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whilaroo

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PostSubject: Unfinished   Fri Dec 10, 2010 9:53 am

"And for a moment... God was in the wind," his breath curled up into the moonlight. By the fire, his companion rubbed his hands together, gazing up first at the poet and then into the depth of the night, where the moon could be seen in the distance, it's cold blue light turning the mountain pass, covered in snow, into a glowing landscape, smooth and beautiful and deadly. His tattered gloves did not do any more than the act of rubbing or the paltry heat of the fire to warm his frostbitten fingers. The man who had spoken looked down at his friend. Chagrin combined with the look which a mother gives a child as he leaned down to grasp his companion's frigid fingers in his own, "Here, let me take care of that." In a matter of moments, the warmth was restored to the man at the fire, his hands thoroughly toasty, as they might be were he cozily sitting by the fire at home. Yet, he looked more frightened than he did happy. "Don't fear, that was me," he didn't seem to be cold at all, he wasn't even protecting himself as was his friend, newly made well as he was, "Our spirit friend is in check at the moment."
"You shouldn't use magic. You'll provoke it out again," the hoarse whisper which escaped the throat of the man by the fire was odd. It did not fit his size, he was bigger than his fellow, and quite obviously stronger. The nearly strangled voice, then, which made away with his breath, seemed somewhat out of place in this wilderness where he should have been the more confident. Even the difference in accoutrement spoke to the wilderness weary traveler and the juxtaposition to the other, who was clad in more elaborate garments that had no place in this mountain pass so dangerous.
"She is most certainly not an 'it'," the rebuke was evident in his mannerisms, "And SHE is asleep now. There is nothing to fear."
Even so, his rugged friend was not put at ease, as anyone could tell to look at him. He was an absolute wreck, and direly in need of sleep himself, although not willing to leave his possessed mate alone. They had been friends nearly since birth, and they trusted each other implicitly, but this girl was a whole new business. After all, she was supposed to be dead. What call did she have to be thieving bodies as she pleased? And what is more, the body of an individual near and dear to his own heart.
"I'm sorry, Harlin, you know I didn't mean anything like that," he said in apology.
"I know. I'm on edge too," a sigh accompanied Harlin's descent to the ground, "But we'll be there soon enough, and she'll be on her way. Trust me, Strig, I know what needs to be done."
Strig nodded, huddling closer to the fire, if not to hide from the bite of the cold, then from the darkness of his own thoughts.

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PostSubject: Re: Unfinished   Tue Apr 12, 2011 8:14 pm

Strig is a cannibal, vampiric. Being sent with Harlin is punishment, as his sub-tribe, known for cannibalism are looked down upon. Even so, the two know each other, despite Harlin's higher standing as a singer. (the singer's are those capable of manipulating magic through sonic powers, and as an adept, Harlin could quite possibly become one of those singers immortalized by having his soul lapsed into an object so that he can siphon magic into the world.)

Harlin's powers have changed since he was possessed. The magic now obeys not only his voice but his whim also. He may think it into existence. As every day goes by, the magic becomes more an ambient trait and not a force that simply drove through his will but even permeating his errant thoughts. An aura around him progressively grows stronger. His eyes begin to smolder, and the air around him almost glows with the heat of his powers. Forget this!

(Adagio for Tron)

The power flowed through his very veins, permeating him. He could feel it in every extremity of his being. His hands nearly shook with the force. But he had to control it, for just a little bit longer still. Strig couldn't know, couldn't catch the glimmer of fire in his eye, or see that burning ember lodged in his soul. The eyes of a hunter like Strig were so sharp, though, he would have to be distracted. Harlin knew how to play the fool though, and he could throw his compatriot, who believed him nothing more than a high society simpleton off the track, of that he was sure. But to the one within he could not lie. She could not see his soul, but she could hear his song, she could feel the strains, he was sure, of that blasted melody, that infernal whisper which gave him away, his secrets. It was a vile thought, but it had to be endured if he was to use her. Her powers were absolutely necessary for what he had intended. Her will and strength would provide him with exactly what he needed to finally realize the dream which had so long tortured him. Harlin could barely breath at that thought, but its intoxicating mist did not overwhelm him. He would not allow it to consume him, not allow himself to feel victory until he was standing at the end of his accomplishment. Hell! He could be lying dead at the end of this for all he cared so long as his goal was met. She was of no consequence, but that her desires drove him toward his own end, and she so unwittingly did. The double deception in which he had wrapped himself would therefore require great tending. Both the spirits would need to be fooled until they could be disposed of, and Harlin was sure that both would happen and that the fell stroke which would land the deathblows would of of his own design and making... That it would be swift when the time came, and simultaneous.

Harlin was shocked from his reverie and bolted up from where he had been crouching by the fire. He could see the silhouette of Strig coming from the woods. Something was wrong. Strig didn't make noise. He had been trained so that when he moved, not even the slightest sound could be perceived. It didn't matter how much brush there might be on the ground, and the ground was covered in the muffling snow. Something was wrong. Strig 's silhouette was cocked to one side, as though he were holding his weight all on one leg. The hunch on his back was too big to be just him. The mage through all of his actual nervousness into his act. "What has happened," his voice was never without a musical quality, even when he was harried so, and when others would have allowed a harsh whisper, his voice merely dropped lower in volume and into a key that adequately implied his worry, "Strigoi, tell me that you are alright." His friend only remained silent, although Harlin could well hear a rasp now in the breath of his friend. Injury had been made this night, but what could possibly have gotten a hand far enough in a fight that it had managed to lay itself upon Strig? He was fast and silent, a spirit of the wood. One could no more catch him than they could a wild wolf, no more molest his hide than that of a great bear.

Strig limped into the firelight, the blood glistened upon him, streaming from his mouth, he exhaled in a cough and more of the thick red liquid spewed from between his yellowed and cracked teeth. With a great heave, and a painful groan, he unlimbered the weight from his shoulders. Harlin skittered back a pace with a horrified sort of look on his face. "Strigoi?" his voice was almost breathless, but nonetheless breathtaking. There, in the light of the campfire lay a body, nearly naked except for the loin cloth and the mantle it wore. It's face was obscured by a mask, mercifully, but the neck was laid bare, and there was a massive wound where a hole had been torn. It was too grotesque to stare at for long... That is, if the reuse were to be perpetuated. Harlin would that he could have gazed for length upon that hideous marring of the flesh, wished that he could have burned the image into memory, wished that he could have observed the lacerations and bruises and gouges made into the other parts of the so dirty frame of the dead man, but he dared not, not yet. So he looked away, the disgust clawing at his face very real, and the need to vomit almost as much unaffected. He declined to his knees, allowing himself to wretch. When he was done, his voice would be changed, he knew, but he let the slight gargle into his voice, the wet and broken tone changing the melody of his speech into a horrified gurgle, "What have you done?"

Strigoi looked absolutely passive as he sat down, crossing his legs before the fire. "Ourua," he said after spitting out a glob of congealed blood in order to better speak. Still, crimson spittle sprayed from his mouth as he grated out the words in a gravelly tone, "There must be a group nearby. This one looks like a nomad. He was a shaman of some kind. Laid down some kind of hex on the air before I killed him. Near ripped me to shreds before I tore his throat out." He said it so casually, so barbarically, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to shred from a person their basic gift of life. Harlin rued for a moment that he wold have to end Strig's life someday, but unfortunately, despite his barbarism, Strigoi had his own sort of code of honor, and for what Harlin had in mind, he would have to make sure that something as strong as Strig could not come between him and his goal. Strig had exhibited even this night his ability to end even a user of magics, a manipulator of mana. Harlin couldn't take that chance with his own mission. He couldn't allow Strigoi to question him for even a moment, for he knew that if he did, in the next moment, one or the other of them would find themselves dead, and Harlin had a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn't be Strigoi. So he slept apart from Strig this night, a little farther away than usual. It would make sense for Harlin to be shocked and even mortified by what his friend had done. Strig would understand that, he had so much cognitive power. It also allowed Harlin the space to turn away, the space to smile that horrid, toothy grin without the fear of being noticed, without fear of being seen. Oh, tonight was a happy night.
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PostSubject: Re: Unfinished   Wed Apr 13, 2011 5:58 pm

She wrapped one arm around him, drawing her nails across the breast of his leather jacket. He slowly turned to look at her, the smile in her eyes drew him in. Her red lips curled up ever so slightly. Her claw left him then and he closed his lids as though they were heavy as lead, turning back to his drink. She slid up onto the seat next to him, resting upon the bar with one arm, throwing all of her deliciously curved body into an incredibly sensuous position. Yet, to look at her, one could not escape the feeling that she was a predator, ready to strike out and take her prey. The bar tender didn't even need her scathing glance in order to tell him that she wanted her usual. It was done in moments, resting before her. The familiarity of the action sparked her neighbor's attention, drawing a curious flash of the eyes. She used the whole breadth of the moment that he had given her to emphasize her lips as she delicately sipped the drink that she had grasped between her pincers. She smiled at him, her teeth gleaming whitely in his vision. "So, Stranger," her voice hissed out smoothly enough to render a body's knees weak, "You look a little lost?"
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PostSubject: Re: Unfinished   Tue May 03, 2011 11:26 pm

As I fell, finally, I felt her arms slip around me. She caught me! Why would she catch me!? Why did she catch me?

"Dammit, Boy!" Cheonsa growled as she heaved with all her might to lift the metallic carcass, "Help me!" It was almost as if he were reluctant, as if he had wanted to fall, but at the same time, he did not refuse his rescuer. Slowly, his appendages reversed in their sockets and bent back and around with languid motions until he could drag himself, and Cheonsa with him, back onto the platform. "The Hell was that for?" she panted, each breath causing her chest to take a mighty heave. "You should have let me die," Matthias' hollow voice echoed about the room, "You should have killed me when first we met." Cheonsa stood, still attempting to regain her wind. However, before she could speak, his mechanical tones sounded again, "Then at least, I'd be free." She cocked her head at him. "Hope shackles even the darkest mind," he muttered in acidic whispered notes. She strode after him as he began to exercise his wide gate away from her in a slow sort of loping manner. "Why do you keep trying to save me?" he whirled upon her with the question, "By now, you know that I'll just come back." She looked up at those hidden eyes. "Saves us time, a rather important commodity," her accent was clipped by a slight irritation. Matty let out a bark of laughter, distorted hideously by the apparatus that made sound for him. "Ha! You may prove to be a more agreeable person yet. Alright then, my little Stop Watch. I shall aid you in this, be your helping hand your... guiding angel..."
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PostSubject: Re: Unfinished   Sun May 15, 2011 11:08 pm

Each stepped back into their own separate pressurized lifter, the brass doors closing before them as the steam built to send them rocketing upward. The only one to hesitate was Brody as he looked back but once. Through the collecting vapors of the first few transports and damaged valves about, he saw the blazing floodlights meant to cut through this very kind of foggy disruption. He saw silhouettes moving at speed towards them, and then again, away down the hall. Lowering his gaze and allowing but a single tear to collect in his eye, he blinked, closing hard, intent on keeping the salty drop from exiting his eye. He disappeared into his own metal prison. Just as his own door slid shut, a hand pressed against it from the other side. Over the sound of the hissing steam, he could not hear the cry uttered out for him. The pounding of a fist on his cage was drowned completely from the realm of audible sound by the massive piston which propelled him to certain doom, the battle above, the main deck of the land born juggernaut. The Obliviscentes had found them, and just as they had been told to do, those mechanized horrors would kill everything living which they could find. In the name of the very God heralded by this vessel, would their attackers annihilate every man, woman, and child they could find until none drew breath. But some they would not find, not here, not now, nor ever. Some would not die. Brody was one of the few making sure they had the time to make that dream come true, so that the dream of all would not die with the men going now to their deaths.
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PostSubject: Re: Unfinished   Tue May 24, 2011 9:26 pm

He knelt on the ground, surrounded in an aura of fiery red... The lantern light cast hither and thither as though thrashed about into a frenzy by the fiends of Hell. His hand shook, as he stared down at the cause of all his agony, all his pain. That small organ, so essential, and yet, to him, it had become little more than the home of all the depravity that had destroyed him piece by piece until he was no more... Until all that was left was the monster that here awaited judgement. He hated that foul thing which rested there in his hand. Rending it from his chest had caused him such little pain... Compared to the misery which consumed his every part, the emotional turmoil which coiled his own thoughts into whips to lash out at him. It was nothing. It still beat, even severed from his veins, its final motions serving to purge itself of the life that he so detested. Pealing back away from his teeth in a snarl of disgust, his lip curled. His face pulled taut into a grimace as tears filled his eyes, tears of sheer hate. Slowly, with all the strength that he had left to muster, he squeezed. He felt the soft tissue give way under the influence of his fingers clenching, tightening... It was is if he could feel it, the strings attached to his heart holding the rest of his body, a puppet... Tweaked but an inch, it was like crushing his own frame, his own mortal shell, but he did not stop. He could not stop. He would not. Clenching ever so slowly, he watched as the heart that had once beat within his very breast was mutilated first and then pulverized by his iron grip. The blood which oozed from within it was forced between his fingers, where it ran down his hand to drip into the scarlet pool about him... And with that final press, he felt his life pass from him, though he still stared, still watched, as though from beyond the grave to see what would happen... He breathed once, twice more... and then was no more... Then was no more in this body, but passed... His spirit clenched firmly and decisively in its new prison, in its new heart... Oblivion, damnation, for these he had prayed, had cried out. His cry had not been heard, for instead, he awakened, his ghostly form, within these walls. He has not left them since, these walls, coated in the blood of all those he had murdered, each of their faces rendered perfectly by his own hand, etched into his mind. They taunt him. They teach him. They haunt his every waking moment. They remind him of his evil, he cannot escape... Even death is no refuge... He is dead... Within, he has been dead... Very long ago he passed away, and now, like a corpse's soul trapped within a living body he goes on, angry, destitute, helpless, and maddened... He is sad... All he wishes is escape denied him by the very god he once loved, he once hated, and now he hunts, for solace... for death... or for naught... Matthias is doomed... A wanderer, forever... And ever... And thus we shall allow him to wander once more... We shall allow him a chance to meet this god of his... We shall allow him one more chance... at hope... at mercy, at peace... Or at oblivion... Goodbye, young man, young Matthias... Die well... You can ask for no more... Goodbye...
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PostSubject: Re: Unfinished   Tue Aug 16, 2011 8:39 pm

"There is no more time, is there?" the little voice was quite strangled as the question slipped into the impossibly loud sounds of the world exploding all around. The fires flashed as bolts of lightning flash and burn with all the ferocity of the sun in a moment, and then are gone again, barely memories trod far down the road.
The girl's answer could be seen in Cheonsa's eyes, wet and heavy and silent as she looked up. "We failed. We couldn't stop it from falling," there was the hint of a sob in her ever so quiet, and forsaken mode of speech.
"Of course we could not stop it," This new voice was strong and willful. It was angry. "Time cannot be stopped from marching on. The world has fallen to ashes, falls to ashes all around us. Only the gods could provoke such a world to exist. Then let us find them, if we must raze Hell itself! Let us find them and realize to them the children the have forgot!" It was him, that dark and ever present figure. The winged thing which she had seen land upon the spire when it had still stood. The winged thing which had reduced the spire to so much rubble. The winged monstrosity without name or face or function but that of destruction. The demon coiled its way towards Cheonsa. She raised her weapon, ready to combat the devil himself, but he was faster. In a twinkling he was upon her, his face but a millimeter away from her own. He did not breath as he spoke in the most horrifying mechanical scratch of a voice. "Fight! Show them your power! Show them your virtue. There's still something worth saving in this world if there's saviors like you to stand and fight! 'So go ahead and kill me dead! And wash away these hopeless fears!'" He quoth from the heretical texts, 'the lament of the forsaken.'
Cheonsa lowered here weapon, and the creature's serpentine form whisked away with the same frightening speed with which he had appeared. The shivering form of her little companion she grasped and held to herself.
"What was that?" the child's vocalizations were all a quiver with fear.
"A terrible, hopeless creature... Who has managed to impart a shred of light in a dark world," Cheonsa let a small smile slip through her tears. There was always something worth fighting for, even when the fight was doomed to the end. She hugged the little one tightly as the doorway was once again overshadowed.
"Cheonsa! There you are!" It was Daedalus! "Quickly! Geppetto is waiting at my machine! We're trying to evacuate as many as we can to the Empyrean! Quickly now, Girl! We've got get ourselves off of this rock before it drops into the inferno!"
Awkwardly, Cheonsa rose to her feet, carrying the body of the young one along with her, allowing her weapon to dangle by its chain. "Lead the way," her voice was once again strong, devoid of fear or sadness. She was restored. And as they left, she thought she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of a scrap of shadow peeling off into the night, of phantasmal wings, of the havoc it meant to cause, and of the strange good it had done her in this darkest hour.
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PostSubject: Re: Unfinished   Tue Aug 16, 2011 8:44 pm

"There is no star in the heavens that cannot be displaced by my will. There exists no life that cannot be extinguished by my hand. Let them fall before me. Let my shadow encompass the world in the breadth of its wake!" - Arohs
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PostSubject: Re: Unfinished   Thu Aug 18, 2011 10:34 pm

"There is no surviving this madness, is there?" he asked from his position, kneeling as though he were absorbed in meditation.
"Not intact... No..."
He nodded, adding to himself, "Is it better then to die and retain that which I am... Or to die to myself, and live in this world broken and torn asunder?"
"Not broken," he had asked for no reply and yet it came, "Reborn..."
His face could not contort into a visage of scorn, but the feeling could be felt as clearly as though it were displayed there just the same.
"You were not always like this, were you? Once you were something else, and the change came about by a process of dying did it not?"
That was the wrong chord, and it snapped a violent twitch throughout his frame, though he couldn't say why. "A death not rectified. You do not come back from death, Doctor," his voice was brittle with something like a half restrained rage.
"Ah, but you did, my Comrade. You did, and now you are as you are."
"Still dead, Doctor," sanguinely, he rose from where he had knelt, not turning as his voice continued, "I am but a semblance of life, you will remember."
"And I have never lived at all, yet here we are."
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PostSubject: Re: Unfinished   Fri Jan 27, 2012 11:38 pm

"Such a temporary element is that heart of man," his voice curled through the air like smoke, intoxicating and almost suffocating, oppressing to the breath of the young woman. She gasped as though she indeed suffered from some lack of oxygen despite the actual existence of any such deprivation being of a quality at most psychological.
"His failure, his fall, was as inevitable as that of all men," his hand came down to rest upon her shoulder. Violently, she shrank away.
"You're wrong," it was a strangled scream, spat through gritted teeth.
"You know that I am never wro-"
"Get away from me," she broke the relentless monotone of his speech patterns, her own volume escalating of a sudden.
"Banishing me from your presence will no more-"
"I said, leave me!" now she really was screaming. He was not taken aback, and for a moment it appeared as if he might yet defy her, but as he saw her hunch over again, wracked by... what? Sobs, emotion... Something odd passed across his immovable face and whether he intended it or not, compliance was evinced from his limbs as he faded into the shadowy recesses outside the doorway.
Meanwhile, the angel rested her head against the chest of the corpse of the man whom she had loved, her own breast heaving as though it would be rent apart by her misery. Cries would escape her mouth, inarticulate and without form, though not void, they tore at the very fabric of her sanity. Each was unto itself a different aspect of her pain, having loved and lost so terribly.
When, of a sudden, she felt a sympathetic rhythm. At first she had not noticed it due to her own distress. And yet, she had predominantly believed as Geppetto had spoken, but it was not completely outside of the man's character to lie, for though he did in fact know very many things, concerning those projects and products of erudition he was often less than candid and even more seldom honest. She felt rapidly across the body for any sign she may have missed, and in so doing witnessed again that slight alteration, the almost imperceptible change. Not dead... Not dead... He was alive, she could yet save him. There was yet a chance, slim, she knew, but a chance.
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