The post below is a direct copy of some roleplay I did in the early hours of this morning within the Dagger.
I'm putting it up because some may appreciate the writing, or the beginning of the story. And also, because as much as apsects of it disturb me, it is still a good story.
That however said, the content could be disturbing to those who are a little squeamish. So please be warned.
Thank you.
Mel.
<Thanasis> He hated. It was the core and the essence of his being. It was what drove him when all else faded away, two pinpoints before his eyes, vision blurred and unable to focus. It was the hate that gave him clarity, that gave him direction. It was the hate which provided him with the means to live, to breathe-
<Thanasis> Love? No, love would fail, and die away, with the passage of time, with the rising of lust and betrayal. It took but a moment of indecision, for lips to touch against lips in a lie, for they were promised elsewhere...and it was all gone, shattered. Undone. Hate however - that was a thing of substance, it writhed in his chest like a living creature. It was a permanent fixture in his life-
<Thanasis> When he did not have a specific target for it, one that he hunted, or one who had betrayed him, for they always betrayed, then his own self would serve as well. He was self sufficient like that, this man. He needed no-one, or no thing, if he had but one weakness, it was the dichotomy that served as his strength as well. His hatred.
<Thanasis> You would not know it, to look at he was nothing particularly remarkable, certainly. Lithe of frame, sandy brown hair a little too long and hanging in his eyes, in need of a trim. Mouth a little too full perhaps, the slight outwards urging of the bottom lip could suggest petulance. His clothes were not overt in their finery-
<Thanasis> Yet, they were obviously not hand-me downs, so he could not have come from peasant stock. He could be mistaken for a boy, more than a man, his build was light, physical activity was not something he was overly accustomed to. Wiry could even be a more appropriate word - hands which were extended to the hearth were free of the calluses of work.
<Thanasis> Dark colours. Navy blue for the most part, and upon the arm, some kind of insignia had once been borne, though he'd picked it off with the small dagger that rested at his belt. It too was a thing of quality, but even tempered steel, that did not have the resilience to withstand the intensity of his own feeling. His back was to the majority of the room now, but even if it had been facing him -
<Thanasis> There was doubt as to whether or not he would take pains to conceal the sneer curling his mouth. He was spoiled, some had said. One of the guards had said as much. He'd wanted to cut out the man's tongue. He'd imagined doing so. Severing that piece of flesh, and then making the fellow watch as he roasted it upon the flames.
<Thanasis> Imagined, of course. He might very well have his hate, his disgust, and his loathing, but he was careful. When slightly younger than he was now, there had been trouble, and a great deal of it. He tilted his head, looking away from the flames to his hands. They were beautiful, his hands-
<Thanasis> The girl had said so, the first time she had seen them, she had wanted to touch his fingers, and she had marvelled at the smoothness of the pale flesh. He normally wore gloves, and only took them off on special occasions. He had done, ever since then. The girl had been right, his hands were things of beauty. His instruments.
<Thanasis> They expressed his hate as much as dark brown eyes could do so, violently. Tenderly. Completely. He did not do things by half measures, that would be a travesty - he did not have such a gift, such loathing, to simply *waste* it.
<Thanasis> It had been cold outside, the wind was biting, and the threatening of more snow to fall had turned and twisted his stomach. Hate was not entirely a solitary creature, that lived within him, no it had a brother, or perhaps a lover, or perhaps it was both, in rage. It was ever the fine battle between balancing himself, though of course, hate won out more often than rage - despite the fact that the second was merely an extension of the first.
<Thanasis> His attention moved back down to the small, sleeping and furry object upon the floor at his feet, where he crouched. He'd found the kitten in the stables, buried amongst the straw. As he'd been putting his mount away, he'd heard the mewling.
<Thanasis> It was a pitiful sound, small, plaintive. Weak. A brief search had proffered the revelation of a small pile of patchwork fur that had wriggled itself into motion, and looked up at him with large eyes. They were green in colour. The girl had green eyes - he remembered the way they widened...
<Thanasis> Much as the kitten's did, when he stroked the back of it's head, scritched his fingers upon the nape of the neck. Of course, the kitten was lacking in fear. It was a remarkable thing, how those who had never experienced fear had no knowledge of it. One who had never been frightened, who had never been taught, or shown, or explained fear - they disregarded it completely. They could not comprehend it.
<Thanasis> He had been afraid. Afraid for much of his life. He did not evaluate it, or try and interpret it. The fear was the cousin, the black sheep of the family where Hate and Rage were concerned, it spent time with Pain. That was why the expression of hate was his favoured thing, in the throes of that marvellous gift, you made others feel fear-
<Thanasis> You indulged yourself upon it, you drowned in it, with shuddering gasping breaths, with cries of pleasure and release - with the sheer synchronicity that came with that connection. That realisation that life, or death, that pleasure, or pain, that breathing...or not, was completely out of their control, and within your hands.
<Thanasis> Most seemed to fear death. They feared it's touch, it's coming. The ending of lives they wasted with paltry issues, a small thing, so steadily held onto by greedily clutching fingers that falsely realised worth when they were about to lose their fleeting mortality-
<Thanasis> The fear of the unknown, of what would come when that tidal breath escaped past lips, when eyes that were clear, and perhaps clouded with fear would grow glazed with tiredness, weariness, and eventually death. Bared fingertips continued to stroke against the fur of the kitten, whose small body rumbled in pleasured response-
<Thanasis> To a caress that was surprisingly gentle, given the passage his mind took. It weaved, it rotted, it ached, yearned, and of course burned with his hate. His despite.
<Thanasis> The kitten shifted, rolling upon it's back, and all four paws were directed against the hand which now scratched against it's belly. Cats, even the youngest were fickle creatures, they savoured the petting one moment, nonchalant but for the purring, and the next, they joined in, with mouth, and nose and little paws...and of course, eventually, claws.
<Thanasis> He knew the moment would come, though perhaps a small part of him that remained untouched, that had not been entirely consumed, and warped and changed and reborn anew amidst the cycle of hate wished that it would not. He could not allow it to happen -
<Thanasis> He had beautiful hands. She had said so herself, she had turned and admired the slightly overlong fingers, the perfect symmetry of nails, the small half-moons. They were his vanity. It was not that the rest of his appearance was particularly downtrodden. The clothes, as mentioned, were neatly kept, his hair, if not a little overlong at the front was close cropped at the rear. He liked the fringe that hung across his face when he tilted his head forwards as well, it concealed the furrowed lines of his glare, the only markings upon youthful features.
<Thanasis> He could not have this animal, this kitten, claw and scratch at his hands. And his fingers slipped upwards to the throat of the kitten, lightly rubbing at the fur, even as its small paws playfully batted at the hand which caressed it so gently.
Continued in next post.