The village was already engulfed in flames by the time Minerva struck the first blow. Her red and black pigtails, slick with sweat and ash, whipped wildly through the air as she spun her axe in a tight, ruthless arc. Embers floated down like fireflies around her, painting the jagged cliffs of the valley in hues of gold and crimson. The metallic clang of her weapon meeting a brigand’s blade reverberated through the chaos, its glimmer reflecting the infernal flames licking at the heavens above.
Minerva’s outfit was unlike anything the villagers had ever seen—and they had reason to stare, even in the midst of the onslaught. A tightly fitted tunic of dyed crimson and obsidian leather clung to her athletic frame, stitched with fine silver embroidery in patterns that seemed to dance with every twist of her body. Her knee-high boots gleamed with blood and soot, while her gauntleted fingers gripped the weapon with feral precision. For all her otherworldly flair, her face remained painted like a jester’s—a mocking, pale visage with fiery red lips and smudged black marks curling like talons around her eyes. She was chaos incarnate, and the battlefield reflected it: a symphony of screams, steel, and smoke.
The skirmish had erupted at the foot of Gallows Rock, a jagged spire looming like a titanic skeletal finger against the cerulean sky. Around its base sprawled the village of Brickhaven, its cobblestone streets now choked with bodies, overturned carts, and livestock fleeing in terror. Minerva leapt onto the edge of a toppled wagon, the black and red tails of her tunic flaring behind her like a banner in the wind. She raised her axe high, her voice ringing out above the fray in a booming, almost gleeful command, “Fall back to the cliffs, you rats! Or let Gallows Rock taste your bones!”
To an outsider, it was impossible to tell which side she was on. Her laughter came like a whipcrack, sharp and cutting, as she vaulted off the wagon and into the fray once more. The brigands hated her almost as much as the villagers feared her—but neither dared oppose her. Not after what she’d done to their captain.
Two Days Earlier
The tavern had been dimly lit, its wooden beams sagging with the weight of centuries and the stink of poorly vented smoke. Minerva had lounged in the corner, boots propped on a rickety table, her twin pigtails trailing down her back in stark defiance of any local fashion. The villagers had whispered behind mugs of mead, afraid to make eye contact with the strange woman in red and black. Her gauntleted hand idly spun a silver coin between her fingers, her painted lips smirking at some joke only she understood.
When the brigands burst in like wolves scenting prey, she hadn’t been the least bit surprised. Their leader, a hulking man with a patchwork hauberk and a face scarred to oblivion, strode into the tavern with a swagger that reeked of overconfidence. His underlings fanned out, pinning villagers against the walls as they barked demands for food, ale, and “entertainment.”
Minerva waited until the leader had grabbed the tavern keeper’s daughter by the arm, dragging her toward the bar with a leer, before she moved. No one saw where the axe had come from—one moment she was reclining, toying with her coin, and the next, a sleek, double-bladed weapon was hurtling across the room. It embedded itself into the brigand leader’s chest with a sickening thud, pinning him to a beam. He made a gurgling noise, eyes wild with confusion, before slumping lifelessly to the floor.
“Well,” she’d said, standing and dusting off her tunic. “Look at that. Guess this party’s got a vacancy for a new captain. Any takers?”
The brigands had hesitated for only a heartbeat before attacking, but by then, it was too late. Minerva was a tempest: all whirling steel and wild laughter. When it was done, only one brigand remained alive, pinned beneath her boot as she leaned down to whisper something in his ear. Moments later, she’d let him crawl out into the night, bloodied and whimpering. The villagers had stared, half in gratitude and half in horror, as Minerva licked a smear of blood from her blade and grinned.
Present Day
At the cliffs of Gallows Rock, the brigands tried to make their stand. Minerva was perched atop the highest crag, silhouetted against the shimmering night sky. Metallic spheres circled above her like an orbiting halo, their surfaces gleaming as they reflected the firelight below. The strange artifacts—trophies she’d taken from some forgotten ruin—hovered silently, pulsating with an energy that was both hypnotic and malevolent, like they shared her boundless appetite for destruction.
With a dramatic sweep of her hand, the spheres launched forward, careening into the brigands’ ranks with devastating force. The ground beneath them trembled as explosions of light and sound sent their formation scattering. Minerva descended the crag like a bird of prey, her axe slashing through flesh and sinew with merciless precision.
As the last brigand fell, the battered villagers emerged from their hiding places, gazing at her in cautious reverence. Minerva wiped her blade clean on a scrap of cloth, her painted face breaking into a triumphant grin. “Don’t thank me,” she said, her voice teasing as she tossed her axe onto her shoulder. “I didn’t do it for you.”
And with that, she turned and began walking away, the metallic spheres falling into orbit around her once more. The villagers watched her go, the flames of their ruined homes casting long shadows behind her, until she disappeared into the horizon like a specter of chaos and vengeance.
Some say Minerva was a demon, others a desperate soul playing both sides in a game too dangerous for mortals. Whatever the truth, one thing was certain: where she danced, the world burned.
Genre: Dark Fantasy
The Source…check out the article that inspired this amazing short story: Harley Quinn Red and Black Latex Cosplay: Chaos, Style & Inspiration
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