I'm a little confused with your character Msh... I've got a good idea of The DJ's personality, but I don't know how he would -or could - fight. What are his abilities? What makes him a Champion?mshcherbatskaya said:
The Ratings War III: Republic of Heaven (Second Round Finals)
- Thread starter The Sorrow
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"God," Stan said, pulling hard on a mug of ale so putrid it could naught but be British. "They all sound like drones. 'You're the chosen one, you alone have the power to right any wrong that could ever befall the omniverse. It is because your father was the descendant of Jesus and your mother related loosely to Helen of Troy.' Bah, who needs 'em?"
The pub smelled of woodsmoke and ale, perhaps fitting given the musty wood that's served as the building's frame for what must have been decades. Stan rolled his eyes, tossing a rogue lock of pink hair from his scruffy face. He pondered, knowing that any number of pre-teen girls and appropriately homosexual men must long for unnatural and iconiclastic of "chosen one" hair colors. Of all of Shakespeare's greatest tragedies, though, why was Stan born with pink hair? He favored the goatee, but couldn't help but find himself preferring clean shaven when he realized that it was a style that would fit more at home on a "My Little Pony" than on the face of a man.
The barkeep went out of his way not to mock the follically-challenged wizard at the bar. Being a brewer in an out-of-the-way country pub, he knew the difference between a wizard and a regular human. "Muggles" as they had been called in those kids books, but even a high-school drop-out knows better than to use such a ridiculous term. Wizards were grumpy, broody humans who constantly walked around with enough static electricity to shoot sparks up to several feet. Whether it was due to the magic or the fact that the Wizard Academy's robes were wool was yet to be determined.
Stan sighed, casting a downward glance into his poison. It seemed like a man of 22 should be doing better with his life than downing a-pound-a-pitcher rot, but it certainly was less mind-numbing than classes at the academy. Perhaps it was the fact that the magic was more theory than application, but to equate shifting the primal forces of man and nature to geometric shapes was a feat better left for scholars than wizards. Stan knew that it took a little bit of understanding to make the magic happen, but he didn't need the full eight years of intense study.
Instead, Stan favored the more Cliff's Notes variety of magic study. In physics, you cannot create energy. Stan likes this theory, and goes out of his way to manipulate as much potential energy as possible to power his spells. Kinetic energy is omni-present in modern society, and Stan has availed himself to use the backdraft from only two passing cars to leap over twenty feet into the air. From that, the displacement of air around his body and the strain of mechanic force to realign himself powered his landing.
Who needs magical theory? Newton's was a great fuel source for 98.7% of the spells Stan would ever need. Barring that, Stan had a good enough idea of anatomy to make people die fairly easily. As resilient as the human body is to impact, the internals are the easiest things to break. Homeostasis is the required state, and without it, humans have the miraculous ability to stop ticking.
Sadly, that knowledge did Stan little good without advanced magical theory. Any wizard worth the title knows that a bit of kinetic redirection can re-arrange Stonehenge with no more effort that the wuff of a breath, but it takes a real expert to create an airbubble in the circulatory system. That's advanced molecular distribution, and calls for an unconscious understanding of both the circulatory system and the chemical bonds of atmospheric pressure, circulatory system's pressure, and the sort of equations that go along with redistributing each of those in a way that follows the Theory of Equivalent Exchange and the Law of Conservation of Mass.
Stan didn't see the point, though, when lifting and throwing immovable objects, and calling up unstoppable forces, meant little more than tapping into the steam from a tea kettle. The glass cylinder of beer had emptied itself during Stan's reverie, and he availed himself to the door. The bartender didn't say a word, even after realizing Stan had accidentally paid over six times the cost. It was a risk to piss off a wizard, especially one is clearly destiny-laden as Stan, but economy was hell. Bartenders need to eat too.
The outside greeted him, and he questioned whether or not he should go back to the Academy. He missed Advanced Anatometry of Kinetomancing, but honestly didn't feel like showing up to Thermodynamic Theory of Finite Pyromancy. The ultimate decision left Stan walking in circles, drawing confused stares from the villagers as to what a daft American was doing with pink hair, wearing a woolen robe in Summer's high-noon. "Daft buggers, the lot of 'em."
Stan also knew he was different. He was the only American wizard anyone had ever heard of. Most mages hailed from Queen's England, or some not-too-distant neighbor. Americans, having been the Johnny-Come-Latelies of the English speaking countries, didn't get the ever-present gene of "manipulate matter through application of telekinesis and will", but more accurately probably never understood that part of the joy of puberty is trying to light things on fire with your mind. The Catch-22 of wizarding is that it took immense willpower, and a childish understanding that manipulating energy was even remotely feasible. If you hadn't caught your nursery on fire by the time you're getting out of primary school, you weren't going to catch anything on fire without a blowtorch.
Stan must've lucked out the day he managed to summon acid rain to spite a tree for mocking its innate inability to get acid reflux. The theory behind it was simple enough for his childish mind to grasp, but advanced enough to be obscured in the details. The end result was a spring morning having a light drizzle of unsugared lemonade. Though waking up the next morning to a head of pink hair left him admittedly frazzled.
Though it meant trouble coming to grips with his heritage. Helen and Jesus were both large shoes to fill, and Stan much preferred a nice and easy game of bowling. Though after endless discussions with his British nanny, Stan had more or less finally accepted his history. Though, he found it amusing that the son of God's descendant went protestant, and Helen's direct descendants were primarily native American. These were the thoughts that circled Stan's head as he heard a distant sound. With all the grace of a stampeding elephant, the melodious war-bellow of a horn was as a siren's call. Ignoring the car alarm in the distance, and forgetting that his Vespa was probably out of time on the meter, he headed toward the source of the noise.
Time is fluid to wizards, so what might've been seconds or hours of walking passed until Stan found himself in a Host well beyond his understanding. Among nebulous swathes of cloud, Stan walked up and found the statue of Buddy Christ shooting thumbs-up in his general direction. "Where the Hell am I?"
"Halfway there," answered Buddy Christ, shifting from his pose and stretching weakly. "This is Purgatory. The trumpet you heard was the Archangel calling all warriors to their destiny."
"Oh God," Stan moaned, rubbing his temple with a thumb and index finger, "What is it with you and destiny?"
"Predestination," Buddy Christ said, scratching his beard thoughtfully, "we know where you're going before you get there."
Stan's immediate response was to shoot Buddy Christ the bird, but the statue seemed oblivious to further discourse. In the faint distance, Stan heard "I knew you were going to do that." Stan began to mention where Christ can shove his destiny, but dismissed himself before blaspheming twice before dinner. The horizon held what might've been hundreds upon thousands of Trojan ships, but appeared to be a watercooler with a few creatures of questionable humanity standing around, talking disjointedly about whatever fancied the crowd at the moment.
Ah well, it's not like he was planning on going to class today anyway. With a confident stride, and the huff of heavy and itchy robes, the pink-haired wizard headed toward creatures and "people" he would later be fighting.
The pub smelled of woodsmoke and ale, perhaps fitting given the musty wood that's served as the building's frame for what must have been decades. Stan rolled his eyes, tossing a rogue lock of pink hair from his scruffy face. He pondered, knowing that any number of pre-teen girls and appropriately homosexual men must long for unnatural and iconiclastic of "chosen one" hair colors. Of all of Shakespeare's greatest tragedies, though, why was Stan born with pink hair? He favored the goatee, but couldn't help but find himself preferring clean shaven when he realized that it was a style that would fit more at home on a "My Little Pony" than on the face of a man.
The barkeep went out of his way not to mock the follically-challenged wizard at the bar. Being a brewer in an out-of-the-way country pub, he knew the difference between a wizard and a regular human. "Muggles" as they had been called in those kids books, but even a high-school drop-out knows better than to use such a ridiculous term. Wizards were grumpy, broody humans who constantly walked around with enough static electricity to shoot sparks up to several feet. Whether it was due to the magic or the fact that the Wizard Academy's robes were wool was yet to be determined.
Stan sighed, casting a downward glance into his poison. It seemed like a man of 22 should be doing better with his life than downing a-pound-a-pitcher rot, but it certainly was less mind-numbing than classes at the academy. Perhaps it was the fact that the magic was more theory than application, but to equate shifting the primal forces of man and nature to geometric shapes was a feat better left for scholars than wizards. Stan knew that it took a little bit of understanding to make the magic happen, but he didn't need the full eight years of intense study.
Instead, Stan favored the more Cliff's Notes variety of magic study. In physics, you cannot create energy. Stan likes this theory, and goes out of his way to manipulate as much potential energy as possible to power his spells. Kinetic energy is omni-present in modern society, and Stan has availed himself to use the backdraft from only two passing cars to leap over twenty feet into the air. From that, the displacement of air around his body and the strain of mechanic force to realign himself powered his landing.
Who needs magical theory? Newton's was a great fuel source for 98.7% of the spells Stan would ever need. Barring that, Stan had a good enough idea of anatomy to make people die fairly easily. As resilient as the human body is to impact, the internals are the easiest things to break. Homeostasis is the required state, and without it, humans have the miraculous ability to stop ticking.
Sadly, that knowledge did Stan little good without advanced magical theory. Any wizard worth the title knows that a bit of kinetic redirection can re-arrange Stonehenge with no more effort that the wuff of a breath, but it takes a real expert to create an airbubble in the circulatory system. That's advanced molecular distribution, and calls for an unconscious understanding of both the circulatory system and the chemical bonds of atmospheric pressure, circulatory system's pressure, and the sort of equations that go along with redistributing each of those in a way that follows the Theory of Equivalent Exchange and the Law of Conservation of Mass.
Stan didn't see the point, though, when lifting and throwing immovable objects, and calling up unstoppable forces, meant little more than tapping into the steam from a tea kettle. The glass cylinder of beer had emptied itself during Stan's reverie, and he availed himself to the door. The bartender didn't say a word, even after realizing Stan had accidentally paid over six times the cost. It was a risk to piss off a wizard, especially one is clearly destiny-laden as Stan, but economy was hell. Bartenders need to eat too.
The outside greeted him, and he questioned whether or not he should go back to the Academy. He missed Advanced Anatometry of Kinetomancing, but honestly didn't feel like showing up to Thermodynamic Theory of Finite Pyromancy. The ultimate decision left Stan walking in circles, drawing confused stares from the villagers as to what a daft American was doing with pink hair, wearing a woolen robe in Summer's high-noon. "Daft buggers, the lot of 'em."
Stan also knew he was different. He was the only American wizard anyone had ever heard of. Most mages hailed from Queen's England, or some not-too-distant neighbor. Americans, having been the Johnny-Come-Latelies of the English speaking countries, didn't get the ever-present gene of "manipulate matter through application of telekinesis and will", but more accurately probably never understood that part of the joy of puberty is trying to light things on fire with your mind. The Catch-22 of wizarding is that it took immense willpower, and a childish understanding that manipulating energy was even remotely feasible. If you hadn't caught your nursery on fire by the time you're getting out of primary school, you weren't going to catch anything on fire without a blowtorch.
Stan must've lucked out the day he managed to summon acid rain to spite a tree for mocking its innate inability to get acid reflux. The theory behind it was simple enough for his childish mind to grasp, but advanced enough to be obscured in the details. The end result was a spring morning having a light drizzle of unsugared lemonade. Though waking up the next morning to a head of pink hair left him admittedly frazzled.
Though it meant trouble coming to grips with his heritage. Helen and Jesus were both large shoes to fill, and Stan much preferred a nice and easy game of bowling. Though after endless discussions with his British nanny, Stan had more or less finally accepted his history. Though, he found it amusing that the son of God's descendant went protestant, and Helen's direct descendants were primarily native American. These were the thoughts that circled Stan's head as he heard a distant sound. With all the grace of a stampeding elephant, the melodious war-bellow of a horn was as a siren's call. Ignoring the car alarm in the distance, and forgetting that his Vespa was probably out of time on the meter, he headed toward the source of the noise.
Time is fluid to wizards, so what might've been seconds or hours of walking passed until Stan found himself in a Host well beyond his understanding. Among nebulous swathes of cloud, Stan walked up and found the statue of Buddy Christ shooting thumbs-up in his general direction. "Where the Hell am I?"
"Halfway there," answered Buddy Christ, shifting from his pose and stretching weakly. "This is Purgatory. The trumpet you heard was the Archangel calling all warriors to their destiny."
"Oh God," Stan moaned, rubbing his temple with a thumb and index finger, "What is it with you and destiny?"
"Predestination," Buddy Christ said, scratching his beard thoughtfully, "we know where you're going before you get there."
Stan's immediate response was to shoot Buddy Christ the bird, but the statue seemed oblivious to further discourse. In the faint distance, Stan heard "I knew you were going to do that." Stan began to mention where Christ can shove his destiny, but dismissed himself before blaspheming twice before dinner. The horizon held what might've been hundreds upon thousands of Trojan ships, but appeared to be a watercooler with a few creatures of questionable humanity standing around, talking disjointedly about whatever fancied the crowd at the moment.
Ah well, it's not like he was planning on going to class today anyway. With a confident stride, and the huff of heavy and itchy robes, the pink-haired wizard headed toward creatures and "people" he would later be fighting.
Yeah, I do keep on pulling the obscure stuff, don't I? He's like an Elemental, but rather than fighting with different manifestations of Fire, Water, Air, Earth, it's Music. Could be lyrics, melody, harmony, the emotional associations an opponent might have with a particular piece of music, etc. I'm not sure I will be able to pull it off, but I'm going to try.Lord Krunk said:
Does that make more sense?
Oh, and Ultrajoe gets the credit for the concept, by the way. The DJ started as a piss-take on an earlier, much different incarnation of Eviljoe.
He wore a leather jacket. He had a guitar. He blew stuff up with music, and had a million awesome one-liners. Shit was Epic.mshcherbatskaya said:
Ladies and gentlemen: The end of act 1
-----
Act 1: Fall
Chapter 7: Evil
-For every action, there is an equal and terrible retribution-
-----
All I can do is stare.
All I c-can do is stare.
All... all... I can do...
Is cry.
-----
There isn?t a voice, not now. While I kneel, limp, in front of the ruins of my entire world, the only thing i have in my head is the loop of thought that I can?t stop. I can never stop it. Thoughts flicker in and out too fast to make anything coherent, and I can feel my brain shutting down. There isn?t... i can?t.. no... no... no... I can?t feel... or think... or..
...
And I stay like that for five minutes, unable to even think, because sometimes you can?t bear to live with what fills you. And it?s been an eternity of nothing before the Police Officer?s boot connects with the side of my head, and the whole world comes crashing down on me.
?You sick fuck!? He screams above my strangled sobs, as his fingers itch on the grip of his gun. He?s young, too young, young enough to investigate a no-reply call made by Jed, who now spills out over the ground around himself. In between the heaving breaths and tears, i feel panic coursing into my brain. This kid?s going to kill me! I-I don?t want to fight, i want to be arrested. ?P-please? I beg, trying to speak through the screams that play in my head ?S-top me?.
?Why!?? The cop demands, as if he cares. Please, no, he looks like he?s just out the god damned academy. They teach them restraint right?
I... i...
I hope not, I think, and I don?t even feel shock when I realise what that I mean it.
?Do it? I whisper, and he recoils. I, i can?t think like this. I can barely breath, it?s like a weight on my lungs. E-everything I know died with the people I loved, I can never go back. My mind is... is too full to even realise what I?m saying, but every part of me aches to stop it... to make it stop. ?Please? I whisper, and the cop?s red-rimmed eyes lock with mine. Th-thank god, he?s going to do it, he?s going to stop it, he?s going... he?s going to... No...
The cop looks like I feel, his mind unable to accept the horrors of his first solo patrol. He can?t think, can?t rationalise, but instead of my smothering despair, his mind has a target. The one covered in blood, trying to crawl away from him as he draws his truncheon, and his mind fills with horror-turned-hate. ?Just, please, arrest me? I beg, more tears rolling down my face in despair, ?I won?t try to stop you, please?.
He?s shaking, breathing faster and faster while his mind tries to stop his hands. But he?s already moving, moving towards me while i sob in frustration and roll onto my front, trying to run awa- *smack* AAAAAAGH, shit, shit shit. Fuck that hurt! You pric- *smack* *NNNGH*, Oh god, fuck. Every time I try and crawl, he brings the stick down on my back, or my shoulders, each time just as furious as the first. I?m going to be beaten to death, beaten to death because the wrong cop came.
I roll onto my back, trying to shield myself from the onslaught, and a blow bounces off the steel of the gauntlet, still stuck on my arm. Fuck! Stop! I scrabble for anything to try and push him away, while warding strikes aside with my armoured hand. Why? Why!? All I need is help; all I need is for him to help! My hand finds something, and I swing it up to try and knock the truncheon out of his hands, and warm rain splatters on my face.
The cop screams, a squeal of agony as the slide knife slashes his groin, digging deep enough to find the artery buried there. Oh, no, no! All you had to do was help me, arrest me! I scrabble towards him, trying to help stop the pooling blood around his legs, but he yells a weak warning and grabs for his gun, and then I feel a punch in my side. He shot me. I can barely believe it, a minute ago all I could think was that it was all about to stop... and now there?s a cop not moving on the ground, and my side is starting to hurt more than anything I can remember.
I used to joke that my inability to plan was an attractive feature, but now in the light of all my plans crumbling, the panic worms into my head. They?ll kill me, now that I?ve killed a cop. I can?t go to... to... anyone. Oh, Jesus. Haha, that?s funny, what did the voice say? Don?t pray? I can?t stop a whimper escaping as I limp from stadium. And I try desperately not to let myself realise that it sounded a lot more like a giggle.
-----
I...
I can tell I?ve lost a lot of... blood. Everything spins, and the houses rush past me in a blur. It?s late, everyone is inside. I need to hide, anywhere where I can rest, just for a second. Haha, everything I would have done, could have done, died with that cop. Hahaha, and now i can?t even blaspheme. Fuck you. I don?t mean it, really i don?t mean it. I?m sorry, you fuck. I need to get a grip. I slap my face, trying to stop the road spinning. I?ve tied my shirt around my chest, trying to stop the bleeding in my side. Was anything vital hit? Yeah, me, Haha.
Staggering down the alleys behind the houses full of people full of phones full of police. I?m too delirious to care where the door leads. There are sirens in the distance, calling to me, polo you bastards! Hahahaha. There?s a door, remember the door. A door means a place to lie... lie down. I?m tired... tired. I?m not thinking straight, or walking straight. I bounce off a doorframe, and stagger down the first hall I can see. There?s a couch, there?s a kid, there?s a couch. There?s a gun, in my hand. Did... i didn?t pick it up. Ahaha, you again, voice? Talk to me!
Wait. The kids gone. Kids mean parents. Parents mean cops.
I try not to snort as I stagger into a closet, the sheer audacity of the hiding place unamusing enough to blot out everything else in my mind with giggles. The laughing, That?s how I make the hurting stop. I crouch, crouch in the closet with the gun pointed at the door, and hold a steel hand over my mouth to stop the laughing and the muffled sobs. I can hear the kid, telling his mother, or father. His Mother, I can hear her voice; ?What? It?s late Matty, I think you need to go to bed?.
?He was!? The kid demands in its high, sexless voice. ?He was, i saw him! He had-a metal hand and-a bandage and-a gun.? Shut up kid, it?s not funny. Ok, it?s a little funny. And the mother is coming closer, she wants to open the closet, to show him there?s no monsters. I can barely hold the gun, I can see darkness closing in on my vision. I need to sleep, need to rest. But not... not with them in the house...
Just leave me alone. Just go away. I don?t need you. I don?t need your help, I tried to ask for your help, you beat me until I screamed. I tried to hide, but now you?re chasing me. I don?t want to hurt you, just stay away. Don?t open the door, take your hand off the handle. Please, no. But you won?t listen. The word please means nothing to you, you murderous *****.
And she opens the door, and stops in shock for a second while I blow her face off.
I can?t walk, not really. Not as I shoot the kid when he comes to look. He?s so tiny, but he?s one of them. They all are. The father is one of them, running down the stairs in his underwear, holding a golf club. He?s one of them as I shoot him, but not for long. It?s funny, I think he?s shit himself. I can barely walk up the stairs, and I can barely laugh when I shoot the squealing one, too young to know what a gunshot is. No....
And You Thought I Was A Killer
I did, but I had to do it. Had to do it. They don?t want to help me any more, not now. They would hit me, and hurt me. W-why won?t they help me!? Laugh, keep laughing. Don?t stop, or you?ll start to remember. Do you ever laugh?
No.
You?re a monster.
I?m A Monster Because You Call Me One. They Call You A Monster, Now. To Them, We?re One And The Same.
You?re a voice. They don?t listen to voices. I shouldn?t listen to voices, i shouldn?t have listened. Amy would... no. Laugh.. Make it stop. Make them stop.
Who?
Everyone. They hurt me, they won?t help me. God won?t help me. Nobody listens. Make you stop. I just wanted... just wanted... wanted...
Even as I try and reason with a delusion, I?m dying. I can feel it, the numbness in my legs is spreading up to my fingers. My chest is beating hard, but slowly, like it?s choking on a burger. I can?t see, not really. My brain can?t find the energy to realize what it?s seeing. My life is flashing in front of me, my new life. The faces, the smells, from when i put on the gauntlet to here, where it?s all i can feel. All... all... all i can...
I Can Make The Hurt Stop
The entire world hurts, you can?t stop it. It?s around me, trying to kill me. Haha, it?s killed me already. You killed me, they made you kill me, and then they made me kill them. Everything hurts.
I Can Take Away Everything, Hold Back The World
That?s not what I... want. You c-cant stop the world. It wants to stop me, because it failed me. All I wanted was to stop, but they wouldn?t let me. They couldn?t care, all they wanted was to kill me, because he couldn?t handle what they made me. He couldn?t take it, so he beat me. Now they can?t see what he did, can?t see what i did. They want to kill me. You can?t stop that. You can?t stop it, you can?t stop them. Nobody answered my prayers, not them, not anyone. Go away.
Do You Believe In God?
I didn?t.
You Can Stop Them. You Can Make Them Never Hurt Again. I?ll Never Hurt Again. Stop Me, Stop Them, Stop God. Stop The Hurt, Stop The Hate.
I want... that?s not what i want...
What Do You Want?
...
What Do You Want?
They made me do it... do you understand? I couldn?t do it. They made me... They killed them, they killed them. You don?t exist, and I didn?t do it. They killed them. And now they want to kill me. It?s... it?s funny... It?s not funny!. It?s fucked, it?s wrong! I just wanted them to stop!
They Will Never Stop. Never. They Do It In The Name Of God, In The Name Of Good. They Are Smothered By It, Crushed By The Reasons And Excuses That Let Them Kill All You Loved.
I?ll make them stop. I?ll stop them. I won?t let them.
So What Do You Want?
Vengeance.
-----
I die, I think. I know that the person, who lay, weak, on the carpet of an unnamed house, can never get up again. He was a part of the world, a part of the people around him. Now the world has no place for him, they would rather betray than mend their wayward son. God has no place for a sinner, even if he never meant to sin. What lays there, unthinking, unmoving, is a ruin.
But it can feel, with the last of its life, a wish coming true.
The world has no place for its forsaken. They hide them away, or bury them in the ground. They call them insane or disturbed, if their minds are shattered. They call them the mad or the murderer, if their hearts are broken. They call them monsters or psychopaths, if they have lost, or never felt, faith.
What do they call the ones who are not broken? Who find surety, sanity and comfort in what they have become? What do they call the monsters that they make?
They call me Evil.
-----
My first breath is one of ecstasy.
A heaving gasp fills my empty lungs, sending my chest into spasms of new life. I roar in pain as my side splits and heaves, forcing out the bullet lodged there. A line of agony erupts as flesh knits itself together, and I buck and kick as feeling forces its way into my limbs. Yes. I?m a newborn, staring up at the world for the first time, and it?s is fucking filthy.
I can remember before, before now, but it?s hazy. I wasn?t thinking straight before, there wasn?t enough blood in my body to carry logic through my veins. But now, with my mind whole, what was conceived in weakness holds true in strength. Whahaha! I?ve never felt this way! Doubtless, free! I?m me, only me, but so much more! And I can feel myself becoming even greater.
On my hand, a dream is becoming reality.
I make my way outside. Everything looks different, now, on the other side of death and pain. I can see it all clearly, everything that confused me mere hours ago. So much invested in lies, worries and concerns about things you can never feel or see. Illusions are stripped away, can you see it? Can you see through my eyes, through my real eyes?
There is a wind, but I can?t feel it.
All I can feel is a cold embrace crawling up my back, my stomach, and over my shoulders, to protect my old flesh from the world. I can feel it crawling over my feet, so I can?t feel the roughness of the ground. It grips my other hand, so I have two steel fingers to rise at the universe, Whaha. It wraps around my naked body, and rises towards my face. It?s coming closer... closer... and I close my eyes.
And when I open them again, they are different eyes.
And Now, Can You Hear It? The Song?
No. What I keep in my head is what I wish to keep. And you, I think, are nothing I wished for in the first place.
What!? I Saved You
If it wasn?t for you, I would never have needed saving. You?re one of them, the ones who tried to break me; you think i owe you something? Everything I am, I am because of me. I am still me, still the one who sat on benches and ate burgers. Still me, who cried at loss, I?m still me, you bastard, and only me. Just more. I won?t bow to them, and not whatever little tune you have.
You Treacherou-
Shut up. There is only me, me and what lies outside me. And there is no place for you.
And there is silence.
...
I flex my hands, feeling the strength in the skin I claim as my prize. The entire world is before me, it always was, but it took the eyes of a metal face to see it. They?ll try and stop me, I know they will, because they?re warped and perverted by the lies they tell themselves. Can they be saved? Can they be cleansed?
And then I remember the pain, and the hate they feel. I remember the beating, the blood, and the hours of unending horror as I was slowly shown how merciless the world is to those it despises. I remember the terror as I hid; I remember the compassion I begged for. I remember the prayers that went unanswered, as I was left the prey of some unholy force.
I remember Hate, and Rage, and my burning desire for Vengeance.
And then I am proven right again, when a young and pale police officer, with a bandage around his groin, stabs me in the back with a Taser.
?Evil prick? he says as we both collapse, and the squad cars roll up around us.
And for once, it isn?t all that funny.
End Of Act 1: Fall
*Sigh* My paragraphs seem so meaty and wholesome in word, and then they hit the double lanes of the escapist and i'm sucking down white space. Forgive me.
Anticlimax: If you recall, chapter 7 seven takes place before chapter 1. And besides, you can't just create a character from another and then plunk him into a ratings war! EJ needs at least his own 7 chapters before he's ready! Not really, another two will do.
Edit Fail: My word is buggered, and the only way i can write is in textedit, or 'notepad' for you rare PC users. I've combed it as best I could, but I'm counting on your natural benevolence to forgive any transgressions. That, and I'm carrying a big stick to hit anyone who comments. A big stick.
Ultrajoe: 'Goes crazy because of voice' has been done: 'Goes through crazy and back out the other side' hasn't been done enough, and I like the characters who have a motivation beyond 'Because'. I hope, dearly, that I have managed to achieve this.
Name: His name isn't 'Eviljoe', or 'Evil', but he'll answer to the latter.
'It isn't all that funny': I had trouble with whether EJ would find this amusing or not. But he's supposed to be person, even if one a little removed from the norm, and so I think it perfectly reasonable that he endure some feelings of disappointment.
Anticlimax: If you recall, chapter 7 seven takes place before chapter 1. And besides, you can't just create a character from another and then plunk him into a ratings war! EJ needs at least his own 7 chapters before he's ready! Not really, another two will do.
Edit Fail: My word is buggered, and the only way i can write is in textedit, or 'notepad' for you rare PC users. I've combed it as best I could, but I'm counting on your natural benevolence to forgive any transgressions. That, and I'm carrying a big stick to hit anyone who comments. A big stick.
Ultrajoe: 'Goes crazy because of voice' has been done: 'Goes through crazy and back out the other side' hasn't been done enough, and I like the characters who have a motivation beyond 'Because'. I hope, dearly, that I have managed to achieve this.
Name: His name isn't 'Eviljoe', or 'Evil', but he'll answer to the latter.
'It isn't all that funny': I had trouble with whether EJ would find this amusing or not. But he's supposed to be person, even if one a little removed from the norm, and so I think it perfectly reasonable that he endure some feelings of disappointment.
Angels on the sideline, baffled and confused...
-----------------------------------------
Footfalls slip near silently across the soft sand. Henry's panting makes up for it. He doubles over and tries to control his breathing.
Oh dear..
Henry thought the lone man kneeling on the beach meant he got away from the entropy, but now he could hear the man speaking he realised he'd stumbled right into the coincidence.
K-kraaaaaaack.
"It is I, O Dark Lord, your servant HICTAN! I have heard the Horn of Gabriel, I go to shed blood in your name!!
...
What was that Lord of Horrors?
...
Kill the interloper?!"
Oh dear..
A ridiculously enormous musclebound man, a juggernaut if you will, of comical proportions appeared to be engaged in some kind of ritual. He wore only a pair of grey shorts, a dozen or so various sigils and amulets draped around his neck and a pair of dark glasses.
K-kraaaaaaack.
More lightning, Henry could practically hear the decrepit pocketwatch tick excitedly back into action.
The 'Primal Warrior' snapped his head towards Henry. He seemed to have difficulty seeing anything past his broad shoulders and ridiculous biceps, but it didn't slow him much. With a roar befitting his nickname, he charged towards and pounced on Henry.
"You do challenge my lords power by spying on us?! YOU are pathetic!"
The colossal champion stood back up, belting Henry across the ribs with a colossal foot.
K-kraaaaaaack.
"What do you have to SAY for yourself?!"
Panting in pain, the struggling Henry inched himself away from his attacker as best he could, and mumbled
"..run,"
K-kraaaaaaack. Another lighting strike, close enough to blow splinters of palm tree across the two figures.
"I said what do you have to SAY FOR YOURSELF?!"
Thuump-plat!
The storm subsided. The Primal Warrior fell to the ground.
Some sounds affect you in a certain way.
Maybe its that mix of anxiety and joy of parenthood upon hearing your child's first cries of happiness.
Perhaps its the purring of a sleek Windsor 289 under the hood of kitted out F-100 ex-Ambulance you tuned yourself.
Or in as in this case, the sound of a 10kg block of frozen urine traveling at terminal velocity into the skull of a musclebound warrior champion.
Sounds like that just stick with you.
And it was while trying to forget this sound, and wipe bodily fluid off his clothing, that Henry heard a sound that would truly change his life-
The call of the horn.
--------------------------------------------------
... Angels on the sideline, puzzled and amused.
EDIT:
Forgot this stuff
Name: Henry Wilson
Age: 19ish
Appearance: 6 odd foot, dark brown wavy mid length hair, brown eyes, tanned skin
Occupation: Student backpacking round the world before going to uni
Powers: Creates (accidentally) and can (sometimes) manipulate the forces of chance, luck, coincidence and entropy.
Henry has no idea how he does this.
Reason for being in the Tourney: Killed another champion without breaking a sweat and heard the call.
Questions, comments, criticism, carrots?
-----------------------------------------
Footfalls slip near silently across the soft sand. Henry's panting makes up for it. He doubles over and tries to control his breathing.
Oh dear..
Henry thought the lone man kneeling on the beach meant he got away from the entropy, but now he could hear the man speaking he realised he'd stumbled right into the coincidence.
K-kraaaaaaack.
"It is I, O Dark Lord, your servant HICTAN! I have heard the Horn of Gabriel, I go to shed blood in your name!!
...
What was that Lord of Horrors?
...
Kill the interloper?!"
Oh dear..
A ridiculously enormous musclebound man, a juggernaut if you will, of comical proportions appeared to be engaged in some kind of ritual. He wore only a pair of grey shorts, a dozen or so various sigils and amulets draped around his neck and a pair of dark glasses.
K-kraaaaaaack.
More lightning, Henry could practically hear the decrepit pocketwatch tick excitedly back into action.
The 'Primal Warrior' snapped his head towards Henry. He seemed to have difficulty seeing anything past his broad shoulders and ridiculous biceps, but it didn't slow him much. With a roar befitting his nickname, he charged towards and pounced on Henry.
"You do challenge my lords power by spying on us?! YOU are pathetic!"
The colossal champion stood back up, belting Henry across the ribs with a colossal foot.
K-kraaaaaaack.
"What do you have to SAY for yourself?!"
Panting in pain, the struggling Henry inched himself away from his attacker as best he could, and mumbled
"..run,"
K-kraaaaaaack. Another lighting strike, close enough to blow splinters of palm tree across the two figures.
"I said what do you have to SAY FOR YOURSELF?!"
Thuump-plat!
The storm subsided. The Primal Warrior fell to the ground.
Some sounds affect you in a certain way.
Maybe its that mix of anxiety and joy of parenthood upon hearing your child's first cries of happiness.
Perhaps its the purring of a sleek Windsor 289 under the hood of kitted out F-100 ex-Ambulance you tuned yourself.
Or in as in this case, the sound of a 10kg block of frozen urine traveling at terminal velocity into the skull of a musclebound warrior champion.
Sounds like that just stick with you.
And it was while trying to forget this sound, and wipe bodily fluid off his clothing, that Henry heard a sound that would truly change his life-
The call of the horn.
--------------------------------------------------
... Angels on the sideline, puzzled and amused.
EDIT:
Forgot this stuff
Name: Henry Wilson
Age: 19ish
Appearance: 6 odd foot, dark brown wavy mid length hair, brown eyes, tanned skin
Occupation: Student backpacking round the world before going to uni
Powers: Creates (accidentally) and can (sometimes) manipulate the forces of chance, luck, coincidence and entropy.
Henry has no idea how he does this.
Reason for being in the Tourney: Killed another champion without breaking a sweat and heard the call.
Questions, comments, criticism, carrots?
ooh, i hope i'm not up agaianst you first... i'll need to see how you do it just to have a chance.mshcherbatskaya said:
this is awesome. you really got the arguing collective thing going. i can only hope my own posts are half as effective with the concept.Qayin said:
i love this. watching him despair at the carnage, plead for help, hide...Ultrajoe said:
it's very disjointed, like how he says he wants death, then retaliates at the cop who is killing him. stuff like that just seems to express how messed up he is. and when he says "they made me kill" even though it was the voice, and the voice seems to have won... but then the twist at the end! masterful!
i especially like the voice mentioning "music" as a homage to the previous incarnation onf the character.
Jericho slammed his fist down on the desktop in irritated rage.
?Bad day at the office?? asked another angel in the cubicle next to him.
?You wouldn?t believe.? he sighed. ?I?m looking at it one second, and the next it?s gone! Just like that!?
?You had better get onto it quick. Don?t want Mr. B to find out that you?ve lost your client. Your job?s on the line if you don?t get it back.?
He was right. While the top reporters were away to cover the sudden death of Sol III?s God, the boss had set up a competition for the new people; one to find the best, most controversial story possible and write an article on it. Until this point, he was well in the lead; he had found a story so juicy, the tabloids wouldn?t forget it any time soon.
He had found an Anomaly that the department had overlooked for centuries.
All he needed was to observe it further, to track it to the story of a lifetime. It didn?t know it, but The Hunger was his ticket into the big leagues.
That was until its disappearance. He rewound the tape and played it back, but the same result came up. A sudden pop, and the two figures were gone.
Maybe I should turn the sound up?
?Hey!? called a familiar voice from the hallway. Jericho sighed.
?What now, Job? I?m a little busy here, can?t you see that??
?Well, yeah, but I thought you might want to check out the contest. Satan himself is planning the proceedings!?
He knew it was tempting, but he also knew he was a few steps away from an eternity of shovelling cumulonimbus.
?Thanks for the offer, but I need to get this done.?
Job shrugged in disappointment. ?Suit yourself, but I?ll save you a seat anyway!?
As he left, Jericho banged his head against the desk.
Think. Think! What at the moment would make someone poof away like that?
He paused, looked up, and went wide-eyed.
A few minutes later, he was sitting above the Arenas with Job, zooming in on the contestants with his camera.
Where are you?
He stuck out his hand as a pimply demon swooped towards him, and he handed over some money for a catalogue. Job leaned over to him.
?It?s shocking how much they want for arbitrary stuff these days. 5 halos for a catalogue? I?m surprised that you bothered.?
Jericho opened the catalogue regardless, scouring the sheet for names.
Lex, Henry? Eviljoe?
Eventually, his eyes fell upon an odd couple; Lady Athena and Axle, her oddly named bodyguard. He recognised the picture of Axle as The Shadow?s disciple immediately. The girl next to him had an odd complexion as well.
Gotcha.
He zoomed in on the two mortals, taking notes and making observations. He was devising stories in his head, his smile broadening.
This story just gets better; not only have they evaded this thing since its conception, but now they?re trying to make it God? The only thing that would make this any better is if it actually won?
He froze, deep in thought. Of course, there was the possibility of winning on their own, but he knew that there wasn?t much chance of two normals standing a chance against some of the badass tanks that stood in their way. What they needed was a little help?
From a guardian angel.
Jericho reached into his coat and pulled out a little device that he kept on his person at all times. It was a multi-purpose tool, crafted by the Quantum Mechanics in their particular heaven, that shapeshifted into anything that the owner wanted it to be. In his case, it took the form of a cigarette lighter when he wasn?t using it.
?We?ve been through a lot together, huh.? he said, gazing over the beautiful bronze inscriptions around the object.
It was a gift to him for his 2000[sup]th[/sup] birthday, and it was sad to see it go. But the promise of riches and fame beyond his wildest dreams were more important; he always wanted to secure his own plot of sky and set up a cloud farm one day.
?After this order, you no longer belong to me. You now belong to Axle of Sol III, competitor of the Divine Colosseum. Now, seek.?
And with that, he drew back his hand and threw the lighter into the arena. He hoped that it would make it to Axle, and he hoped even more that he would be able to use it.
I hope so. It?s not everyday that a guy tuns 2000.
Moving to pick up his camera, his eyes fell back to Job. He owed him a big deal; after all, he was the reason Jericho was even able to find a seat.
?Say, Job.?
?What??
?You found yourself a story yet??
?No, why??
?Well, I?ve got one for you. Do you want to uncover a cheating scandal that has eluded the judges of this competition??
?Well, yes! Thanks, I owe you one!?
Jericho sat back and gazed playfully at the clouds above him. Things were looking up.
?Bad day at the office?? asked another angel in the cubicle next to him.
?You wouldn?t believe.? he sighed. ?I?m looking at it one second, and the next it?s gone! Just like that!?
?You had better get onto it quick. Don?t want Mr. B to find out that you?ve lost your client. Your job?s on the line if you don?t get it back.?
He was right. While the top reporters were away to cover the sudden death of Sol III?s God, the boss had set up a competition for the new people; one to find the best, most controversial story possible and write an article on it. Until this point, he was well in the lead; he had found a story so juicy, the tabloids wouldn?t forget it any time soon.
He had found an Anomaly that the department had overlooked for centuries.
All he needed was to observe it further, to track it to the story of a lifetime. It didn?t know it, but The Hunger was his ticket into the big leagues.
That was until its disappearance. He rewound the tape and played it back, but the same result came up. A sudden pop, and the two figures were gone.
Maybe I should turn the sound up?
?Hey!? called a familiar voice from the hallway. Jericho sighed.
?What now, Job? I?m a little busy here, can?t you see that??
?Well, yeah, but I thought you might want to check out the contest. Satan himself is planning the proceedings!?
He knew it was tempting, but he also knew he was a few steps away from an eternity of shovelling cumulonimbus.
?Thanks for the offer, but I need to get this done.?
Job shrugged in disappointment. ?Suit yourself, but I?ll save you a seat anyway!?
As he left, Jericho banged his head against the desk.
Think. Think! What at the moment would make someone poof away like that?
He paused, looked up, and went wide-eyed.
A few minutes later, he was sitting above the Arenas with Job, zooming in on the contestants with his camera.
Where are you?
He stuck out his hand as a pimply demon swooped towards him, and he handed over some money for a catalogue. Job leaned over to him.
?It?s shocking how much they want for arbitrary stuff these days. 5 halos for a catalogue? I?m surprised that you bothered.?
Jericho opened the catalogue regardless, scouring the sheet for names.
Lex, Henry? Eviljoe?
Eventually, his eyes fell upon an odd couple; Lady Athena and Axle, her oddly named bodyguard. He recognised the picture of Axle as The Shadow?s disciple immediately. The girl next to him had an odd complexion as well.
Gotcha.
He zoomed in on the two mortals, taking notes and making observations. He was devising stories in his head, his smile broadening.
This story just gets better; not only have they evaded this thing since its conception, but now they?re trying to make it God? The only thing that would make this any better is if it actually won?
He froze, deep in thought. Of course, there was the possibility of winning on their own, but he knew that there wasn?t much chance of two normals standing a chance against some of the badass tanks that stood in their way. What they needed was a little help?
From a guardian angel.
Jericho reached into his coat and pulled out a little device that he kept on his person at all times. It was a multi-purpose tool, crafted by the Quantum Mechanics in their particular heaven, that shapeshifted into anything that the owner wanted it to be. In his case, it took the form of a cigarette lighter when he wasn?t using it.
?We?ve been through a lot together, huh.? he said, gazing over the beautiful bronze inscriptions around the object.
It was a gift to him for his 2000[sup]th[/sup] birthday, and it was sad to see it go. But the promise of riches and fame beyond his wildest dreams were more important; he always wanted to secure his own plot of sky and set up a cloud farm one day.
?After this order, you no longer belong to me. You now belong to Axle of Sol III, competitor of the Divine Colosseum. Now, seek.?
And with that, he drew back his hand and threw the lighter into the arena. He hoped that it would make it to Axle, and he hoped even more that he would be able to use it.
I hope so. It?s not everyday that a guy tuns 2000.
Moving to pick up his camera, his eyes fell back to Job. He owed him a big deal; after all, he was the reason Jericho was even able to find a seat.
?Say, Job.?
?What??
?You found yourself a story yet??
?No, why??
?Well, I?ve got one for you. Do you want to uncover a cheating scandal that has eluded the judges of this competition??
?Well, yes! Thanks, I owe you one!?
Jericho sat back and gazed playfully at the clouds above him. Things were looking up.
Chapter 2: Initiation
As the cloud took off God turned and walked away. Staring down everything looked so small and simple. Nothing was simple though. The cloud traveled through the sky for what seemed like an indefinite period of time. What the hell was I doing here? I'm a priest I'm not cut out for this. This is not what I anticipated when I decided to devote my life to serving god. Jesus how am I gonna kill a man? I've never even shot a gun before.
Chuckling to myself I reached into the left side of my hip and pulled out one of the pistols. The silver shined and glistened in the air. Staring into it I saw my rotting face. I was hideous. I was a monster. Jesus I could only imagine what she would think if she saw me now. Still holding the pistol I brought it to shoulder level and fired for the first time. The gun rocked back, knocking me off balance, and I feel straight to my ass. I stood up again and fired. Same results. There was no way I could take this man down if I couldn't stay on my feet when I fired. Holstering the pistol I felt around for the cross. Seems this would have to be my primary weapon.
Pressing the button on the side the blade shot out. It was about as wide as my middle finger, and as long as my right arm. Staring into the blade I once again saw my disgusting face stare back, skin looking as if it would peel off this moment. Then the ear piece started vibrating. Tapping it a voice started yelling commands at me.
"He is at the building now. He has just entered and started the killings. Jump now!"
"Jump now? Am I there?"
"Almost. Jump now!"
"Almost? So there is a chance of me missing the building?"
"Yes but it's a small chance. Just jump!"
Being the follower I am I did. I holstered the blade and jumped off of the cloud. Falling through the sky I felt the wind rush up against my face. It felt relaxing and I now couldn't understand my fear of this jump.
"Slant yourself towards the left. Try to swim to the left." The voice buzzed.
"Swim?"
"Yes like you are in water."
And swim I did. Paddling through the air I suddenly became worried again. What if I miss?
"Stay still now and pull!"
Looking down I realized I could see actual detail on the street now. Cars moving up and down and people standing outside of a building. Pulling the string the chute shot out and I started to slow. Hitting the ground I threw the backpack aside and made my way through the sea of people standing in front of the apartment complex.
As I stepped in bodies littered the hall, he had already gotten to work. Walking through I glanced at them. All of them had a hole in their forehead. He must be one hell of a shot. Pulling out the pistol I held it out and continued to walk. My arms started to rapidly shake in fear. Taking deep breaths I walked up the stairs to the next floor. The same thing greeted me. Bodies scattered throughout.
Continuing to travel I hit the third floor and heard screams. Increasing my pace I saw an open door. Walking in I saw a woman pinned to the ground, Jared on top, smashing his fists into her face, beating her to a pulp without mercy. Arms still trembling I pulled the silver trigger and staggered backwards. I missed. I fucking missed.
Jared looked up and stared at me, with eyes as pure as blood. Picking the woman up he held her by the neck in front of him and walked towards me. Not wanting to fire and hit the woman I tossed the gun aside and pulled the cross out. Chuckling he tossed the woman at me. Falling backwards I tossed her off of me. Pulling myself to my feet, he punched me in the face. Hitting the button the blade shot out as I started wildly swinging it at him. As he backed up he turned around the corner and retreated further into the apartment.
Picking the gun back up I holstered it and continued to search him. The place had been destroyed. Looking around I saw a hallway, all doors wide open. Assuming he was in here I walked forward. Standing a few inches from the first door I pressed up against the wall and peeked in. Not seeing anything at the doorway I entered. There seemed to be nothing in here. Exiting I did the same to the second door. Nothing.
Approaching the third I pressed against the wall and peered in. As my head slithered into the room I heard a scream. Looking towards the noise I saw a lamp coming straight at my head. Before I could move it shattered, glass digging deep into my skin. Screaming I swung the blade at the general direction of him, and failed to hit. Swinging again at him I hit this time, but in a different way than I intended. His hand grasped around the blade, blood trickling out from around it. Twisting the blade he ripped it out of my grasp and quickly stuck it straight into my gut. Groaning I looked down and saw the whole blade through the center of my body.
He turned the blade before releasing it. As he pulled out I saw blood start to pour out as I feel to my knee. Tears started rolling down my cheeks as I stared at him. Walking away from me he grabbed a chair, smashing it over my head. Falling to my side, my head smashed into the floor as everything turned black.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Eyes flickering opened I was staring into darkness. I couldn't make out the shape of anything. Had I finally died?
Opening my mouth I started to scream.
"Hello! Help! Can anyone hear me!"
I was answered with silence. Trying to lift my arms I couldn't pull them up. I then realized I wasn't dead. I was tied to a chair and either in the dark or blind folded.
"Hello! Is someone here?" I continued to scream.
A low scratchy voice replied to me this time.
"I'm here."
My mind was racing in thought of who it could be. Then I realized I must be an idiot if I couldn't figure this out.
"Jared?"
"Good guess."
My head started pounding as it rocked back. I felt the man's fingers dig around my eyes, as light was exposed again. He stood in front of me holding a cloth in his hands. I finally had a good look at him. He was a skinny man, with huge arms. His face was scarred to hell. His eyes looked the color of an inferno. Staring into them frightened me.
He then proceeded to walk into the corner of the room and fill a bucket with water. Returning to me he put the bucket on a stool in front of me. Placing his hand onto my head he grabbed the remaining scraps of hair. Tightening his grip he smashed my head into the bucket of water and held it there.
Trying to hold my breath I was kept under for about a minute before he pulled me up.
Gasping for air he screamed
"Who sent you after me!"
"Go to hell."
Plunging my head back under I knew this was the end. Pulling me back up he repeated the question. I spit in his face. Wiping it from his face he grumbled
"You goddamn fool. Tell me who sent you and you can be sent free."
"No."
"Then it seems we will have some good fun tonight."
Walking back into the corner of the room he pulled out a machete. Returning he untied one of my hands. Placing it on the stool he brought the machete up above his head, and swung it down separating my index finger and screamed
"Who sent you!"
Still refusing to answer he continued this, each time removing a finger until my left hand had no remaining ones. Moving on to the next hand he did the same thing. Blood had covered the stool as it gushed from each of my hands. Bawling in tears I still refused to answer. Finally he pulled out a magnum. Placing it to my head he once again asked
"Who sent you...?"
"You're wasting your time. Just go ahead and pull the fucking trigger." I said chocking up from my tears.
"Well then I have one final thing to say to you. Welcome to the Republic of Heaven."
I beg of you please PM me, or post in the thread what you think so far.
Questions I'd love to have answered are
Did I go into to much detail before jumping off the cloud?
Was the combat sequence well done?
Was the ending really cheesy and dull?
What was the worst part of the story?
What was the best part of the story?
What is the best thing I can do to improve the quality of the writing?
Overall was it a good post?
Should I stop posting in first person?
I yearn for some critiquing so please PM me and let me know some thoughts.
Please tell me your thoughts.
Thanks.
Questions I'd love to have answered are
Did I go into to much detail before jumping off the cloud?
Was the combat sequence well done?
Was the ending really cheesy and dull?
What was the worst part of the story?
What was the best part of the story?
What is the best thing I can do to improve the quality of the writing?
Overall was it a good post?
Should I stop posting in first person?
I yearn for some critiquing so please PM me and let me know some thoughts.
Please tell me your thoughts.
Thanks.
Holy Hell, Joe! This is so good. Vherran made me curious about what would happen next, but this--this one makes me care.rogueshadows said:
What the future holds
Ivan developed an incredible skill at masking his distress behind a cheerful mask, this distress suddenly hit him like an iron hammer when he hit his seventeenth birthday. He realized that he had no clue what he wanted to do in life. While it was true he was talented with a blade, he saw this as nothing but a hobby. Some kids his age played sports, or became musicians, well, Ivan chose swordplay. His talent made him have a brief thought of joining the knights, but this idea passed as quickly as it came, escorted by a small chuckle from Ivan.
"That old childhood fad? I'm an adult now"
Ivan took a moment to remember his childhood. 'Training' with Ethan, their mother dragging them inside night after night, his heartbreak when Ethan grew out of that childish mindset, Ivan remembered it all, and continue to laugh. There was no way that Ivan wanted to join the knights today.
"That brother of mine... he grew up quicker than I did, for sure"
Ivan opened his eyes, and he rose from his position. He was laying down outside, just relaxing in the night air. He enjoyed this moment a great deal, it allowed for him to clear his mind and try to figure out exactly where he wanted his life to go from here. But every night, he failed to overcome his mental block, and his future remained as bleak and unreachable as the night sky that he enjoyed so much. He let out a sigh of dismay, he was running out of time, his future was waiting for him, ready or not.
Ivan got to his feet, and returned to the nearby house, where his family was waiting for him to return, as was their custom. When he got back inside, Ivan took his seat by the fireplace, joining Ethan and their mother for their usual night time relaxation. Ethan looked over at his little brother, he smiled kindly and spoke up.
"So, any ideas fall out of the sky and hit you on the head tonight"
"Nope, maybe tomorrow"
Ethan let out a small chuckle, responding quickly
"you keep thinking like that, and you'll be bored for your entire life"
"Better than being miserable"
"ooh, clever..."
At this moment, their Mother began to speak up, which was a rare occurrence these days. Most nights she just sat there quietly and listened to the two brothers playfully bicker, she spoke quietly, so both Ivan and Ethan stopped talking in order to hear her.
"You both will be fine.. really"
Both brothers realized that this was a rare moment for her, gathering up her wits to address her two sons, and so they both silently nodded, and sat quietly for a few moments after that. It was Ivan that broke the silence, speaking to Ethan
"So, what's up with that young lady you were hanging out with yesterday"
Obviously, Ivan hit a touchy subject, as Ethan's eyes widened a bit, and he shifted in his chair. Both of which were obvious signs of discomfort and nervousness, Ivan had a small victory in his mind, he had finally found something to attack his older brother with.
"ugh... her name's Jillian"
Their mother instantly stood up straight, oblivious to Ethan's discomfort as she began to interrogate him about 'Jillian'
"When did you meet her? How old is she? When do I get to meet her?"
Ethan stands, his face as red as it's possible for the human face to develop
"uh, let's talk about this tomorrow, I'm going to bed, night!"
And with that, he left the room with the speed that borders on a jog, their mother sighed and shrunk back in her chair.
"You boys..."
Ivan let out a laugh, he also got to his feet
"I guess I'll retire too, see you tomorrow, mom"
"yeah, okay"
.......
The next day, Ivan and Ethan out and about the town, doing odd chores for their mother, so that she wouldn't have to be bothered to take care of them any more. It was when they were on their way home that Ethan began to speak in a more serious tone than before, he was about to talk about something serious with Ivan, a rare occasion if ever one existed.
"Listen, you remember Jillian? That girl you asked me about last night?"
"Yeah? What about her?"
"Well, we've been... together... for a few months now"
"And?"
"I'm... I'm thinking I may ask for, you know..."
Ivan grinned, his older brother was about to grow up, become a full-fledged adult. It was only natural that he wouldn't interrupt him.
"Y'know... I wanna marry her"
Ethan looked at Ivan with an amount of nervousness that he had never seen before. As though Ivan was going to judge his older brother in those few moments, after Ethan had been his older brother for almost eighteen years.
"So? What do you think?"
Ivan grinned in delight, he had no choice but to be honest
"Well, I don't know her, how about you bring her over some time?"
Ethan began to laugh
"I hate you... so much"
Ivan also began to laugh
"I'll just think of that as a 'I can do that'"
The two returned home, their serious moment was over
.......
Later that night, Ivan, and their mother were enjoying the company of Ethan's girlfriend, seeing as how Richard was out of town for the next few days, he wouldn't join them until tomorrow evening. Ivan's mother was unleashing a borderline endless barrage of questions, barely giving Ethan and Jillian enough time to answer before asking another one.
"So, how long have you two been a couple? When were you going to introduce us if Ivan hadn't caught onto the two of you? What if-"
Ethan had enough, stopping her
"Mom! Let's just enjoy our dinner, seriously"
Their mother paused, and shrunk down in her chair
"Of course"
After dinner, Ethan was taking Jillian back home, and Ivan sat with his mother in their regular spot in the living room. She seemed oddly talkative tonight.
"Ivan, I really need to tell you something"
"Sure, go ahead"
"Is... Is Ethan thinking about a future with that young lady?"
"Uh, I think so"
She starts to lightly sob, placing her hand on her chin. Ivan paused in shock, he stood up and tried to comfort her
"Mom? Are you alright"
"You two... both of you... are growing up... You're both growing up so fast"
"Mom! Just calm down, We'll both still be around, Ethan's almost twenty and he still comes to visit most days"
Pointing out Ethan's age only seemed to make his mother's sorrow worsen.
"I'm sorry... I just don't want you to grow up, it went by far too quickly..."
"Mom..."
"You'll know how I feel yourself, someday... But for now just let me be"
She gets up and goes off to her and Richard's bedroom, leaving Ivan to sit and think about all the things in his life that were about to come to a head.
.........
It was about noon the next day that Richard returned, delighted with the now engaged Ethan. He smiled and slapped the future groom on the back, speaking several kind words. Over the last two years, Ivan grew to resent him less and less, accepting him as simply being there, but still not getting particularly close to him. He highly doubted that he ever would, but for now he enjoyed himself with the rest of his family, the people closest to him.
After a few hours, Ivan grabbed his bag and was preparing to head out to his blade master's training center. But on his way out the door, Richard caught him, speaking quietly.
"Listen, uh... I was wondering if you could help me out with something"
"Hm?"
"You've known Ethan a lot longer than I have, so I was wondering if you would, you know, help me pick out an engagement present."
Ivan broke out into a grin, his answer came in seconds
"That would be fun, no doubt... let's do it"
Richard smiled in relief, making Ivan wonder if he honestly expected him to say no.
"Good, you and I'll be speaking more about that when you get back"
....
Ivan was on the way to his training school, and on the walk there he reflected on how much his life had changed for the better in a matter of just two days. His older brother was getting engaged, his mother finally let how sad she was about the brothers growing up, and he was finally going to build a little bit of a bridge with Richard. Ivan was looking forward to the next few months, feeling that, even though he didn't have his own road to look on towards, that he would enjoy sharing it with his brother just as much.
However, what goes up... must come down.
end
I was really trying to make the reader feel affection for Ivan's family, and so I ask you these questions
1) Did it succeed in making you closer to Ivan's family?
2) Did you enjoy the story?
3) What did you not like?
4) Where do you think I have the most room to improve?
so, kindly answer these for me, it'll help a great deal
1) Did it succeed in making you closer to Ivan's family?
2) Did you enjoy the story?
3) What did you not like?
4) Where do you think I have the most room to improve?
so, kindly answer these for me, it'll help a great deal
We all sittin' 'round, tellin' stories now--all but me. I been quiet. Maybe you think this silence unfitting, unsuited to what I am, what I say I am anyways. Maybe you right there. So I gotta story.
This a story of a fight, fight in a tournament like this, for the amusement of someone like to think he a god, but he a false god, false ev'rything. The fights, though, the battles had the truth in 'em. Maybe the false god lost all his truth, so he wanna watch the truth of other people. Dunno. Not my song to sing, not right now. But in this battle there a woman, and she think she doomed to vict'ry, and she come up against a dry, hard man who give up all his song to a god who jus' wails on the wind. He come with wind and dust to dry the throat until it coughing and hoarse and can't make no more sound than a cracked violin.
Now this woman, she got the divination in her. You know what that mean? It come from "divine." She see what they see, feel what they know, justa liddle, just enough to confuse. She could hear other people singin' in the world, but she only hear it outta one ear, only hear the silences. That happen to people who losin' they own songs.
You gotta song. You sing it to yourself, maybe in the shower, maybe the car, over the dishes, sittin' inna boat waitin' for the fishes to take notice. Maybe you heard it somewhere and put it in your heart for safekeepin'. Maybe it grow outta you natural, few notes wanderin' inna hum when you alone. She gotta song. Maybe you hear it sometime.
Blue moon
You saw me standing alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own
Pretty tune, sad tune, but it find the joy in end. But her soul, it get scratched and the song skip and skip when it play, and it play all the time.
Without a dream in my heart-
Without a dream in my heart-
without a dream in my heart-
So she come together to battle with the dry man in a city gone to ruin. A song in that place echo powerful inna streets, but there ain't no song in that city no more. She come to the place of battle with her song playin', but now it skippin' inna diff'rent place.
Without a love of my own-
Without a love of my own-
Without a love of my own-
You see, she inna bar, thinkin' on dancin' with a love of her own, but the one she thinkin' of poured out his life in her hands, now she standin' alone, standin' alone, standin' alone, with the knife that ended him on her hip. So she take out her cards and start layin' em down, think maybe they make a map outta this place.
That's when the dry man come, but he a deceiver. He come in the form of the one she dancin' with in her heart. He promise her a path back, he promise her duets, he promise her she don't need to listen the the silences of ev'ry passing life, but what he really off'rin' her is to take her voice and her ears and leave her nothin' but dry bones. All he off'rin' her is a rusty knife.
The cards, they tellin' her he a devil, he a false priest, but she ain't lookin' at the cards. She lookin' at the false face of true love instead.
Sometimes, help come when you need it, Grace come. Not earned, not deservin', that ain't grace, that reward. Grace is Life steppin' in to preserve you. Grace ain't no altruism, grace ain't no charity. Life ain't terr'bly charitable, you may a noticed, yeah? Grace is Life steppin it to preserve you to preserve itself, preserve the whole, because you part of it all, and if you silenced, it diminish. Enlightened self-int'rest, let's call it. And that's when I get enlightened, let's say. That's when I decide I stop that dry man. That's when I come in graceful, let's say, and give her a diff'rent song, a warnin' song, sad as her own so it don't startle, a song that echo in those empty spaces, resonate through the hollow pipes of ruined towers. I make one song fade and mix into t'other, match the pitch, join the beats, and then she got a new song playin' in her heart. It playin' in the whole city, but she just barely hear it.
This street holds its secrets like a cobra holds its kill
This street minds its business like a jailer minds his jail
That house there is haunted
That door's a portal to hell
This street holds its secrets very well
She hear it, just barely. She come to her feet careful like a ballerina on the broken glass. She remember where she is. She remember why she here. She look at the dry man but she still uncertain. The face, the voice seem true, and he's whisp'rin' into her heart, "Please adore me," promisin' to turn her blue moon gold. So I bring up the volume some, keep playin' the song I'm givin' her, givin' her grace if she will just listen.
That man wears his skin like a dancer wears her veils
That man stalks his victims like a cancer stalks a cell
That man's soul has left him his heart's as deadly as a rusty nail
That man sheds his skin like a veil
The dry man hold out his arms and she rush into them, and she don't hardly feel the knife go in at all.
Lord, you play a hard game, you know we follow every rule
Then you take the one thing we thought we'd never lose
There a gasp an' a choke, an' she hear that perfect clear. Then she hear the sand slip away like a brushed cymbal, an' the deceiver stand before her with a knife in his ribs. He took the face of false love and she give him the fate of her own love for true. The dry man, he got blood like tree sap, it don't hardly flow at all, but the knife cut a hole in his lungs to let the dust in, and he fold and fall to his knees, bowin' to the howlin' god, makin' one last obeisance to the wailing waste.
She leave that place. I follow her, keep her safe, sing her a blessin' as the gate open up and she step through and pass outta my sight.
All I ask is if she's with you please keep her warm and safe
And if it's in your power please purge the memory of this place
This a story of a fight, fight in a tournament like this, for the amusement of someone like to think he a god, but he a false god, false ev'rything. The fights, though, the battles had the truth in 'em. Maybe the false god lost all his truth, so he wanna watch the truth of other people. Dunno. Not my song to sing, not right now. But in this battle there a woman, and she think she doomed to vict'ry, and she come up against a dry, hard man who give up all his song to a god who jus' wails on the wind. He come with wind and dust to dry the throat until it coughing and hoarse and can't make no more sound than a cracked violin.
Now this woman, she got the divination in her. You know what that mean? It come from "divine." She see what they see, feel what they know, justa liddle, just enough to confuse. She could hear other people singin' in the world, but she only hear it outta one ear, only hear the silences. That happen to people who losin' they own songs.
You gotta song. You sing it to yourself, maybe in the shower, maybe the car, over the dishes, sittin' inna boat waitin' for the fishes to take notice. Maybe you heard it somewhere and put it in your heart for safekeepin'. Maybe it grow outta you natural, few notes wanderin' inna hum when you alone. She gotta song. Maybe you hear it sometime.
Blue moon
You saw me standing alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own
Pretty tune, sad tune, but it find the joy in end. But her soul, it get scratched and the song skip and skip when it play, and it play all the time.
Without a dream in my heart-
Without a dream in my heart-
without a dream in my heart-
So she come together to battle with the dry man in a city gone to ruin. A song in that place echo powerful inna streets, but there ain't no song in that city no more. She come to the place of battle with her song playin', but now it skippin' inna diff'rent place.
Without a love of my own-
Without a love of my own-
Without a love of my own-
You see, she inna bar, thinkin' on dancin' with a love of her own, but the one she thinkin' of poured out his life in her hands, now she standin' alone, standin' alone, standin' alone, with the knife that ended him on her hip. So she take out her cards and start layin' em down, think maybe they make a map outta this place.
That's when the dry man come, but he a deceiver. He come in the form of the one she dancin' with in her heart. He promise her a path back, he promise her duets, he promise her she don't need to listen the the silences of ev'ry passing life, but what he really off'rin' her is to take her voice and her ears and leave her nothin' but dry bones. All he off'rin' her is a rusty knife.
The cards, they tellin' her he a devil, he a false priest, but she ain't lookin' at the cards. She lookin' at the false face of true love instead.
Sometimes, help come when you need it, Grace come. Not earned, not deservin', that ain't grace, that reward. Grace is Life steppin' in to preserve you. Grace ain't no altruism, grace ain't no charity. Life ain't terr'bly charitable, you may a noticed, yeah? Grace is Life steppin it to preserve you to preserve itself, preserve the whole, because you part of it all, and if you silenced, it diminish. Enlightened self-int'rest, let's call it. And that's when I get enlightened, let's say. That's when I decide I stop that dry man. That's when I come in graceful, let's say, and give her a diff'rent song, a warnin' song, sad as her own so it don't startle, a song that echo in those empty spaces, resonate through the hollow pipes of ruined towers. I make one song fade and mix into t'other, match the pitch, join the beats, and then she got a new song playin' in her heart. It playin' in the whole city, but she just barely hear it.
This street holds its secrets like a cobra holds its kill
This street minds its business like a jailer minds his jail
That house there is haunted
That door's a portal to hell
This street holds its secrets very well
She hear it, just barely. She come to her feet careful like a ballerina on the broken glass. She remember where she is. She remember why she here. She look at the dry man but she still uncertain. The face, the voice seem true, and he's whisp'rin' into her heart, "Please adore me," promisin' to turn her blue moon gold. So I bring up the volume some, keep playin' the song I'm givin' her, givin' her grace if she will just listen.
That man wears his skin like a dancer wears her veils
That man stalks his victims like a cancer stalks a cell
That man's soul has left him his heart's as deadly as a rusty nail
That man sheds his skin like a veil
The dry man hold out his arms and she rush into them, and she don't hardly feel the knife go in at all.
Lord, you play a hard game, you know we follow every rule
Then you take the one thing we thought we'd never lose
There a gasp an' a choke, an' she hear that perfect clear. Then she hear the sand slip away like a brushed cymbal, an' the deceiver stand before her with a knife in his ribs. He took the face of false love and she give him the fate of her own love for true. The dry man, he got blood like tree sap, it don't hardly flow at all, but the knife cut a hole in his lungs to let the dust in, and he fold and fall to his knees, bowin' to the howlin' god, makin' one last obeisance to the wailing waste.
She leave that place. I follow her, keep her safe, sing her a blessin' as the gate open up and she step through and pass outta my sight.
All I ask is if she's with you please keep her warm and safe
And if it's in your power please purge the memory of this place
We always mean't to write that Vherran/MT match, but then you go and do it with another character? Bah! I'd write the story if i could afford to slip back into Vherran mode, and i may be able to after my first match, while i wait for the result. So don't get comfortable yet! I'll be damned if i'm undone by a walking thrift store!
Also, new Eviljoe is on the way, i'm just taking to it with an edit chainsaw and a grammar acid-bath. Feel free to volunteer to edit it for me, as i'm likely to miss things.
I haven't been commenting on anyones stories because i didn't want the clutter the thread (One person starts with chapters and post-post rationales, and now everyone's got them. Tsk tsk) any more than it is. But PM me if you value my opinion enough to warrant it. For the record, i value all of your opinions, so ship them over in exchange. Trade-style.
Also, the current comments fill me with preidful glee. Bad escapists, i run on paranoia and fear! Feed my inadequacy!
Also, new Eviljoe is on the way, i'm just taking to it with an edit chainsaw and a grammar acid-bath. Feel free to volunteer to edit it for me, as i'm likely to miss things.
I haven't been commenting on anyones stories because i didn't want the clutter the thread (One person starts with chapters and post-post rationales, and now everyone's got them. Tsk tsk) any more than it is. But PM me if you value my opinion enough to warrant it. For the record, i value all of your opinions, so ship them over in exchange. Trade-style.
Also, the current comments fill me with preidful glee. Bad escapists, i run on paranoia and fear! Feed my inadequacy!
Hey, my one didn't actually involve Axle or Athena!Ultrajoe said:
Jericho is actually a little joke of mine, so I thought it would be good idea to incorporate him into the story. As for the device, well, you'll see.
In regards to your chapters, Ultrajoe, I haven't gotten a chance to read them yet. I have been keeping an eye on some people's posts (I've noticed that someone else has used the two-player mechanic as well, ruins my originality somewhat) but I haven't reached yours as of this moment, so you'll have to wait a bit for my own thoughts.
Speaking of thoughts, what are yours on my two posts so far?
Khedive beat you to the punch, i'm PM'ing him my thoughts now. Then Msh, then you.Lord Krunk said:
All of this while i'm trying to write Eviljoe. At work.
Worth it, in every way, though. If i can't steal 30 minutes for this, then it's just not worth working.
EDIT: Ok, here come my thoughts.
Fair enough, I can wait.Ultrajoe said:
I'll start reading your chapters later today; I'm pretty busy at the moment.
Sentified. I'll be putting all of Eviljoe Act 1 together in a moment, so you might be able to get through it then.Lord Krunk said:
EDIT: Looking below at the fruits of my attempt, it seems it was too much and has killed the escapist... at least for me. I'll try again, if i can find the edit button.
EDIT 2: Ok, spoilering the individual chapters within the spoiler didn't work. I'm going to find links and you can read it in it's original context. If it's just me, by the way, and you can read it fine, please let me know before i get rid of this Monsterpost.
Chapter 1 of 'Act 2: Rise' is incoming much later tonight.
EDIT 3: Ok, death-post fixed. Looks like you'll have to find the chapters on your own, as i've never got the hang of linking to individual posts. What kind of site can't handle 9,000 words spoilere'd?