The house creaked and moaned around Raecien and Michael, sharing a look, for the moment. The giant wolf's muscles were still tense as they could physically be, straining against the commands that the skinny vampire had given him. No matter how much he pushed and wished, thought, and searched his memory for a loophole or a way out, it was all futile. He was a prisoner. Michael patted his chest with reassurance, trying, he guessed, to comfort him, then walked away, admiring the decaying house.
"Do you know why I chose this place, Master Raecien?" Michael knew the wolf couldn't answer, but he wanted to be somewhat polite before he delved into the history of the rickety structure that was on it's last legs. "It's where a nest of ferals lived, not too long ago. Well. About a hundred years ago. Despicable lot, those things were." The vampire with the purple eyes walked slowly, studying his surroundings like he was back in the past, witnessing the alabaster paint splattered with red sprays, again.
Raecien listened closely, the members of the House of Tor never told a story without a point, he watched the vampire study and walk slowly, each step measured. "It was one of the few times, in our long history, that our kind agreed on something. The feral vampires that lived here were feasting on little girls, not stopping at draining them, but consuming their flesh, as well. Most of the victims were from the elementary school down the street, just trying to make their way home. If you smell carefully you can actually pick up the traces of blood that are still stained deep in the wood."
The frozen Lycan did just that, inhaling and finding the smell atrocious, and he couldn't wait to forget it. Michael continued, making his way back to his audience, "There were more than we had anticipated, you know. Lost two wolves and five vampires. The battle was quick and nasty, and they suffered. The ferals, that is, not our kind. After all was said and done; we worked together to eliminate a threat to the innocent." Raecien hadn't noticed that he was eye to eye with the vampire, peering deeply into those endless purple eyes.
A bead of cold sweat ran down the wolf's neck, he felt the chill touch his very bones, staring into those violently beautiful eyes. The vampire smiled, "Now we do the same, Master Raecien. We will wage war against the monsters snatching away the lives of the innocent, feasting on their flesh for their own selfish gains. We will destroy them. Rend their flesh from bone. Spill their blood upon the mantles of the privileged. We will walk our path under the burning flag of revenge."
Each word made images flash through the mind of the Lycan, each one more graphically violent than the last, bodies, puddles and pools of blood, gaping mouths, eyes so open they tore at the creases, skin ripped open, exposed muscle. As a Werewolf he was supposed to be numb to these images, but they made something in him cringe, stir, and want to look away. It was the vampire's voice that came through the fog, commanding him, again. "You may move freely. You may not attack me. You must not let harm come to me, either through action or inaction. You may speak your mind to me, but to others you are silent. And you will kill whomever I say."
Raecien felt his whole body relax, his wounds had healed, his mind was much clearer, "You will fail, Michael. This is my own free thought on whatever it is you're planning." The vampire was looking away, watching the sun cast it's last golden rays through the clouds hanging on the horizon, smiling. "I only serve you because you've enslaved me, but I will try my best to find a way to escape this power, you can bet your throat on it." A deep, rumbling growl, made the very air vibrate with it's volume. The wolf was getting very tired of being ignored. Though he could not attack, he could spin his words into venom. As he thought of an insult that might make the blood sucker's temper rise he was interrupted by quiet words.
"Oh, Master Raecien. You weren't enslaved. They sent you to me. To see if the rumors were true. To see if I really was of the House of Tor. You were merely a guinea pig, sir. See for yourself." The Lycan's long stride took him to the door quickly, just in time to watch men, dressed in black gear emblazoned with the patch of the Lycans, holding binoculars, walk away, smiling. Raecien was struck speechless, his bearded jaw hung loose, his brow brunched in confusion. He was so confused he didn't notice the flash of the barrel from a few roofs down, nor did he feel the impact of the bullet.
He looked down, expecting to see a gaping, bleeding wound. Instead, he saw Michael's hand, bleeding, the silver bullet pierced through it, the tip of the slug showing out the back. The two met eyes and Michael spoke again, "And it seems they didn't want you to live through the ordeal, Master Raecien, Keeper of the Word." The Lycan went to a knee, feeling his world crumble around him. After a few minutes it was his turn to speak, "I will help you, Michael of the House of Tor.....Master."
Showing posts with label power. Show all posts
Showing posts with label power. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Monday, June 16, 2014
Old friends, new blood (Original Short)
Michael had come to hate heights lately. First jumping from them, then throwing others from them. Now he found himself in a very precarious situation, similar to the ones he’d put others in recently: hanging over the edge of a very tall building at the end of an arm that was attached to a very angry vampire. Though he didn’t need to breath it was still very uncomfortable to have a hand gripped tightly around his throat. In all the things he’d done to get this war under way he’d never been worried. Until now.
“You would have the houses war again?!” Balthezar was furious, the fire of the night in his eyes shone to near neon proportions, his voice had deepened and was not much more than a gutteral growl. Michael began to answer when he was shaken violently, interrupted by the vampire still holding him over the edge, “Do you forget I sit in court of the House of Lee?” Michael waited a moment before tried to answer.
“Not just the houses. The humans, too.” Michael hadn’t forgotten where his sire sat, nor had he forgotten the temper and fury that his sire possessed. With a roar Michael’s thin body was thrown against the brick wall that housed the door to the roof. Mortar, dust, and pieces of the wall joined the thrown vampire on the floor. Through the physical pain that was near overwhelming Michael fought back the mental anguish of hurting someone he was once so close to. Even as he was picked back up by his hair and slammed against the already cracked wall again he wanted to apologize to his friend, but couldn’t. The plan wouldn’t work otherwise.
“Have you lost your mind?!?” Belthazar, much taller than Michael, and much more muscular, with black, curly hair down to the small of his back, finally stood back to hear an explanation. The thin vampire struggled to straighten himself, sliding up against broken bricks, “No, Belthazar, I have not lost my mind. I was setup. As were others. Many others. Our brothers and sisters were played and fed to the hunters. It is time for the houses to fall.” The ancient vampire was not moved by the words. It showed. Michael fought back tears, knowing what would have to happen next.
His plan had been moving at the proper pace, but now with his sire interfering, things would have to be accelerated. “You could’ve requested a trial, Michael. You could have plead your-” “MY CASE? TO THE SAME ONES THAT HAD PUT ME IN THAT TRAP?” It was Michael’s turn to roar with that voice most vampires hated to use, “The hunters were waiting for me! How bloody convenient they would show up the second after a human gets fed upon! How droll that they had silver bullets with UV accents in their weapons, ready to go! How funny that they opened fire as I tried to tell them what happened!”
This time the weight of what had been said made the ancient one take a step back and look away, trying to hide his emotion. The time was drawing near for this part of the plan to be executed. Michael wanted to apologize, wanted to say he was sorry, wanted to plead for forgiveness, but couldn’t. Silver killed vampires. Iron slows them down. Both hurt very much, no matter the quantity. The younger of the two could feel his body hot, his breath racing, the blood of that human advocate still pumping through his veins, fueling him like high octane fuel thrown on a fire.
Belthazar still looked away as he spoke, “I can help you, Michael. It’s not how it used to be. I can still help you get out of all of this. Just come with-” The impact of the knife in his side silenced him. The iron blade was buried hilt deep, rendering the ancient one all but paralyzed with pain, as Michael cradled him while he fell to the ground, grunting and groaning. The fire had gone out of both their eyes as they looked at each other, one with pleading, one with determination. “You’ll know what our brothers and sisters went through. What I went through. You’ll know, Master.”
Michael hiked up his sleeve and forced Balthezar’s mouth open, the ancient’s fangs at the ready. With little effort the pointed teeth of the elder sank into flesh, bringing blood forth. Michael wiped the sorrow from his face, replacing it with concentration as he forced his sire to drink. Eyes wide with pain were suddenly wide with alarm and understanding at what was being done. Belthazar was being force fed blood tainted with human blood. The tests would confirm it. He’d become an outcast.
Michael drew the knife out of his sire. With a gentle hand he moved the curly black locks away from his friend’s face, speaking softly, “When they come for you, and they will, come find me. Just know that I do this for the better of our kind. The houses must fall and a new regime must be made. Goodbye for now, Master.” The thin vampire stood, sheathed the iron blade and walked to the fire escape.
The broken door to the rooftop was kicked open by hunters just as Michael disappeared below the line of bricks. They asked the vampire on the floor the standard questions. Then one motioned to the other the blood that was still wet. With an apology one of the hunters produced a blood scanner, designed to detect human blood in a vampire, and asked for Belthazar’s hand.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
The Stepping Stone (Original Short)
Michael sat back for months, watching all the infighting, backbiting, murders, and now ensuing power vacuum. He smiled. All this from three words and a little blood spilled. It was beauty. Four hundred plus years on this earth and he relished and abused, now, one simple fact: violence is in people's nature and so is the want to contradict. Now, the fever pitch was being reached, and it was time to initiate the next phase of his plan.
The streets were quiet as he walked, letting his highly tuned senses wander and take in the world around him. Orange street lights above gave everything a glow that was almost beautiful. Michael's thin frame was at home in the cold, the wind blowing softly against his designer shirt, giving him a thrilling chill. He wouldn't be cold for long. Soon he'd be soaked in blood and gore, his tender flesh would be bruised, and his appetite whet. Very soon. The block was approaching fast, and through his mind he ran the plan again, double checking for errors and faults.
Three bouncers sat outside the nightclub and asked for identification and a cover charge. Michael idly scratched his newly grown beard and wondered how his lengthening hair looked as he stepped through the door, sniffing the air for what he wanted. Pulsing music pounded his sensitive ears, a kaleidoscope of colors danced across faces and bodies, and Michael couldn't help but think of the last time he was in a place like this. A fanged smile ghosted across his thin lips.
Gently and politely he made his way through the crowd, to the bar. He didn't usually drink, but this place stank, he needed the liquor to drown out the smell. This particular club wasn't filled with vampires, no, this was a completely human place. After receiving his vodka on the rocks he leaned against the highly polished metal of the bar and expected a sting from the holster he'd been wearing lately, but it was absent. He didn't need guns for this part. This was easy.
He let the night go for an hour, taking in a few drinks to help cancel out the stale sweat stench, he even tried to enjoy the music. If random beeps and squeals and a voice thrown in every now and again to humanize it was what was considered music these days. Michael's eyes kept glancing over the second floor of the place, waiting for a certain light to come on, signaling his prey had arrived. As he waited people would try to make conversation with him, complimenting his clothes, his hair, his beard, and even asking for a dance. He smiled and politely declined them all, thanking others.
The alcohol flowing through his veins gave him a warm feeling inside, and made it all a bit more bearable. Doubt started to rear it's head as his violet eyes again played over the room he needed to be occupied. He sighed, breathing out the atmosphere, and looked again. Eureka. The tinted window lit up blue and shadows of men and women began to pile in. Michael left his drink at the bar and began to walk, now with purpose, to the staircase.
The first bouncer, human, held out a hand and attempted to stop him. Two choices lay ahead of him: violence or smarts. He opted for the latter. "I'm here for Anna. She's expecting me. My name is Jeremiah." The man reached into his pocket and drew out a paper, read it, eyed Michael up and down, then let him through. This happened three more times before he made it into the room. The door closed behind him and almost no one paid attention to him as he measured the four men in the room and his one target.
The violence was lightning fast. Michael's claws and superior strength made quick work of the body guards and now he stood before Anna, a woman in her 30's, well dressed and attractive, with blood sprayed across her face. She was the advocate and the peacemaker between the human hunters and certain political parties in the vampire world. Michael's hand, stained red past the wrist, making his hands look like they were gloved, grabbed her by the neck and stood her up.
She pleaded, clawed and kicked at him as he walked over to the window with her. Finally she asked, "What do you want?" Michael could only grin as he answered, "War." She began to protest but then he sank his fangs into her neck, shaking his head back and forth, tearing open her jugular. He drank deep. Her heart began to slow and he stopped, rearing back and licking the precious blood from his lips. "Please. Don't misunderstand. You're only a stepping stone. You had to die. But know, that in doing so, you will bring about great change."
Her glossed over eyes stared at him as her pale lips tried to form words. He slammed her head against the glass, cracking it. Again he slammed, more cracks. One last time and she flew through. Glass and chaos rained down upon the scene below. Michael walked away, enjoying the screams and the cacophony building below. With her dead the vampire houses that used her would have to do a lot of explaining to the humans, it would be obvious who killed her. More fuel to the fire. As he walked out the back door, wiping away all the crimson he smiled again.
The heavy door opened into the cool night, the smells, noise, and buzzing of the club were now behind him. Michael turned left and walked down the alley behind the place, lacing himself through the cars. He came upon another alley. He was about to enjoy his little victory when a fist collided with his chin, sending him against a brick wall. He met the floor fast, almost as fast as his assailant. With a spin Michael was on his feet, ready to meet his foe, but suddenly halted. He stared into the face of an old friend. An ancient friend. His sire. The name of the one who made him, and was now standing before him, fell from his lips, "Balthezar?"
The streets were quiet as he walked, letting his highly tuned senses wander and take in the world around him. Orange street lights above gave everything a glow that was almost beautiful. Michael's thin frame was at home in the cold, the wind blowing softly against his designer shirt, giving him a thrilling chill. He wouldn't be cold for long. Soon he'd be soaked in blood and gore, his tender flesh would be bruised, and his appetite whet. Very soon. The block was approaching fast, and through his mind he ran the plan again, double checking for errors and faults.
Three bouncers sat outside the nightclub and asked for identification and a cover charge. Michael idly scratched his newly grown beard and wondered how his lengthening hair looked as he stepped through the door, sniffing the air for what he wanted. Pulsing music pounded his sensitive ears, a kaleidoscope of colors danced across faces and bodies, and Michael couldn't help but think of the last time he was in a place like this. A fanged smile ghosted across his thin lips.
Gently and politely he made his way through the crowd, to the bar. He didn't usually drink, but this place stank, he needed the liquor to drown out the smell. This particular club wasn't filled with vampires, no, this was a completely human place. After receiving his vodka on the rocks he leaned against the highly polished metal of the bar and expected a sting from the holster he'd been wearing lately, but it was absent. He didn't need guns for this part. This was easy.
He let the night go for an hour, taking in a few drinks to help cancel out the stale sweat stench, he even tried to enjoy the music. If random beeps and squeals and a voice thrown in every now and again to humanize it was what was considered music these days. Michael's eyes kept glancing over the second floor of the place, waiting for a certain light to come on, signaling his prey had arrived. As he waited people would try to make conversation with him, complimenting his clothes, his hair, his beard, and even asking for a dance. He smiled and politely declined them all, thanking others.
The alcohol flowing through his veins gave him a warm feeling inside, and made it all a bit more bearable. Doubt started to rear it's head as his violet eyes again played over the room he needed to be occupied. He sighed, breathing out the atmosphere, and looked again. Eureka. The tinted window lit up blue and shadows of men and women began to pile in. Michael left his drink at the bar and began to walk, now with purpose, to the staircase.
The first bouncer, human, held out a hand and attempted to stop him. Two choices lay ahead of him: violence or smarts. He opted for the latter. "I'm here for Anna. She's expecting me. My name is Jeremiah." The man reached into his pocket and drew out a paper, read it, eyed Michael up and down, then let him through. This happened three more times before he made it into the room. The door closed behind him and almost no one paid attention to him as he measured the four men in the room and his one target.
The violence was lightning fast. Michael's claws and superior strength made quick work of the body guards and now he stood before Anna, a woman in her 30's, well dressed and attractive, with blood sprayed across her face. She was the advocate and the peacemaker between the human hunters and certain political parties in the vampire world. Michael's hand, stained red past the wrist, making his hands look like they were gloved, grabbed her by the neck and stood her up.
She pleaded, clawed and kicked at him as he walked over to the window with her. Finally she asked, "What do you want?" Michael could only grin as he answered, "War." She began to protest but then he sank his fangs into her neck, shaking his head back and forth, tearing open her jugular. He drank deep. Her heart began to slow and he stopped, rearing back and licking the precious blood from his lips. "Please. Don't misunderstand. You're only a stepping stone. You had to die. But know, that in doing so, you will bring about great change."
Her glossed over eyes stared at him as her pale lips tried to form words. He slammed her head against the glass, cracking it. Again he slammed, more cracks. One last time and she flew through. Glass and chaos rained down upon the scene below. Michael walked away, enjoying the screams and the cacophony building below. With her dead the vampire houses that used her would have to do a lot of explaining to the humans, it would be obvious who killed her. More fuel to the fire. As he walked out the back door, wiping away all the crimson he smiled again.
The heavy door opened into the cool night, the smells, noise, and buzzing of the club were now behind him. Michael turned left and walked down the alley behind the place, lacing himself through the cars. He came upon another alley. He was about to enjoy his little victory when a fist collided with his chin, sending him against a brick wall. He met the floor fast, almost as fast as his assailant. With a spin Michael was on his feet, ready to meet his foe, but suddenly halted. He stared into the face of an old friend. An ancient friend. His sire. The name of the one who made him, and was now standing before him, fell from his lips, "Balthezar?"
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
An Immortal's Tale
An Immortal's Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 11
"Cry Hallelujah"
The rain was heavy and cold, sticking Jon's shirt to his skin, slathering his hair to his scalp, and washing off the blood that was trying to dry on his face. The end of days. The Cult of Altur'rang was finally going after that which they'd always wanted to accomplish. The immortal's head swam with all the things that could go wrong, all the prophecies that had plagued him for eons, and all the time he'd thought he'd be prepared. He wasn't. That much was clear now. His feet lead him nowhere, night heavy over the city he loved. Lights painted the city in a cascading scene of never ending movement, hiding the still city through a falling curtain of thick drops of water.
This was too big for him, he thought, as he crossed another street. He caught his own reflection in a shop window and he stopped mid stride. He faced the man he'd become, the Paladin, the warrior, the wielder of powers that he was barely coming to understand. His skin was pale in comparison to the dark splotches and dots of blood on his face. Old words of even older priests played like staticy records in his mind and he tried his best to pick out the words he needed, but those were centuries ago. He needed help. Jon wiped the remaining blood from his face with help from the weather and adjusted his coat, turning to a direction, finally.
The Paladin didn't like taking cabs this late, drivers liked to ask questions and he wasn't in the mood to talk. He was to be the one asking questions and he'd get answers. If it killed him. Or if he had to kill. Two hours later he approached the thick mahogany door of the main church of Seattle, knowing documents would be able to spell things out, and knowing the ones guarding them wouldn't be so willing to give them up. It was late, but they'd be up. Jon's eyes focused on the doors before him, reaching out to knock when he saw the sliver of light seeping through the ajar door. Before his hand touched the shattered metal and wood that used to make up a handle he knew what had happened.
The scent of burning paper, cloth, and blood began to tease at the Paladin's nose as he entered the room. Sorrow began to wash through him as he took in the carnage. Gore and pieces of the men that guarded the sacred notes were spread everywhere, over every wall, and dripped from the ceiling. Still smoldering remains of the texts were scattered over the dark floor, not a word left to read. The two tables that were in the room were all but splinters, now, the pillars of stone had deep gouges and burns in them, the walls were missing pieces, too, heavy stones that had been in place for over a hundred years torn out and thrown around like they weighed less than nothing.
As Jon walked amongst the chaos, saying silent prayers for the men that had guarded this sacred tomb to find their way to heaven he came across something he didn't expect: a survivor. The boy couldn't have been older than fourteen years old, one arm ripped off completely, one leg cut off at mid-thigh, and the other at the knee, his middle torn open so badly his bottom ribs shown through like white fluorescent lights coated in red. The boy's face was lily white, decorated with his own viscera, eyes wide and pleading with Jon as he reached up with his only intact appendage. The immortal knelt down beside him, holding the clammy, cold, hand of the young man. "What's your name?" The boy's breathing was slow and ragged, like his speech, "My...name....is......Augustus..." Jon kept his face black and stern as he spoke, "Can you tell me, in a few words what happened?" Augustus nodded, his breath quickening, "The cult...destroyed.....all.....said...Paladin...must go....to.....to.......Bethlehem...if....to stop.....end..." Jon nodded his understanding, comforting the boy and giving him his final rights. "Please....stay...with....me?" Again Jon could only nod.
Jon walked away from the massacre that had been left for him, a message, and a demand. Augustus had only lasted another minute or so after he asked the immortal to stay with him until he went to heaven. Rage burned hot and hard, making his very skin feel like a pan left upon a stove for too long. He could only see red, but his reflexes were on high alert. He felt the pack of demons in front of him before he saw them. Six of them, all large, dangerous, armed and muscular, and all aiming to do him harm. The first one spoke, "We know of the Cult's plan. And we know how you plan to end it. We're here-" Jon's temper flared and he could hold his tongue no more, "And you're all here to throw yourself upon the mantle of sacrifice through a bloody and brilliant death..." The red, glowing eyes of all six demons narrowed at the man standing in the rain and threatening them, they must have thought him mad. The half dozen of them stood, full fledged demons, each near seven feet tall, each with arms thicker than the man's waist and accentuated with horns running the length of them, all in a state of amused shock.
Despite their muscular body their face was skeletal, skin from a conquered and eaten human stretched across it, held in place by several smaller horns all over their heads. The leader of the creatures spoke again. "You'll be the one to die, Paladin. We're full demons. Not petty little things that you've dealt with before." Jon's eyes finally found them, unblinking in the rain, and his voice lowered to a near growl, "And just the same I pronounce you guilty for betrayal of the truce. I sentence you to death. Now. DIE!" Muscles fueled with emotion launched the man forward, towards the new threat. Axes and swords, along with daggers, guns, and glowing orange power were unleashed and put to work. At the end of it all the immortal stood above a demon crawling away, all but one of it's limbs either ripped or shot off.
With each grunt of effort the thing pulled itself away from it's would-be murderer. Jon's heavy breathing was illustrated with each huff into the cold air, turning each one into a cloud of white. The victorious Paladin walked to the shoulder of the thing and with his foot turned it over onto it's back. "Finish me!" It growled at him. "I have something much more creative in store for you. What's your name, demon?" The thing answered with a growl. Jon's foot smashed down upon one of it's severed limbs. "What's your name?" He asked again as the thing screamed into the rain and the night, both which had seemed to have to turned their backs upon the seem, falling and existing in silence to the horror happening. The foot twisted, eliciting more of the creature's yellow blood to pour forth, making the point that he would not ask again. "JASSIOUS!!!"
With his answer the Paladin straddled the creature's shoulders and took it's head in his hands, staring deep into it's red eyes with his gold-rimmed grey ones. "And the fallen of Mark, Emmanuel, and Bauptiste, shall find their place in heaven. Jassious, I, Paladin Jonathan Ross, forgive your soul it's sins..." The demon began pleading, screaming and struggling, but to no avail. "And with that forgiveness give you permission to enter the gates of heaven. Cry hallelujah unto me and be saved, Jassious." "Never!" Jon's thumbs slid up and began to press into the demon's eyes, "Cry hallelujah unto me and be saved!" Another denial came as the eyes began to give way under the pressure. "SAY IT! CRY HALLELUJAH!" At last the beast did, over and over again. White light banished the night for a moment, blinding any who bore witness and the demon Jassious was gone.
The Paladin knelt in the mud, letting this new rage he'd found settle into him, become a part of him. He burned the five other bodies and went on his way, after a while. It was clear and obvious what he had to do. With a heavy sigh he found his feet and began walking again, rage giving way to sadness and solemnity. Morning broke in the Seattle International Airport and a young, blonde woman greeted Jon, "How can I help you?" He wanted to smile, to return her beaming look, but he couldn't. "One ticket to Bethlehem, please." As she nodded he turned to the TV playing the news nearby, reporting that a part of the world was burning, the sky was red as blood. The last image that flashed across the screen before Jon turned away was a man, bleeding from his head, holding a sign that said 'The End Is Nigh'.
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 11
"Cry Hallelujah"
The rain was heavy and cold, sticking Jon's shirt to his skin, slathering his hair to his scalp, and washing off the blood that was trying to dry on his face. The end of days. The Cult of Altur'rang was finally going after that which they'd always wanted to accomplish. The immortal's head swam with all the things that could go wrong, all the prophecies that had plagued him for eons, and all the time he'd thought he'd be prepared. He wasn't. That much was clear now. His feet lead him nowhere, night heavy over the city he loved. Lights painted the city in a cascading scene of never ending movement, hiding the still city through a falling curtain of thick drops of water.
This was too big for him, he thought, as he crossed another street. He caught his own reflection in a shop window and he stopped mid stride. He faced the man he'd become, the Paladin, the warrior, the wielder of powers that he was barely coming to understand. His skin was pale in comparison to the dark splotches and dots of blood on his face. Old words of even older priests played like staticy records in his mind and he tried his best to pick out the words he needed, but those were centuries ago. He needed help. Jon wiped the remaining blood from his face with help from the weather and adjusted his coat, turning to a direction, finally.
The Paladin didn't like taking cabs this late, drivers liked to ask questions and he wasn't in the mood to talk. He was to be the one asking questions and he'd get answers. If it killed him. Or if he had to kill. Two hours later he approached the thick mahogany door of the main church of Seattle, knowing documents would be able to spell things out, and knowing the ones guarding them wouldn't be so willing to give them up. It was late, but they'd be up. Jon's eyes focused on the doors before him, reaching out to knock when he saw the sliver of light seeping through the ajar door. Before his hand touched the shattered metal and wood that used to make up a handle he knew what had happened.
The scent of burning paper, cloth, and blood began to tease at the Paladin's nose as he entered the room. Sorrow began to wash through him as he took in the carnage. Gore and pieces of the men that guarded the sacred notes were spread everywhere, over every wall, and dripped from the ceiling. Still smoldering remains of the texts were scattered over the dark floor, not a word left to read. The two tables that were in the room were all but splinters, now, the pillars of stone had deep gouges and burns in them, the walls were missing pieces, too, heavy stones that had been in place for over a hundred years torn out and thrown around like they weighed less than nothing.
As Jon walked amongst the chaos, saying silent prayers for the men that had guarded this sacred tomb to find their way to heaven he came across something he didn't expect: a survivor. The boy couldn't have been older than fourteen years old, one arm ripped off completely, one leg cut off at mid-thigh, and the other at the knee, his middle torn open so badly his bottom ribs shown through like white fluorescent lights coated in red. The boy's face was lily white, decorated with his own viscera, eyes wide and pleading with Jon as he reached up with his only intact appendage. The immortal knelt down beside him, holding the clammy, cold, hand of the young man. "What's your name?" The boy's breathing was slow and ragged, like his speech, "My...name....is......Augustus..." Jon kept his face black and stern as he spoke, "Can you tell me, in a few words what happened?" Augustus nodded, his breath quickening, "The cult...destroyed.....all.....said...Paladin...must go....to.....to.......Bethlehem...if....to stop.....end..." Jon nodded his understanding, comforting the boy and giving him his final rights. "Please....stay...with....me?" Again Jon could only nod.
Jon walked away from the massacre that had been left for him, a message, and a demand. Augustus had only lasted another minute or so after he asked the immortal to stay with him until he went to heaven. Rage burned hot and hard, making his very skin feel like a pan left upon a stove for too long. He could only see red, but his reflexes were on high alert. He felt the pack of demons in front of him before he saw them. Six of them, all large, dangerous, armed and muscular, and all aiming to do him harm. The first one spoke, "We know of the Cult's plan. And we know how you plan to end it. We're here-" Jon's temper flared and he could hold his tongue no more, "And you're all here to throw yourself upon the mantle of sacrifice through a bloody and brilliant death..." The red, glowing eyes of all six demons narrowed at the man standing in the rain and threatening them, they must have thought him mad. The half dozen of them stood, full fledged demons, each near seven feet tall, each with arms thicker than the man's waist and accentuated with horns running the length of them, all in a state of amused shock.
Despite their muscular body their face was skeletal, skin from a conquered and eaten human stretched across it, held in place by several smaller horns all over their heads. The leader of the creatures spoke again. "You'll be the one to die, Paladin. We're full demons. Not petty little things that you've dealt with before." Jon's eyes finally found them, unblinking in the rain, and his voice lowered to a near growl, "And just the same I pronounce you guilty for betrayal of the truce. I sentence you to death. Now. DIE!" Muscles fueled with emotion launched the man forward, towards the new threat. Axes and swords, along with daggers, guns, and glowing orange power were unleashed and put to work. At the end of it all the immortal stood above a demon crawling away, all but one of it's limbs either ripped or shot off.
With each grunt of effort the thing pulled itself away from it's would-be murderer. Jon's heavy breathing was illustrated with each huff into the cold air, turning each one into a cloud of white. The victorious Paladin walked to the shoulder of the thing and with his foot turned it over onto it's back. "Finish me!" It growled at him. "I have something much more creative in store for you. What's your name, demon?" The thing answered with a growl. Jon's foot smashed down upon one of it's severed limbs. "What's your name?" He asked again as the thing screamed into the rain and the night, both which had seemed to have to turned their backs upon the seem, falling and existing in silence to the horror happening. The foot twisted, eliciting more of the creature's yellow blood to pour forth, making the point that he would not ask again. "JASSIOUS!!!"
With his answer the Paladin straddled the creature's shoulders and took it's head in his hands, staring deep into it's red eyes with his gold-rimmed grey ones. "And the fallen of Mark, Emmanuel, and Bauptiste, shall find their place in heaven. Jassious, I, Paladin Jonathan Ross, forgive your soul it's sins..." The demon began pleading, screaming and struggling, but to no avail. "And with that forgiveness give you permission to enter the gates of heaven. Cry hallelujah unto me and be saved, Jassious." "Never!" Jon's thumbs slid up and began to press into the demon's eyes, "Cry hallelujah unto me and be saved!" Another denial came as the eyes began to give way under the pressure. "SAY IT! CRY HALLELUJAH!" At last the beast did, over and over again. White light banished the night for a moment, blinding any who bore witness and the demon Jassious was gone.
The Paladin knelt in the mud, letting this new rage he'd found settle into him, become a part of him. He burned the five other bodies and went on his way, after a while. It was clear and obvious what he had to do. With a heavy sigh he found his feet and began walking again, rage giving way to sadness and solemnity. Morning broke in the Seattle International Airport and a young, blonde woman greeted Jon, "How can I help you?" He wanted to smile, to return her beaming look, but he couldn't. "One ticket to Bethlehem, please." As she nodded he turned to the TV playing the news nearby, reporting that a part of the world was burning, the sky was red as blood. The last image that flashed across the screen before Jon turned away was a man, bleeding from his head, holding a sign that said 'The End Is Nigh'.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Let Them Dance (Original short)
Michael walked through the club, feeling the pounding bass coming from giant speakers at the other end of the establishment. Lights flashed and strobed along with the heavy beats as highs squealed and lows churned the bodies around him into a dancing frenzy. None of them knew the danger that lurked there, between them, the immortals of bloodlust. Vampires. He was one, too, but his goal was clear: Kill them all. Or as many as he could. Seven months ago he was set up. An old man begging to be released from misery, a high payout for his family, and all that doomed a vampire who vehemently refused to join a house.
Vampire politics were much the same as humans: corruption, backbiting, infighting, betrayal, and secret alliances. All of which kept houses up and running, and on top of the business of selling blood and shelter to those that were outside of their inner circles. Michael had avoided it for 437 years and now he found himself at the epicenter of a scandal that reached very high up into the ranks of several houses. He would not stand for it. He had thought that the humans were the ones waging war and thus swore a blood oath against them, not knowing the true nature of what he had been involved in.
Now he walked amongst them as they turned drunken and drugged eyes away to ignore what they didn't consider a threat. But he was. The lion amongst the wolves, the shark swimming through the piranhas, a king cobra slithering through the nest of vipers. Soon the mayhem would begin. Soon the screams would come. Soon death would walk with the immortals and stay his scythe no more. 'Let them dance,' he thought to himself, allowing a gift of mercy, for now, before it all began. He did, too. He let the rhythm take him, closed his eyes and let his senses, already heightened, be carried to the heavens by feeling and a need to move, alone.
He thrust his hands in the air, moved his hips, rocked back and forth, and swayed with the music that pumped forth. The club, numbering near 200 occupants, seemed to move with him. None saw the clips full of silver bullets tipped with garlic nitrate that lined the back of his belt. Not one noticed the twin pistols dancing along with him in the holsters beneath his coat, both set for automatic fire. The blade that nestled close to his hip went unnoticed by all. Michael's eyes opened and saw the spray-painted banner behind the DJ that read 'Reign In Blood,' and thought it so fitting. It was time.
He stilled in the middle of the dance floor, his violet eyes picking out each and every one of his targets, oblivious to the violence about to be wrought. He closed his eyes once more and smiled, enjoying the calm. Music gave way to gunfire. Gunfire gave way to screams. Screams gave way to burning after Michael drew and started firing, the specialized bullets reducing their recipients to a pile of smoldering ash and orange sparks that flitted through the air, changing colors with the lights as they continued to flux.
The pistols jumped in his hands, as he screamed with fury and glee. Blood sprayed and ash flew. Many begged for their lives, and Michael did not give them quarter. Others tried attacking, but he was too fast for them. Most of them were fledglings, barely discovering their abilities, trying to take down a seasoned hunter with all of his senses and abilities trained and in line. So many tried to flee, but the doors were sealed; a lock-in rave, is what promised their doom. Vampires. The pinnacle of the food chain. Now just fodder for the predator who preyed upon them.
Clips dropped and were replaced as he kept firing. They fought back, many piling atop him as he tried to continue his wanton slaughter. Only then did the blade he carried cry out to taste flesh, too. And he obliged. An arc of the weapon felled enough to get the weight off of him as he dropped his pistols; for now, they were not done singing. Claws and fangs came at him like spears and daggers, but he was faster. Michael moved like rushing water sluicing itself between still rocks, lightning cutting through a million rain drops. Now over half the club was dead and burning.
He made his way back to his twin pistols and picked them up, quieting the blade, and allowed hot iron to again herald death. It felt like eternity since it had begun, but the song playing silently in the background had just finished fading away. He took out a note, dropped it upon the now empty dance floor and walked to a window, letting himself out. The first blow was struck. Now the war amongst the clans and houses would ignite into a conflagration that would burn down the vampire ranks.
Michael had one last thought, as he looked back over his shoulder at the chaos that had just quieted, regarding the strings he was tying to certain individuals in this plot. And he smiled as it crept across his mind, 'Let them dance.'
Vampire politics were much the same as humans: corruption, backbiting, infighting, betrayal, and secret alliances. All of which kept houses up and running, and on top of the business of selling blood and shelter to those that were outside of their inner circles. Michael had avoided it for 437 years and now he found himself at the epicenter of a scandal that reached very high up into the ranks of several houses. He would not stand for it. He had thought that the humans were the ones waging war and thus swore a blood oath against them, not knowing the true nature of what he had been involved in.
Now he walked amongst them as they turned drunken and drugged eyes away to ignore what they didn't consider a threat. But he was. The lion amongst the wolves, the shark swimming through the piranhas, a king cobra slithering through the nest of vipers. Soon the mayhem would begin. Soon the screams would come. Soon death would walk with the immortals and stay his scythe no more. 'Let them dance,' he thought to himself, allowing a gift of mercy, for now, before it all began. He did, too. He let the rhythm take him, closed his eyes and let his senses, already heightened, be carried to the heavens by feeling and a need to move, alone.
He thrust his hands in the air, moved his hips, rocked back and forth, and swayed with the music that pumped forth. The club, numbering near 200 occupants, seemed to move with him. None saw the clips full of silver bullets tipped with garlic nitrate that lined the back of his belt. Not one noticed the twin pistols dancing along with him in the holsters beneath his coat, both set for automatic fire. The blade that nestled close to his hip went unnoticed by all. Michael's eyes opened and saw the spray-painted banner behind the DJ that read 'Reign In Blood,' and thought it so fitting. It was time.
He stilled in the middle of the dance floor, his violet eyes picking out each and every one of his targets, oblivious to the violence about to be wrought. He closed his eyes once more and smiled, enjoying the calm. Music gave way to gunfire. Gunfire gave way to screams. Screams gave way to burning after Michael drew and started firing, the specialized bullets reducing their recipients to a pile of smoldering ash and orange sparks that flitted through the air, changing colors with the lights as they continued to flux.
The pistols jumped in his hands, as he screamed with fury and glee. Blood sprayed and ash flew. Many begged for their lives, and Michael did not give them quarter. Others tried attacking, but he was too fast for them. Most of them were fledglings, barely discovering their abilities, trying to take down a seasoned hunter with all of his senses and abilities trained and in line. So many tried to flee, but the doors were sealed; a lock-in rave, is what promised their doom. Vampires. The pinnacle of the food chain. Now just fodder for the predator who preyed upon them.
Clips dropped and were replaced as he kept firing. They fought back, many piling atop him as he tried to continue his wanton slaughter. Only then did the blade he carried cry out to taste flesh, too. And he obliged. An arc of the weapon felled enough to get the weight off of him as he dropped his pistols; for now, they were not done singing. Claws and fangs came at him like spears and daggers, but he was faster. Michael moved like rushing water sluicing itself between still rocks, lightning cutting through a million rain drops. Now over half the club was dead and burning.
He made his way back to his twin pistols and picked them up, quieting the blade, and allowed hot iron to again herald death. It felt like eternity since it had begun, but the song playing silently in the background had just finished fading away. He took out a note, dropped it upon the now empty dance floor and walked to a window, letting himself out. The first blow was struck. Now the war amongst the clans and houses would ignite into a conflagration that would burn down the vampire ranks.
Michael had one last thought, as he looked back over his shoulder at the chaos that had just quieted, regarding the strings he was tying to certain individuals in this plot. And he smiled as it crept across his mind, 'Let them dance.'
Sunday, November 10, 2013
An Immortals Tale: Part 10
An Immortals Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 10
"The Children of Dust"
Jon's empty fist was clenched against the tiled wall of his shower, helping him deal with the pain of the hot cascade playing down his aching and bruised body. Ricky's death was still fresh in his mind, watching him reduced to ash. Another bone in his body, somewhere, healed itself and popped back into it's proper place. It didn't even bring a grunt forth, he'd been dealing with the same thing for about two hours now. The only thought that eclipsed his friend's death was being called the worst name in all of history: Judas Iscariot.
The creature from the bar had told him he'd been named before. That awful name. Why? Then almost immediately after he received his only clue in the form of a text describing an ancient cult. He knew the name that was in the message, The Circle of Altu'Rang, he knew them well. He leaned his head against the tile, joining his still clenched hand. They were a small sect, hell bent on destroying the world, not because they're evil, but because they believe they're the utmost and purest form of good. They felt it was their duty to bring hell unto the heathen masses of human kind. He'd dealt with them once before when they caused one of the ugliest wars in history: The Civil War.
A muscle in his shoulder righted itself, feeling like a burning slug under his skin trying to find a home, he gritted his teeth. If the cult was back then that means that, now, as a Paladin, Jon's duty was to stop them. He had already declared death upon them in God's name. He passed their sentence as judge. Now he needed to be executioner. He finished his shower, putting mental effort for the rest of his body to heal itself, before letting his usually jovial mind sink to thoughts of war.
Even as Jon dressed and made plans of action the name kept playing in the background, like static, and instead of letting it distract him he used it. Turned it into anger, hate, power. Words slipped forth through the fog of planning, giving him new abilities, 'Michaelis Gladio' turned his hands into orange blades of fire. 'Illuminas Aureos' was a mistake to say inside, shooting a solid beam of orange power, flame, and anger forth from his eyes, blowing out four or five of the giant windows in his apartment. 'Pessulum Custos' was the last of them, and it left the immortal in awe. He watched in wonder as blue lightning danced across his hands, his extended fingers, arched between the two appendages, slithered over him like snakes made of pure energy.
As amazing as his new found powers were, though, his last encounter with the hooded figures proved they weren't enough. He donned his familiar black suit, but added things to it: A double holster for twin pistols at the small of his back, a knife with ancient relics carved into the steel and an ancient leather sheath joined them, four vials of holy water, two extra clips for the pistols, and his Bible. He left his apartment, dropping off a hefty amount of cash and an apology note to the landlord on his way out, armed to the teeth. As he descended the stairs some old saying came to mind, he couldn't remember where he'd heard it: 'Demons run when a good man goes to war."
The night had a chilly bite to it and he liked it, taking in a deep breath as his new eyes surveyed the city blocks around him bathed in the amber glow of street lights, the symphony of the people that came alive after the sun set played around him. He enjoyed it. Jon started to turn down the street when his eyes caught on something he didn't expect: two hooded figures standing on the street corner opposite him. The world exploded into chaos. Behind him the wall of his apartment building blew apart, sending a cloud of dust and Jon flying to the street with rubble to decorate both.
The immortal quickly found his feet as the two raised their hands, preparing for another attack, he reacted and leaped forward. The ground where he was just a moment ago tore apart with invisible power, as he advanced the two beings separated and began to run in a circle around him, an attempt to flank, but Jon was ready. As quick as thought Jon opened his mouth in a silent scream and unleashed a bolt of energy at the one on his right, not expecting to hit it, but giving it enough reason to have to evade and interrupt the attack. As soon as the geyser of power had left him he dashed as fast as he could towards the one on his left.
The hooded one Jon was now running at reacted by throwing invisible balls of air at him, but he could see them, now, and dodged easily as he closed the gap. The figured wheeled back, it's attack failing, as soon it found itself within arms length of the immortal. At the last possible second Jon jumped as quickly as he could to his right, just as a ball of air flew past him and hit the figure he was about to grab, knocking the robed attacker off it's feet. The immortal spun on the other assailant, now double the distance they were when they began, and stood tall. For a moment the world was silent as the two left standing in this confrontation, each staring the other down.
The figure broke the silence, "We underestimated you, Paladin. It won't happen again." The voice was elderly, and had it not been for the threat laced through the statement, would have easily belonged to a kind and fatherly type of grandparent. "Oh, yes, you will." Jon shot back. The head with the hood upon nodded in a show of supplication. Instead of throwing hands out, like before, the hooded one's hands began to roll something between them, like packing a snowball. Quickly orange light grew from just a spark to a sphere the size of a basketball between them, and then the thing was flung forward. Jon had plenty of anger left and he focused his eyes, his new ability, and let forth a beam of fire and power at the ball.
The beam and the sphere collided, sounding like a crack of lightning and a belt of thunder, lighting up the street the way the lights above could only dream of doing. For a good, long moment, the two powers raged against each other before finally dispelling in a shower of sparks and flames and a chest thumping explosion that shattered all the windows of the cars and buildings lining the street they were on. Hands that had thrown the sphere went up to shield from the cacophony and in doing so made the mistake Jon needed. As they came down Jon's came up, a pistol leveled, and a shot rang out. The hooded figure collapsed as the bullet tore through the hood itself, carrying blood, bone and bits of grey with it.
"NO!" A shriek erupted behind Jon. Without hesitation the immortal spun and leaped, turning his free hand into a glowing blade, plunging it into the middle of the figure on the floor. A grunt came from the mouth hidden by the robe as the garment fell back, revealing something that would have shocked the immortal, had he not been in the white hot grip of rage: a woman in her late fifties, gray hairs streaking through the black curls upon her head, soft skin, and blue eyes. She coughed up a gout of blood upon the immortal's face as he bore down on her, his fingers touching the pavement below the body.
Her eyes were wide with pain and alarm, her pale face decorated with webs of the blood she had just expelled. She began to shake under the power burning in the middle of her body as she stared up at Jon. She looked down at the hand that had been her impending death and back up to his face and reached up. Jon expected pain or a strike of some kind, but he received instead a caress and a smile. His anger faulted for a moment as she spoke her last words, "You haven't...changed a....bit.....Judas...." Her hand fell away and her body shook one last time then became still.
Sirens began to play somewhere off in the distance as Jon stood, holstering his pistol and looking down upon the woman in the robe. He couldn't let this get back to mortal eyes and ears so he ignited his power once more and burned her body, bones, clothing and all, leaving nothing but a bit of ash. With urgency the immortal ran over to the other body and began to search it. In the frenzy of dipping in and out of the robe and it's small pockets only one thing was produced: a note. He took it and burned the body, as well, making a quick departure from the scene.
Many blocks away he took the paper out and began to read. 'When the worst of the sinners becomes the last of the paladins darkness will fall. Fire will rise and the sky will bleed. Unbiased judgement will be passed upon all. Chaos will arise and become the crooked beast. The Children Of Dust will arise and take back their land. When the worst and the last begins Slouching Towards Bethlehem." Jon didn't realize he'd stopped walking, or that it had started raining. 'Child of Dust' was an ancient moniker for an immortal. He wasn't the only one.
He began walking again, not caring about his destination, the note tucked back into his pocket. Words whirled in his head like a tornado out of control. The name Judas, the Children of Dust, and the one that sent chills down his spine, the one phrase that confirmed his fears: Slouching Towards Bethlehem. It meant the end of days.
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 10
"The Children of Dust"
Jon's empty fist was clenched against the tiled wall of his shower, helping him deal with the pain of the hot cascade playing down his aching and bruised body. Ricky's death was still fresh in his mind, watching him reduced to ash. Another bone in his body, somewhere, healed itself and popped back into it's proper place. It didn't even bring a grunt forth, he'd been dealing with the same thing for about two hours now. The only thought that eclipsed his friend's death was being called the worst name in all of history: Judas Iscariot.
The creature from the bar had told him he'd been named before. That awful name. Why? Then almost immediately after he received his only clue in the form of a text describing an ancient cult. He knew the name that was in the message, The Circle of Altu'Rang, he knew them well. He leaned his head against the tile, joining his still clenched hand. They were a small sect, hell bent on destroying the world, not because they're evil, but because they believe they're the utmost and purest form of good. They felt it was their duty to bring hell unto the heathen masses of human kind. He'd dealt with them once before when they caused one of the ugliest wars in history: The Civil War.
A muscle in his shoulder righted itself, feeling like a burning slug under his skin trying to find a home, he gritted his teeth. If the cult was back then that means that, now, as a Paladin, Jon's duty was to stop them. He had already declared death upon them in God's name. He passed their sentence as judge. Now he needed to be executioner. He finished his shower, putting mental effort for the rest of his body to heal itself, before letting his usually jovial mind sink to thoughts of war.
Even as Jon dressed and made plans of action the name kept playing in the background, like static, and instead of letting it distract him he used it. Turned it into anger, hate, power. Words slipped forth through the fog of planning, giving him new abilities, 'Michaelis Gladio' turned his hands into orange blades of fire. 'Illuminas Aureos' was a mistake to say inside, shooting a solid beam of orange power, flame, and anger forth from his eyes, blowing out four or five of the giant windows in his apartment. 'Pessulum Custos' was the last of them, and it left the immortal in awe. He watched in wonder as blue lightning danced across his hands, his extended fingers, arched between the two appendages, slithered over him like snakes made of pure energy.
As amazing as his new found powers were, though, his last encounter with the hooded figures proved they weren't enough. He donned his familiar black suit, but added things to it: A double holster for twin pistols at the small of his back, a knife with ancient relics carved into the steel and an ancient leather sheath joined them, four vials of holy water, two extra clips for the pistols, and his Bible. He left his apartment, dropping off a hefty amount of cash and an apology note to the landlord on his way out, armed to the teeth. As he descended the stairs some old saying came to mind, he couldn't remember where he'd heard it: 'Demons run when a good man goes to war."
The night had a chilly bite to it and he liked it, taking in a deep breath as his new eyes surveyed the city blocks around him bathed in the amber glow of street lights, the symphony of the people that came alive after the sun set played around him. He enjoyed it. Jon started to turn down the street when his eyes caught on something he didn't expect: two hooded figures standing on the street corner opposite him. The world exploded into chaos. Behind him the wall of his apartment building blew apart, sending a cloud of dust and Jon flying to the street with rubble to decorate both.
The immortal quickly found his feet as the two raised their hands, preparing for another attack, he reacted and leaped forward. The ground where he was just a moment ago tore apart with invisible power, as he advanced the two beings separated and began to run in a circle around him, an attempt to flank, but Jon was ready. As quick as thought Jon opened his mouth in a silent scream and unleashed a bolt of energy at the one on his right, not expecting to hit it, but giving it enough reason to have to evade and interrupt the attack. As soon as the geyser of power had left him he dashed as fast as he could towards the one on his left.
The hooded one Jon was now running at reacted by throwing invisible balls of air at him, but he could see them, now, and dodged easily as he closed the gap. The figured wheeled back, it's attack failing, as soon it found itself within arms length of the immortal. At the last possible second Jon jumped as quickly as he could to his right, just as a ball of air flew past him and hit the figure he was about to grab, knocking the robed attacker off it's feet. The immortal spun on the other assailant, now double the distance they were when they began, and stood tall. For a moment the world was silent as the two left standing in this confrontation, each staring the other down.
The figure broke the silence, "We underestimated you, Paladin. It won't happen again." The voice was elderly, and had it not been for the threat laced through the statement, would have easily belonged to a kind and fatherly type of grandparent. "Oh, yes, you will." Jon shot back. The head with the hood upon nodded in a show of supplication. Instead of throwing hands out, like before, the hooded one's hands began to roll something between them, like packing a snowball. Quickly orange light grew from just a spark to a sphere the size of a basketball between them, and then the thing was flung forward. Jon had plenty of anger left and he focused his eyes, his new ability, and let forth a beam of fire and power at the ball.
The beam and the sphere collided, sounding like a crack of lightning and a belt of thunder, lighting up the street the way the lights above could only dream of doing. For a good, long moment, the two powers raged against each other before finally dispelling in a shower of sparks and flames and a chest thumping explosion that shattered all the windows of the cars and buildings lining the street they were on. Hands that had thrown the sphere went up to shield from the cacophony and in doing so made the mistake Jon needed. As they came down Jon's came up, a pistol leveled, and a shot rang out. The hooded figure collapsed as the bullet tore through the hood itself, carrying blood, bone and bits of grey with it.
"NO!" A shriek erupted behind Jon. Without hesitation the immortal spun and leaped, turning his free hand into a glowing blade, plunging it into the middle of the figure on the floor. A grunt came from the mouth hidden by the robe as the garment fell back, revealing something that would have shocked the immortal, had he not been in the white hot grip of rage: a woman in her late fifties, gray hairs streaking through the black curls upon her head, soft skin, and blue eyes. She coughed up a gout of blood upon the immortal's face as he bore down on her, his fingers touching the pavement below the body.
Her eyes were wide with pain and alarm, her pale face decorated with webs of the blood she had just expelled. She began to shake under the power burning in the middle of her body as she stared up at Jon. She looked down at the hand that had been her impending death and back up to his face and reached up. Jon expected pain or a strike of some kind, but he received instead a caress and a smile. His anger faulted for a moment as she spoke her last words, "You haven't...changed a....bit.....Judas...." Her hand fell away and her body shook one last time then became still.
Sirens began to play somewhere off in the distance as Jon stood, holstering his pistol and looking down upon the woman in the robe. He couldn't let this get back to mortal eyes and ears so he ignited his power once more and burned her body, bones, clothing and all, leaving nothing but a bit of ash. With urgency the immortal ran over to the other body and began to search it. In the frenzy of dipping in and out of the robe and it's small pockets only one thing was produced: a note. He took it and burned the body, as well, making a quick departure from the scene.
Many blocks away he took the paper out and began to read. 'When the worst of the sinners becomes the last of the paladins darkness will fall. Fire will rise and the sky will bleed. Unbiased judgement will be passed upon all. Chaos will arise and become the crooked beast. The Children Of Dust will arise and take back their land. When the worst and the last begins Slouching Towards Bethlehem." Jon didn't realize he'd stopped walking, or that it had started raining. 'Child of Dust' was an ancient moniker for an immortal. He wasn't the only one.
He began walking again, not caring about his destination, the note tucked back into his pocket. Words whirled in his head like a tornado out of control. The name Judas, the Children of Dust, and the one that sent chills down his spine, the one phrase that confirmed his fears: Slouching Towards Bethlehem. It meant the end of days.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
An Immortals Tale: Part 9
An Immortals Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 9
"Technically"
Crunch. Jon's head was killing him, even with his eyes closed. Crunch. That sound was determined. Crunch. The solid wood chair under him cradled his body with ease, the smell of the world outside of his closed eyes was waiting to be discovered. Crunch. With a groan and a lot of effort Jon brought his head up, forcing his winced eyes open. The world first seeped in, then poured in, then flooded into finality.
Jon was in his old chair, in his old monastery, sitting at his old wooden round table, with his old friend sitting across from him, a wide, goofy smile on his face and an apple in his hand. Jon's friend was thin, very thin, but handsome. All the girls around the village would nearly faint with his easy smile. Wide eyes, a broad, warm smile, and brown hair that stuck up made up his clean-shaven features. The smile never left his face as his jaw worked the apple and with a thick British accent drawled, "Good morning, sunshine!" Jon's face must have been twisted with displeasure because he went on, "Oh come on, now! Is that any way to greet an old friend?" The immortal's head swiveled around, taking in his old place.
Brown clay walls accented with wood surrounded him, torches hung in iron brackets, a fire crackled and danced in the fireplace, the smell of burning pitch was heavy, black, greasy stains ran up the walls above the many torches. Iron accents and a heavy oak door made up the rest of the decor, along with crosses and a single picture of the Last Supper. Finally Jon's tired eyes came back to rest on his friend. "What am I doing here?" he croaked out in an accent he'd worked to get rid of many years ago. His friend waved the apple around and scrunched up his face as he began his explanation, the first word drawn out, "Well. Technically you're not here. Technically, you're still in the bar where you were knocked unconscious. Technically, I am a manifestation of your newly formed powers trying to find a better way to explain themselves and their uses to you. Technically." With a satisfied nod, he crunched the apple again, looking at Jon for his response. "I'm...dreaming?" The hand without the apple came up and gave him the 'so-so' gesture, "You're not really dreaming. I'm just a conduit that your mind is using to give you the easiest path to understanding." Jon was having a hard time understanding, "So you're just a figment of my imagination? This place isn't real and I'm still on the floor with people standing over me, attempting to steal my soul away?" With wide, brown eyes, his friend nodded confirmation.
Jon sat up, pulling straight his old robes, adjusting himself for the drawn-out explanation. Just as the first words began to form in his mouth, the room started to suddenly darken. The torches and fire in the hearth still burned their amber color, but the light seemed to be dying down. His friend sighed and tossed the apple over his shoulder, "Well. Looks like we're out of time, Jon. But before you go remember this: Words are very, very powerful. The reason your powers chose me is because you remembered I was a Wordsmith." Jon suddenly began to feel very panicked, cold started to creep into his body, "Yeah, you were a Wordsmith, so what?" Darkness crept on, strangling the light. "I gave normal words power, not magic - Power. With your new abilities you got certain perks. Remind me. What's the Latin translation of 'The Voice of God'?" That big, toothy grin was the last thing that Jon saw before the darkness took him.
He was back in the bar now, not twelfth century London. All the old smells came back: wine, cigarettes, whiskey, the still smoldering ashes of his friend Ricky. Jon could barely perceive the hands above him, glowing orange, the bones black in contrast. His lips struggled with the words, the final clue that his old friend had given him. "V..ox....d..." soft syllables were strained past near-paralyzed lips. Murmurs above him tried to figure out what he was trying to say. Jon tried with all his might, this time, "Vox....Dios....."
Jon's eyes were suddenly wide open, his mind no longer in a fog, but racing. Power suddenly flowed through him like water sluicing off a person lying in a river. The words made sense. He said them again, his voice driven with fury and intensity, "VOX DIOS!" A bomb of orange light went off, a ring of it pushing outward, the cloaked bodies standing over the immortal on the floor sent flying. Some crashed into tables and chairs, others smashed the mirrors on the walls. All of the energy that had been stolen away slammed back into Jon, and once more he was a raging inferno of justice, on his feet again.
A cloaked figure stood and threw its hands out, sending gouts of flame at Jon. He didn't need the words, anymore, the power had been awakened. Jon could see the glow behind his eyes as he gathered the power in his throat and released it in an instant. The fire was extinguished, the clear, but visible geyser of energy kept going, taking with it the right arm of the caster and a chunk of the concrete pillar behind them. With a shrill scream and a spray of blood, the hooded one crashed to the floor, clutching the stump where their limb once was. A call for retreat sounded behind him and the other figures all dashed for the door, bypassing Jon. The Immortal could only glare at them as they moved faster than he could track, even with his newfound powers.
The last one up and to retreat was the one missing their arm. It limped as it went, but before reaching the door turned back, "We are not done with you, Paladin! You may think yourself righteous! But you've been named before! Judas Iscariot!" The hood fell back and revealed a face that only a nightmare could describe: green reptilian skin, pulled tight over a deformed skull, no lips, sharp rows of teeth lining a mouth filled with black saliva, yellow eyes. All the features, though alien, conveyed femininity.
Jon was already gathering another bolt of energy when her words struck him. With a hiss, the creature disappeared out the door. Jon was more than perplexed; his muscles and bones still ached from the wallops of air that had struck him earlier. Without another sound or thought, Jon righted a toppled chair and sat down, grieving for his vampire friend, letting his mind dance over the creature's final statement. As his thoughts went to sorrowful and dark places, the cell phone, that had miraculously survived the entire endeavor, went off. With hot tears stinging his eyes and a long sigh, Jon retrieved the vibrating thing in his pocket and opened the message. It was an anonymous sender, but the message was not encrypted. It said one thing: "The Circle of Altu'Rang."
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 9
"Technically"
Crunch. Jon's head was killing him, even with his eyes closed. Crunch. That sound was determined. Crunch. The solid wood chair under him cradled his body with ease, the smell of the world outside of his closed eyes was waiting to be discovered. Crunch. With a groan and a lot of effort Jon brought his head up, forcing his winced eyes open. The world first seeped in, then poured in, then flooded into finality.
Jon was in his old chair, in his old monastery, sitting at his old wooden round table, with his old friend sitting across from him, a wide, goofy smile on his face and an apple in his hand. Jon's friend was thin, very thin, but handsome. All the girls around the village would nearly faint with his easy smile. Wide eyes, a broad, warm smile, and brown hair that stuck up made up his clean-shaven features. The smile never left his face as his jaw worked the apple and with a thick British accent drawled, "Good morning, sunshine!" Jon's face must have been twisted with displeasure because he went on, "Oh come on, now! Is that any way to greet an old friend?" The immortal's head swiveled around, taking in his old place.
Brown clay walls accented with wood surrounded him, torches hung in iron brackets, a fire crackled and danced in the fireplace, the smell of burning pitch was heavy, black, greasy stains ran up the walls above the many torches. Iron accents and a heavy oak door made up the rest of the decor, along with crosses and a single picture of the Last Supper. Finally Jon's tired eyes came back to rest on his friend. "What am I doing here?" he croaked out in an accent he'd worked to get rid of many years ago. His friend waved the apple around and scrunched up his face as he began his explanation, the first word drawn out, "Well. Technically you're not here. Technically, you're still in the bar where you were knocked unconscious. Technically, I am a manifestation of your newly formed powers trying to find a better way to explain themselves and their uses to you. Technically." With a satisfied nod, he crunched the apple again, looking at Jon for his response. "I'm...dreaming?" The hand without the apple came up and gave him the 'so-so' gesture, "You're not really dreaming. I'm just a conduit that your mind is using to give you the easiest path to understanding." Jon was having a hard time understanding, "So you're just a figment of my imagination? This place isn't real and I'm still on the floor with people standing over me, attempting to steal my soul away?" With wide, brown eyes, his friend nodded confirmation.
Jon sat up, pulling straight his old robes, adjusting himself for the drawn-out explanation. Just as the first words began to form in his mouth, the room started to suddenly darken. The torches and fire in the hearth still burned their amber color, but the light seemed to be dying down. His friend sighed and tossed the apple over his shoulder, "Well. Looks like we're out of time, Jon. But before you go remember this: Words are very, very powerful. The reason your powers chose me is because you remembered I was a Wordsmith." Jon suddenly began to feel very panicked, cold started to creep into his body, "Yeah, you were a Wordsmith, so what?" Darkness crept on, strangling the light. "I gave normal words power, not magic - Power. With your new abilities you got certain perks. Remind me. What's the Latin translation of 'The Voice of God'?" That big, toothy grin was the last thing that Jon saw before the darkness took him.
He was back in the bar now, not twelfth century London. All the old smells came back: wine, cigarettes, whiskey, the still smoldering ashes of his friend Ricky. Jon could barely perceive the hands above him, glowing orange, the bones black in contrast. His lips struggled with the words, the final clue that his old friend had given him. "V..ox....d..." soft syllables were strained past near-paralyzed lips. Murmurs above him tried to figure out what he was trying to say. Jon tried with all his might, this time, "Vox....Dios....."
Jon's eyes were suddenly wide open, his mind no longer in a fog, but racing. Power suddenly flowed through him like water sluicing off a person lying in a river. The words made sense. He said them again, his voice driven with fury and intensity, "VOX DIOS!" A bomb of orange light went off, a ring of it pushing outward, the cloaked bodies standing over the immortal on the floor sent flying. Some crashed into tables and chairs, others smashed the mirrors on the walls. All of the energy that had been stolen away slammed back into Jon, and once more he was a raging inferno of justice, on his feet again.
A cloaked figure stood and threw its hands out, sending gouts of flame at Jon. He didn't need the words, anymore, the power had been awakened. Jon could see the glow behind his eyes as he gathered the power in his throat and released it in an instant. The fire was extinguished, the clear, but visible geyser of energy kept going, taking with it the right arm of the caster and a chunk of the concrete pillar behind them. With a shrill scream and a spray of blood, the hooded one crashed to the floor, clutching the stump where their limb once was. A call for retreat sounded behind him and the other figures all dashed for the door, bypassing Jon. The Immortal could only glare at them as they moved faster than he could track, even with his newfound powers.
The last one up and to retreat was the one missing their arm. It limped as it went, but before reaching the door turned back, "We are not done with you, Paladin! You may think yourself righteous! But you've been named before! Judas Iscariot!" The hood fell back and revealed a face that only a nightmare could describe: green reptilian skin, pulled tight over a deformed skull, no lips, sharp rows of teeth lining a mouth filled with black saliva, yellow eyes. All the features, though alien, conveyed femininity.
Jon was already gathering another bolt of energy when her words struck him. With a hiss, the creature disappeared out the door. Jon was more than perplexed; his muscles and bones still ached from the wallops of air that had struck him earlier. Without another sound or thought, Jon righted a toppled chair and sat down, grieving for his vampire friend, letting his mind dance over the creature's final statement. As his thoughts went to sorrowful and dark places, the cell phone, that had miraculously survived the entire endeavor, went off. With hot tears stinging his eyes and a long sigh, Jon retrieved the vibrating thing in his pocket and opened the message. It was an anonymous sender, but the message was not encrypted. It said one thing: "The Circle of Altu'Rang."
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