Precisely. You may know what you're talking about, but that doesn't mean we do.Higurashi said:
The Ratings War III: Republic of Heaven (Second Round Finals)
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I'm a little disappointed that he came off as an agent of chaos, I suppose I would prefer the term 'Agent of Himself'. He isn't in love with anarchy, it's moreso that he sees any system capable of doing what it did to him as unbearable. If you're a TV troper, he's more a Knight Templar than an Ax Crazy, although i tried to avoid making him resemble tropes (There's just so many to avoid! You think you're free, then bang).Lord Krunk said:
1) His name isn't Eviljoe or Edward, his guard kept calling names starting with 'E' because he didn't want to play 'Evil's game and call him Evil. If this is something other people are confused about, please tell me, i'll clear it up post haste. The people i tested the story on got it, but they had the benefit of my paranoid mind neurotically explaining things as they read.
As for his abilities? He's fast, he's strong, and he's Evil. I tried to set him up as his own selling point, rather than a character to serve as a basis for a power of philosophy. I'm glad that comes across as vague, by the way, the philosophy. He's crazy, and he doesn't need a motivation because he can't really put into words the rage/injustice he feels. He's what he says, electric liquid Karma here to fuck you up for fucking him up. He's imaginative and relentless, and if you're not with him then you're against him... and being with him is not an option.
He's the kind of person to look at the world and see it is evidence of a god. And then try to hold him accountable for it.
The irony is that somebody beat him too it.
2) He'll get a stat sheet. Give it time. One more Intro chapter... and it's a doozy. I could hardly give him a sheet at the start, because i wanted to keep how and who he ended up as a secret (you only really knew a name). And it didn't seem right to give him one before he was fully him. One more post, and he's fully him.
Ah, that clears it up a bit. I'm just wondering, could you tell me what Evil's original name was? It's a just-in-case mechanism, but I've got an idea in case I wind up competing against you first.Ultrajoe said:
Excellent; I await your final chapter with zeal.
When you say he practices Voodoo, what kind of Voodoo are you talking about? There are a couple of different kinds.Khedive Rex said:
Sorry Krunky, I gotta have some twists of my own to play. Eviljoe's only outstanding strength is his character, which is something even my opponents can take advantage of... so I'm asking nicely that I be allowed some cards to hold close to my chest. If you demand it, I can't rightfully deny you the information, but that's up to you.Lord Krunk said:
I'm assuming it's the one with all the dolls and needles.mshcherbatskaya said:
Fair enough, I'll only actually need the name if I'm against you, and under the right circumstances. I'll ask you if that is the case, but I won't if I'm not.Ultrajoe said:
I assume she's trying to gauge how 'Hollywood' his Voodoo is. It's not a bad thing if it is, i imagine, but it's an important distinction. Most of the varied forms of Voodoo involve pins and dolls, in the same what that most Christians pray, but can be as different as a pie from 'crocodile'. As such, plans need to be changed accordingly.Lord Krunk said:
I guess her question is; Does Rex use Hoodoo (folk magic) as a weapon, or is he into the core practices of Vodun (fancy name for voodoo, y'all), which is basically acting as a medium and willing host to the spirit world and all of the varied people within it? Is he African Voodoo, or (i'm guessing the following) Louisiana Voodoo? Is he going to focus on Gris Gris or being ridden by a spirit?
Long story short: Moar info plz. I second her curiosity.
Yeah, am I looking at fighting a guy with a doll-and-pins or am I going to find myself face-to-face with Baron Samedi?Ultrajoe said:
Solitude
Ivan's training blade emerged from it's sheath, and he spoke out to the two squires that stood on the other end of the combat mat.
"Both of you, hit me with everything you've got"
The two of them did, they both stormed at him with drawn blades. They thought their victory was imminent, because there were two of them, and Ivan swore that he wouldn't use his azure star. To the two squires, it was game set and match. But tragically for them, Ivan had other ideas.
They both struck at him, slashing aimlessly at his torso. Ivan blocked one of their attacks with the shield attached to his right hand, and he stepped to the side to send the other attack swinging through blank air. Ivan brought his own blade down into the open back of the squire that he sidestepped, it met with a metal clang as the first squire had a grand meeting with the floor. The second squire pulled away from Ivan's shield and tried to step behind him. As soon as the squire was directly in line with his back, Ivan kicked off of his legs and ramed backwards into the second squire. The second squire found his back pressed against the ground, and Ivan's steel pressed against his throat.
By now, the first squire had gotten to his feet, and was striking at Ivan's head in an overhead swing from behind. At the last moment, Ivan swung to the left as the blade went down, and it was lights out for the second squire. And with a decent swing of Ivan's weapon, the first squire also went down to the floor, greeted by the sandman.
"Better luck next time, kids"
Ivan was still in the civil sanctuary, because Orin insisted on taking Ivan under his personal care. Orin had been teaching him how to control his Azure Star for several days now. Teaching him about how using it saps his energy, leaving him weaker and more tired.
To put it into the terms of Ivan's favorite childhood game, he would lose his "life points" for every use of this power. And it was rather hard to get under control when things get out of hand. His reasons behind staying at the sanctuary may have been for Orin's training, but there was a motive for greater for staying at his new home. And it was a certain girl by the name of Cecilia.
Cecilia and Ivan were now one of the most talked about couples in the entire sanctuary, this may have been because every single squire in the entire sanctuary had been trying to take her heart for their own. This, as well as Ivan's knighthood, made Ivan the most shunned person in the entire sanctuary. In an act that was made of a mixture of impatience, annoyance, and pride, Ivan challenged the two most talented squires to a two on one duel.
He had just got done with their duel, and it was quite obvious that he was the winner. Ivan stepped away from the area, grinning at the stunned eyes and the gaping jaws of the squires. Something about seeing their egos crushed and their disdain for Ivan shattered gave him a second wind of energy. He stepped out of the training chamber, and went to his own private room.
It was scarcely decorated, Ivan didn't have very many personal possessions. One of the items he was most proud of was a sigil that he was supposed to place on his cuirass, whenever the smiths ever got it finished. It was a mixture of light blue and white, bearing the emblem of the Knights in the center. It made Ivan feel important, just looking at the sigil that he earned.
Ivan's life was coming together, and he couldn't be happier about it.
.............
The call went out to all Knights, every knight of the eversteel edge got the same message
"By order of the Knight Master, return to the Civil Sanctuary at once, drop all missions and duties, darkness is upon us"
.............
The soldiers that invaded the sanctuary seemed to be made of shadows themselves, as Ivan struck out at one of them, his blade passed through the enemy's torso, leaving him unharmed
"You thought I'd dodge? How very quaint..."
His blade rose towards Ivan's arm, but Ivan wasn't eager to test rather the shadow's immunity went both ways. So he dodged and sent a small beam of energy at the shadow's head. Ivan's azure star was successful in destroying the shadow. But it also made him twinge in pain, as he felt energy slowly drain out his body. A steel hand fell onto his shoulder, and Orin addressed him in a serious tone.
"All the squires are out, and the other knights are on their way as we speak!"
"Orin, who are these people?"
"I don't know, but they've attacked us several times in the past"
"Sir?"
"Just follow me, he have to get out of here."
"I understand"
..........
Ivan and Orin fought their way out of the civil sanctuary, but Ivan had overused his powers, and Orin was forced to carry him out to safety. They were in a field not too far from the sanctuary when the clouds above their heads started to glow a pitch black. And a dark orb that seemed to emanate evil poured out, spilling it's gloom all across the world.
Orin stood, cursing
"It can't be... no!"
Ivan shuddered in fear
"What is that?"
"The self proclaimed god of fury, he is said to have a personal grudge against everything good and kind"
"That's a little dramatic"
"Naturally, it's folklore... are you seriously asking about that when he's in front of us!?"
The orb turns into the figure of a winged demon, he was cloaked in black rock, with lava flowing around his entire body. A pair if massive wings broke out his shoulders, and he let out a wicked laugh that caused an aura of darkness to emerge from his mouth. Orin turned to Ivan in a panic.
"You must live!"
"huh?"
"When the god himself appears, entire continents are destroyed in his wake."
The god rose his hand, and a gargantuan ball of pure hate appeared in his hand, and he threw it down at the earth. It was now that Orin turned to Ivan and jammed his hand into Ivan's breastplate
"Live!"
Before Ivan could react, he was engulfed in a white light, and when the flare faded away, he was rocketing across the sea, towards the other continent. He couldn't move, and all he could do was watch as his home country was engulfed in a ball of darkness, the ball exploded, destroying the continent of Soravel, and destroying Ivan's home for a second time.
Orin... the squires... Cecila
"No! This isn't happening! No! Cecilia! Orin!"
all that he could do was scream, and fly his way to safety
........
Three weeks, and Ivan stayed in that bed, in that inn. He didn't care any more, three weeks passed before he got over himself. He was asleep one night, wallowing in his misery. When images of Ethan, and Cecilia came to him in his sleep, both of them were clearly visible, and obviously not happy.
Ethan was the first to speak
"Ivan! you wimp! Get out of bed and go fight!"
"Ethan, what is there to fight for"
Cecilia spoke next, speaking in a soothing tone
"Because evil still exists in our world, it is your duty to ensure that nobody suffers the same way that you have"
"Cecilia..."
Ethan crosses his arms, responding
"You honestly think we're never going to meet again? Just be patient, it may be tomorrow, or fifty years from now. But you will see us again."
Both of them spoke at once
"So get up, and fight! Fight like the Knight you are!"
Ivan awoke from his three week coma, grasping his head
"What... a fool... I was"
He puts on his armor and dawns his blade, heading out into the world to fight, as a knight of the eversteel blade
.........
I had a far more depressing version planned, but I couldn't bring myself to do it, I have become really attached to Ivan. Even if my story has to suffer a little bit.
In any case, that's the last of it. From this moment forward, I'm actually going to be putting some effort into my stories. Instead of making things up off the top of my head
I tried to merge them all, but the escapist got a little scared and messed up during my post, I'm sorry
In any case, that's the last of it. From this moment forward, I'm actually going to be putting some effort into my stories. Instead of making things up off the top of my head
I tried to merge them all, but the escapist got a little scared and messed up during my post, I'm sorry
this is cool. i love the characterisation.vid20 said:
can't wait to see jack and jill.
on a similar note: go see this if you're into fairy tales:
http://www.forthewicked.net/
High-five. Awesome comic. <3rogueshadows said:
On topic, I am writing the intro right now. I will be getting it up by tomorrow, as I need sleep right now.
PS: On a refreshing note, I will be making it rather short. I hope. Unless I get gripped by the muse. x)
I'll have more interesting things later. This is just to get myself in. Here's the character.
Name: Rahk Tahl
Age: Newly-Immortal (78 human years)
Description: Standing at a slight 5'4", Rahk-Tahl's approach is easily heard with the clinking and clattering of the tribal symbols and shrunken skulls strung about his body. Wearing little but a loincloth, sandals, and his religious headdress, he cuts an imposing figure nonetheless.
Primary weapon: Psionic energy emitted through the mouth. (I.E. Screams, lullabies, etc.)
Secondary Weapons: Obsidian-bladed ceremonial dagger (often used for throwing).
Able to encase his fists in diamond-hard Psionic energy, allowing immense pain from a single punch.
Armor: Enhanced reflexes and little clothing allow Rahk to move well and dodge many attacks. His lack of nutrition (inherent in the ways of Tik-Tik) led to an easily damaged body, however. His skin also has some manner of elasticity, and can stretch and bend. This property is not shared by his bones/organs.
Background: This'll become more fleshed as the story rolls, I suppose. Let's leave it in short as "Was a follower of a forgotten Aztec God of Darkness called Tik-Tik, grew too powerful for his own good, challenged Tik-Tik to single combat. The wager; Rahk's immortal soul for Tik-Tik's Godhood.
He was born shortly before the Spanish Conquistadores conquered Tenochtitlan and beheaded Moctezuma, if anyone cares.
Like I said, future posts will be longer and hopefully better.
Name: Rahk Tahl
Age: Newly-Immortal (78 human years)
Description: Standing at a slight 5'4", Rahk-Tahl's approach is easily heard with the clinking and clattering of the tribal symbols and shrunken skulls strung about his body. Wearing little but a loincloth, sandals, and his religious headdress, he cuts an imposing figure nonetheless.
Primary weapon: Psionic energy emitted through the mouth. (I.E. Screams, lullabies, etc.)
Secondary Weapons: Obsidian-bladed ceremonial dagger (often used for throwing).
Able to encase his fists in diamond-hard Psionic energy, allowing immense pain from a single punch.
Armor: Enhanced reflexes and little clothing allow Rahk to move well and dodge many attacks. His lack of nutrition (inherent in the ways of Tik-Tik) led to an easily damaged body, however. His skin also has some manner of elasticity, and can stretch and bend. This property is not shared by his bones/organs.
Background: This'll become more fleshed as the story rolls, I suppose. Let's leave it in short as "Was a follower of a forgotten Aztec God of Darkness called Tik-Tik, grew too powerful for his own good, challenged Tik-Tik to single combat. The wager; Rahk's immortal soul for Tik-Tik's Godhood.
He was born shortly before the Spanish Conquistadores conquered Tenochtitlan and beheaded Moctezuma, if anyone cares.
Like I said, future posts will be longer and hopefully better.
Darkness enveloped Rahk-Tahl. Soothing, quiet, it nursed his wounds and calmed his mind from the trial he had passed. The skulls resting against his bare chest clacked together as the bone in his arm knit itself together. He bit the skin of his broken lips against the pain, using the discipline learned in his years of slavery to steady his body.
The darkness filled him, warmed him, whispered safety to him. He had earned this. Tik-Tik had been a fool to stand against him. All who stood against him were. And would be.
Rahk-Tahl drew a shuddering breath as the last filaments of bone fused together. Even with his newfound powers, he knew he was not invulnerable. Far from it. He glanced down at the ribbons of blood oozing from his arms. Lifting his palms to his lips, he exhaled.
A dark mist perceivable to his eyes alone coalesced, floating in the oblivion alongside him. Rahk-Tahl allowed himself a slight smile. Here, he was Lord. Here, no wound would last. This was his Heaven, his Hell, his Oblivion, all rolled into one.
It felt right.
His flesh stitched together, the mist flowing into his veins and carrying itself along his veins. Warmth spread from his fingertips to his toes, and he was slowly lulled into sleep.
?A tournament?? Rahk mused, turning over the scrap of parchment in his hand. The elegant script was foreign to his eyes, yet he knew without a doubt its contents. ?For the seat of God of Earth?? He glanced around his Oblivion. Dull, yes, but it was home.
But to be God of an entire planet?
Rahk felt his lips turn up in a grin. A challenge to test his strength, if nothing more.
The darkness filled him, warmed him, whispered safety to him. He had earned this. Tik-Tik had been a fool to stand against him. All who stood against him were. And would be.
Rahk-Tahl drew a shuddering breath as the last filaments of bone fused together. Even with his newfound powers, he knew he was not invulnerable. Far from it. He glanced down at the ribbons of blood oozing from his arms. Lifting his palms to his lips, he exhaled.
A dark mist perceivable to his eyes alone coalesced, floating in the oblivion alongside him. Rahk-Tahl allowed himself a slight smile. Here, he was Lord. Here, no wound would last. This was his Heaven, his Hell, his Oblivion, all rolled into one.
It felt right.
His flesh stitched together, the mist flowing into his veins and carrying itself along his veins. Warmth spread from his fingertips to his toes, and he was slowly lulled into sleep.
?A tournament?? Rahk mused, turning over the scrap of parchment in his hand. The elegant script was foreign to his eyes, yet he knew without a doubt its contents. ?For the seat of God of Earth?? He glanced around his Oblivion. Dull, yes, but it was home.
But to be God of an entire planet?
Rahk felt his lips turn up in a grin. A challenge to test his strength, if nothing more.
Rahk-Tahl grinned. Despite his misgivings, this was quickly shaping into a viable competition. Death, drama, and danger surrounded them all, and even in this rest area, Purgatory, the tension was tangible. Closing his eyes, Rahk allowed the emotions to seep into his body.
Anger. Fear. Paranoia. A myriad of emotions blanketed the premises, almost sweeping Rahk away. He opened his eyes; no use being consumed by another?s problems in this situation.
Resting his palms on his bare kneecaps, Rahk watched as one of the victors of the previous matches walked ahead of him. He lowered his head, watching the man?s decaying form out of the corner of his eye. He had seen the man?s performance.
He wanted to see more.
Pushing himself to his feet, he strode quickly over to the non-living abomination. Clearing his throat, Rahk addressed Malcolm.
?Mister Lynch, I presume??
The green-skinned man glanced over his shoulder, his movement almost birdlike. ?You have business with me?? He said slowly, sizing up Rahk-Tahl thoroughly. Rahk only smiled in return.
?Oh, no such thing. I only wish to? congratulate you on your victory.? Rahk?s black, rotten teeth showed in his grin as he spoke. Rahk?s fetid breath swarmed through Malcolm?s decayed nostrils as he continued. ?My good sir, you have combat prowess worthy of praise. And I give it freely. The way you handled that metal-clad man was admirable.?
Rahk closed the space until he and Malcolm were nearly eye-to-eye. ?Mister Lynch, I intend this as nothing more than a friendly warning. Be more careful in your future battles. You very nearly were slain, and?? Rahk grinned clasping his hand to Malcolm?s shoulder ?I can?t have that, now can I? I find you a fascinating man. Perhaps, when this is all over, and I have claimed the throne of Earth for my own, you can be one of my agents. Would you like that??
Malcolm growled and pushed Rahk away. ?Get the fuck out of my face.? He snarled, his hand reaching for one of the metal monstrosities he had used to slay his earlier foe.
Rahk swept a deep bow, stepping back from the man. ?Ah, sir, I intended no harm.? He smiled warmly, scratching at his chin. ?I merely offered ??
?I said, get the fuck out of my face.?
Rahk took one last bow, sweeping far below his waist. ?As you wish, my good friend.? Rahk turned his back to the man, pausing a moment. He heard the monstrosity shift, and heard his fingers dance across the metal of his pistol. Rahk smiled and strode lightly away.
"Oh, this will be interesting."
Anger. Fear. Paranoia. A myriad of emotions blanketed the premises, almost sweeping Rahk away. He opened his eyes; no use being consumed by another?s problems in this situation.
Resting his palms on his bare kneecaps, Rahk watched as one of the victors of the previous matches walked ahead of him. He lowered his head, watching the man?s decaying form out of the corner of his eye. He had seen the man?s performance.
He wanted to see more.
Pushing himself to his feet, he strode quickly over to the non-living abomination. Clearing his throat, Rahk addressed Malcolm.
?Mister Lynch, I presume??
The green-skinned man glanced over his shoulder, his movement almost birdlike. ?You have business with me?? He said slowly, sizing up Rahk-Tahl thoroughly. Rahk only smiled in return.
?Oh, no such thing. I only wish to? congratulate you on your victory.? Rahk?s black, rotten teeth showed in his grin as he spoke. Rahk?s fetid breath swarmed through Malcolm?s decayed nostrils as he continued. ?My good sir, you have combat prowess worthy of praise. And I give it freely. The way you handled that metal-clad man was admirable.?
Rahk closed the space until he and Malcolm were nearly eye-to-eye. ?Mister Lynch, I intend this as nothing more than a friendly warning. Be more careful in your future battles. You very nearly were slain, and?? Rahk grinned clasping his hand to Malcolm?s shoulder ?I can?t have that, now can I? I find you a fascinating man. Perhaps, when this is all over, and I have claimed the throne of Earth for my own, you can be one of my agents. Would you like that??
Malcolm growled and pushed Rahk away. ?Get the fuck out of my face.? He snarled, his hand reaching for one of the metal monstrosities he had used to slay his earlier foe.
Rahk swept a deep bow, stepping back from the man. ?Ah, sir, I intended no harm.? He smiled warmly, scratching at his chin. ?I merely offered ??
?I said, get the fuck out of my face.?
Rahk took one last bow, sweeping far below his waist. ?As you wish, my good friend.? Rahk turned his back to the man, pausing a moment. He heard the monstrosity shift, and heard his fingers dance across the metal of his pistol. Rahk smiled and strode lightly away.
"Oh, this will be interesting."
?Jayck and Jyill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water
Jayck fell down and broke his crown
And Jyill cam tumbling after.
I wrote that just before I sent them away; a record of their final failure too me. You may think the reaction is a little extreme, disposing of children because they spilled a pail of water on the crest of a hill and in the process of it ended up injuring themselves. But it was just a pail of water they spilt, that in fact is a complete mistranslation. The content inside that bucket was actually pale water, a powerful reagent used in some of the most potent potions.
Maybe it is my failure as a teacher for not stressing to them the importance of the pale water. But I feel that even had I forced its significance upon them through means of magical mind alteration they still would have fought atop the crest of hat hill; the bucket still would have been spilled. You see it was Jayck and Jyill?s nature to fight; there relationship to each other as siblings seemed to be based around conflict with each other. Anything and everything could be turned into a competition, and while this may have been a good trait if the competition lead to them trying to out preform each other, such was not the case. Instead of trying to grow over each other like trees in a forest searching for the sun, the two acted like lumberjacks and sought to constantly cut each other down.
I never quite understood why they fought the way they did, as far as I can gather looking back over their records the two are orphans; sold into service of the wicken convent at birth the two have known nothing but servitude to others. Generally in my experience such bondage would lead to a strong bond between the children; such is defiantly the case with Hansel and Gretel. But with Jayck and Jyill this was never the case.
I tried to be understanding with them, its one of my better qualities; and a necessity for any good Story Teller. But the incident with the Pale Water was the last straw in a long string of inane failures that stemmed from this rivalry they possessed.
My judgment may have been hasty and harsh, but I was considerably miffed at the time, and even now looking back on it I still think I made the right decision. It is defiantly one of my ore ingenious punishments to date.
If Jayck and Jyill would refuse to cooperate with each other I was going to force them to cooperate, I made it so that their very existence depended on each other; Jayck with Jyill, and Jyill with Jayck. Neither of them could now stand a chance of living in these dangerous times without the aid of the other.?
As it happens when a long story is being related, some one finally interrupted the conversations flow.
?I?m not following you here dame.? Piped the Big Bad Wolf. It seemed most appropriate that he be the one to interrupt the story, so logically he did. But you?ll just have to trust me on this. ?What exactly did you do??
?You don?t yet see my genius? Then let me explain further. This is a dangerous world inhabited by dangerous people; it is most advantageous to be able to defend yourself when the time arises ? and its not a question of if, but when ? If you rob some one of the ability to defend themselves, then essentially you are handing them a death sentence.
And robbing Jayck and Jyill of this right is exactly what I did. Neither Jayck nor Jyill can wield a weapon unless the weapon that they wield is each other.? And here again the Story Teller stopped, letting the last honey filled syllables roll of her lips and enter existence in the room around her. All of those assembled, even Winky, slowly grasped the gravity of what had just been said.
?But how does it work?? Interjected Alice as politely as was possible.
?They are a weapon for each other Alice, it is a simple as that. But how it all works, not even I know that. Although I had a concept of what I wanted to see when the punishment was sentenced, but it seemed that spilling the Pale Water on themselves provided the two with a degree of protection against my own intentions. And so while the moral assessment and punishment was met, the full repercussions of the actions are a beauty that I have no yet seen myself.?
?So basically we have just decided to send some kids, whom we have no idea too the capabilities of, into a competition to potentially become the new ?gods of earth.?? Comprehension slowly dawned on the Big Bad Wolf, he wasn?t sure that he liked it.
?But, it?s brilliant.? Breathed Alice, whom was of a similar mind set to the Story Teller on these things. ?Unknown power, unknown possibilities.? Unlike big bad Alice didn?t at all feel unhappy with the chose they had made, on the contrary she felt it was quite fitting.
?But, where are they now? And how do we get them to this competition?? Unhappy as he was, Big Bad was determined to find a fault in this plan.
?The terms of there punishment was simple. They would be returned to normal as soon as they brought me another sample of Pale Water. I gave Jayck a vial to fill, and told them where another source of the liquid could be found. I assume presently they are off searching for it. As for how to get them to this competition, you seem to forget Big Bad, the world is put a Story to me.? And with the last words seeping from her lips the Story Teller did exactly as she said, again re writing the destiny of the two who had no idea the path their destiny was about to follow.
To fetch a pail of water
Jayck fell down and broke his crown
And Jyill cam tumbling after.
I wrote that just before I sent them away; a record of their final failure too me. You may think the reaction is a little extreme, disposing of children because they spilled a pail of water on the crest of a hill and in the process of it ended up injuring themselves. But it was just a pail of water they spilt, that in fact is a complete mistranslation. The content inside that bucket was actually pale water, a powerful reagent used in some of the most potent potions.
Maybe it is my failure as a teacher for not stressing to them the importance of the pale water. But I feel that even had I forced its significance upon them through means of magical mind alteration they still would have fought atop the crest of hat hill; the bucket still would have been spilled. You see it was Jayck and Jyill?s nature to fight; there relationship to each other as siblings seemed to be based around conflict with each other. Anything and everything could be turned into a competition, and while this may have been a good trait if the competition lead to them trying to out preform each other, such was not the case. Instead of trying to grow over each other like trees in a forest searching for the sun, the two acted like lumberjacks and sought to constantly cut each other down.
I never quite understood why they fought the way they did, as far as I can gather looking back over their records the two are orphans; sold into service of the wicken convent at birth the two have known nothing but servitude to others. Generally in my experience such bondage would lead to a strong bond between the children; such is defiantly the case with Hansel and Gretel. But with Jayck and Jyill this was never the case.
I tried to be understanding with them, its one of my better qualities; and a necessity for any good Story Teller. But the incident with the Pale Water was the last straw in a long string of inane failures that stemmed from this rivalry they possessed.
My judgment may have been hasty and harsh, but I was considerably miffed at the time, and even now looking back on it I still think I made the right decision. It is defiantly one of my ore ingenious punishments to date.
If Jayck and Jyill would refuse to cooperate with each other I was going to force them to cooperate, I made it so that their very existence depended on each other; Jayck with Jyill, and Jyill with Jayck. Neither of them could now stand a chance of living in these dangerous times without the aid of the other.?
As it happens when a long story is being related, some one finally interrupted the conversations flow.
?I?m not following you here dame.? Piped the Big Bad Wolf. It seemed most appropriate that he be the one to interrupt the story, so logically he did. But you?ll just have to trust me on this. ?What exactly did you do??
?You don?t yet see my genius? Then let me explain further. This is a dangerous world inhabited by dangerous people; it is most advantageous to be able to defend yourself when the time arises ? and its not a question of if, but when ? If you rob some one of the ability to defend themselves, then essentially you are handing them a death sentence.
And robbing Jayck and Jyill of this right is exactly what I did. Neither Jayck nor Jyill can wield a weapon unless the weapon that they wield is each other.? And here again the Story Teller stopped, letting the last honey filled syllables roll of her lips and enter existence in the room around her. All of those assembled, even Winky, slowly grasped the gravity of what had just been said.
?But how does it work?? Interjected Alice as politely as was possible.
?They are a weapon for each other Alice, it is a simple as that. But how it all works, not even I know that. Although I had a concept of what I wanted to see when the punishment was sentenced, but it seemed that spilling the Pale Water on themselves provided the two with a degree of protection against my own intentions. And so while the moral assessment and punishment was met, the full repercussions of the actions are a beauty that I have no yet seen myself.?
?So basically we have just decided to send some kids, whom we have no idea too the capabilities of, into a competition to potentially become the new ?gods of earth.?? Comprehension slowly dawned on the Big Bad Wolf, he wasn?t sure that he liked it.
?But, it?s brilliant.? Breathed Alice, whom was of a similar mind set to the Story Teller on these things. ?Unknown power, unknown possibilities.? Unlike big bad Alice didn?t at all feel unhappy with the chose they had made, on the contrary she felt it was quite fitting.
?But, where are they now? And how do we get them to this competition?? Unhappy as he was, Big Bad was determined to find a fault in this plan.
?The terms of there punishment was simple. They would be returned to normal as soon as they brought me another sample of Pale Water. I gave Jayck a vial to fill, and told them where another source of the liquid could be found. I assume presently they are off searching for it. As for how to get them to this competition, you seem to forget Big Bad, the world is put a Story to me.? And with the last words seeping from her lips the Story Teller did exactly as she said, again re writing the destiny of the two who had no idea the path their destiny was about to follow.
This part of town was dark, but that was nothing new. If you knew anything of this part of town ? and I guarantee you, you do. ? Then you would have come her anticipating the dark. Most probably you would be here because it was dark, and the beautiful thing about darkness is its concealing. Anything and everything can happen in darkness and no one will know, not unless you want them too that is.
I say you would know this part of town, but that is in actual fact a slight exaggeration of the facts. You might not know this part of town in particular, but you will most certainly know of something like it. Just imagine the darkest streets you have ever seen, then magnify it a bit. There you go. Still think I?m over exaggerating? You?ll just have to trust me, I?m telling this story.
However even if you couldn?t imagine the street, I?m sure you will be able to imagine the scene that is about to unfold within it. Two young adults; a boy a girl, they are walking through this part of town alone, unarmed, and late at night. If you could stereotype them you may just call them Dead, and Meat. Starting with the boy and finishing with the girl, as you know what is going to happen to her before she dies. You do have an imagination after all don?t you?
But as most scenarios of this magnitude tend to go, an assumption would be the worst place to possibly start examining the scenario. In stead you would be better to try and get into the minds of these two youngsters in a bid to understand why they are here; in this part of town, this late at night. Don?t believe me? You should. Trust me the consequences will be amazing.
Jyill didn?t care much for the cold night air. It wasn?t because she was prejudiced towards cold weather; more that her skirt was too short, and her top was too tiny, that coupled with the fact that she lacked a decent jacket meant she was unequivocally cold. If you looked at Jyill you may have explained her attire as ?eye candy,? or perhaps adopted a term more suited to your own style of speech. But truth be told Jyill didn?t think of her self like that in the slightest; for although the pleat skirt she wore now hugged up above her knees, and her black tank top sat above her belly button, even her plain white shirt had been unbuttoned and the refastened around her stomach by a hastily tied knot, linking the right side to left in a clove hitch. None of this was done as a cognitive attempt to enhance her looks. In truth the climbing of the skirt and the hugging of the shirt where results of the fact that Jyill just didn?t take out the time to update her wardrobe. Even now with a world of freedom before her she didn?t think of it as necessary, after all the clothing she now wore had suited her fine until this day; why fix something that?s not broken? So subsequently from her own laze Jyill resembled what, even her brother had once referred to as, ?a bit of a tart.? She had decked him when he said that; it didn?t take back the words but it did make her feel better about him saying them. He hadn?t argued, by the same standard that he would probably hit her if she made a remark about him. But she never did, not any more.
Jyill?s brown boots stopped their rhythmic hiking, causing gravel to crunch beneath her now firmly planted feet. She reached down and grabbed the stocking that garbed her left leg; a knee high black mesh design. It had been slowly creeping down her leg and was now finally reaching the stage where the constant movement was an irritation. Subconsciously she then adjusted the stocking on her right leg; again knee high, but this one was white in colour and decorated with horizontal red stripes. If you asked Jyill about the mismatched stockings she wouldn?t really tell you much about them, but secretly she would be happy you had asked. She took certain pride in some of her attire; and the stockings defiantly fell into this criteria.
Jyill hadn?t just stopped to adjust her leggings; though it made for a most convenient excuse to stop her motion. She had stopped because she had the distinct feeling that Jayck and herself where being followed. It was to be expected of course, but that didn?t make it any less of an inconvenience. Jyill hated being inconvenienced.
She turned her well tanned face to Jayck, her soft sharp green eyes meeting his dull emerald ones. The sudden motion of her head caused her shoulder length red hair ? which was braided into a collection of plaits - to bounce behind her back; and eerie jingling accompanied the action, emitting from the collection of fish hooks and barbs that Jyill had meticulously woven into her hair. The noise was then aided by a quick whisk of her hand; which in turn set of her bangles and bands. Although none of them where expensive, all of them where shiny; and Jyill happened to think they looked quite pretty. They, along with her stockings, and hair were the pieces of her appearance that she took the most pride in. Trust me on this; I know it for a fact.
Jayck stopped beside his sister. He too had noticed they where being followed. But unlike Jyill he wasn?t too fussed about it. Jyill had always been more prone to getting worked up then he was. Then again, Jayck was probably more prone to random actos of violence then Jyill. He could ? and would- quite happily cause physical harm to another entity or creature without even needing a reason to do so. One of his favourite pastimes was pulling the wings of flies and making them walks. While on the other hand Jyill; while more prone to aggravation, wouldn?t engage in physical violence immediately. She preferred her attacks to be psychological. That wasn?t to say she wasn?t capable of physical violence of the same level that Jayck was, just that she would fall back on it as a last resort.
At first appearance Jayck wasn?t anything special; he wore plain beige three quarter length shorts ? and like Jyill at one stage these had fitted as a full length piece of clothing. ? Coupled with a plain yellow t-shirt, which in turn was enhanced by a light weight brown shirt. Most of his clothing was well worn; most evident in the patches sewn over his shoulders and knees ? a testimony to Jyill?s hand with a needle. - But Jayck didn?t care much. Jyill looked like a tart and he looked like a bum. In Jayck?s humblest opinion this just meant that they appeared like a travelling match straight out of a fairy tale; he would never know how close to the truth he was.
Jayck reached a hand to his bald head; then proceeded to run his fingers along the velvet like pelt his slow growing stubble formed. Jayck didn?t care for how many things felt, but he did love the feeling of his hair. This inevitably led to him keeping it short. His fingers traced the line of his neck before slowly reaching underneath his t-shirt and clasping around the small vial that hung from his neck. If you asked Jayck to describe the vial he would probably ignore you; he wasn?t much of a conversationalist. But although he wouldn?t answer you with his thoughts, the unspoken thoughts would identify the object as petit, fragile, and cold. Everything he imagined a small thin vial should be.
Jayck impatiently kicked one of his steel capped boots against the pavement, the force of the strike displacing a small amount of gravel. He then swayed his hips left to right, causing the chain that hung from his pocket to jingle softly with the motion of his body. Finally his impatient fidgeting ended with him stretching out his left leg before him, he knew Jyill was waiting for something; she didn?t need to verbally communicate an intent as trivial as that too him. He just wished he knew why she was waiting. It was obvious the people following them had mal intent towards the duo; they should just cut to the chase already and break these foes like fresh twigs. Jayck believed that the best defence was a good strong offence.
?Thinking?? Jayck said softly. One word sentences were his proficiency. Jyill smiled back at her brother through purple painted lips. Apparently he didn?t want to wait patiently like a spider; then again that was nothing new.
?Not really, just waiting. Don?t you want to see what they do??
?I want to see if they bleed..? Jayck guessed that bleeding was something they could do. Especially if he helped in making the circumstances in which they were bleeding arise.
?They probably do Jayck, I don?t think we need to test that theory. No, I want to see what they are planning to do with us. I want to see the look on their face, the obnoxious gloat that frames them when they think of their good fortune in finding us. Then I want to see it turn to abject terror as we take them apart piece by piece. I want to taste there fear?? Jyill?s voice trailed off and she realised that she was running her tongue along her plump moist lips.
To explain Jyill as an extrovert and Jayck as an introvert would be to over simplify the situation. For although Jyill was the more talkative of the two ? especially around strangers ? it didn?t come from a happy go lucky attitude to life; rather it had its roots in how Jyill viewed the world. She wanted to know everything about everyone, starting with fears and ending with aspirations. Jyill thrived on seeing ? and making - other people uncomfortable. She hadn?t always been like this; not openly any way. But it seems that direct contact with large amounts of Pale Water can bring the best out in people.
Many people who met Jayck would assume he was some sort of mute, or at least incredibly dim. However neither of these assessments of his person would be correct; for while it was true that Jayck spoke very rarely to any one other then Jyill it wasn?t because he was slow or stupid, it was because he honest to goodness just didn?t care about any one other then Jyill. Every single human bored him, as far as he was concerned the only people in the world that mattered where Jyill and himself; they where special. Again this mentality was an over developed response to the Pale Water. But can Pale Water do that? You?ll just have to believe me on it, I know this story well.
But I digress, where were we? Ahhh. Jayck and Jyill now stood side by side, softly holding hands. They both let out a soft exhale of pent up breath as their stalkers ? two of them - entered the narrow street behind them. This was then followed by another set of figures ? three this time - coming down the road from the other side, essentially blocking of their passage of escape. How problematic that they wouldn?t be looking to run.
?Its show time.? Said Jyill, she felt Jayck?s hand excitedly grip her own. She could taste the air around him; he was in a state of joy.
?Well what have we got here?? mused one of the figures that was approaching from behind them. In an instant Jyill noticed that they where all dressed relatively the same; jeans, shirts, bandanas; they must have been a gang of small time criminals.
?Hur hur hur, looks like a young couple got lost.? Laughed another one of them, slightly chubbier his laugh reminded Jayck of a walrus. He wondered if the man would give of blubber like a walrus if they skinned and gutted him.
?He?s not my boyfriend.? Said Jyill serenely, feigning ignorance to the danger they were in. She had decided that she could have quite a bit of fun with five men.
?Well, well, well, how about you ditch that squeeze and come get yourself some real man.? Said the other one located behind them. He was skinny and filthy, reminding Jyill of a ferret or weasel; probably a weasel.
?Oh I don?t know about that, five men might be a bit much for sweet little me?? she gently raised one finger to her lips and held it there, while at the same time placing her right foot behind her left toe first. Once posed in this manner that Jyill assumed would be aesthetically pleasing, she gently rolled her toes backwards and forwards. She was sure it played to ?school girl? fantasies the world over.
?Listen *****, you are in no position to barter with us.? Snapped the first one, he was now in full view and Jyill decided that off all of them he was the only one that was decent looking at all. She tilted her head on its side and watched him; again the soft motion caused her all jingles to jangle.
?I?m not? Wow. Had me fooled.? She still smiled sweetly.
?You playing tough?? The circle around them had no tightened; it was inevitable that within the next few minutes the first move would be made. Jyill could practically taste Jayck?s ecstasy.
?You playing smart?? Shot back Jyill. ?Shouldn?t try it you know, it doesn?t suit you.? The walrus laughed again.
?Shut up fatty, go eat more pancakes.? Snapped Jyill.
?..hur hur.. whaa??
?This ***** got attitude. Maybe we should show her what we do to dumb sluts.? The weasel had made his advance straight towards Jyill.
?I wouldn?t be worried with what you do to dumb sluts; you don?t look like you?ve graduated past fapping to pictures yet.? Jyill really was loving herself.
?Fuck you!? The weasel made the first move, rushing head long at Jyill. Bad move.
Jyill didn?t need to look at her brother to know that Jayck had transformed; she didn?t even need to feel the familure weight in her hands ?although both of these would have been a dead give away to everyone else ? She knew he had changed because of how intimately she knew him. He could read her every whim, and he in turn could read hers. When it came to a fight, they were like a single entity flowing over the battle field. Don?t believe me? You will soon.
Jayck?s transformation was quick, viewable by the collection of thugs now preparing to die as a quick blue flash over Jayck?s body. But although the process was quick and relatively unspectacular, the end result was truly astounding. Where once Jayck had one stood eagerly gripping his sister hand, now hung a two handed warhammer, balanced perfectly in the same place.
As unspectacular as it was the sudden change was enough to stall weasel for a second. A second was all Jyill needed, in one quick motion she had brought her feet out before her while simultaneously getting low with the hammer. Then in one swift motion she brought the hammer up against the under side of weasel?s chin. He would probably never be able to eat again.
?Witch, she?s a witch!? Screamed another of her assailants, and of all the possible things he could do while approaching Jyill from behind he grabbed her hair. It took all of one second for the transformation to take place again, now where once a hammer had been outstretched before Jyill?s body stood Jayck, his hands firmly grasped around the haft of a flail; the very same flail ending in a series of hooks and chains that were already wrapped around the hand of the man who had grabbed Jyill from behind. Jyill subsequently was no where to be seen; though you may have said that the Flail enjoyed several Jyill-esk qualties.
There was a second of terrified revelation during which Jyill?s would be assailant realised how dire a mistake he had made, then with calculated precision Jayck wrenched back of the flail and brought it around his body in a wide arc. The hooks and barbs on the flails chains easily tore hunks of flesh from the mans arm; then proceeded one there passage of destruction right across the throat of the better looking thug. Here is a fun fact for you; wind pipes rip just as easily as wrists.
The Walrus rushed at Jayck from behind letting out a scream of primal terror as he charged. Effortlessly Jayck brought the haft of the flail crashing into the mans gut, winding him with his own momentum. He staggered but didn?t fall, a problem Jayck quickly remedied by kicking the Walrus? legs out from under him.
There was another flash and Jyill was standing before the floored assailant, her hands gently twirling the hammer from one hand to the other.
?Oh, please, you don?t need to do this. Please, have mercy on me?? Jyill watched as the pitiful man begged before them. She also noted that one of there assailants had run away. Good for him, at least he would get to live.
?Mercy?? Jyill tried the word out to see how it tasted. It tasted just like it sounded, false. ?No Mr. Walrus, I don?t think I will. But I want you to look me in the eyes as my brother kills you. Think you can do that for me Mr. Walrus?? She had decided she liked Jayck?s nickname for the man.
?Please.. oh please?? Jyill rose the hammer up over her head then in one swift motion she brought Jayck crashing down against the mans exposed face. She knew this would make Jayck happy, she could taste how badly he wanted to make that kill. But if his own emotional intentions weren?t enough, he now stood beside his sister grinning ear to ear.
?We?ll that was fun.? Mused Jyill thoughtfully, her hands gently rubbing at her hair to remove a piece of flesh which she then deposited on the ground.
?One ran.? Muttered Jayck.
?Don?t worry, he can?t do us any harm..? However Jyill knew Jayck wasn?t pointing this out because he was afraid of the repercussions of letting some of there prey escape. He was pointing it out because some of there prey had escaped.
?Come on Jayck, we?ve got places to be.? Said Jyill after the two had finished assessing there own destructive prows. Jayck nodded once before trudging after his sister. After all the two still had much to do. Even more then they anticipated at this very moment. Don?t believe me? Watch and you?ll see.
I say you would know this part of town, but that is in actual fact a slight exaggeration of the facts. You might not know this part of town in particular, but you will most certainly know of something like it. Just imagine the darkest streets you have ever seen, then magnify it a bit. There you go. Still think I?m over exaggerating? You?ll just have to trust me, I?m telling this story.
However even if you couldn?t imagine the street, I?m sure you will be able to imagine the scene that is about to unfold within it. Two young adults; a boy a girl, they are walking through this part of town alone, unarmed, and late at night. If you could stereotype them you may just call them Dead, and Meat. Starting with the boy and finishing with the girl, as you know what is going to happen to her before she dies. You do have an imagination after all don?t you?
But as most scenarios of this magnitude tend to go, an assumption would be the worst place to possibly start examining the scenario. In stead you would be better to try and get into the minds of these two youngsters in a bid to understand why they are here; in this part of town, this late at night. Don?t believe me? You should. Trust me the consequences will be amazing.
Jyill didn?t care much for the cold night air. It wasn?t because she was prejudiced towards cold weather; more that her skirt was too short, and her top was too tiny, that coupled with the fact that she lacked a decent jacket meant she was unequivocally cold. If you looked at Jyill you may have explained her attire as ?eye candy,? or perhaps adopted a term more suited to your own style of speech. But truth be told Jyill didn?t think of her self like that in the slightest; for although the pleat skirt she wore now hugged up above her knees, and her black tank top sat above her belly button, even her plain white shirt had been unbuttoned and the refastened around her stomach by a hastily tied knot, linking the right side to left in a clove hitch. None of this was done as a cognitive attempt to enhance her looks. In truth the climbing of the skirt and the hugging of the shirt where results of the fact that Jyill just didn?t take out the time to update her wardrobe. Even now with a world of freedom before her she didn?t think of it as necessary, after all the clothing she now wore had suited her fine until this day; why fix something that?s not broken? So subsequently from her own laze Jyill resembled what, even her brother had once referred to as, ?a bit of a tart.? She had decked him when he said that; it didn?t take back the words but it did make her feel better about him saying them. He hadn?t argued, by the same standard that he would probably hit her if she made a remark about him. But she never did, not any more.
Jyill?s brown boots stopped their rhythmic hiking, causing gravel to crunch beneath her now firmly planted feet. She reached down and grabbed the stocking that garbed her left leg; a knee high black mesh design. It had been slowly creeping down her leg and was now finally reaching the stage where the constant movement was an irritation. Subconsciously she then adjusted the stocking on her right leg; again knee high, but this one was white in colour and decorated with horizontal red stripes. If you asked Jyill about the mismatched stockings she wouldn?t really tell you much about them, but secretly she would be happy you had asked. She took certain pride in some of her attire; and the stockings defiantly fell into this criteria.
Jyill hadn?t just stopped to adjust her leggings; though it made for a most convenient excuse to stop her motion. She had stopped because she had the distinct feeling that Jayck and herself where being followed. It was to be expected of course, but that didn?t make it any less of an inconvenience. Jyill hated being inconvenienced.
She turned her well tanned face to Jayck, her soft sharp green eyes meeting his dull emerald ones. The sudden motion of her head caused her shoulder length red hair ? which was braided into a collection of plaits - to bounce behind her back; and eerie jingling accompanied the action, emitting from the collection of fish hooks and barbs that Jyill had meticulously woven into her hair. The noise was then aided by a quick whisk of her hand; which in turn set of her bangles and bands. Although none of them where expensive, all of them where shiny; and Jyill happened to think they looked quite pretty. They, along with her stockings, and hair were the pieces of her appearance that she took the most pride in. Trust me on this; I know it for a fact.
Jayck stopped beside his sister. He too had noticed they where being followed. But unlike Jyill he wasn?t too fussed about it. Jyill had always been more prone to getting worked up then he was. Then again, Jayck was probably more prone to random actos of violence then Jyill. He could ? and would- quite happily cause physical harm to another entity or creature without even needing a reason to do so. One of his favourite pastimes was pulling the wings of flies and making them walks. While on the other hand Jyill; while more prone to aggravation, wouldn?t engage in physical violence immediately. She preferred her attacks to be psychological. That wasn?t to say she wasn?t capable of physical violence of the same level that Jayck was, just that she would fall back on it as a last resort.
At first appearance Jayck wasn?t anything special; he wore plain beige three quarter length shorts ? and like Jyill at one stage these had fitted as a full length piece of clothing. ? Coupled with a plain yellow t-shirt, which in turn was enhanced by a light weight brown shirt. Most of his clothing was well worn; most evident in the patches sewn over his shoulders and knees ? a testimony to Jyill?s hand with a needle. - But Jayck didn?t care much. Jyill looked like a tart and he looked like a bum. In Jayck?s humblest opinion this just meant that they appeared like a travelling match straight out of a fairy tale; he would never know how close to the truth he was.
Jayck reached a hand to his bald head; then proceeded to run his fingers along the velvet like pelt his slow growing stubble formed. Jayck didn?t care for how many things felt, but he did love the feeling of his hair. This inevitably led to him keeping it short. His fingers traced the line of his neck before slowly reaching underneath his t-shirt and clasping around the small vial that hung from his neck. If you asked Jayck to describe the vial he would probably ignore you; he wasn?t much of a conversationalist. But although he wouldn?t answer you with his thoughts, the unspoken thoughts would identify the object as petit, fragile, and cold. Everything he imagined a small thin vial should be.
Jayck impatiently kicked one of his steel capped boots against the pavement, the force of the strike displacing a small amount of gravel. He then swayed his hips left to right, causing the chain that hung from his pocket to jingle softly with the motion of his body. Finally his impatient fidgeting ended with him stretching out his left leg before him, he knew Jyill was waiting for something; she didn?t need to verbally communicate an intent as trivial as that too him. He just wished he knew why she was waiting. It was obvious the people following them had mal intent towards the duo; they should just cut to the chase already and break these foes like fresh twigs. Jayck believed that the best defence was a good strong offence.
?Thinking?? Jayck said softly. One word sentences were his proficiency. Jyill smiled back at her brother through purple painted lips. Apparently he didn?t want to wait patiently like a spider; then again that was nothing new.
?Not really, just waiting. Don?t you want to see what they do??
?I want to see if they bleed..? Jayck guessed that bleeding was something they could do. Especially if he helped in making the circumstances in which they were bleeding arise.
?They probably do Jayck, I don?t think we need to test that theory. No, I want to see what they are planning to do with us. I want to see the look on their face, the obnoxious gloat that frames them when they think of their good fortune in finding us. Then I want to see it turn to abject terror as we take them apart piece by piece. I want to taste there fear?? Jyill?s voice trailed off and she realised that she was running her tongue along her plump moist lips.
To explain Jyill as an extrovert and Jayck as an introvert would be to over simplify the situation. For although Jyill was the more talkative of the two ? especially around strangers ? it didn?t come from a happy go lucky attitude to life; rather it had its roots in how Jyill viewed the world. She wanted to know everything about everyone, starting with fears and ending with aspirations. Jyill thrived on seeing ? and making - other people uncomfortable. She hadn?t always been like this; not openly any way. But it seems that direct contact with large amounts of Pale Water can bring the best out in people.
Many people who met Jayck would assume he was some sort of mute, or at least incredibly dim. However neither of these assessments of his person would be correct; for while it was true that Jayck spoke very rarely to any one other then Jyill it wasn?t because he was slow or stupid, it was because he honest to goodness just didn?t care about any one other then Jyill. Every single human bored him, as far as he was concerned the only people in the world that mattered where Jyill and himself; they where special. Again this mentality was an over developed response to the Pale Water. But can Pale Water do that? You?ll just have to believe me on it, I know this story well.
But I digress, where were we? Ahhh. Jayck and Jyill now stood side by side, softly holding hands. They both let out a soft exhale of pent up breath as their stalkers ? two of them - entered the narrow street behind them. This was then followed by another set of figures ? three this time - coming down the road from the other side, essentially blocking of their passage of escape. How problematic that they wouldn?t be looking to run.
?Its show time.? Said Jyill, she felt Jayck?s hand excitedly grip her own. She could taste the air around him; he was in a state of joy.
?Well what have we got here?? mused one of the figures that was approaching from behind them. In an instant Jyill noticed that they where all dressed relatively the same; jeans, shirts, bandanas; they must have been a gang of small time criminals.
?Hur hur hur, looks like a young couple got lost.? Laughed another one of them, slightly chubbier his laugh reminded Jayck of a walrus. He wondered if the man would give of blubber like a walrus if they skinned and gutted him.
?He?s not my boyfriend.? Said Jyill serenely, feigning ignorance to the danger they were in. She had decided that she could have quite a bit of fun with five men.
?Well, well, well, how about you ditch that squeeze and come get yourself some real man.? Said the other one located behind them. He was skinny and filthy, reminding Jyill of a ferret or weasel; probably a weasel.
?Oh I don?t know about that, five men might be a bit much for sweet little me?? she gently raised one finger to her lips and held it there, while at the same time placing her right foot behind her left toe first. Once posed in this manner that Jyill assumed would be aesthetically pleasing, she gently rolled her toes backwards and forwards. She was sure it played to ?school girl? fantasies the world over.
?Listen *****, you are in no position to barter with us.? Snapped the first one, he was now in full view and Jyill decided that off all of them he was the only one that was decent looking at all. She tilted her head on its side and watched him; again the soft motion caused her all jingles to jangle.
?I?m not? Wow. Had me fooled.? She still smiled sweetly.
?You playing tough?? The circle around them had no tightened; it was inevitable that within the next few minutes the first move would be made. Jyill could practically taste Jayck?s ecstasy.
?You playing smart?? Shot back Jyill. ?Shouldn?t try it you know, it doesn?t suit you.? The walrus laughed again.
?Shut up fatty, go eat more pancakes.? Snapped Jyill.
?..hur hur.. whaa??
?This ***** got attitude. Maybe we should show her what we do to dumb sluts.? The weasel had made his advance straight towards Jyill.
?I wouldn?t be worried with what you do to dumb sluts; you don?t look like you?ve graduated past fapping to pictures yet.? Jyill really was loving herself.
?Fuck you!? The weasel made the first move, rushing head long at Jyill. Bad move.
Jyill didn?t need to look at her brother to know that Jayck had transformed; she didn?t even need to feel the familure weight in her hands ?although both of these would have been a dead give away to everyone else ? She knew he had changed because of how intimately she knew him. He could read her every whim, and he in turn could read hers. When it came to a fight, they were like a single entity flowing over the battle field. Don?t believe me? You will soon.
Jayck?s transformation was quick, viewable by the collection of thugs now preparing to die as a quick blue flash over Jayck?s body. But although the process was quick and relatively unspectacular, the end result was truly astounding. Where once Jayck had one stood eagerly gripping his sister hand, now hung a two handed warhammer, balanced perfectly in the same place.
As unspectacular as it was the sudden change was enough to stall weasel for a second. A second was all Jyill needed, in one quick motion she had brought her feet out before her while simultaneously getting low with the hammer. Then in one swift motion she brought the hammer up against the under side of weasel?s chin. He would probably never be able to eat again.
?Witch, she?s a witch!? Screamed another of her assailants, and of all the possible things he could do while approaching Jyill from behind he grabbed her hair. It took all of one second for the transformation to take place again, now where once a hammer had been outstretched before Jyill?s body stood Jayck, his hands firmly grasped around the haft of a flail; the very same flail ending in a series of hooks and chains that were already wrapped around the hand of the man who had grabbed Jyill from behind. Jyill subsequently was no where to be seen; though you may have said that the Flail enjoyed several Jyill-esk qualties.
There was a second of terrified revelation during which Jyill?s would be assailant realised how dire a mistake he had made, then with calculated precision Jayck wrenched back of the flail and brought it around his body in a wide arc. The hooks and barbs on the flails chains easily tore hunks of flesh from the mans arm; then proceeded one there passage of destruction right across the throat of the better looking thug. Here is a fun fact for you; wind pipes rip just as easily as wrists.
The Walrus rushed at Jayck from behind letting out a scream of primal terror as he charged. Effortlessly Jayck brought the haft of the flail crashing into the mans gut, winding him with his own momentum. He staggered but didn?t fall, a problem Jayck quickly remedied by kicking the Walrus? legs out from under him.
There was another flash and Jyill was standing before the floored assailant, her hands gently twirling the hammer from one hand to the other.
?Oh, please, you don?t need to do this. Please, have mercy on me?? Jyill watched as the pitiful man begged before them. She also noted that one of there assailants had run away. Good for him, at least he would get to live.
?Mercy?? Jyill tried the word out to see how it tasted. It tasted just like it sounded, false. ?No Mr. Walrus, I don?t think I will. But I want you to look me in the eyes as my brother kills you. Think you can do that for me Mr. Walrus?? She had decided she liked Jayck?s nickname for the man.
?Please.. oh please?? Jyill rose the hammer up over her head then in one swift motion she brought Jayck crashing down against the mans exposed face. She knew this would make Jayck happy, she could taste how badly he wanted to make that kill. But if his own emotional intentions weren?t enough, he now stood beside his sister grinning ear to ear.
?We?ll that was fun.? Mused Jyill thoughtfully, her hands gently rubbing at her hair to remove a piece of flesh which she then deposited on the ground.
?One ran.? Muttered Jayck.
?Don?t worry, he can?t do us any harm..? However Jyill knew Jayck wasn?t pointing this out because he was afraid of the repercussions of letting some of there prey escape. He was pointing it out because some of there prey had escaped.
?Come on Jayck, we?ve got places to be.? Said Jyill after the two had finished assessing there own destructive prows. Jayck nodded once before trudging after his sister. After all the two still had much to do. Even more then they anticipated at this very moment. Don?t believe me? Watch and you?ll see.
The messenger fled, he flew as fast as he could yet still he didn?t seem to be able to shake the hunter that was chasing him. Again he cursed himself for being stupid enough to get himself into this scenario. All he was meant to do was deliver this stupid summons to some stupid champion of light so that the champion would be able to enter into the tournament that was going to decided the fate of earth. Sure it sounds simple enough but noooo, he had to walk through a door way that closed. What on earth could have compelled him to do that? How stupid was he? He didn?t even want to open the stupid door but no. He had anyway. And now look what he had gotten himself into.
His pursuer made another hard turn to his left, he looked back to try and get a better look at the creature that was chasing him and immediately wished he hadn?t. The creature had eyes that appeared to be made of flame set into a serpentine face. Its large leathery bat wings gave of another terrifying beat as it relentlessly pursued its quarry. Its body too was serpentine; with its four thick legs ending in vicious claws. Around its neck it wore a black leather collar, hanging of which was a pristine silver bell. And although the messenger didn?t notice this straight away later as he lay dieing it would strike him as strange. But not yet, now was too soon.
He tried to lose the creature again; the outskirts of a town appearing before him. Maybe if he could reach that town he could hide from the creature. All he needed to do was make it to the safety of the building. The creature behind him must have sensed this possible conclusion to the hunt as well as it let out a scream of anger; its hot breath washing over the diminutive figure of the messenger. Was it really that close? He hazarded another look. Why did he keep looking like that? It never made the scenario any better. The quick glance had shown that the creature was now almost upon him. He had to make it to the city, just a bit further.. almost there?
All the messenger knew was pain. Everything in his world was pain. He felt long teeth rip into his leg like knives while a claw batted at his wings. Feather and flesh fell from the sky as the angel plummeted towards the earth below. Funnily enough as he descended he saw the creature veer off, flying up into the clouds. It wasn?t even going to finish the job it had started, just bite him the flee.
?Stupid? breathed out the messenger as he tried to furiously beat his wings to correct his descent; it was no good. He angled himself to try and land towards the city, maybe he would be fortunate enough to have some one help him when he landed? It was a long shot but it was worth a try.
The earth was now racing towards him in a series of buildings, trees, and pavements. That?s funny, this part of the town looked very dark, and that pavement looked very red. Why would a pavement be so red? Then he hit the ground.
Jayck and Jyill had only taken a handful of steps away from the scene of the massacre when they both heard a loud crash behind them. Instantly on guard the two turned around to asses the sound of the noise. Laying in the middle of the pavement where they had just disposed of the group of thugs now lay the rather broken figure of what appeared to be a small man. At least he would have been a man save for the fact that he had tiny wings, and the area around his head seemed to shine with an unnatural light.
Ever curious Jyill was quick to investigate this new figure.
?My, my Jayck. It appears to broken one of its wings..? Said Jyill softly as she knelt beside the small creature. Blood was already seeping out of a series of deep gashes on its left leg, and the impact had left most of its body shattered. But somehow the creature still turned to look at Jyill.
?Alive?? Asked Jayck as he appeared beside his sister.
?I think so..? Jyill reached a hand down towards the creature?s neck. Yes it still had a pulse, thought it was very weak.
?Please?. You must help me..? Breathed out the broken and dieing messenger, for he knew he was dieing. Despite all possibility he was dieing.
?It talks?? Jayck wondered if the wings on the creatures back would come off as easily as the wings on a fly did.
?Apparently so,? Jyill?s tone was off handed. ?What do you need?? She then asked, leaning in closer to the creature. She could taste it now, the terror seeping out of its shattered body like the blood from its wounds. This creature was desperate.
?My.. message? deliver.. my message..? As he spoke the messenger fumbled for the horn that hung by his side. He had to believe in the good of these two people standing over him now. He had to believe that these two people could and would deliver the message for him.
?What?s your message?? Jyill eyed off the horn as she spoke. It was shiny just like her bangles. It captivated her.
?This horn.. you must play this horn for the paragon..? The messenger would later wonder if they knew who the paragon was. But only much later; only when it was too late.
?Don?t worry. We?ll do that for you.? Jyill?s fingers greedily grasped the horn, then in an instant she had wrested it out of the messenger?s hands and joyously clasped it between her own.
?Don?t worry, we?ll play it.? Jyill again reassured the messenger before she stood up from his broken body and again started winding her way down the street, the knew shiny horn grasped tenderly between her fingers. Reluctantly Jayck got up and followed. He guessed his questions about the creature?s wings would remain unanswered.
?Where not seriously delivering it?? exclaimed Jayck as he caught up with his sister and rounded a corner with her.
?Of course not Jayck my dear.? Jyill quickened her step as they continued walking down the street, forcing Jayck to take several hasty strides to again catch up to her.
?Then?? Jayck didn?t need to finish the question. Jyill already knew what he was going to ask.
?Yes, let?s see what it does.? Confirmed Jyill, as she saw what she had been looking for; a sheltered alcove. Grabbing Jayck by his shirt she pulled him into the alcove with her then gently raised the horn to her lips. Jayck eagerly grasped her hand, nervous excitement crawling up and down his spine. Jyill pressed her lips to the horn and blew. Jayck and Jyill heard the horn. The messenger bled to death.
On a hill overlooking her vast domain Alice stood, watching and waiting. She knew she wouldn?t need to wait long, in fact she wouldn?t have needed to wait at all; she could have come up here at her own leisure. But she had chosen to come up early and wait. She wanted to take a few moments just to appreciate her kingdom; she felt it help put everything into perspective for her. ?This is what I do this for.? She told her self. She then vocalised the thought for Cheshire?s benefit.
?The kingdom is your apple?s mistress. You are its tree.? Confirmed Cheshire. ?Look, he comes.? Cheshire then added, his keen feline eyes citing the approaching figure in the sky.
It took the creature a few minutes of flying to cover the distance to where Alice stood. The entire time it approached Alice purposefully shuffled her cards, while the Cheshire cat fidgeted uneasily against her neck. Finally the creature descended, its scaly body landing with a clattering of claws against rock.
?Did you get it, Jabberwocky?? Asked Alice softly; her fingers scratching underneath the creature?s neck. It rolled its tongue against the back of its throat in response, ignoring Cheshire?s insistent growling and hissing.
?Good boy. I?m proud of you.? Alice added, the creature again repeated the noise.
?He want?s you to take of the bell..? snarled Cheshire as he let his body nimbly flit down Alice?s shoulder to her side then to the floor where he stood glaring at the Jabberwocky.
?He can want all he likes, the bell shall remain.? Replied Alice softly. She stopped patting the creature and starred at it seriously. ?You will keep the bell until you atone for your crimes against the kingdom, we have an understanding on this don?t we.? The Jabberwocky replied with a trembling of its lips, its bell of servitude jingled.
?Good.? Replied Alice. She then turned her back on the creature and started back down the mountain, forcing Cheshire to run and catch up to her.
?All the pieces are in place..? Said Alice softly
?Like a chess board.? Echoed Cheshire.
?Then we have done all we can.? Alice was deep in through for several seconds, her fingers still furiously sifting through the deck of cards; folding and re folding them into each other. After several minutes pause she finally said ?Come Cheshire. I feel like a game of chess.? Cheshire purred in agreement.
In another time and another place, so far gone it could even be another story Jayck and Jyill arrived at there destination. But it wasn?t another story it was the same story; don?t believe me? You should. After all you are reading it. But don?t worry, this story is just beginning?
His pursuer made another hard turn to his left, he looked back to try and get a better look at the creature that was chasing him and immediately wished he hadn?t. The creature had eyes that appeared to be made of flame set into a serpentine face. Its large leathery bat wings gave of another terrifying beat as it relentlessly pursued its quarry. Its body too was serpentine; with its four thick legs ending in vicious claws. Around its neck it wore a black leather collar, hanging of which was a pristine silver bell. And although the messenger didn?t notice this straight away later as he lay dieing it would strike him as strange. But not yet, now was too soon.
He tried to lose the creature again; the outskirts of a town appearing before him. Maybe if he could reach that town he could hide from the creature. All he needed to do was make it to the safety of the building. The creature behind him must have sensed this possible conclusion to the hunt as well as it let out a scream of anger; its hot breath washing over the diminutive figure of the messenger. Was it really that close? He hazarded another look. Why did he keep looking like that? It never made the scenario any better. The quick glance had shown that the creature was now almost upon him. He had to make it to the city, just a bit further.. almost there?
All the messenger knew was pain. Everything in his world was pain. He felt long teeth rip into his leg like knives while a claw batted at his wings. Feather and flesh fell from the sky as the angel plummeted towards the earth below. Funnily enough as he descended he saw the creature veer off, flying up into the clouds. It wasn?t even going to finish the job it had started, just bite him the flee.
?Stupid? breathed out the messenger as he tried to furiously beat his wings to correct his descent; it was no good. He angled himself to try and land towards the city, maybe he would be fortunate enough to have some one help him when he landed? It was a long shot but it was worth a try.
The earth was now racing towards him in a series of buildings, trees, and pavements. That?s funny, this part of the town looked very dark, and that pavement looked very red. Why would a pavement be so red? Then he hit the ground.
Jayck and Jyill had only taken a handful of steps away from the scene of the massacre when they both heard a loud crash behind them. Instantly on guard the two turned around to asses the sound of the noise. Laying in the middle of the pavement where they had just disposed of the group of thugs now lay the rather broken figure of what appeared to be a small man. At least he would have been a man save for the fact that he had tiny wings, and the area around his head seemed to shine with an unnatural light.
Ever curious Jyill was quick to investigate this new figure.
?My, my Jayck. It appears to broken one of its wings..? Said Jyill softly as she knelt beside the small creature. Blood was already seeping out of a series of deep gashes on its left leg, and the impact had left most of its body shattered. But somehow the creature still turned to look at Jyill.
?Alive?? Asked Jayck as he appeared beside his sister.
?I think so..? Jyill reached a hand down towards the creature?s neck. Yes it still had a pulse, thought it was very weak.
?Please?. You must help me..? Breathed out the broken and dieing messenger, for he knew he was dieing. Despite all possibility he was dieing.
?It talks?? Jayck wondered if the wings on the creatures back would come off as easily as the wings on a fly did.
?Apparently so,? Jyill?s tone was off handed. ?What do you need?? She then asked, leaning in closer to the creature. She could taste it now, the terror seeping out of its shattered body like the blood from its wounds. This creature was desperate.
?My.. message? deliver.. my message..? As he spoke the messenger fumbled for the horn that hung by his side. He had to believe in the good of these two people standing over him now. He had to believe that these two people could and would deliver the message for him.
?What?s your message?? Jyill eyed off the horn as she spoke. It was shiny just like her bangles. It captivated her.
?This horn.. you must play this horn for the paragon..? The messenger would later wonder if they knew who the paragon was. But only much later; only when it was too late.
?Don?t worry. We?ll do that for you.? Jyill?s fingers greedily grasped the horn, then in an instant she had wrested it out of the messenger?s hands and joyously clasped it between her own.
?Don?t worry, we?ll play it.? Jyill again reassured the messenger before she stood up from his broken body and again started winding her way down the street, the knew shiny horn grasped tenderly between her fingers. Reluctantly Jayck got up and followed. He guessed his questions about the creature?s wings would remain unanswered.
?Where not seriously delivering it?? exclaimed Jayck as he caught up with his sister and rounded a corner with her.
?Of course not Jayck my dear.? Jyill quickened her step as they continued walking down the street, forcing Jayck to take several hasty strides to again catch up to her.
?Then?? Jayck didn?t need to finish the question. Jyill already knew what he was going to ask.
?Yes, let?s see what it does.? Confirmed Jyill, as she saw what she had been looking for; a sheltered alcove. Grabbing Jayck by his shirt she pulled him into the alcove with her then gently raised the horn to her lips. Jayck eagerly grasped her hand, nervous excitement crawling up and down his spine. Jyill pressed her lips to the horn and blew. Jayck and Jyill heard the horn. The messenger bled to death.
On a hill overlooking her vast domain Alice stood, watching and waiting. She knew she wouldn?t need to wait long, in fact she wouldn?t have needed to wait at all; she could have come up here at her own leisure. But she had chosen to come up early and wait. She wanted to take a few moments just to appreciate her kingdom; she felt it help put everything into perspective for her. ?This is what I do this for.? She told her self. She then vocalised the thought for Cheshire?s benefit.
?The kingdom is your apple?s mistress. You are its tree.? Confirmed Cheshire. ?Look, he comes.? Cheshire then added, his keen feline eyes citing the approaching figure in the sky.
It took the creature a few minutes of flying to cover the distance to where Alice stood. The entire time it approached Alice purposefully shuffled her cards, while the Cheshire cat fidgeted uneasily against her neck. Finally the creature descended, its scaly body landing with a clattering of claws against rock.
?Did you get it, Jabberwocky?? Asked Alice softly; her fingers scratching underneath the creature?s neck. It rolled its tongue against the back of its throat in response, ignoring Cheshire?s insistent growling and hissing.
?Good boy. I?m proud of you.? Alice added, the creature again repeated the noise.
?He want?s you to take of the bell..? snarled Cheshire as he let his body nimbly flit down Alice?s shoulder to her side then to the floor where he stood glaring at the Jabberwocky.
?He can want all he likes, the bell shall remain.? Replied Alice softly. She stopped patting the creature and starred at it seriously. ?You will keep the bell until you atone for your crimes against the kingdom, we have an understanding on this don?t we.? The Jabberwocky replied with a trembling of its lips, its bell of servitude jingled.
?Good.? Replied Alice. She then turned her back on the creature and started back down the mountain, forcing Cheshire to run and catch up to her.
?All the pieces are in place..? Said Alice softly
?Like a chess board.? Echoed Cheshire.
?Then we have done all we can.? Alice was deep in through for several seconds, her fingers still furiously sifting through the deck of cards; folding and re folding them into each other. After several minutes pause she finally said ?Come Cheshire. I feel like a game of chess.? Cheshire purred in agreement.
In another time and another place, so far gone it could even be another story Jayck and Jyill arrived at there destination. But it wasn?t another story it was the same story; don?t believe me? You should. After all you are reading it. But don?t worry, this story is just beginning?
Character Profile
Jayck
Age:22
Appearance: about 6' in height, well muscled, and well tanned skinned.
Eyes: Emerald
Hair: Rusty brown
Attire: three quarter cargo pants, a yellow shirt, a brown t shirt (unbuttoned) pulled on over that. He also wears black steel capped boots.
Bio: Jayck is the older of the two siblings. Sold into wicken servitude along side his sister he had known nothing but slavery until an incident involving some Pale Water made there current witch ? the Story Teller ? mad enough to both curse them and release them from her servitude. The two now quest to try and find some more Pale water to replace that which they lost so that the Story Teller can lift the curse from them. Although in all honesty they are not question too hard, having found that they make an incredibly good team, and are now free to do what ever they want. They are not in the competition due to any merits of there own, rather because of the schemes of others in the Fairy Tale land.
Notes
Transformation ? Jayck can transform into a two handed hammer that Jyill fights with. In his weapon for Jayck is neigh on indestructable
Pale Water ? The Pale Water on Jayck masked all his emotion. The guy is appears as emotional as a rock and will only confine his feelings to Jyill.
Moral reassessment ? The curse placed on Jayck and Jyill forbids them from using any weapons other then each other. As creative as they would like to be. They can?t.
Jyill
Age:21
Appearance: about 5'6" in height, she has an anthletic build and like her brother has well tanned skin.
Eyes: Green
Hair: Red
Attire: Jyill wears a pleat skirt, a black tank top, and a white shirt (unbuttoned but tied around her waist) pulled over that. She also wears brown boots and two different stockings (One on each leg) One is black and made of a mesh like material, the other is white with horizontal red stripes.
Bio: Jyill is the younger of the two siblings. Sold into wicken servitude along side her brother she had known nothing but slavery until an incident involving some Pale Water made there current witch ? the Story Teller ? mad enough to both curse them and release them from her servitude. The two now quest to try and find some more Pale water to replace that which they lost so that the Story Teller can lift the curse from them. Although in all honesty they are not question too hard, having found that they make an incredibly good team, and are now free to do what ever they want. They are not in the competition due to any merits of there own, rather because of the schemes of others in the Fairy Tale land.
Notes
Transformation ? Jyill can transform into a flail that Jayck fights with. In her weapon for Jyill is neigh on indestructable
Pale Water ? The Pale Water spilt on Jyill gave her a heighten sense to emotional responses in people. Jyill can read people like an open book.
Moral reassessment - The curse placed on Jyill and Jayck forbids them from using any weapons other then each other. As creative as they would like to be. They can?t.
Jayck
Age:22
Appearance: about 6' in height, well muscled, and well tanned skinned.
Eyes: Emerald
Hair: Rusty brown
Attire: three quarter cargo pants, a yellow shirt, a brown t shirt (unbuttoned) pulled on over that. He also wears black steel capped boots.
Bio: Jayck is the older of the two siblings. Sold into wicken servitude along side his sister he had known nothing but slavery until an incident involving some Pale Water made there current witch ? the Story Teller ? mad enough to both curse them and release them from her servitude. The two now quest to try and find some more Pale water to replace that which they lost so that the Story Teller can lift the curse from them. Although in all honesty they are not question too hard, having found that they make an incredibly good team, and are now free to do what ever they want. They are not in the competition due to any merits of there own, rather because of the schemes of others in the Fairy Tale land.
Notes
Transformation ? Jayck can transform into a two handed hammer that Jyill fights with. In his weapon for Jayck is neigh on indestructable
Pale Water ? The Pale Water on Jayck masked all his emotion. The guy is appears as emotional as a rock and will only confine his feelings to Jyill.
Moral reassessment ? The curse placed on Jayck and Jyill forbids them from using any weapons other then each other. As creative as they would like to be. They can?t.
Jyill
Age:21
Appearance: about 5'6" in height, she has an anthletic build and like her brother has well tanned skin.
Eyes: Green
Hair: Red
Attire: Jyill wears a pleat skirt, a black tank top, and a white shirt (unbuttoned but tied around her waist) pulled over that. She also wears brown boots and two different stockings (One on each leg) One is black and made of a mesh like material, the other is white with horizontal red stripes.
Bio: Jyill is the younger of the two siblings. Sold into wicken servitude along side her brother she had known nothing but slavery until an incident involving some Pale Water made there current witch ? the Story Teller ? mad enough to both curse them and release them from her servitude. The two now quest to try and find some more Pale water to replace that which they lost so that the Story Teller can lift the curse from them. Although in all honesty they are not question too hard, having found that they make an incredibly good team, and are now free to do what ever they want. They are not in the competition due to any merits of there own, rather because of the schemes of others in the Fairy Tale land.
Notes
Transformation ? Jyill can transform into a flail that Jayck fights with. In her weapon for Jyill is neigh on indestructable
Pale Water ? The Pale Water spilt on Jyill gave her a heighten sense to emotional responses in people. Jyill can read people like an open book.
Moral reassessment - The curse placed on Jyill and Jayck forbids them from using any weapons other then each other. As creative as they would like to be. They can?t.
Labyrinth said:
i like your style. it fits the characters... sort of smooth, laid-back. nice use of the passive voice ( "much pavement was eaten" comes to mind)
also: violence!
nice. i almost expected you to mention that he is amazingly lucky... a refreshing style.Zemalac said:
Rose was pissed. No, she was more than pissed. She was furious, raging, tempestuous... she was angry.
The lead pipe in her scarred left hand contained the distinct, soothing coldness to the skin, and it was as always a fitting prelude to destruction it would visit upon flesh and bone. Her piercing eyes and stern brows assaulted the man before her with seemingly more effect than his previous blood-letting upon her pipe had. He cowered.
"Where is it?" She asked, with massive amounts of restraint. The whimpering and squatting man pointed to an electrical box on the concrete wall.
Rose pondered and understood. She walked up to it, shoved her fist into it, and ripped out its electric intestines. Sparks flew over her skin, leaving small electrical burns. A humming sound around her dissipated. She walked up to a steel door and lifted it up. The sight that met her shocked her thoroughly.
The large steel room had pipes and cables running all over the walls, roof and floor, leading to a mechanic portal in the back centre of the room. The air was utterly saturated with electrical tension, and there was a constant, loud hum coming from the generator.
The improvised, jagged metal portal had created a lucid, red portal of plasma, flowing around its edges, creating tendrils of energy that seemed to have a life of their own.
By the machine stood a majestically clad man with a triumphantly mad grin on his face. He was admiring his handiwork, it seemed. Rose casually drew a handgun from her holster, took aim, and shot the man in his back. He screamed and fell down. Rose walked up to him and turned him around, him screaming in pain.
The exit hole was through his chest, and he was bleeding profusely.
"W-what?" He uttered as he opened his eyes from the screaming, clenching and being in pain.
"Rose?"
"Mm. You're too slow for me, bub." Rose raised her boot and smashed it clean into his face. The satisfying sensation of cracking bones and cartilage was dampened by flesh and boot, but she grinned at the execution of it.
Holstering her gun and looking up, the portal was still intact. So he had made it. He had successfully created a portal to hell after all these years. She shook her head. Damn it, Lyon...
No sooner were her eyes suddenly fixed on the portal, trying to discern what was behind it. Stupidly, she knew, as any mortal who would see what was there was to go mad, or so they said. But she couldn't take her eyes off it, now could she? Her body started slowly moving without her orders.
A voice sounded through her headset. "Rose? Rose? Have you made it there? What's going on?"
But Rose did not answer. Her fingers touched the portal now. It tingled, the sensation spreading throughout her body. She dropped her metal pipe and stepped through. Never more would she be the same.
But as swift as her visit to hell was, she was soon transported to purgatory. No one should pass directly to any of the realms, and so it was corrected by the powers that be, and the portal was closed and buried under the mountain above it.
Name: Rose
Age: 27
Gender: Female
Appearance: Thin face and frame. Dark pink, small deathawk, green eyes. White tank top with a red buffalo skull on it and white bra. Purple leather pants, khaki-green boots, black collar, silver wristband and brown armband on the biceps of the right arm, leather belt with silver buckle and leather holster fastened to the thigh with straps. Dark purple lipstick and eyebrows. Five ring piercings on the right ear, three on the left. Band-aid on her right cheek. Pin piercing on her left nostril, ring piercing in her left eyebrow.
Past and world: Rose was a rebel leader in her mortal life. She led a large band of rebels against the king of a very idealistic republican monarchy. It was not a violent nation, however. It simply considered itself to be superior in its beliefs, and tried every day to convince the people in the land to follow their creed. The system of government had emerged after hundreds of years of anarchy in the barren land, and while most people welcomed it, about 22% of the population did not. These went to form different factions, determined to lead their life their own way.
But it was not a way of life that could be upheld. The people of the monarchy used up most of the resources in the land, and life expectancy dropped extremely low in the tribes. Rose, the leader of the largest tribe, managed after years of political crusading, unite the tribes under one banner. When she did, she also found out about a substantial number of people going missing. Thousands. Rumours of human experiments conducted by the research department of the monarchy began spreading, and Rose eventually had to find out for herself.
Powers: Rose suffers from a terminal illness that condense her muscles to extreme levels, rendering the fibres inhumanly tough. She can spend enormous amounts of energy into her bodily functions, but has to refuel just like anyone else. There is no one who knows when it will lead to her death, but her metabolism is too fast for her organs to handle for too long. This knowledge has rendered her reckless beyond comprehension, and there is no extreme sport she has not done to death. She lives one day at a time, and is pretty content with her life. She has a lead pipe and a .223 handgun, actually a modified, cut down rifle. Makes a lot of sound.
That is not all there is to her, however.
<color=red>Second form
Name: Lamia
Age: Over 2000 years.
Gender: Female
Appearance: http://img99.imageshack.us/img99/5306/lamia.jpg
Past and world: Lamia is a female demon who has acted as the vessel for receiving all the pain inflicted upon women throughout history. She has resided in hell as a concept for as long as there has been suffering, her corporeal being eventually taking form, but has now possessed Rose and escaped the prisons of hell.
Powers: Lamia's upper body has fused with a hellish metal that has grown to cover her rough serpent skin. It is part of her, and reinforces her movements, making them stable and precise, and it can withstand any known substance. The rest of her scale-covered body is extremely hardy, having been steeped in the fires of hell for several millennia. Her spear is from the same metal, forged in hell.
Her main power are the illusions she can induce on others, however. They are created by the pain she harbours inside, their form differing depending on their victim, and they do intense mental damage by tricking their brain into doing... unhealthy things. She can also induce more simple illusions, robbing her victim of their senses.
Important note: Lamia can take over at any time, but Rose will be able to resist it at most times while on Earth, and at all times while in Heaven. In Heaven, her powers will also be enhanced and have less negative effects, while Lamia is stronger in Hell and more likely to take over, depending on the demonic powers at work. She will speak through Rose at times, but normally only implant ideas or words into her mind.
The lead pipe in her scarred left hand contained the distinct, soothing coldness to the skin, and it was as always a fitting prelude to destruction it would visit upon flesh and bone. Her piercing eyes and stern brows assaulted the man before her with seemingly more effect than his previous blood-letting upon her pipe had. He cowered.
"Where is it?" She asked, with massive amounts of restraint. The whimpering and squatting man pointed to an electrical box on the concrete wall.
Rose pondered and understood. She walked up to it, shoved her fist into it, and ripped out its electric intestines. Sparks flew over her skin, leaving small electrical burns. A humming sound around her dissipated. She walked up to a steel door and lifted it up. The sight that met her shocked her thoroughly.
The large steel room had pipes and cables running all over the walls, roof and floor, leading to a mechanic portal in the back centre of the room. The air was utterly saturated with electrical tension, and there was a constant, loud hum coming from the generator.
The improvised, jagged metal portal had created a lucid, red portal of plasma, flowing around its edges, creating tendrils of energy that seemed to have a life of their own.
By the machine stood a majestically clad man with a triumphantly mad grin on his face. He was admiring his handiwork, it seemed. Rose casually drew a handgun from her holster, took aim, and shot the man in his back. He screamed and fell down. Rose walked up to him and turned him around, him screaming in pain.
The exit hole was through his chest, and he was bleeding profusely.
"W-what?" He uttered as he opened his eyes from the screaming, clenching and being in pain.
"Rose?"
"Mm. You're too slow for me, bub." Rose raised her boot and smashed it clean into his face. The satisfying sensation of cracking bones and cartilage was dampened by flesh and boot, but she grinned at the execution of it.
Holstering her gun and looking up, the portal was still intact. So he had made it. He had successfully created a portal to hell after all these years. She shook her head. Damn it, Lyon...
No sooner were her eyes suddenly fixed on the portal, trying to discern what was behind it. Stupidly, she knew, as any mortal who would see what was there was to go mad, or so they said. But she couldn't take her eyes off it, now could she? Her body started slowly moving without her orders.
A voice sounded through her headset. "Rose? Rose? Have you made it there? What's going on?"
But Rose did not answer. Her fingers touched the portal now. It tingled, the sensation spreading throughout her body. She dropped her metal pipe and stepped through. Never more would she be the same.
But as swift as her visit to hell was, she was soon transported to purgatory. No one should pass directly to any of the realms, and so it was corrected by the powers that be, and the portal was closed and buried under the mountain above it.
Name: Rose
Age: 27
Gender: Female
Appearance: Thin face and frame. Dark pink, small deathawk, green eyes. White tank top with a red buffalo skull on it and white bra. Purple leather pants, khaki-green boots, black collar, silver wristband and brown armband on the biceps of the right arm, leather belt with silver buckle and leather holster fastened to the thigh with straps. Dark purple lipstick and eyebrows. Five ring piercings on the right ear, three on the left. Band-aid on her right cheek. Pin piercing on her left nostril, ring piercing in her left eyebrow.
Past and world: Rose was a rebel leader in her mortal life. She led a large band of rebels against the king of a very idealistic republican monarchy. It was not a violent nation, however. It simply considered itself to be superior in its beliefs, and tried every day to convince the people in the land to follow their creed. The system of government had emerged after hundreds of years of anarchy in the barren land, and while most people welcomed it, about 22% of the population did not. These went to form different factions, determined to lead their life their own way.
But it was not a way of life that could be upheld. The people of the monarchy used up most of the resources in the land, and life expectancy dropped extremely low in the tribes. Rose, the leader of the largest tribe, managed after years of political crusading, unite the tribes under one banner. When she did, she also found out about a substantial number of people going missing. Thousands. Rumours of human experiments conducted by the research department of the monarchy began spreading, and Rose eventually had to find out for herself.
Powers: Rose suffers from a terminal illness that condense her muscles to extreme levels, rendering the fibres inhumanly tough. She can spend enormous amounts of energy into her bodily functions, but has to refuel just like anyone else. There is no one who knows when it will lead to her death, but her metabolism is too fast for her organs to handle for too long. This knowledge has rendered her reckless beyond comprehension, and there is no extreme sport she has not done to death. She lives one day at a time, and is pretty content with her life. She has a lead pipe and a .223 handgun, actually a modified, cut down rifle. Makes a lot of sound.
That is not all there is to her, however.
<color=red>Second form
Name: Lamia
Age: Over 2000 years.
Gender: Female
Appearance: http://img99.imageshack.us/img99/5306/lamia.jpg
Past and world: Lamia is a female demon who has acted as the vessel for receiving all the pain inflicted upon women throughout history. She has resided in hell as a concept for as long as there has been suffering, her corporeal being eventually taking form, but has now possessed Rose and escaped the prisons of hell.
Powers: Lamia's upper body has fused with a hellish metal that has grown to cover her rough serpent skin. It is part of her, and reinforces her movements, making them stable and precise, and it can withstand any known substance. The rest of her scale-covered body is extremely hardy, having been steeped in the fires of hell for several millennia. Her spear is from the same metal, forged in hell.
Her main power are the illusions she can induce on others, however. They are created by the pain she harbours inside, their form differing depending on their victim, and they do intense mental damage by tricking their brain into doing... unhealthy things. She can also induce more simple illusions, robbing her victim of their senses.
Important note: Lamia can take over at any time, but Rose will be able to resist it at most times while on Earth, and at all times while in Heaven. In Heaven, her powers will also be enhanced and have less negative effects, while Lamia is stronger in Hell and more likely to take over, depending on the demonic powers at work. She will speak through Rose at times, but normally only implant ideas or words into her mind.
Journeys
Or
Why the Stillness?
Drane had expected a dramatic transformation, a shining light, a chorus of heavenly trumpets to guide gods shining right hand man away from the door of death. Instead he got flames nipping at his legs.
They had an upside however. The pain from the mild burns along his shins motivated him to rise, and stagger forwards. The search crews had long left, somehow missing him. The last fire had burned out long ago. So how did he feel the stinging pain of heat?
That didn't matter. What mattered was finding his way to his next holy conquest, his next grouping or heretics and tyrants.
The new morning sun washed away the colourless night from the burnt ruins. A figure staggered away from the blackened rectangle, into the fields behind it. Another figure watched.
Simon Gate had heard the call of the horn hours ago. He was a Chinese monk, travelling on holiday to Britain. He was now wondering how he was going to find his way to the tournament that had been announced. In the meantime, he saw this monstrosity before him, and decided to put it our of it's misery. Evidently, what had gone on at that TV station had not been the broadcasting of harmless cooking shows...
Drane heard something. His ears picked up a sound. An intake of breath. A footfall. A follower.
Simon moved swiftly forwards, ducking low in the grain that had long since past harvesting time in this field, and now was left unattended, abandoned. Lucky for him, it provided the perfect cover. Though it did obstruct his vision of his quarry...
He hung, unnoticed from a tree that leaned over the field. He watched, as a hawk watches a rabbit, as a child watches a candy bar, as the bastards had watched him, as the follower passed by. Then he fell, slowly and leisurely, on top of him.
As Simon was crushed underneath the weight of a mystery attacker, his Buddha pendant, that hung round his neck, fell forwards onto the ground.
"What is this? The sign of some false god?" A voice purred above him, malice frozen to the words.
"A Buddha. No false god!" It wasn't normally times like these that made him wish he'd learned more English, but that was still what he wished now.
"LIES!" Five needles began to unpick his skin from his muscle, ever so delicately. "You are a follower of a false god! Ironic, that you should also be a follower of me."
"No false god! No false god!" The needles were digging into his flesh now, red, warm needles.
"YOU HAVE NOTHING TO SAY? NOTHING?" The voice screamed now, the needles scraping his windpipe.
Pop.
A spurt of pressurized blood sprayed the grain around Simon and Drane a vivid scarlet. His jugular vein had been pierced. As the hosepipe of crimson dribbled off into a puddle, Drane rose. He had heard the sound of the horn. This was clearly the sign! Clearly! The lord wanted him in Heaven, and who was he to refuse the lord?
More blood spurted on the grain, mixing with the monk's. So much was the similarity, that without lab equipment, you would not be able to tell the difference.
Or
Why the Stillness?
Drane had expected a dramatic transformation, a shining light, a chorus of heavenly trumpets to guide gods shining right hand man away from the door of death. Instead he got flames nipping at his legs.
They had an upside however. The pain from the mild burns along his shins motivated him to rise, and stagger forwards. The search crews had long left, somehow missing him. The last fire had burned out long ago. So how did he feel the stinging pain of heat?
That didn't matter. What mattered was finding his way to his next holy conquest, his next grouping or heretics and tyrants.
The new morning sun washed away the colourless night from the burnt ruins. A figure staggered away from the blackened rectangle, into the fields behind it. Another figure watched.
Simon Gate had heard the call of the horn hours ago. He was a Chinese monk, travelling on holiday to Britain. He was now wondering how he was going to find his way to the tournament that had been announced. In the meantime, he saw this monstrosity before him, and decided to put it our of it's misery. Evidently, what had gone on at that TV station had not been the broadcasting of harmless cooking shows...
Drane heard something. His ears picked up a sound. An intake of breath. A footfall. A follower.
Simon moved swiftly forwards, ducking low in the grain that had long since past harvesting time in this field, and now was left unattended, abandoned. Lucky for him, it provided the perfect cover. Though it did obstruct his vision of his quarry...
He hung, unnoticed from a tree that leaned over the field. He watched, as a hawk watches a rabbit, as a child watches a candy bar, as the bastards had watched him, as the follower passed by. Then he fell, slowly and leisurely, on top of him.
As Simon was crushed underneath the weight of a mystery attacker, his Buddha pendant, that hung round his neck, fell forwards onto the ground.
"What is this? The sign of some false god?" A voice purred above him, malice frozen to the words.
"A Buddha. No false god!" It wasn't normally times like these that made him wish he'd learned more English, but that was still what he wished now.
"LIES!" Five needles began to unpick his skin from his muscle, ever so delicately. "You are a follower of a false god! Ironic, that you should also be a follower of me."
"No false god! No false god!" The needles were digging into his flesh now, red, warm needles.
"YOU HAVE NOTHING TO SAY? NOTHING?" The voice screamed now, the needles scraping his windpipe.
Pop.
A spurt of pressurized blood sprayed the grain around Simon and Drane a vivid scarlet. His jugular vein had been pierced. As the hosepipe of crimson dribbled off into a puddle, Drane rose. He had heard the sound of the horn. This was clearly the sign! Clearly! The lord wanted him in Heaven, and who was he to refuse the lord?
More blood spurted on the grain, mixing with the monk's. So much was the similarity, that without lab equipment, you would not be able to tell the difference.
Name: Drane, selected by himself. He hasn't had time for a surname.
Appearance: The ears and nose of a bat, fine black fun covering his body, claws protruding clumsily from his fingers. A thin membrane bridges the gap between wrist and waist, acting almost like wings.
Background: Now that would be telling. Suffice to say, his past is intertwined with his world. And while we're on the subject:
His world: Is a world were slavery persists. My first Narrator, Dave Cotton, was one such black slave. Drane is a culmination of events that don't say anything nice about his world.
His Psyche: He has a firm belief in God. As in, fanatical. He also believes himself to be sent by god to rid the world of heretics, non-believers, and tyrants. Tyrants are white people, heretics are black people, and non-believers are, as we've seen, those who are not Christian zealots. So he has an excuse to kill everyone.
Appearance: The ears and nose of a bat, fine black fun covering his body, claws protruding clumsily from his fingers. A thin membrane bridges the gap between wrist and waist, acting almost like wings.
Background: Now that would be telling. Suffice to say, his past is intertwined with his world. And while we're on the subject:
His world: Is a world were slavery persists. My first Narrator, Dave Cotton, was one such black slave. Drane is a culmination of events that don't say anything nice about his world.
His Psyche: He has a firm belief in God. As in, fanatical. He also believes himself to be sent by god to rid the world of heretics, non-believers, and tyrants. Tyrants are white people, heretics are black people, and non-believers are, as we've seen, those who are not Christian zealots. So he has an excuse to kill everyone.
Lex focuses primarily on Gris-gris, amulets and things of that nature. He has the chalk so he can use magic circles and symbology and he uses the herbs in their traditional functions (depends on the herb really. Could be as simple as poisoning. Could be as complicated as 'if you burn it in the magic circle with a peice of your opponents hair they get very tired.'). The mirror is for various occult purposes.mshcherbatskaya said:
Lex has an antagonistic relationship with the Loa (voodoo spirits), particularly with the Ghede nanchon (the ones who deal in death and fertility) and most particularly Baron Samedi (voodoo death spirit). The Loa play a significant role in Lex's character development so I would prefer not to go too in-depth into Lex's relationship and history with them. Suffice it to say most of them dislike him, and he feels they are too roudy and individualistic.
Lex will not call Loa if there is any other way to win a fight. Even then he may simply elect to lose. We will be playing in Purgatory though, (the home of otherworldly spirits) which means calling them may not be necessary in all cases.
In practise I would advice treating Lex as a gris-gris user, someone who relies on amulets spells and the like, who is casually haunted by Loa.
As for a formal denomination of Voodoo, I'll be honest and say that more likely than not, it's my own bastardized version. If I were pressured to give it a name, I might call it a heavily adapted spin of Luisianna voodoo. The major difference being that, instead of a distant monotheistic creator who cannot be contacted, Satan is treated as an uninterested creator of half the world who vies with God for power on Earth. Satan and God can be contacted; generally however they have no interest in talking. Similarly, Loa are appointed (or occasionally appoint themselves) to do the busy work on Earth.
You could call it Voodoo, mixed with Taoism (the yin yang god structure) hammered to fit snuggly in the confines of our arena (God and the Devil appoint other people to rule Earth in almost managerial fasion. They're are the Loa. They're the ones you take your complaints to.)
I hope any of that makes sense.
tl;dr: Basically he just uses gris-gris, spells, talismans and stuff. You might see a Loa while you're fighting him, but it's unlikely it'd be trying to get in your way. Some Loa will possess him of their own volition, some already have corporeal forms. Baron Samedi will typically be in his own body if he shows up.
But, first and foremost, Lex is a knife user. He'll cut you up before he tries to voodoo you to death.
EDIT: I've figured out exactly how to put it!
"In short I'd describe him as using Hoodoo, replacing the devotion to a monotheistic god with devotion to Satan who is merely one of the two big gods. He also recognizes the existance of the Loa but tries to have nothing to do with them (they aren't really conquerable in the way he'd try with a human, but their individuality sickens him). However, avoiding them doesn't always work."
I would like to ask the same question. I'm itching to get my writing hand working and with school starting tomorrow, I'll expect to have a lot less free time than I do now.SargentToughie said:
Lights, camera, blood.
It wasn't the cruelest sport to develop on Earth after the end of society, but it certainly was one of the most ridiculous. It also became popular; a perversion of all things the old societies had held dear. It was the Killing Art, and it had killed art.
Death matches from characters who had to take an artistic profession and attack form. Poets with horrible rhymes spinning lines of barbed-wire meter time. A piano player assassin who sings "New York State of Mind" during prop kills. A Shakespearean actor who recreates the final scene of hamlet every other fight or so.
And he, himself, was just a fucking harlequin. As if that motif hadn't been overdone before. No musical bard talents, no pen-is-mightier-than-the-sword puns. Just some fucking clown.
Clowns were stupid.
He was facing some high-up writing gimmick. The original opponent had been third over all in the standings, but then the man had broken his leg in a freak car accident. And there had been no one else to bring in but they couldn't cancel the show three hours before it was supposed to start. So he was a stand-in. It was expected he would lose, and probably die. He couldn't blame the audience's opinion, reverberating through the walls of the backstage even now.
But the organizer had looked him up and down, squinting and sighed, saying "better than nothing."
Now, the show must go on. The Harlequin had no experience with slap-stick. The Harlequin had some acrobatics training, a year of drama school, certainly, but nothing involving clowns.
One minute warning. The opponent is getting announced. Some backstage groupie hands him a stick with the word "slap" written across it. Ha. Bad puns ruled this world now. He was getting one of the worst, first day on the job.
And the odd smell of sulfur.
Tthe door opens in front of him. The red and white mask blocks his annoyed face from the view of the audience, and the lights block his view of them. Hhe hears their roar of disapproval as he lopes onto the stage. They wanted strong blood, not a greenhorn. The Harlequin ignored them. Instead he sized up his opponent. The man was older, almost a bookish type. What was the man's name again? Ah, yes, the Alliterator. It was almost worst than Harlequin.
"A clown to suit your desires, and a magician to fool your eyes. How shall the fourth-ranked artist rank against a fresh surprise?"
Clever. At least the announcer could think up fun things to say.
Harlequin bowed stiffly, almost mockingly, to his opponent, and raised his stick over his head like a fencer would. He didn't have much else he could do at the moment. It wouldn't help anyway.
The Alliterator grinned smugly. He knew he had this one in the bag. An easy kill and one more victory, another week alive for him. So fucking proud.
What the Harlequin would give for the situation to be reversed.
The announcer backed off the stage into the protection of the announcement box. Bullet proof glass surrounded the stage, making the crowd as safe as it could be. Random obstacles were strewn about the stage. A spike wall here, a landmine there. Things to make it interesting.
"LET THE FIGHT BEGIN!."
Suddenly the Alliterator sprung into action. He was speaking as he moved.
"Sudden sneaking summons sudden streaking!"
The Harlequin closed his eyes in arrogance and annoyance at the pun, a bad idea he knew. If this wasn't the most lucrative tournament available, he would have picked something else. Maybe boxing.
And this saved his life. A sudden flash glowed across his closed eye lids. The Harlequin opened his eyes, streaks of light floated around the stage. A second earlier, he could have been blinded by the flash. Now they just sat useless. The Alliterator, thinking his prey blind, had begun circling around for a kill strike with an over sized fountain pen.
The Harlequin played along. he He stumbled and acted blind, veering inches away from impaling himself on the spike wall.
Let his enemy be over confident so he didn't expect the counter attack. The Harlequin leaned against a large crate and swung his stick in front of him, as if unable trying to ward off destruction.
The Alliterator charged in from an oblique angle. A moment before impact, the Harlequin ducked, and the Alliterator crashed into his low form, tumbling over him.
Laughter issued from the crowd. Harlequin wished to beat them with his fists for this. It was not from a sense of justice or fairness but merely because he was pissed. He wanted to beat anything that got in his way. And he had to stick to the slap-stick routine. On stage, in character. Harlequin could hold no grudges.
Harlequin stumbled off half after the Alliterator, still pretending to be blind and that the swift dodging of the attack had been simple luck.
The Alliterator shifted away, to the side, and spoke. But to Harlequin it sounded as if the voice was coming from the other side of the stage.
"Miss most mass, mass much magic mastery!"
And what the fuck was this supposed to mean? Harlequin wanted to shout, to scream at his opponent in rage. And he couldn't - he was the Harlequin, a silent role in this Harlequinade. But he stumbled after the sound as if he meant to attack in that direction. He realized it was a trap to see if really was blind or not. One he wasn't like to fall for-
On the floor in front of him he noticed a small red light. A land mine. The Alliterator was a clever bastard at least.
Suddenly the Harlequin let himself stumble, stomping dangerously close to the mine. He raised his next foot and could hear the audience silent down. No doubt the video monitors were showing them the land mine's position nearly underneath him. They were expectant- a quick death was still a funny one. Other acts had prepped the audience for quick death before this, since one death match was never enough in a show.
And the Harlequin stumbled again, a long stumble that carried him past the mine. He could feel the audience's tension release in surprise. A muffled laugh from one corner greeted him too.
The Harlequin stumbled a third time, purposefully, into a box. He stood up extra straight, cocking his head to the side as if realizing he was duped. Then he spun around slowly and crossed his arm, tapping his foot loudly. The audience laughed a little louder now.
The Alliterator had followed him. Now the man wasn't certain if Harlequin was bluffing about being able to see or not. He raised his pen, thought about it, then charged to stab downward into the Harlequin's chest.
He was nimbly dodged, then whacked in the back of the head with the slap stick. The Alliterator grew angry, but realized he still had the advantage of a long metal weapon against a wooden stick.
The Harlequin knew his role now; chase sequence. It was a part of every Harlequinade.
The Harlequin looked ridiculous as he scrambled over boxes and through a narrow passage of spikes. But Harlequin's acrobatic skills allowed him to make it look well improvised. The Alliterator was the true butt of the joke, stumbling over a box here, pausing in surprise at a wall of spikes there. Harlequin began to wonder if he could even really be a fourth ranked fighter- he seemed to be almost comical in his lack of skill.
That pride was short lived, however, when the Harlequin turned to go skip perpendicular from the Alliterator. He was internally laughing right up until the point the Alliterator turned the back of the fountain pen with a loud click and sprayed acid inches in front of Harlequin. Harlequin saved himself from certain death by stopping himself on the slap-stick against a prop wall. A "sssssshhhhhh" noise rose as the bubbly acid burned through the stage instantly.
"acid makes ashes, ashes are dust."
Shit. The Alliterator wasn't just all fluff. Harlequin felt an adrenaline bolt of fear, his hair rise on the back of his neck.
Now the chase began again, but this time more in earnest. Harlequin looked back as often as possible to make sure he wasn't about to catch a blast of acid. It was during one of these he stumbled, and not on purpose.
Harlequin flipped himself over as fast as he could, and had a split second to react to Alliterator's pen bearing down on his chest. He brought up the slap-stick and deflected the pen, but in so doing the fountain pen caught the stick right between its two prongs. They both slapped down into stage. Harlequin got his foot between himself and the Alliterator, and kicked the man back without his pen. Harlequin thought to grab the pen and use it against the Alliterator himself, but caught sight of the Alliterator pulling three shorter pens out of his suit coat.
They looked balanced. Throwing pens. Harlequin ripped his stick free and rolled away just as the first pen buried with an audible "thunk" where he had been.
And the Alliterator was laughing, laughing as he kept his opponent on the run. Harlequin barely slipped underneath the second pen and was saved by more dumb luck- the third pen deflected off the tip of a spike inches before his face. Before Harlequin could react to his opponent's lack of ammo, he saw the Alliterator rip the pen out of the stage floor. Harlequin ran, and again the Alliterator chased.
But the stage was small, and Harlequin could never really escape. It was turning into an endless bout and the crowd was getting agitated.
Suddenly the Harlequin made a wrong turn, down into a short alley he had managed to avoid twice before. Two of the walls were glass so the audience could see through. The back wall was spiked. As soon as the Harlequin turned around, the Alliterator was at the mouth of the alley. It looked like curtains for the Harlequin.
Slowly, dramatically, the Alliterator advanced. Slowly, in a half crouch, Harlequin backed towards the spikes. His ankle touched one, but still the Alliterator came on.
In desperation, the Harlequin smacked the glass wall with slap stick and all his might in an attempt to break it. The wall didn't break, but instead changed. What was a glass wall became, of all things, a small red slipper.
Harlequin and the Alliterator both gaped, then looked at each other comically. The audience, slightly stunned by the new twist, laughed at their reactions. Suddenly the hunter became the hunted. Harlequin slapped whatever got in his way. A box became a tire, a spike a sudden flame, a trip mine was slapped into a vial of holy water.
And this time the Harlequin cornered the Alliterator. Both were out of breath. Harlequin advanced, and the Alliterator backed away. Soon there was no where left to go.
Harlequin lunged frightfully, swinging his slapstick down at the Alliterator. In desperation, the Alliterator raised his massive pen to ward off the blow.
There was a loud CLACK, and nothing changed.
The Alliterator suddenly grinned, spun his pen in fluid motion that simultaneously disarmed Harlequin and tore through his chest. Harlequin stumbled back, staring down with increasingly hazy vision at the horrible slash across his chest. He watched and heard as the massive pen clicked again and stabbed him, watched the ground rise up to meet him, watched the Alliterator pull his pen out and raise it over his head victoriously, but didn't feel a thing.
"Poison on the person!" he thought he heard, and then he passed out.
----
As if from a dream, Harlequin woke to the sound of clapping, a single pair of hands of smacking together in a steady rhythm. "Well done. Well fought, indeed" came a British sounding woman's voice.
Harlequin opened his eyes and was greeted by the simply the sexiest looking creature he had ever seen. She was in a business suit that was a perversion of all things professional, completely red from head to three-foot-long tail, and with short hooked horns sprouting from her brow. She had the slapstick in her lap, herself sitting on the edge of a large mahogany desk.
"Where am I?" Harlequin inquired.
"well, in purgatory, of course. You were cut across by a giant poisoned pen. I'm sure by now the human world has already cremated you or something. But you've committed quite the accomplishment here. All seven deadly sins in one night! And such a spectacular battle to boot."
Harlequin raised himself to sit straight. "So I'm dead?"
"Thoroughly."
Harlequin thought for a moment. "If I sinned so horribly, why am I not in hell then?"
The demoness stood up and began walking slowly toward Harlequin. "Things don't work that way anymore, but I have a proposition for you. One you might consider to your benefit. One that could get you incredible amounts of power if-" she said as she bent over presenting her face and low cut blouse to the Harlequin's view, "you can survive," she finished softly.
She then stood and spun and walked towards a window of the office. Outside it was raining, raining on those who sought entrance to heaven or waited to enter hell. Before it was chaotic, but now offices rose and handled all claims with authoritative red tape. Bureaucracy wins in the end.
The demoness began her story. "In a few days time there will be a grand tournament to decide who will become king of the earth realm. You will have a chance to live for much longer than your normal life span, and will commune on equal grounds with both the Creator and the Devil. You'd still be mortal, but it's more than you've got now. I'll let you keep the stick I gave you, and even augment you with a little magic, but you have to keep a promise for them to work the way they are supposed to."
Harlequin took his face in his chin. "Explain."
"First, you shall need to perform at least one of the seven deadly sins in each fight. If you fail to do so, then before you can finish defeating your opponent both my augmentation and the slap stick's magical properties will shut off. Secondly, you must go through the entire tournament as a Harlequin." She turned to look back at the Harlequin, judging the man's reaction.
Harlequin really felt like he had no choice. Here he was being offered a complete second chance- even more, the chance to become one of the kings of it all- when all his other options resulted in either torture, fire, agony, or some mixture of all three.
"Alright, I'll do it."
"Don't you wish to know what I would benefit from this?" the demoness said in a sort of mocking innocence.
"Not particularly."
The demoness grinned at him, then shuffled a paper forward on her desk. "Then cut your finger open and sign here. In blood, as usual."
Harlequin stood, grabbed a small x-acto knife and cut the tip of his finger. With a fountain pen, he signed his name across a dotted line. Instantly he felt more powerful, faster, and healthier. He didn't feel suddenly like he could single-handedly take on armies, just that he was a bit more likely to survive. Without another word, the demoness handed him the slap-stick and pointed at the door.
Harlequin moved to leave, but a second before walking out, turned and asked "I really committed all seven?"
She ticked them off business-like, from a list on her desk. "Acedia from having three full hours to study your opponent and not caring enough to do so, ira from wanting to kill the audience, invidia of your opponent, avaritia from even joining the tournament that mocks humanity's greatest accomplishments for money, momentary superbia from thinking yourself better than the Alliterator, gula from attempting to abuse the slap stick's power, and luxuria.... is rather obvious, don't you think?" she said, changing her tone to something more alluring and letting her eyes drift up to the Harlequin's knowingly.
The Harlequin grinned a little, deciding maybe a little high spirits wouldn't kill him today, then walked out the door.
It wasn't the cruelest sport to develop on Earth after the end of society, but it certainly was one of the most ridiculous. It also became popular; a perversion of all things the old societies had held dear. It was the Killing Art, and it had killed art.
Death matches from characters who had to take an artistic profession and attack form. Poets with horrible rhymes spinning lines of barbed-wire meter time. A piano player assassin who sings "New York State of Mind" during prop kills. A Shakespearean actor who recreates the final scene of hamlet every other fight or so.
And he, himself, was just a fucking harlequin. As if that motif hadn't been overdone before. No musical bard talents, no pen-is-mightier-than-the-sword puns. Just some fucking clown.
Clowns were stupid.
He was facing some high-up writing gimmick. The original opponent had been third over all in the standings, but then the man had broken his leg in a freak car accident. And there had been no one else to bring in but they couldn't cancel the show three hours before it was supposed to start. So he was a stand-in. It was expected he would lose, and probably die. He couldn't blame the audience's opinion, reverberating through the walls of the backstage even now.
But the organizer had looked him up and down, squinting and sighed, saying "better than nothing."
Now, the show must go on. The Harlequin had no experience with slap-stick. The Harlequin had some acrobatics training, a year of drama school, certainly, but nothing involving clowns.
One minute warning. The opponent is getting announced. Some backstage groupie hands him a stick with the word "slap" written across it. Ha. Bad puns ruled this world now. He was getting one of the worst, first day on the job.
And the odd smell of sulfur.
Tthe door opens in front of him. The red and white mask blocks his annoyed face from the view of the audience, and the lights block his view of them. Hhe hears their roar of disapproval as he lopes onto the stage. They wanted strong blood, not a greenhorn. The Harlequin ignored them. Instead he sized up his opponent. The man was older, almost a bookish type. What was the man's name again? Ah, yes, the Alliterator. It was almost worst than Harlequin.
"A clown to suit your desires, and a magician to fool your eyes. How shall the fourth-ranked artist rank against a fresh surprise?"
Clever. At least the announcer could think up fun things to say.
Harlequin bowed stiffly, almost mockingly, to his opponent, and raised his stick over his head like a fencer would. He didn't have much else he could do at the moment. It wouldn't help anyway.
The Alliterator grinned smugly. He knew he had this one in the bag. An easy kill and one more victory, another week alive for him. So fucking proud.
What the Harlequin would give for the situation to be reversed.
The announcer backed off the stage into the protection of the announcement box. Bullet proof glass surrounded the stage, making the crowd as safe as it could be. Random obstacles were strewn about the stage. A spike wall here, a landmine there. Things to make it interesting.
"LET THE FIGHT BEGIN!."
Suddenly the Alliterator sprung into action. He was speaking as he moved.
"Sudden sneaking summons sudden streaking!"
The Harlequin closed his eyes in arrogance and annoyance at the pun, a bad idea he knew. If this wasn't the most lucrative tournament available, he would have picked something else. Maybe boxing.
And this saved his life. A sudden flash glowed across his closed eye lids. The Harlequin opened his eyes, streaks of light floated around the stage. A second earlier, he could have been blinded by the flash. Now they just sat useless. The Alliterator, thinking his prey blind, had begun circling around for a kill strike with an over sized fountain pen.
The Harlequin played along. he He stumbled and acted blind, veering inches away from impaling himself on the spike wall.
Let his enemy be over confident so he didn't expect the counter attack. The Harlequin leaned against a large crate and swung his stick in front of him, as if unable trying to ward off destruction.
The Alliterator charged in from an oblique angle. A moment before impact, the Harlequin ducked, and the Alliterator crashed into his low form, tumbling over him.
Laughter issued from the crowd. Harlequin wished to beat them with his fists for this. It was not from a sense of justice or fairness but merely because he was pissed. He wanted to beat anything that got in his way. And he had to stick to the slap-stick routine. On stage, in character. Harlequin could hold no grudges.
Harlequin stumbled off half after the Alliterator, still pretending to be blind and that the swift dodging of the attack had been simple luck.
The Alliterator shifted away, to the side, and spoke. But to Harlequin it sounded as if the voice was coming from the other side of the stage.
"Miss most mass, mass much magic mastery!"
And what the fuck was this supposed to mean? Harlequin wanted to shout, to scream at his opponent in rage. And he couldn't - he was the Harlequin, a silent role in this Harlequinade. But he stumbled after the sound as if he meant to attack in that direction. He realized it was a trap to see if really was blind or not. One he wasn't like to fall for-
On the floor in front of him he noticed a small red light. A land mine. The Alliterator was a clever bastard at least.
Suddenly the Harlequin let himself stumble, stomping dangerously close to the mine. He raised his next foot and could hear the audience silent down. No doubt the video monitors were showing them the land mine's position nearly underneath him. They were expectant- a quick death was still a funny one. Other acts had prepped the audience for quick death before this, since one death match was never enough in a show.
And the Harlequin stumbled again, a long stumble that carried him past the mine. He could feel the audience's tension release in surprise. A muffled laugh from one corner greeted him too.
The Harlequin stumbled a third time, purposefully, into a box. He stood up extra straight, cocking his head to the side as if realizing he was duped. Then he spun around slowly and crossed his arm, tapping his foot loudly. The audience laughed a little louder now.
The Alliterator had followed him. Now the man wasn't certain if Harlequin was bluffing about being able to see or not. He raised his pen, thought about it, then charged to stab downward into the Harlequin's chest.
He was nimbly dodged, then whacked in the back of the head with the slap stick. The Alliterator grew angry, but realized he still had the advantage of a long metal weapon against a wooden stick.
The Harlequin knew his role now; chase sequence. It was a part of every Harlequinade.
The Harlequin looked ridiculous as he scrambled over boxes and through a narrow passage of spikes. But Harlequin's acrobatic skills allowed him to make it look well improvised. The Alliterator was the true butt of the joke, stumbling over a box here, pausing in surprise at a wall of spikes there. Harlequin began to wonder if he could even really be a fourth ranked fighter- he seemed to be almost comical in his lack of skill.
That pride was short lived, however, when the Harlequin turned to go skip perpendicular from the Alliterator. He was internally laughing right up until the point the Alliterator turned the back of the fountain pen with a loud click and sprayed acid inches in front of Harlequin. Harlequin saved himself from certain death by stopping himself on the slap-stick against a prop wall. A "sssssshhhhhh" noise rose as the bubbly acid burned through the stage instantly.
"acid makes ashes, ashes are dust."
Shit. The Alliterator wasn't just all fluff. Harlequin felt an adrenaline bolt of fear, his hair rise on the back of his neck.
Now the chase began again, but this time more in earnest. Harlequin looked back as often as possible to make sure he wasn't about to catch a blast of acid. It was during one of these he stumbled, and not on purpose.
Harlequin flipped himself over as fast as he could, and had a split second to react to Alliterator's pen bearing down on his chest. He brought up the slap-stick and deflected the pen, but in so doing the fountain pen caught the stick right between its two prongs. They both slapped down into stage. Harlequin got his foot between himself and the Alliterator, and kicked the man back without his pen. Harlequin thought to grab the pen and use it against the Alliterator himself, but caught sight of the Alliterator pulling three shorter pens out of his suit coat.
They looked balanced. Throwing pens. Harlequin ripped his stick free and rolled away just as the first pen buried with an audible "thunk" where he had been.
And the Alliterator was laughing, laughing as he kept his opponent on the run. Harlequin barely slipped underneath the second pen and was saved by more dumb luck- the third pen deflected off the tip of a spike inches before his face. Before Harlequin could react to his opponent's lack of ammo, he saw the Alliterator rip the pen out of the stage floor. Harlequin ran, and again the Alliterator chased.
But the stage was small, and Harlequin could never really escape. It was turning into an endless bout and the crowd was getting agitated.
Suddenly the Harlequin made a wrong turn, down into a short alley he had managed to avoid twice before. Two of the walls were glass so the audience could see through. The back wall was spiked. As soon as the Harlequin turned around, the Alliterator was at the mouth of the alley. It looked like curtains for the Harlequin.
Slowly, dramatically, the Alliterator advanced. Slowly, in a half crouch, Harlequin backed towards the spikes. His ankle touched one, but still the Alliterator came on.
In desperation, the Harlequin smacked the glass wall with slap stick and all his might in an attempt to break it. The wall didn't break, but instead changed. What was a glass wall became, of all things, a small red slipper.
Harlequin and the Alliterator both gaped, then looked at each other comically. The audience, slightly stunned by the new twist, laughed at their reactions. Suddenly the hunter became the hunted. Harlequin slapped whatever got in his way. A box became a tire, a spike a sudden flame, a trip mine was slapped into a vial of holy water.
And this time the Harlequin cornered the Alliterator. Both were out of breath. Harlequin advanced, and the Alliterator backed away. Soon there was no where left to go.
Harlequin lunged frightfully, swinging his slapstick down at the Alliterator. In desperation, the Alliterator raised his massive pen to ward off the blow.
There was a loud CLACK, and nothing changed.
The Alliterator suddenly grinned, spun his pen in fluid motion that simultaneously disarmed Harlequin and tore through his chest. Harlequin stumbled back, staring down with increasingly hazy vision at the horrible slash across his chest. He watched and heard as the massive pen clicked again and stabbed him, watched the ground rise up to meet him, watched the Alliterator pull his pen out and raise it over his head victoriously, but didn't feel a thing.
"Poison on the person!" he thought he heard, and then he passed out.
----
As if from a dream, Harlequin woke to the sound of clapping, a single pair of hands of smacking together in a steady rhythm. "Well done. Well fought, indeed" came a British sounding woman's voice.
Harlequin opened his eyes and was greeted by the simply the sexiest looking creature he had ever seen. She was in a business suit that was a perversion of all things professional, completely red from head to three-foot-long tail, and with short hooked horns sprouting from her brow. She had the slapstick in her lap, herself sitting on the edge of a large mahogany desk.
"Where am I?" Harlequin inquired.
"well, in purgatory, of course. You were cut across by a giant poisoned pen. I'm sure by now the human world has already cremated you or something. But you've committed quite the accomplishment here. All seven deadly sins in one night! And such a spectacular battle to boot."
Harlequin raised himself to sit straight. "So I'm dead?"
"Thoroughly."
Harlequin thought for a moment. "If I sinned so horribly, why am I not in hell then?"
The demoness stood up and began walking slowly toward Harlequin. "Things don't work that way anymore, but I have a proposition for you. One you might consider to your benefit. One that could get you incredible amounts of power if-" she said as she bent over presenting her face and low cut blouse to the Harlequin's view, "you can survive," she finished softly.
She then stood and spun and walked towards a window of the office. Outside it was raining, raining on those who sought entrance to heaven or waited to enter hell. Before it was chaotic, but now offices rose and handled all claims with authoritative red tape. Bureaucracy wins in the end.
The demoness began her story. "In a few days time there will be a grand tournament to decide who will become king of the earth realm. You will have a chance to live for much longer than your normal life span, and will commune on equal grounds with both the Creator and the Devil. You'd still be mortal, but it's more than you've got now. I'll let you keep the stick I gave you, and even augment you with a little magic, but you have to keep a promise for them to work the way they are supposed to."
Harlequin took his face in his chin. "Explain."
"First, you shall need to perform at least one of the seven deadly sins in each fight. If you fail to do so, then before you can finish defeating your opponent both my augmentation and the slap stick's magical properties will shut off. Secondly, you must go through the entire tournament as a Harlequin." She turned to look back at the Harlequin, judging the man's reaction.
Harlequin really felt like he had no choice. Here he was being offered a complete second chance- even more, the chance to become one of the kings of it all- when all his other options resulted in either torture, fire, agony, or some mixture of all three.
"Alright, I'll do it."
"Don't you wish to know what I would benefit from this?" the demoness said in a sort of mocking innocence.
"Not particularly."
The demoness grinned at him, then shuffled a paper forward on her desk. "Then cut your finger open and sign here. In blood, as usual."
Harlequin stood, grabbed a small x-acto knife and cut the tip of his finger. With a fountain pen, he signed his name across a dotted line. Instantly he felt more powerful, faster, and healthier. He didn't feel suddenly like he could single-handedly take on armies, just that he was a bit more likely to survive. Without another word, the demoness handed him the slap-stick and pointed at the door.
Harlequin moved to leave, but a second before walking out, turned and asked "I really committed all seven?"
She ticked them off business-like, from a list on her desk. "Acedia from having three full hours to study your opponent and not caring enough to do so, ira from wanting to kill the audience, invidia of your opponent, avaritia from even joining the tournament that mocks humanity's greatest accomplishments for money, momentary superbia from thinking yourself better than the Alliterator, gula from attempting to abuse the slap stick's power, and luxuria.... is rather obvious, don't you think?" she said, changing her tone to something more alluring and letting her eyes drift up to the Harlequin's knowingly.
The Harlequin grinned a little, deciding maybe a little high spirits wouldn't kill him today, then walked out the door.
Appearance: He's six foot one and has sandy brown hair. He is tanned, lean, and very athletic. He wears a half red, half white mask over his face and a white skin tight suit with large red, blue, and green diamonds coating it. His shoes are soft and flexible, great for climbing and running. His slap-stick is about the size and length of a wooden baseball bat, though flatter. Overall he paints a comical picture.
Fighting the Harlequin: Harlequin's major skills are acrobatics and improvisation. He will always plan things out, though they will never work out. He can make up great ideas off the cuff, however. He's slightly faster, stronger, and more durable than he looks due to demon magic, but this is not enough to seriously sway the battle on it's own. Say, instead of being able to bench-press two hundred pounds he can bench 230.
His slapstick is unbreakable, but about the same force as a wooden bat. It can magically transform objects into other, random objects, but only if he is chasing another character or being chased himself. Otherwise it's just a wooden stick.
Throughout the battle, the Harlequin will need to perform one of the seven deadly sins. Preventing him from doing this will cause his special stick and magical enhancements to stop working. He will also have to play the role of a Harlequin. He can either be the hero (as in a Harlequinade) or a devilish trickster who will "advise" his opponents. As a rule, any plot he makes should fail miserably.
Personality: Harlequin starts off the tournament as mostly cynical. He's had nothing but bad deals with humanity, and is the sort of idealist who realizes his ideals can never, ever come true.
He currently hates the role of Harlequin.
Fighting the Harlequin: Harlequin's major skills are acrobatics and improvisation. He will always plan things out, though they will never work out. He can make up great ideas off the cuff, however. He's slightly faster, stronger, and more durable than he looks due to demon magic, but this is not enough to seriously sway the battle on it's own. Say, instead of being able to bench-press two hundred pounds he can bench 230.
His slapstick is unbreakable, but about the same force as a wooden bat. It can magically transform objects into other, random objects, but only if he is chasing another character or being chased himself. Otherwise it's just a wooden stick.
Throughout the battle, the Harlequin will need to perform one of the seven deadly sins. Preventing him from doing this will cause his special stick and magical enhancements to stop working. He will also have to play the role of a Harlequin. He can either be the hero (as in a Harlequinade) or a devilish trickster who will "advise" his opponents. As a rule, any plot he makes should fail miserably.
Personality: Harlequin starts off the tournament as mostly cynical. He's had nothing but bad deals with humanity, and is the sort of idealist who realizes his ideals can never, ever come true.
He currently hates the role of Harlequin.