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[ In A Corner ]
Seems like everyone else has a place to write. So. Do forgive me if things are rough around the edges.
Dreary
It's a small shiver.
An ache. An emptiness. I don't know where it comes from, or what it wants from me. Time after time, these feeling creep Always returning Never quite fading Reminding me of what follows me. Loneliness, perhaps, is an exaggeration. I need only open my eyes to see the source of warmth by my side. I know this. I always have. Yet I always shut them again Returning to the darkness To the cold To that small shiver, reminding me of where I am And where I've been. |
Again
The first light that I saw in far, far too long was the sun's reflection, shining brilliantly off of the building I was told I would be calling home. It was gorgeous. Taller than I'd ever seen, I had to crane my neck to try and see the top. It did no good; its windows shone so perfectly, it was like trying to look straight into heaven.
I shook my head, ridding myself of the passing thought. Up the stairs and to the door, I could hardly wait to see inside. That was when I saw it. Stuck to an alabaster column, just out of reach of the outside, the timer stared me down. I froze. This had to be some joke, didn't it? Yet the simple, hastily attached box remained, mocking the perfection of everything around it. The numbers died off, one by one, and I ran. I had to find that man. He would know what to do. He could find help, before I, before anyone, could get hurt. We were ushered into another building. I didn't even know there were so many people. I'd hardly seen a soul when I was out there, there in front of the building I had admired. I looked on, along with the others I did not know, peering through the glass between us and the outside. It was a boy that we watched near the building. Though he was covered in all the gear expected to keep him safe, it was too obvious that he was little more than a child himself. It didn't feel right to watch, and yet that was exactly what I did. He hardly had the chance to open the doors before I was gripped by fear. She stood beside me, one that I didn't remember, but knew that I loved. I grabbed her and yanked her to the ground with me just as the explosion broke the utter silence around us. The windows shattered as our shelter shook, countless slivers of glass torn free from their confines and straight into the bodies of those around us. The only scream I heard came from the woman I held, but when I looked down at her face, she was already gone, replaced by a corpse that might have reminded me of her, had I not seen her just moments before. It was that man that pulled me away from it all. As others ran, he led me to a small room, in which a single trunk sat. He pushed it aside and opened a door right in the floor, reassuring me all the while. I followed him down familiar stairs and into the dark. God, please, let this be the last time. |
Panic
Every day,
It's always the same. That same nag. That same urge. That same feeling. I'm sick of it. I'm tired, and I'm sick. I can't take it. It's easy to be. God knows, it's easy. Everyone does it. It's nothing special. You're nothing special. It's hard to be good. No one notices when you are, But it's damn hard to do. Every evening, It eats away at me. I do what I think is right, But what do I hear? "Why are you so cruel?" If only they knew what they did. I'll always forgive them, Because I'll always hate myself. |
It's no secret, I've been obsessed with superheroes as of late. It's not so much the idea of being able to do, well, practically anything you want that I find alluring. Rather, it's all the hardships those people face from just what they are, or because they choose to go out there and help others. So, the next couple of pieces are writings I did to get a feel for the changes my main OC has taken in fitting into this role that I've given him.
Not So Heroic After All
“Mr. Gallagher?” His fingers twitched, but his eyes remained tightly shut against the voices piercing their way into his mind. Just how long had he been on the ground? He couldn’t remember. Each of his breaths was getting to be more difficult, and accompanied by a sickeningly wet sound. He heard his name again, but gave no reply, hoping that, maybe, if he just kept quiet, they would go away. He focused on the pain filling his body, wanting nothing more than to let it consume his thoughts as it had for every nerve. As soon as one of the paramedics touched him again, it did just that, taking his consciousness with it.
Kier didn’t wake until long after he was in recovery. At only nineteen, he had broken his ribs for the sixth time, his leg for the third, his arm for the second, and his spine for the first. He would be told how close he came to becoming paralyzed for the rest of his life, but he would find that he didn’t care. He would even recover in record time, returning to work pain free after only two months, despite what his doctor had told him. When he fell for a second time, he would go in with his other arm broken in two places, and a fractured scapula. By the third, he would walk away with nothing but a few bruises and a hell of a headache. This was the existence he was rapidly growing accustomed to, and it scared the shit out of him. Kier had learned quickly not to fear pain. In fact, if he weren’t forced to endure it, he might have never found out that he was different from others… or, more so than he thought. As it was, he already looked strange. While his two-toned hair was ignored fairly easily as a rather poor dye job, his mismatched eyes were harder to explain, and the random alabaster spots adorning his skin nearly impossible to lie about. These things, utterly impossible for him to have caused himself, were the exact reasons why he’d been treated as scum by so many of the people he encountered. After all, ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ never really applied to printing mistakes, did it? As it usually goes, the boy’s powers didn’t appear until his early teens; even then, no one had a clue that anything was amiss, least of all Kier. If it hadn’t been for the far too common beatings from his so called ‘mentor’, an older young man that had decided to take advantage of the boy’s naivety, it might have taken him many more years to figure there was anything more to him to begin with. He’d thought that he’d just been getting used to the pain. It didn’t seem like that strange of an idea. As the weeks went by, however, the bruises seemed to take less and less time to heal. He could still remember the first time that he looked in the mirror, knowing full well that he’d been ‘punished’ just the day before, but found that the only marks left on his body were the last remnants from the week before. Sadly, he was far from the only one to notice. Instead of questioning it like Kier had, however, the older boy only took it as a sign that more force was needed to get through to him. It started a downward spiral that landed the odd young man in the hospital more than once; it was only after the fourth time that he told the truth about what he had been going through. His body would heal, leaving only a light scar on his left shin and a little finger that was straighter than natural for him, but the damage to his mind had already been done. Even when he was free from his torment, the young man became reckless, no longer caring for his own safety. It was no wonder then that during one of his hospital stays, not long after he had left his home and the country that witnessed his coming of age, he would let himself become addicted to one of the drugs he was given. It was amazing. It made him feel better than he had in years. The best part was how easy it was to get. With as many accidents as he had had, how many bones he had broken through the years, and as many surgeries he’d undergone, none of the doctors he visited questioned the legitimacy of his claims of pain. The rest that he needed to get his fix, he just bought off the streets; it was laughable how cheap they were compared to other drugs. The more that his use went up, the less Kier cared about what happened to him. In fact, it was one evening as he prepared his next dose before work that he’d started to enjoy thinking about his next ‘accident’. Take Me Home
"All my memories gathered 'round her, Miner's lady, stranger to blue water-" Kier paced the small stretch of floor beneath him, his heavy boots clacking loudly with every step, and his voice echoing off of the silver walls as he sang softly to himself. Step, step, turn, step, step, what floor was he on now? Smoothing his hands over his white shirt — white would look lovely with the red, like a painting, really, it was the perfect choice — he double checked that they were snugly tucked into his roughed up jeans, looking up to check the lighted display over the metal doors. Only five - no, six! It wasn't climbing fast enough. He should have just taken the stairs, he would have been on the twentieth by now. Step, step, turn.
It was alright, it wouldn't be long now. He just had to be patient. It was worth it."Dark and dusty, painted on the sky. Misty taste of moonshine-" He looked up again. Another floor. Only thirty-three left to go. "Teardrops in my eye-" What was that next line? He couldn't seem to remember. As he paced, he started from the beginning, hoping that it might jog his memory. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. He ran his hands back through his hair, restlessly fixing it time and time again until, finally, he was just too frustrated with the just above shoulder length locks to even bother. When he looked up to the numbers again, he grinned; only one floor left to go. "I hear her voice, in the mornin' hours she calls me. The radio reminds me of my home far away-" Somehow, he couldn't help but laugh as the elevator dinged, its doors opening to the roof of the building. Without hesitation his gaze went to the edge. He didn't move at first, simply grinning from ear to ear. When the doors tried to close, however, he lifted a hand to stop them and slowly stepped out. Kier didn't even bother looking around to see if anyone else was out on the roof. It didn't matter. Even if anyone had been there, he wouldn't have heard them. His mind was set on only one thing. He ran for it, his grin lingering all the while as his foot met the small ledge and past it. In the brief instant of utter weightlessness that he felt, he wondered whether anyone down on the streets would take notice. It didn't last long before fear gripped him once more; not for what was about to happen, but what might if it didn't. |
Suppose I should actually say something here. ;)
The way you put your sentences together shows a lot of creativity -- they're not just your run-of-the-mill 'this happened, then that happened' descriptions; they actually build an atmosphere just with the way the words are arranged, and lend a distinct voice to your narrative. You might be surprised how rare it is to see that. So good job. :) I think that's one of the things a lot of aspiring writers miss, that when you think about building character, the way the story is actually told can go a long way toward establishing their personality, especially in 1st-person. It's something I really like to see, hence, impressed. |
I'm glad that you think so. I try and put a lot of thought into the way that I word myself. Having the proper tone means a lot to me. I'd like to do more practice with that, so I can do a wider variety in my writing.
In any case. A new addition for today. Reality
Fear, it seems, is a most vicious of monsters. There is no hiding from it. It can always find you. It knows exactly where to look. There is no running from it. It's like your shadow, following your every move, even if you don't notice it. There is no defeating it. Not forever, that is. It always returns. No matter what you do to it, no matter what you say to it, it returns. It might just be in a way you haven't seen before.
Fear. It has a way of sinking into our bones. The worst of pains do not come from pain itself. Pain is something that, by our very nature, we forget the instant it's gone. Fear, however, lingers in us, reminding us that, though we might not remember that pain, it is there. It waits for us to slip. What we want to be secure, to last forever, rarely do. What we want to disappear always returns, clinging to our fears as it chases us. I'm tired of being afraid, but fear is the only truth I know. |
I'm no good as a critic of writing, but I know when it's good! I love your shorts about Kier, is he from an RP? I'd love to see more about him.
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He's my primary roleplay character, and the one my avatar is based off of, too. My current signature is a section from him... -chuckles- He pretty much makes up my entire world. I don't have much else that's actually worth posting from him though. Except, I guess, a little peek into his head in a different universe than those other selections were done for... Actually, I might want to do more pieces like this. I have a lot of fun with them.
Lies
Look what you’ve done now.
You didn’t mean to. Didn’t mean to? That’s a laugh. It was just an accident. Sitting at a familiar desk, in a familiar room, on an otherwise ordinary day, an utterly insignificant and unimpressive act had suddenly sent the two-toned young man’s mind into a dark, chaotic spiral. An accident? Now that is rich. Well, it was. Just an accident, nothing more. Do you honestly believe that? There’s nothing else to believe. Oh, is that so? … It’s not even that bad. You’re fine. Kier had bitten his finger. It was an utterly insignificant and undoubtedly unconscious act that had left nothing more than redness and telltale indentations in his skin. There wasn’t even a single drop of blood to show for it. You’re in pain. There was little more than a dull throb and a strange but not unpleasant tickle as his flesh slowly righted itself. That’s wrong. You wanted it to hurt. You’re not like that. You don’t do that. Are you still trying to tell yourself it was an accident? Stop it. You’re pathetic. Shut up! Oh, so sorry, did you want to go back to the silence? It’s not- He was suddenly aware of his own hands. One was stiff, pen in hand, rapidly tapping against the desk with no rhythm whatsoever. There wasn’t enough control for rhythm in the simple, urgent need to make some sort of sound, anything that would fill the gap. The other had found its way back to his mouth. Who do you think is doing that? You are. No. You are. No, you’re not. You. Don’t. Do. That. His brows furrowing, he balled his hand into a fist, tight enough for seemingly every one of the small muscles to ache. He bit his lip, his hand trembling there near his face, then brought it down against the desk, the edge of it ramming right into his wrist, and yet, the entire gesture was pitiful. It didn’t even do enough to make the markers strewn across his desk move a single inch. Don’t you? … That’s right. You should be ashamed. You’re weak. I-it’s alright- It’s not that bad. It was an accident. You want to do it again. You don’t. You’re stronger than that. Are you? It took some effort, but he loosened his fist, light, fresh indentations already formed in a line across his palm. What will Bee think? He’ll forgive you. Will he? After how much you already put him through? He doesn’t mind, he tells you so… Just like you don’t mind when he hurts your feelings? He means well. That’s what matters. You know that. Speaking of which, where is he now? He looked over his shoulder, as if to look at the door, but his gaze didn’t quite make it. Perhaps because he simply didn’t have the will to turn, or perhaps because he didn’t want to risk seeing him there, waiting. It was ridiculous, thinking that he would, yet the thought was there. You know where he is. You know it can’t be helped. Can’t be helped indeed. It’s good for him to get away from you and your bullshit. Kier looked back down to his desk, at the papers he’d been working on. What makes you think you should be forgiven? What have you done to earn it? Well- You don’t have an answer. You just need a chance to think. You know it’s there. You’re a liar. You aren’t. You never have been. The click of the door sounded somewhere behind him. Bee- Why stop now? You can hide it from him. He flexed his fingers, the tapping of his pen slowing significantly. This isn’t right- He never has to know. You won’t need to be forgiven if he doesn’t know. Light, familiar footsteps, coming closer. Kier set the tip of his pen to his paper, as if he’d been writing. His other hand fell into his lap. You could do it again. As much as you want. He doesn’t have to know. Stop! You don’t need this, you don’t want this- Then stop biting your lip. The sound of things being set down, a flicker of movement just out of the corner of his eyes, and the feeling of being watched all weighed heavily against him. He did just as his own thoughts had said, hoping that the other young man hadn’t caught the reoccurring habit. The last thing he wanted right now was to be scolded again. Admit it. Admit it, and you can stop feeling bad about it. Don’t… “Kier…?” His companion’s familiar voice, gentle, unsure. It brought the faintest of sad smiles to his lips. He doesn’t need more worries. And you need whatever release you can get. He looked up and over to the man now right beside him, only just noticing the hand on his own shoulder. Bee… Sorry- “Welcome back, Preston… How was class-?” … It wasn’t an accident. |
It's ten in the morning.
My head won't keep quiet. The Song
Desperate
Passion An embodiment of everything you are In one moment One line One word Give it all that you have Now is not the time to hesitate It's swelling Ready to burst Desperate This feeling of nothing This feeling of everything This isn't who you are This is who you want to be So let it out There's nothing to forgive Let me hear it in your voice It's your moment It's waiting |
o.o I love your work. You probably outrank me in the writing department. I want to read more! <3 Well done!
I'm jealous of your poemy skills... |
I usually end up writing poems on the fly as a quick release, honestly. Stories I usually get done in a 2 hour or so period, otherwise I don't come back to them... I have a bad habit of that...
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I have that habit too... which is certainly not helping with the three novels I have on the go. =.= or the fact that my deadline for the latest one is the end of july is I want it published... </3
... I seriously have to start working on that more. And writing for release is what writing's all about, really! |
... Wow. That sounds like you took on quite a bit there.
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Yup. Not to mention trying to find a job and trying to get good grades in school... It's a wonder I stay sane.
... I say as I waste half my day on here. Bad Cecily. <_<;; |
-snickers- Very bad indeed.
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We'll just say that this is my therapy or something and leave it at that. xD *sneaky eyes*
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Uh huh. I'm so sure.
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Hey, at least I'm not out... doing silly things, or something. I'm just being lazy at my computer...
Speaking of being out, it's so sunny today... haven't had that in weeks. Might go for a walk with my puppy before I have to leave... //rambling |
Let's see. How can I put this eloquently....
GALLAFACE U SO GOOD. D: <3 |
Dudebro, idk wtf you talkin' about.
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I said.
You so good. At writing. PAY ATTENTION GALLAFACE. D: <3 jk ily. |
Nah, bro. You got yourself mixed up or sumfin'.
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Cold-shoulder
Fear twists in his chest as he stares ahead, a figure talking down to him with a sneer. He looks not to their face; no, he is on his knees, as he deserves to be. He trembles, fueling the other on, but he can't control himself. Louder. Always louder.
All it takes is one hit, the crack of flesh against flesh, and his eyes fall to the floor. He is still. They are still. It drips to the floor, parting their silence. He is still. He doesn't need to look up. "Don't." He is ignored. One Message
Her voice always calls to me, telling me what I need to hear. Sometimes, I wonder, does she see what it means? I never change. Nothing ever changes. We're on a decline, and she keeps fighting. When night comes, that sound is the only one I hear. Hello. Are you feeling better? I'm sorry.
I'm sorry. Please, don't talk to me that way. I'm sorry. I don't mean to do this. Don't leave. Don't leave me. All unspoken. Hours pass. She's still there. I give so little, yet she always offers much. Dawn comes. I don't know why I am awake. I didn't say goodbye. I let her sleep. But I want to hear it again. Hello. I'm sorry. |
There Are Many Things I'll Talk About, But This Isn't One Of Them
There are days when I doubt myself. Oh yes, I know how I seem. I know what people say, when they point and whisper like children. I may play it off most of the time, but you still feel it. And oh, those days where I slip, even when it surprises you, you knew it was there all along, waiting. I knew it, too. Do you believe that?
I fear I'm growing bitter. I find myself wondering if there's such a thing as love, only to realize nothing else explains how I feel. And yet... There are those days. Those days when it threatens to overwhelm me, and I wonder... How can this be real? When we live in a world of finite resources, how can I suffer from something so vast, so endless, so eternal? Perhaps it isn't what I think it is. Perhaps this life I lead has left more scars than I've been aware of. Perhaps... you've already seen them, and I've been the blind one. It seems, in my quest to know the world, I've forgotten myself. Ironic, isn't it? All I seek are chances to help others, and to continue refining my talents. If I had known such a simple dream could bring such misery! ... No, I don't suppose that's fair. I wish I had known I could grow distant from something I always enjoyed. I can only pray that, should I be lucky enough to find my passion once more, I'll be strong enough to bear it. |
TODAY, my dear writing friends, we are going to pull up old things from years ago. About 6 years, to be specific.
Why? Because we can. Heaven
From the deep sea of despair,
My soul is born into a cruel world. They scream and try to break through the water, And I reach out to them, my heart becoming unfurled. I grab hold of them, and pull them out, Finding my baby cold and barely alive.. I embrace them, never wanting to let go.. For I know, I need them to survive.. The rhythem of that small heart begins to slow, And I feel the darkness lean in for its final kiss. My universe dissapears so swiftly, As we are taken to our bliss. Wings
This feeling I get when we touch,
The shivers that I have learned to embrace.. I am the one that you clutch, Though your hands don't leave a single trace.. My angel, my flame, my love.. Your wings become my own, and we fly away. And we rise to the breaking point and above.. As glass falls down and shatters, we still play. My darling, my lock, my one.. Never let these wings fail, never let this dream fade.. I'll hold you until my life and soul come undone.. As long as you hold me, I'll never be afraid.. Take me away, take me by your side. Let us be together, like we are now. Our passion, our flames, will never subside. I'll love you, my angel.. This I vow.. Untitled #1
I`m an angel about to fall,
Leaning closer and closer to the edge. Please, pull me from this brawl That brings me nearer to my ledge. Don`t hurt me, don`t push me Not when I`m here on the line. My love, won`t you hear my plea? Don`t you remember that you were once mine? Let`s go back to those days When we were in love. Our hearts were one maze And our voices one dove. Yet falling and screaming now, I only see your smile. If only I had known how Things had turned so vile. Untitled#2
If I had a thousand years
To tell you how i feel, I could never find the words To make my dreams be real. If I said to you those words, What would you say to me? If I held you in my arms, What would come to be? As I gather strength this night To share my heart with you, I wonder if you'll finally Make my dreams come true. Untitled #3
If I had one tear to shed,
It would be for you. If I had a single breath, I'd call out your name. If I could share my soul, You'd always see something new. If you were mine and I were yours, Then I would take the blame. Hold me now, my dearest one, Say those words to me. Show me what I've wanted most, Show me what I need. Never let me out your sight, Never leave me be. Lie me down and make me yours, And I will let you lead. |
I have more goodies from my favorite boo, Kier. This is a snippet from younger days, when we walked five miles to school every day in the rain and snow.
Just Like Football
Standing just outside of the unfamiliar door, he took a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous twist in his stomach. After a moment, he finally reached out, knocking his knuckles against the wood. The door swung open instantly.
“Look what we have here,” the tall boy exclaimed, a wide grin plastered on his face. “I’m just chuffed to bits to see you here, you little minger.” He stepped aside, casting an arm out and gesturing toward the middle of the room. Kier gave him a questioning look, but headed past him and into the room, his attention soon shifting as he considered the messy but otherwise dull state of the place. He didn’t notice when the other closed and locked the door behind him. “Listen close now, hm?” Slowly turning to gaze up at the young man, Kier raised his brows slightly, as if to tell him to go on. “Good. Before we can really get started, there are a few rules we have to go over.” “Rules-? Just what kind of rules?” “Oh, you know. Just the kind to make sure we don’t have any, well, misunderstandings, aye? We want this whole—” His eyes narrowed, his already large grin widening by another fraction. “—Mentor-pupil thing to go smoothly, don’t we?” “Yes, of course,” the younger agreed, throwing in an enthusiastic nod. “Then belt up and pay close attention. We’ll start simple. You, call me Nev. Never Neville, and never ever Laban.” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - “Get it sorted yet in there?” Neville called from the bedroom. Kier could hear his steps as he approached the bathroom and the light creak of the doorframe as he leaned against it. From his place on his hands and knees, scrubbing one of the sides of the tub, he grunted softly in acknowledgement. “Just a little longer-“ “Hurry it up. You’ve taken too bloody long as it is.” His mismatched eyes fell to his own gloved hands, a small lock of his tied hair falling into his face. “Sorry, Nev- Just trying to do a good job.” Glancing back at the older boy, he offered a small smile, and then turned his attention back to the tub. Reaching over, he turned on the water, rinsing out the sponge he’d been using. When satisfied, he went to washing off the remaining suds from the bath. “Just like always,” Nev commented, sneering despite his pleasant tone. Unable to see his expression, Kier’s own smile warmed slightly at the sound. It wasn’t long before the smaller boy stood again. The brunette looked over his work with little actual care, making a show of letting out a long, low whistle. “Not bad, but I’ll bet you’ll manage better next time, aye?” His brows twitched together for a second, but Kier nodded anyway, tugging off one of the gloves as he headed toward the sink. “Of course. I’ll get it perfect one of these days, just you wait.” He started to remove his other glove as well, only to be stopped by the sound of a clearing throat. “You know better than that,” the large young man said simply, his tone just as pleasant, albeit more commanding. “Right- Yes, sorry-” Making sure to use his gloved hand, he turned on and adjusted the water, then retrieved a squirt of liquid soap from its container and into his uncovered palm. Only then did he awkwardly move to remove the other. Neville watched the entire time as the boy washed his hands, then dried them on his pants instead of the towel easily within his reach. When he went to turn off the water again, however, Nev cleared his throat once again, making him stop. “Ah- S-sorry, I remember-” Kier fished through his pockets, pulling out and on his usual cloth gloves before reaching out to turn off the stream. He tossed the rubber pair away into the trash bin. “There’s a good minger. You’re getting better already.” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - “You’re moving in with me.” “You’re kidding.” Nev merely arched a brow at the boy’s disbelief, but the gesture was enough. “You’re not kidding.” Unamused eyes narrowed. Kier couldn’t stand that look. He turned his own gaze down to the glass in his hands. He suddenly wasn’t quite in the mood for soda. “Sorry,” he mumbled quietly. “I didn’t catch that.” Flat. Succinct. It was as simple as possible yet more than enough. He cleared his throat, his voice becoming more nervous but louder nonetheless. “I’m sorry, Nev. I would be happy to.” He paused, and then asked suddenly, “Why do you want me to-?” “Do I need a reason, minger?” For the first time in their brief conversation, Neville looked up from his tea and the less than family friendly magazine he’d been enjoying. “N-no-” Kier replied quickly, “of course you don’t- I-it’s just- I know that you have one. You always do, and always a good one at that. I’d just like to know what it is this time.” A vague token of approval made the boy’s shoulders relax. “I’m tired of waiting for you every morning. You stay here to start with, it’s not an issue. Easy enough for you, aye?” “Yes, Nev. Thank you.” |
Say it with me now.
Writing other things does not get what I need to write done. Writing other things does not get what I need to write done. Writing other things does not get what I need to write done. Better
There’s so much to do…
I’ve thought about it, every now and then. That is to say, the thought crossed my mind, before I brushed it away. It’s almost the same thing, really. Just… not quite. It’s a frightening thought. I know I’m not like others. It’s an understatement, really. Preston. I wonder when he’ll be back. It’s been a while… No, I suppose it hasn’t. I miss him. But it hasn’t been too long. It’s alright. There’s no need to worry. I wonder what we’ll be doing tonight? I should come up with some ideas. It would be a nice surprise. What was I doing? I did it again. Oh, right. The thought has crossed my mind before. I don’t know how many times. I don’t know why I ignore it. It seems like it would be important. I think I’m afraid. Huh… What a strange shiver… What if I’m crazy? No, I don’t think I am… Wait, they never think they are, do they? I wouldn’t hurt anyone, at least. Not myself, either. Liar. Well… Not anymore, I think. Why would I? Everything’s fine now. Everything’s perfect. Except me. But that’s alright. I don’t need to be. No one does. No one can be. Do I want to be? It wouldn’t make me happy. I know that. ‘Perfect’ isn’t me. It was never supposed to be. And I like me. I want to be me. I just want to be… better. My head hurts. Maybe I should take it easy on the reading for a while. Better. Yeah… I think I’ll do that. What does ‘better’ mean? A better person? A better man? A better me? Is it all the same? What’s wrong with me in the first place? |
We are very good at not finishing what we should be.
We are not proud of this fact. We have something from a different character this time! Not only that, but also involving characters that aren't my own. This fella has a... let's say limited emotional range. And a fondness for forcing his version of justice on people. Something About Him Bonus: translation
There was always something about that boy.
He went through the items in his bag, one by one, making sure that everything was there and in place. His tools were always the same, no matter what the occasion, but he knew they would be put to different use. As tedious as it was, reorganizing before he arrived would make everything smoother. Logically, there shouldn’t have been. There were plenty like him in the school alone. There was nothing special about him. Nothing that made him stand out at all. He grasped a small mirror by its edges, his hold firm enough for him to feel it biting into his skin, but careful enough to make sure that no blood was drawn. He tilted it just so, checking for imperfections on its smooth surface. The reflection of the boy, sitting on his bed just behind him, made his movements stop for the briefest of moments. His talents were few and unrefined. His demeanor left something to desire, to say the least. Dean looked away when he saw that he’d been caught watching, his attention falling to the cold bugne in his hands. More were in a box on his desk, treats sent from home, an apology from the family that quite obviously had no intention of paying a visit on the one day they were allowed to. The fact that they were brothers was trivial. He shifted the mirror just slightly, a subtle movement that allowed him to glance at the other bed. The heavy boy upon it was scowling to himself, a rather hefty bruise visible on his arm as he flipped through a magazine. Malcolm tucked the mirror away. “Comment vas-tu?1” he asked suddenly, neither of the others in the room questioning who it was directed to. Clayton looked up from his magazine to eye the small boy, who didn’t fail to take notice. This conversation wasn’t for Clay’s ears, and they both knew it. Dean swallowed audibly, swinging a foot just off the edge of the bed. He seemed to have more trouble finding the words than his brother did, though it may simply have been because of his nervous nature making things more difficult. “Co-comme ci, comme ça.2” No, there had always been something else that fascinated Malcolm and made him feel for the boy where even blood bonds could not. When the eldest offered only a grunt of a reply, Dean fidgeted in place, an unasked question clearly on his mind. “Qu’est-ce que c’est, Sprog?3” “Tu vas où?4” the boy asked suddenly, only looking at his brother for a second before he averted his gaze. Perhaps it was the sense of innocence he managed to maintain, despite the sorts of people that were usually around him. Malcolm shook his head as he closed his bag, casually slinging it onto his shoulder. “T'inquiète pas. Je serais de retour.5” He turned, taking the few short steps to stand just beside Dean. As he set a hand lightly on his shoulder, the boy only looked up as far as the man’s chest. “Quelle heure est-il?6” Or, perhaps it was the natural kindness he held, something which Malcolm, more often than not, could only pretend to have. “Heure?” Dean repeated, thrown off by the abrupt redirection. He frowned, looking for the nearest clock, until he remembered the watch on his wrist. “Right. Quarter of seven.” It was something he didn’t want to lose, even if it wasn’t his to begin with. “Good.” He leaned down and, without warning, placed a kiss on the boy’s head. Despite being the closest person there was to Malcolm, Dean was visibly surprised by the tender gesture. Though he heard a less than pleased scoff from behind him, the man’s attention remained on his brother, who by now was positively beaming. It brought a small smile to his own lips. Perhaps that was why he went out of his way to protect it, even when Dean didn’t even know something was amiss. “I’ll be back soon,” Malcolm assured again, heading out the door. No sooner had he shut it that he heard Clayton’s voice, muffled behind the wood and apparently none too happy. Either way, a quick kick back against the door managed to shut up the young man inside. It was a job he’d grown to love.
1. How are you?
2. So-so. 3. What is it? 4. Where are you going? 5. Don't worry. I'll be right back. 6. What time is it? |
One day, we shall finish writing what we should, and there will be no more starving or homeless, and rainbows will cross the sky on an hourly basis as the heavens smile down on humanity.
... For now, though, another character piece. This time, with a little dose of self-harm. One Day, Life Will Go My Way
It was already afternoon. It wasn't as if Gabriel was in any sort of rush. In fact, he'd already spent far too much time chatting with the man in front of him. He was the owner of one of the two stables this particular town had, and the only one that happened to lie next to an inn. All the same, time was ticking away, and though he'd only just arrived in this relatively quiet place, he had work to do. Out in front of the building, his horse and small covered cart just behind him, the two had been attempting to sort a deal. Simply, he had money, and he needed to make sure there would be room for not only him and his animal companion, but for his belongings as well.
The trouble with this man was, he, like many others in this world, was greedy, and Gabriel had been hoping to keep enough to spare for himself. Unfortunately, it didn't seem things would be working out that way. With a bright smile, he removed several coins from the purse at his belt and handed them over to the man, who offered a grunt and a nod before heading back inside. Gabe watched the door for a moment, then sighed, turning his attention to the mare. "Well. Maybe tomorrow." With at least one thing taken care of, and his purse significantly lighter, the dark haired man led his horse not into the stable, but farther into town. His new goal? To find a suitable spot to, hopefully, earn a little more before the day's end. If his only worry was getting by, he certainly wouldn't have bothered. Sadly, these days he had more on his mind. There were far too many things that needed taking care of, and not nearly enough work as of late. Hell, the last village had little more than some scraped knees and a case of the sniffles. A lot of good that did. The pair eventually came to a stop. As he patted the horse's nose, he took a chance to get his bearings. This area seemed to be his best bet, and he soon figured out why. Not only were there several shops — granted not enough to really call it a market — but a seemingly lively tavern just down the road. Lovely. If all went well, he already knew the first place he'd be going. He grinned brightly to his horse, giving her one last pat. "Let's put on a good show then, shall we?" Gabe put on his best smile, setting aside his worries and frustrations as he hopped up onto the small plank of wood that served as the driver's seat of his cart. Familiar words left his lips as he called out to those passing by. The same enthusiasm, the same promises, the same confidence as he always held, his every movement fluid and punctuating just the right points. Bright eyes watched the passing faces. A few seemed interested, though only a couple enough so to actually stop, and the rest couldn't have cared less. Not that he blamed him. Even he knew how he seemed, just another case of snake oil. What he needed was a good demonstration, and that was just what he gave them, courtesy of the knife at his belt. Slowly rolling one sleeve up, his knife held delicately in the very same hand, Gabe beamed down at the small gathering group. Of course it took such measures to get the attention he needed. Of course most of them would wander off when the thrill was over, shaking their heads and brushing it off as some sort of trick. Of course the ones that would stay would be the young and innocent, with either nothing for him to work with or being so much so that he wouldn't have the heart to ask for what few coins they may have. But what other options were there? "Now," he called, smoothing the rolled fabric at his elbow, "I won't ask that you don't try this yourselves-" Holding his arm out straight, he drew the blade against his skin and down towards the ground. "-But I would suggest keeping it for when I'm around." Without so much as looking at the newly created wound, his smile never quite faded as he flipped the knife back around, keeping it in his hand while freeing a couple fingers. He ran them down the bleeding cut slowly, the bright fluid smearing and dripping down onto the ground. Just as smoothly as he had performed the display, he retrieved a cloth tucked at his belt and wiped the mess away. No sooner had the skin been revealed unblemished that a mix of mutters and whispers greeted him. "So then. Who's interested in an end to their suffering?" For a long moment, it seemed as though his question would go unanswered, despite the lengths he went to. He arched a single dark brow as he watched a portion of the already small group. Lovely, this town looked to be as bad as the last. The first to step forward was an older couple, the woman looking far too pale and delicate as she held her husband's arm. Tucking his things back away to his belt, Gabe hopped gracefully down from his impromptu stage, offering a softer smile to them. "She's been ill for days, but nothing's helped." "Ah." He nodded, looking the woman over. "Pretty little thing like this? Let's see what I can do, shall we?" He gestured toward the back of the cart, moving to tug its cover off part of the way. "We don't have much." He shook his head without hesitation and waved the man off. "First customer of the day. I don't need a thing. Come now, let's get her feeling better." |
This fell out of my brain earlier.
I'm not giving it a title.
I don't know what it is that wakes me, the night cold, thunder calming. I don't know if I was asleep in the first place. I remember watching the ceiling, and the shadows that curled there. I remember reaching out in the tangle of my sheets, fumbling for some sort of comfort. Without seeing, I filled the near silence of it all with songs long since memorized.
But I find they only bring tears to my eyes. I tremble, those shadows curling and joining in the corners of my eyes. I'm afraid to blink, I yank on my clothes, and fall into a cold, familiar seat. I don't know what to do. No one is here, but I have to speak. I try, and I can't find words. I stop between lines, trembling, illuminated by my only escape in these hours. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. Does anyone see me here? It's getting colder. |
I have interesting nightmares.
Tricks
The house was full, packed with odds and ends from the last hundred years at least. I knew my family was scattered within it, too, but I didn't have time to worry about them. The beasts were among us, watching our every move, prepared to do whatever it took to stop our escape. I remembered this. As impossible as it was, I remembered this, and I knew our enemy.
I only wish I could say that would have helped us. We were scavanging the room for supplies. Not to survive. Not to fight. Getting out was the only thing that mattered. But there was nothing here, only distractions. The door burst open, a wave of shadows flooded in, the forms of monsters blended together, impossible to tell one from another, let alone how many there were. We ran, myself and my friend through the opposite door, my brother through the side. When they went after him, we knew he was lost. Bicycles stacked halfway to the ceiling filled the next room. It wasn't what we had in mind, but we were out of time. Each of us took what we could, what was in reach without being tangled in the limbs of its bretheren, or on the edge of decay. We could only leave the way we'd come, and hope the shadows were still busy feeding. Past door after door after door, not daring to follow any screams, acknowledge any eyes, give heed to any movement. Outside, what remained of those we loved waited patiently. Few had found their escape like we had, but it was more than we could have possibly hoped for. There was hardly time to take count before we heard him. To say it was a laugh that made the ground tremble and that old house shake on its foundations would have been almost believable. It was certainly the closest any beast could come. The Rabbit was here. The Rabbit was free. The Rabbit was tired of playing. We took to the streets and rode. I led them all, knowing what none of us should have, knowing the only place we might be safe. I never heard any screams, any crashes, any cries. There was only the thump, thump, thump, closer and closer, and the chatter of insects, chasing their queen, absorbing everything they touched into their numbers. There, up ahead, a street lamp. That was it. I turned the wheel and skid, the asphalt giving way to mud, the clouds to endless blue, the noise to silence. I stopped, I turned, I met the eyes of The Rabbit, its eyes as bright as its children were black, long ears set back against its massive body, its form almost like any other hare. We stood in silence. They were gone. Everyone I knew. All that had hunted them. We were alone, The Rabbit and I. I never wondered, "Why me?" I didn't have to ask, "What now?" I already knew, among those impossible things I never should have. I already knew. All proper warrens have their chief, after all. |
No comments.
cold fingers, hot blood
sweat dust and dark, suffocating a melody screaming it's not enough
There's comfort in it, a twist of the fingers, metal on metal, scratching, creaking, broken. Clean skin ruining itself, smooth against dents and ridges, rust flaking off in pieces. It clings like glitter, something insignificant, beloved in childhood and a mere annoyance as age wears. It's just the opposite. A mark of life, of strength, of sanity itself, falling apart so slowly, so painfully. There's comfort in it, helping the process along. Wearing away to the very bone.
A terrible thing in finding love is those moments when you realize how alone you are without them.
You should know better by now. Suffering alone is so melodramatic. |
A selection from a roleplay that I'm especially proud of. I'm hoping to write a story for this universe in the near future.
Books littered the floor. More sat neglected on shelves. The room smelled of dust and, of course, himself. He forgets, sometimes, how much time his scent has had to permeate every inch of his quarters. It's stale, but not quite dirty, not yet. It would be, in a few days time, if he didn't behave. But even if he sat for a week, he wouldn't be bothered. Their punishment wouldn't work. That didn't keep him from noticing.
He'd been cleaned up the night before, several of them were, from what he'd understood. They had to be presentable, ready to offer themselves to scrutinizing eyes, hands, mouths — stop, stop that, don't think about it, think of anything else — his damned arm was itching again. Though he was covered with a thin, comfortable sweater, his arms were folded behind his back, tied into place with a far too elegant strip of fabric. It pulled his sleeves just slightly too tight, making the hidden tubing above the crook of his elbow press and rub whenever he moved the wrong way. Or at all. This, too, was punishment. Needing to request help to do anything for himself. Maybe if he hadn't fought against the new line — too new, the itch wouldn't go away, and his shoulders were getting sore — maybe then he would have been given more privacy. Never away from the cameras, oh no, but cameras could hardly leap from the walls and stop him, could they? His door opened. His number was called. He didn't look up. They always used a number, at least for him, he hardly knew about the others. But this was good, oh yes. They didn't know his name, and he wasn't about to tell them. They couldn't take it away. Another call, closer. It was his, and so was his mind, they weren't taking it away, oh no, not yet, no matter how- Pinstriped pants and black heels strolled into his view. "You look a wreck-" Obviously, what else could be expected? "-They were supposed to put you in something decent. I knew someone was gonna ask for you." Don't look up, don't react, but it was hard and his heart was hammering. She still heard it, they always could, but she moved away. Don't panic. It wasn't as if he hadn't done this before. Breathe, fighting now would make it worse. "Get up then! We can still fix you up if you hurry." If there's no struggling, no shouting, no shoving. "You want to make a good impression, don't you?" Those long legs stopped before him again, and this time, he did look up, up from his spot on the only rug covering the cold floor. Her smile was tight, an arm now filled with stiff pieces of clothing. "I'll let you do it yourself, if you make it quick." He stared up at her, stared and watched, for ages, for an eternity, but she was perfect stone. His gut knotted as he gave a jerk of a nod. Ten minutes later had him on his feet, watching an unfamiliar man in a glassless mirror. His hair was cut short, shorter than he'd liked, but it was still just long enough for its neglect to show in kinks. He looked older, god, so much older than he remembered, though it wasn't just that. It was like he'd been sick for so long — he supposed he still was, in a way. Thinning. Yellowing. But still strong, even he had to admit that. Maybe it showed better now, with less weight to cover it. Then again, really, how could he not be when all there was to do was either sit or move? His gaze drifted down. The suit was stuffy and didn't fit him quite right. Cheap, but old and in good condition. His arm still itched terribly under his sleeves, but the cause of it didn't show. It was simple, all in all, just a safe, boring gray. He couldn't stand the tie, she'd tried to make him, but that had ended with him pinned to the floor with an ache at the back of his head. It left his neck and collar exposed. Almost like freckles, small scars were scattered across the visible skin, only standing out from the real ones by the fact that they were lighter. Movement in the reflection, his attention shifted instantly. The woman stood by the door, toying with a long strip of fabric between her hands. "Finished?" She started towards him, and his stomach gave a jerk. No, no, no, his shoulders still ached, he was already bruised, it wasn't enough time to himself. He spun around, to argue or fight he didn't know, and it hardly mattered. He was escorted out of his room with his arms bound much too tightly. His fingers tingled, and so did the side of his head. Somehow, though, the woman had been able to spare his clothes, and it took little more than some straightening and dusting to tidy him back up. He'd never understand how they could always pull that off. Past heavy doors, across the empty yard — empty, but surrounded by impossibly tall hedges, even out here it felt like just another room — and into the front building. He knew the way well, it had only taken one trip to be etched into his mind. Breathe, keep calm, what was that bitch muttering now? It didn't matter. He was led into one of the few private rooms. His first impression was that the one awaiting him looked just like the rest of them. It was odd, then, that his first real thought was that something seemed different. He didn't know what different was. He'd seen different, and it had been bad, very bad, but this was a different different. She was talking again; he didn't hear. The door shut behind him. Keeping at his tallest, his arms useless, his feet apart just enough to assure his stance was steady, his eyes alight, and his heart nevertheless banging at his ribs, he watched, and he waited. |
damn, i think this snippet may just bother me until i can get more out of you. i really wan to know who this boy is and why he is where he is and /what/ he is being made to do(it sounds like some form of fashion prison but too much like a sensationalized insane asylum)
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Ahahaha, no, not even close. This one is more violent than that. xD
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I've been feeling like my skills are rusty.
The day hadn't yet begun. His breath froze upon leaving his lungs, the white puffs glowing beneath yellow tinted street lamps. Kier hated being up this early. It only brought back memories of panics and highs and hangovers. Months now since he'd last woken in his own filth, with bottled companions and an ache down to his very core for something he couldn't even fathom. Weeks since he'd last dared to think that was all behind him.
Days since he'd run out of things left to be done. Stuffing his hands beneath his arms, Kier scanned a familiar scene. Cramped houses were giving way to weed filled lots. Not long ago, a sparse few days perhaps, they would have been coated in frost. It might have even been lovely, as far as parasites went. Now they only looked pathetic. Struggling to survive when they had already been ravaged. The road curved, and Kier followed. Just ahead, railroad tracks crossed his path, looking more neglected than he remembered. Still, he was brought back to crashing metal, shattered glass, fear and hope forced together into a nauseating mess. To horrified, furious, pitying eyes, and the easy lies that came after. He wasn't in his right mind then, but now, now he could appreciate it. This was poetic. A death he could be proud of. Kier huffed and shifted his weight from one side to the other, peering down the tracks. He checked his watch. More than enough time. Stepping to the center of the railway, he walked. Had this been a different time, he would have felt light, a strange sense of relief cementing his choice. This was different. Even now, a voice told him that it wouldn't work. Why should it? When had anything gone right for him? He thought of late nights and butterflies. Bruises and gunshots. Shivering, Kier tightened his arms around himself. Thoughts like that were worse than the sudden collapses of insecurities, when it would flood every inch of his mind in an instant, impossible to pull apart. Impossible to inspect every detail of just how wrong it was. How wrong he had been. A whistle howled in the distance. Eyes turned up to the sky. Clear now, with only a soft dusting of clouds. The sun spilt its color across a dull horizon, reaching and stretching over all in sight. It was just what Kier had hoped to see before there was nothing but screeching breaks in his ears and rattling gravel beneath his feet. The seconds dragged on, his nerves coiling tighter and tighter. He only had to resist the urge to run for the length of a breath. The cracking of bones, impossible pressure and pain, black and silence teased his consciousness. A wet thud marked his body being thrown off into the grass, broken. Kier was still in it. When he opened his eyes, when he could open his eyes, he knew he had to act quickly. He was too battered to tell one injury from another. He kept to what was important. Sections of his spine ground together when he righted his hips, making himself lie flat in the grass. His arm was broken, the shoulder aching and tight, and for a moment he wasn't sure which was worse. A deep breath — fuck, did that hurt — and he settled on the former. He let out a stream of breathless swears as he pulled and held the limb straight. There would be no binding it. He had to hope his body was as efficient as he feared. Cold, shivering, he knew he had to move. Holding his arm together, he focused on his legs. Cracked, certainly, but he didn't believe broken. That could be the adrenaline, though. He glanced down at his arm and, slowly, hesitantly, took his hand from it. It felt fragile, aching, shattered, and he couldn't feel a couple of his fingers... but it held. It would have to do. He forced himself to sit, despite the effort it took, the increasing dull in his senses. More likely than not, 'help' had already been called and would start swarming at any moment. He needed time, but he wouldn't have it. Of course he wouldn't. Bracing himself for the pain, he stood. His leg nearly gave out beneath him when the coughing started. Blood, and before long vomit, splattered the ground at his feet. His head swam with its need for oxygen, but he held out, knowing it would come easier when he wasn't drowning in his own fluids. The first full breath sent ice straight to his bones. The second made him aware of the pain in his abdomen. It would have to wait. Whoever had been on that blasted train would be on their way. Worse, he could hear sirens echoing through the trees. Burying the worst of the pain, he staggered away. He needed somewhere to hide, somewhere to recover, yet even as he thought he had nowhere left for that, his feet carried him back to familiar streets and houses. Windows were dark, but would not remain so. There, just a bit farther. Kier's old home looked as empty as he'd left it, and with a sliver of luck — he deserved that much, didn't he? — it actually would be. Panting, light-headed, he headed for the door. His fingers slipped against the metal of the knob, refusing to function as he wished. He went for the next best thing. Cradling his useless arm, he rammed a shoulder against the door. It slammed open on the first try, sending him stumbling inside. Unable to catch himself, he fell, landing not with the hard thud of wood he'd expected, but onto cold, wet grass. |
Morsmordre
Claude was never a particularly talented member of the Carnet family, nor was he particularly driven. Being the youngest of all the children didn’t help matters. Throughout his years at school, he maintained perfectly average and passable scores in all of his classes. It was strange, then, that by his final year in school, he had become one of the top duelists in his class. Stranger still was that he had been chosen for their Lord’s ranks. It was a dream come true, so he had been told. His family would have been proud. He wasn’t so sure. After all, he couldn’t remember much about them to begin with.
What he did remember was excitement (fear?) when he was taken to an old building (prison, it had seemed at the time, but that couldn’t be right) by people he didn’t know. He remembered being bound, for his own safety, so that they could look in his head, just to make sure that he was the right person to join them. He’d had nothing to hide. It was wonderful how happy that made everyone else. “This is going to pinch,” the woman had said when it came time to gain his mark. She worked their Lord himself, she had told him. He would only be working for her, but it was a start. The mark would let everyone see how faithful he was to their Lord. How proud he should be, being bound to such great wizards. It didn’t pinch. It burned. Despite all of the praise he received, there wasn’t much use for him those first few weeks. When he wasn’t doing simple chores, he was told to keep himself busy and out of senior members’ hair. As eager as he was to be useful, he couldn’t have been too upset. Now that he was accepted as one of them, he could read books and tomes the likes of which he’d never seen before. It was thanks to them that he finally found his place among their ranks, and eventually, he was granted his first mission, and the opportunity to test his new abilities in the field. It was after nightfall when they emerged from the trees. An army ambled together, led by wisps of smoke and light that faded in and out of existence, and him, covered by hood and mask. Before them laid dozens of tents, pitched low, covered in peat and moss, hidden in the shadows of gentle hills. The night was quiet, the sky clear of both clouds and moon. Everywhere the breeze went, it carried with it a new scent. The wet of mud and muck. Patches of heather after bloom. Smoldering bonfires and the faint remnants of supper. The cast of rot. Across the moor, a thousand stars shot into the sky, shining an emerald light down upon the encampment. They split and scattered, a miasma twisting into itself, keening for a form of its own. He stared, countless bodies without breath, without pulse, stopping around him, skin creaking tight against their bones. Hollow eyes stared back, screaming, a serpent retched from fleshless jaws. He wasn't the one to cast the spell, but he knew the mark. Figures emerged one after the other from clusters of tents to gaze upon the face of the heavens. Some looked toward small, flickering lights, and the man they illuminated. When the first scream rang out, splintering the calm of it all, his horde charged, tearing through the brush and past their master. Slow, bloated corpses were trampled by their emaciated brethren. Foggy creatures solidified, hurling balls of fire down on the camp. All were heedless of their allies with the gift before them. Blood. Destruction. Terror. Spellfire shot through the air, across the grounds, from every living person in sight. The darkness of night was no more. Flames raced through the grasses, the colors of war painting the moor. These witches and wizards were no strangers to battle, but the creatures attacking them now were horrors most never suffered to see. Nothing less than total destruction could stop them. His soldiers were perfection, stronger than any man, unfeeling of fear or pain or confusion. Their numbers fell to the fires, but a lift of his wand and they rose again, joined by those who had perished beneath that empty green gaze. No amount of light or warmth could keep the hunger at bay. More and more fled the camp, yet were stopped at every turn by his creatures, by his allies, by the very magic they had tried to save themselves with. He watched as sparks of spells huddled together, trapped between their burning refuge and his wall of defences. He watched those sparks smother. Panic mounted, bodies fell. Corpses rose. All was consumed. Less than a week had passed when he was invited to the hall. It was the very same building in which he had been accepted, and one which he rarely had reason to return to. One of the men that had joined the mission met him as soon as he entered the hall, his own cloak and boots covered in long dried filth, hair greasy and bunched where his mask sat at the side of his head. "Morning, Kinlan." "Evenin'." The man had a pleasant voice that didn't suit his heavy, pompous features. "Bloody hell, not one for good impressions, are you, Carnet?" "Evening, Kinlan." "Right. We've got some new dolls for you down below." The man pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. Offering only a nod, Claude strolled past him to a spiral staircase, leaving flecks of grime upon the floor with every movement. It didn't take long to hear footsteps following him. "We caught them trying to break the lines while you were doing your... Anyhow, thought they'd be just your type." He almost asked what his type meant when he pushed open a stained wood and iron door. Inside was the dungeon, a dank and unpleasant room with three cells lined along the far wall. In the center was two men, immobilized by some spell or another, and hovering a few inches off of the ground. Both bore hair as black as any hair could be, with unshaven faces and pasty skin that spoke of more than just a few days kept out of the sun. Likewise, they both held peculiar expressions that he didn't quite understand, though it seemed that the older of the two was more horrified, while the other was merely sad. After a pause, he stepped closer, circling the pair before stopping in front of them. "Evening." "Claude." It was the older that spoke. "What have they done to you?" "Pa." The younger. "Please. Don't." The older man's attention only turned to Kinlan, lingering just inside the doorway. "What have you made him do?" "Pa. Please." "I have a right to know, and so do you!" "Do I know you?" Claude asked, tilting his head as he leaned closer to the pair. Amber eyes met his, and neither spoke, something odd twisting in the older man's features, as if a wound that Claude couldn't see was hurting him. Only the younger of the prisoners noticed Kinlan moving from the door, his sorrow ever growing. "Do you know me?" "Yes. Yes, Claude, you have to-" He didn't hear the spell that sliced through the man's neck, splattering him and the remaining prisoner in the wet smell of tin and iron. Standing straight, he looked towards Kinlan, who had his wand out, already pointed at the younger, and returned the look. Claude shook his head and turned his attention back to the other man. He looked distinctly ill, and though he was quiet, appeared to be crying. "Do I know you?" It took a moment for any reply to come. "No. It's okay. It's alright now. I know you tried." His death was as quick as the first. For far too long, Kinlan watched him, just as he watched the bodies float in place. Then, he reached into his sleeve, pulling out his wand. "Do you mind?" The man looked satisfied as he pointed his wand, sending the pair crashing to the floor in an undignified heap. Claude glanced down at his freshly soaked boots, then shook his head. These ones he would take home with them. They were more interesting than the others. |
Can I look around and clap? O.O
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Yiss. Do all the looking and clapping you want.
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I've been poking around my files, and I found an excerpt I've always liked but never posted.
The Laws Of Nature
The Great Law was simple. Everyone raised in the academy, or that had spent even a month within its walls, knew it.
All truths come in threes. In accordance with the Great Law, true success required only three things. Power. Wit. And luck. It was luck that provided opportunities in the first place, or so he had come to believe. By any other definition, he was utterly lacking. It was always in his hands that survival was no longer a guarantee. Yet there was no question that the Basilisk found success in his deeds more often than failure. From what his surveillance could tell, there were only a few times of day when the security was unbalanced. Unbalanced meant vulnerable. These were times that the manifest took care to guard their youths when they were the most exposed. He understood the sentiment, the instinct of it, but he also knew how short sighted it was. The only danger to their children were the latents. Then, if the people here listened to any kind of sense, there would be no reason for the struggles of their people. No reason for him to pinpoint their weaknesses and take what they were guarding. It was, he would think at odd times, his luck that left him unnoticed when he sat out in the trees, small and colored bright like the summer birds, and watched the yards, through doorways, and into windows. His luck that the manifest took little notice when their children would gather together to watch the strange little lizard or mouse or mantis that wasn’t afraid of their grabby hands or loud voices. It took nearly a month of watching, of waiting, for the Basilisk to strike. Power was one thing he knew he had no short supply of. It was the strength of his legs when he cut through the yards, large and dark and quick as any beast could hope to be. It was the belief in his own plans, driving him into the building — it was no struggle to stand and push the bar of the door with heavy paws — and through the halls without hesitation, using his ears and his nose, all finely tuned and impossibly sensitive in this form, to guide him away from risks. More, it was his own will, the burn in his lungs and in his heart that told him, no matter what happened, no matter who crossed his path, he will survive and he will return home, now so many miles away. The power of the Basilisk was what took down the only guards he encountered with quick rushes, the brunt of his weight against their backs or legs or stomachs, sending them to the ground or against the walls. And when the impact didn’t snap their heads into something solid enough to knock them out, it was the power behind his paws that overcame the weakness of their throats to silence them. It was no concern if his attacks were caught on camera. If the security was to come, they would have to be quick, far quicker than him. It was only when he reached a bleak and strangely silent hall that he stopped sniffing the air and the floor as he paced in front of the only three doors along these walls. It was with ease that the great beast twisted and shifted himself into a new skin, rapidly shrinking, his fur turning into feathers and muzzle hardening into a beak. A stretch of his wings was all he needed before fluttering up to the top of the security camera, squawking and stretching out until the weight of a large, spotted cat snapped it from the ceiling, sending both crashing to the ground. He shook himself as he stood, nudging the useless plastic and metal with his nose, then taking it between his jaws and biting down suddenly, wrecking what remained of the device. His ears and nose twitched as he checked for any other guards before approaching the door he needed. It was a man, not a beast, that pulled a small device from his pocket and snapped it onto the keypad beside the door. He stood still as the seconds ticked by, his eyes stuck on the small screen that buzzed with numbers and letters. A click had him retrieving the device and allowing himself into the room which was, miraculously, empty of all but towering electronics and countless written files. His time was running out, he was certain that his luck never held out for this long, but this couldn’t be rushed. It was an older, but well maintained computer that he picked out in the back of the room, its system already on, to plug into. While the signal tried to boot itself up, he searched through the files for anything that looked promising. His information had said to look for Project Cypress, but despite how questionable his wit might have been to some, he wasn’t about to leave anything that looked just as promising if he could help it. The longer he sat, the more uncomfortable he became, until the hair stood up on the back of his neck. Not all of the files had sent, but the ones he’d been ordered to retrieve had been among the first, and it would have to do well enough. The screen turned dark, his plug tossed onto the floor in front of one of the shelving units. He rummaged quickly through the papers, spilling and spreading them until the floor around him was covered and some similar looking ones piled together. He cast a glance to the door, muttering under his breath as the Basilisk once more became the beast he had been, the small device snapped up and crushed in his jaws as the door was thrown open and the security rushed in. |
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