dealing with."
Rickard sighed.
"Eviscerated is the word you'd use. Buck and Jimmy, may the Radiance rest their souls, met a real bad end. Francis here found 'em torn apart in the newest room they was stripping out. They was naked, clothes torn off, bodies shredded, blood everywhere. Like some sorta animal, but I ain't never seen no animal attack like that." Rickard shuddered and reached for his beer. "Jimmy's head turned all the way around to the back, jaw danglin' like a palm branch after a storm, guts ripped open from collar to cock and smeared across the floor. Buck was decapitated, 'n his legs was broke at the hips like he'd been folded up like a gods-damned butterfly knife, arms torn off... " Rickard took a gulp of his beer and made a protective hand motion of the Church of the Divine Radiance.
"You said you heard it. What sort of sound? Howling? Screeching?" In her mind Vanity was going through the probabilities; Werewolves fitted the description to a point; they were mean, vicious and strong enough to do what Rickard was describing, but the legs and the twisting of the head didn't sound like any Were's she'd fought before; maybe Chupacabras in a large enough pack, one or two wouldn't likely attack two strong men, but a pack hungry or desperate enough might do it.
"Sounded like, y'know when you're hungry" Francis spoke up "and your belly rumbles, but louder, much louder, and lower."
Chupacabras tended to screech and yip. Werewolves howled and growled. Maybe something else in that mine...
"Was the flesh eaten?"
"Wasn't eaten far as we could make out" Rickard continued. "Played-with, maybe you'd call it. I mean, they'd been ripped up and tossed around the room like fuckin' ragdolls."
Vanity sipped her coffee. Something marking its territory. Maybe something that lived in the caverns they were mining... the notion of that rumbling sound put her on edge. Sounded like something diabolical. A Curse-Spitter or a Hook Horror. No mention of acidic burns though, Vanity thought as she slipped her coffee, feeling the heat of the liquid in her chest. Ruled out spitters.
"Any tracks?"
"Didn't see none, but we was hardly stickin' around lookin'. Like I say, Francis found 'em yesterday mornin'; we did a quick sweep and heard the sound, thought to the Seven Hells with this and pulled out what we could o' the bodies and boarded up the mine entrance. We got no standing army and no sherrif. Was plannin' on puttin' a posse together once we got enough men and enough weapons, or maybe blowin' the mine altogether; but then we heard tell you was in town."
