The Brujah Scythe
Posted: Fri Apr 04, 2003 2:42 pmThere was a pause, before celeric movement brought the rustling of cloak and clothe to become one. There were those momentary seconds where the blur of image was not seen; as if skipping through the temporal sight of the mortal eye. Further up upon the road, a cart-and-horse brought two men to his path. How dare they travel within the night, and dare to stare within the eyes of the darkness. There was a moment where Derrick considered his humanity.
Humanity was a weakness for any vampire. It's breath no longer needed within a corpse, it was a vast and hollow vault which needed to be sealed.
"I do hope the wenches are a bit more.. fruitful." Chuckled one to the other, before a sudden hault caused their attention to fall outside.
"Rider, why have we stopped?"
"There be a man in the road." They glanced before them, where the dark clad figure stood. A cloak billowed outward from his ankles, as the hood was drawn over his features. However, they did notice the holding of a blade within the man's grasp. A fabulous work of art for any blacksmith; a blade which twisted upward, a flameberg if you will. The armor clad individual stepped from the wagon, withdrawing his sword in silent warning.
"You, kindly remove yourself from our path." He bellowed, but recieved no response. There was only the howling of the wind to answer the man. He came forward then, stepping with armor in sync. He placed a hand upon the dark figure's shoulder, but only recieved three things. Each came before the heart could even beat.
First, the flameberg was twisted upward, severing the hand from the man. It sliced through the armor with a loud clang, as the hand fell. And yet, before it made even an inch in its descent, there was a second bladed assault upon the armor.
The second came as a diagnolly moving, upward slash. The armor, again, let forth a howl as the razor edges of the flameberg sliced through them, severing the man's body from torso to shoulder. And yet, as the arm had fallen but four inches, and third maneuver was performed.
The third came as a quick spin, a cyclone of his body. The blade was brought upward, swung in such the manner that its wicked edge decapitated the head smoothly.
By the time the hand of the armored man had hit the ground, the body had fallen in three different pieces. There was the stench of entrail, a smell of blood which invoked the merciless edge. The second individual instructed the rider to move, but as he glanced to where the rider had once been, he was no more. He ran down the road, towards a strange appearing city and tavern. The door latch had, unfortunately, become jammed. As the dark clothed figure moved in total silence, the blade dripped with the dark, scarlet liquid of vitae. Each drop sounded as a loud thump, as the whimpers, and soon, the screams, of the man came with no hope of aid.
The figure moved further, no holding the flameberg. Instead, a curious hawk perched upon his shoulder, silent as the figure was until the moments were a voice; both haunting, and regressed, issued forth.
"Hence forth, the figure moved.. raptor upon his darkened shoulder." Poetic, if not hollow in meaning. A 'kwee' sounding issued from the hawk, as it leapt from his shoulder, taking flight in the direction of the city before him.
The Brujah Derrick "Scythe" Venzetti moved in silence, no longer in hurried step.. for his prey would be found soon, and his ramblings of a predatory undead making its way to the tavern would, no doubt, be looked upon as the ramblings of the mad..
Humanity was a weakness for any vampire. It's breath no longer needed within a corpse, it was a vast and hollow vault which needed to be sealed.
"I do hope the wenches are a bit more.. fruitful." Chuckled one to the other, before a sudden hault caused their attention to fall outside.
"Rider, why have we stopped?"
"There be a man in the road." They glanced before them, where the dark clad figure stood. A cloak billowed outward from his ankles, as the hood was drawn over his features. However, they did notice the holding of a blade within the man's grasp. A fabulous work of art for any blacksmith; a blade which twisted upward, a flameberg if you will. The armor clad individual stepped from the wagon, withdrawing his sword in silent warning.
"You, kindly remove yourself from our path." He bellowed, but recieved no response. There was only the howling of the wind to answer the man. He came forward then, stepping with armor in sync. He placed a hand upon the dark figure's shoulder, but only recieved three things. Each came before the heart could even beat.
First, the flameberg was twisted upward, severing the hand from the man. It sliced through the armor with a loud clang, as the hand fell. And yet, before it made even an inch in its descent, there was a second bladed assault upon the armor.
The second came as a diagnolly moving, upward slash. The armor, again, let forth a howl as the razor edges of the flameberg sliced through them, severing the man's body from torso to shoulder. And yet, as the arm had fallen but four inches, and third maneuver was performed.
The third came as a quick spin, a cyclone of his body. The blade was brought upward, swung in such the manner that its wicked edge decapitated the head smoothly.
By the time the hand of the armored man had hit the ground, the body had fallen in three different pieces. There was the stench of entrail, a smell of blood which invoked the merciless edge. The second individual instructed the rider to move, but as he glanced to where the rider had once been, he was no more. He ran down the road, towards a strange appearing city and tavern. The door latch had, unfortunately, become jammed. As the dark clothed figure moved in total silence, the blade dripped with the dark, scarlet liquid of vitae. Each drop sounded as a loud thump, as the whimpers, and soon, the screams, of the man came with no hope of aid.
The figure moved further, no holding the flameberg. Instead, a curious hawk perched upon his shoulder, silent as the figure was until the moments were a voice; both haunting, and regressed, issued forth.
"Hence forth, the figure moved.. raptor upon his darkened shoulder." Poetic, if not hollow in meaning. A 'kwee' sounding issued from the hawk, as it leapt from his shoulder, taking flight in the direction of the city before him.
The Brujah Derrick "Scythe" Venzetti moved in silence, no longer in hurried step.. for his prey would be found soon, and his ramblings of a predatory undead making its way to the tavern would, no doubt, be looked upon as the ramblings of the mad..