Agnie's father is still lying on the ground, suffering, and Bryce is unable to heal him. The shock is still rippling through his nerves, his skin washed over with goosebumps. He hears the girl's yell, a promise that she will never forgive him, and he wrenches his gaze up.
Everyone standing there makes perfect sense in this nightmare. Agnie is representative of all the people he wasn't there to save... Her brother, his own nephew, people over the years that he was too late to get there. Aeryn, a sense of duty that he has shoved aside recently, begging a leave of absense so he could flee the chaos of Myrken, and it's been on his mind far more than he thought it would. And D'Rael.
The doctor had been teaching him medicine, given him an alternative to the constant struggle of whether or not to heal a person, and then the man had just up and adandoned them all to run the Edificium by themselves. I'm needed at my homeland.. was his words, and for a young man who had vested a lot of admiration and respect in the doctor, it had been difficult to swallow. Then the doctor had returned, miraculously showing up when the plague was at its worst, saving the day. Will the doctor stick around again.. or leave once more? How could he invest faith in the man if he was offering no promises.
But what is Bryce to do now? These three people are before him and it's almost as if he has to choose a side, three opposing forces in his life. The Brotherhood, the Edificium, and his friends. Because what else could Agnie represent? He would never bother with her if she wasn't Rhaena's best friend.
He leaps up from the ground, rushing at D'Rael from behind to try and grapple him and pull the man away from Agnie. It's his dream, and he can't let his insecurities kill his friends. Agnie's anger is understandable, and exactly what he expected. D'Rael is just a representation of another duty in his life.
Sequence III: Perdition - Chimera.
75 posts
• Page 3 of 5 • 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Curin
by Una » Thu Aug 10, 2006 2:47 am
And this mess is exactly what Curin sees as she breaks out of the thick of the trees, the familiar, hateful voice of Agnie what drew her here. She stood not far from Karol, dark eyes flicking to the man she'd crippled what felt like ages ago. That scar-twisted sneer slides comfortably into place as she unlimbers the bastardsword from its scabard on her back.
The combat seemed to just be starting, confused Agniezska in the middle of it as all the other players stood around her. Curin would wait, though, her pleasure growing with each moment that passed until finally she'd call out, voice loud, strong, taunting. "Girl, look how you leave your father." She would wait, then, for Agnie to see her, and once she has her attention unceremoniously drives the point of the sword thorugh his throat. She predicts she'll have a few moments before there's a reaction to her deed, so she pulls the blade out, wipes the man's lifeblood on his chest then turns and slips back into theforest. Her sneer is in place the entire time.
The combat seemed to just be starting, confused Agniezska in the middle of it as all the other players stood around her. Curin would wait, though, her pleasure growing with each moment that passed until finally she'd call out, voice loud, strong, taunting. "Girl, look how you leave your father." She would wait, then, for Agnie to see her, and once she has her attention unceremoniously drives the point of the sword thorugh his throat. She predicts she'll have a few moments before there's a reaction to her deed, so she pulls the blade out, wipes the man's lifeblood on his chest then turns and slips back into theforest. Her sneer is in place the entire time.
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Una - Member
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by Wendy » Thu Aug 10, 2006 3:25 am
For it is written in, the book of Accounts, "He that bears wisdom shall perish. I will destroy the wisdom of the wise. Let his homestead become desolate. Let his children approve of evils. As works of law, all men reside within the curse of law. So let it be."
Though the heart throbbed in desperation, it's body had been laid to rest, and while its song was discontent, the girl was engaged in a dream and could not be wrestled from it.
Though the heart throbbed in desperation, it's body had been laid to rest, and while its song was discontent, the girl was engaged in a dream and could not be wrestled from it.
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Wendy - Member
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- Location: in dreamlike musings
by Carnath-Emory » Thu Aug 10, 2006 9:12 am
In the distance, the echo of her once-student's outrage. At her feet, the cooling corpse of her elder brother, victim of a conflict of which the outcome was never really in question. Oh, his reach had been superior; his strength certainly was. But he'd been a sloppy student, and she --
Why, she'd had ten years longer than he to perfect her art.
A decade ago, she'd been too shocked to mourn what she'd done to him. Today, there is a trace of grief in her colourless eyes, a trace of regret for the brother that she'd never much liked; for the brother whose impotent fury hadn't even nicked the cotton of her shirt. His eyes have already grown dull and flat, by the time she bends to smooth them closed. They reflect only an uncertain silhouette, and only dimly, at that.
All things being as they are, it's no wonder that she moves away without a backwards glance. And that's a shame, because if she'd spared the time for one, she might have glimpsed what is writhing like vaporous tears from her brother's dead eyes.
It is violence that has her attention, as always, for it is violence that defines her existence; it is simply her nature to heed its call. It is Agnieszka's distress in particular that calls to her, inspiring real haste in her barefoot stride, but it is the roar of Kerrak's wrath that has drawn the silver from her veins. It glitters like an unnatural sweat across her brow, her bare arms; it wells in the hollows of elbow, throat, knuckles. With each step, there is more of the molten iron rising through her flesh, and with each step the din of combat becomes clearer -- becomes more defined.
For it's an army through which this masked swordswoman strides, albeit one that only she experiences; a battlefield peopled by shadows and ghosts of which very few faces are detailed, very few features so distinct as to be recognisable. But there ... is weak Caerwyn, with whom she'd once shared a tent and a good deal more; Caerwyn, towards whose back a great axe is swung, and she -- why, she sidesteps to permit this, moves herself away from the back that had been hers to protect. He falls, does young Caerwyn, and all his bitter blackmail with him, and the sharp pang at this sight distracts Ariane so deeply that she all but collides with the axe's wielder. Her shoulder nudges into his broad chest; her pale eyes stare up at his sparkling own -- oh, the sapphire eyes of Rhys ap'Sien, the lover that war had forbidden her; who has just slain a man that she'd despised.
Now, as then, she smiles up to him: this crooked, trembling smile, as if he filled her heart even as this ruinous world were breaking it. Now, as then, the real war -- between duty and passion, between honour and love -- slows the frantic race of her heart.
Now, as then, she falls upon a man distracted by precious eyes and a pretty face, and lances the life from his heart before he realises himself lost.
He sinks against her, this lone brightness in a war that had seemed unending. He sags into her embrace, just as he had done eight years ago, and the grief is a sickness at the pit of her stomach; the horror is a pain that swells at the base of her neck as if it meant to crush her skull. And:
"Not you," she whispers into his shoulder. Consumed in dying, his response is nothing but a sigh into her throat. And: "I just wanted to live," she pleads by his ear; prays, as if in death he might understand the act of a girl so desperately young, so utterly afraid; as if he might comprehend the heart of a woman who has accepted the necessity of his murder. But the world is not so kind, and neither is this dream-within-a-dream. Merciless, the ache ruptures through her skull, so that she must finally retreat from that corpse, and it's not until she has pulled the knife free of its chest that she realises what is climbing from the muddy ground behind her. She turns, to face what she'd glimpsed reflected in that dagger's blade...
And they fall upon her like a vengeful mob.
Why, she'd had ten years longer than he to perfect her art.
A decade ago, she'd been too shocked to mourn what she'd done to him. Today, there is a trace of grief in her colourless eyes, a trace of regret for the brother that she'd never much liked; for the brother whose impotent fury hadn't even nicked the cotton of her shirt. His eyes have already grown dull and flat, by the time she bends to smooth them closed. They reflect only an uncertain silhouette, and only dimly, at that.
All things being as they are, it's no wonder that she moves away without a backwards glance. And that's a shame, because if she'd spared the time for one, she might have glimpsed what is writhing like vaporous tears from her brother's dead eyes.
***
It is violence that has her attention, as always, for it is violence that defines her existence; it is simply her nature to heed its call. It is Agnieszka's distress in particular that calls to her, inspiring real haste in her barefoot stride, but it is the roar of Kerrak's wrath that has drawn the silver from her veins. It glitters like an unnatural sweat across her brow, her bare arms; it wells in the hollows of elbow, throat, knuckles. With each step, there is more of the molten iron rising through her flesh, and with each step the din of combat becomes clearer -- becomes more defined.
For it's an army through which this masked swordswoman strides, albeit one that only she experiences; a battlefield peopled by shadows and ghosts of which very few faces are detailed, very few features so distinct as to be recognisable. But there ... is weak Caerwyn, with whom she'd once shared a tent and a good deal more; Caerwyn, towards whose back a great axe is swung, and she -- why, she sidesteps to permit this, moves herself away from the back that had been hers to protect. He falls, does young Caerwyn, and all his bitter blackmail with him, and the sharp pang at this sight distracts Ariane so deeply that she all but collides with the axe's wielder. Her shoulder nudges into his broad chest; her pale eyes stare up at his sparkling own -- oh, the sapphire eyes of Rhys ap'Sien, the lover that war had forbidden her; who has just slain a man that she'd despised.
Now, as then, she smiles up to him: this crooked, trembling smile, as if he filled her heart even as this ruinous world were breaking it. Now, as then, the real war -- between duty and passion, between honour and love -- slows the frantic race of her heart.
Now, as then, she falls upon a man distracted by precious eyes and a pretty face, and lances the life from his heart before he realises himself lost.
He sinks against her, this lone brightness in a war that had seemed unending. He sags into her embrace, just as he had done eight years ago, and the grief is a sickness at the pit of her stomach; the horror is a pain that swells at the base of her neck as if it meant to crush her skull. And:
"Not you," she whispers into his shoulder. Consumed in dying, his response is nothing but a sigh into her throat. And: "I just wanted to live," she pleads by his ear; prays, as if in death he might understand the act of a girl so desperately young, so utterly afraid; as if he might comprehend the heart of a woman who has accepted the necessity of his murder. But the world is not so kind, and neither is this dream-within-a-dream. Merciless, the ache ruptures through her skull, so that she must finally retreat from that corpse, and it's not until she has pulled the knife free of its chest that she realises what is climbing from the muddy ground behind her. She turns, to face what she'd glimpsed reflected in that dagger's blade...
And they fall upon her like a vengeful mob.
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Carnath-Emory - Member
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by Vanidor » Thu Aug 10, 2006 11:07 am
Could he move fast enough to forestall an assault that came from an enraged young woman. Was the docter gifted with such talent. Was he close enough? Or was he far enough.
Did it matter.
Aeryn was there in that instant, the injury to his side slowly seeping the essence of life out in throbbing ebbs. A collision of bodies. The damp slick of blood as it pressed 'gainst another body and caused cloth to scrape. These things and more, if Aeryn were to succeed in the motion he made. To reach 'round the scrabbling young Agnieszka and grip her 'round the middle. To hold the woman tightly, and... was it almost protectively?
Was it even possible to be so, with your own lifesblood seeping from grevious injury such as this one? Aeryn manouvered to do so. His voice a rasp as it croaked out of a pain-choked throat. "Remember who yer friends are... lass. An' those who be 'elpin' ya..."
In either case, successful in a capturing grapple or no, Aeryn would eventually start to sag, the energy seeping from his limbs. "I guess... ya dun' wanna join me fer some pie... eh."
It was a dream. It was reality.
Did it matter.
Aeryn was there in that instant, the injury to his side slowly seeping the essence of life out in throbbing ebbs. A collision of bodies. The damp slick of blood as it pressed 'gainst another body and caused cloth to scrape. These things and more, if Aeryn were to succeed in the motion he made. To reach 'round the scrabbling young Agnieszka and grip her 'round the middle. To hold the woman tightly, and... was it almost protectively?
Was it even possible to be so, with your own lifesblood seeping from grevious injury such as this one? Aeryn manouvered to do so. His voice a rasp as it croaked out of a pain-choked throat. "Remember who yer friends are... lass. An' those who be 'elpin' ya..."
In either case, successful in a capturing grapple or no, Aeryn would eventually start to sag, the energy seeping from his limbs. "I guess... ya dun' wanna join me fer some pie... eh."
It was a dream. It was reality.
One should always be drunk. That's all that matters... But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk. - Charles Baudelaire
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Vanidor - Member
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So enters the girl...
by Wendy » Thu Aug 10, 2006 11:52 am
As if yeast, the scent of blood becomes out of hand and begins to flourish in the dank forestry. The vector owned a pulse, contrary to real life circulation, and by such frequency could Frey determine that she was no longer observing life events.
More clues would come... such as: when within this alternate existence, the girl could not find the floor with her feet. Unprotected footfalls flapped in the air - mere appendages to pale, skinny legs that solar flares showed no favor for.
There were no wings to define her back and yet she moved as though she was trained on them. Shifting spires of amber and wheat rumpled and waved as an aging flag from the curves of her scalp. Her beddress crimped against the wind as though it was her sail.
Perhaps she'd be of allure to those who stood looking, this girl who lingered, effort free, with no more than a hand's breadth between her soles and the feeding soil.
More clues would come... such as: when within this alternate existence, the girl could not find the floor with her feet. Unprotected footfalls flapped in the air - mere appendages to pale, skinny legs that solar flares showed no favor for.
There were no wings to define her back and yet she moved as though she was trained on them. Shifting spires of amber and wheat rumpled and waved as an aging flag from the curves of her scalp. Her beddress crimped against the wind as though it was her sail.
Perhaps she'd be of allure to those who stood looking, this girl who lingered, effort free, with no more than a hand's breadth between her soles and the feeding soil.
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Wendy - Member
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- Location: in dreamlike musings
by channe » Thu Aug 10, 2006 12:11 pm
Oh, let D'Rael kill her --
Oh, let him kill her --
For this is hell, wrought by her own hands --
D'Rael is forgotten as she feels, for the first time, the resistance of flesh against blade; and then the blood, spilling down the side of her beautiful blue shirt, and his hands around her middle, tight. A collision of bodies, and Agnieszka's hands scrambling, tearing at her own clothes, a futile gesture to staunch what her hands have done, to fix Aeryn, to do something, to --
And her father watches this drama, riveted, silent, and her brother, and the others, too, most likely -- D'rael and Elil and futile Bryce -- his fists tight holding her pants-leg, his eyes wide. As they watch, he is dying, failing, sinking to the ground, and Agnieszka with him, pleading her dear apologies --
"Aeryn. Aeryn. Please, I didn't mean it, I didn't, AERYN --"
And more, like a waterfall --
"I want to -- Bryce. Bryce. HELP ME. BRYCE. Oh, God. Aeryn. I want to go for pie. I want to. We'll go for pie. We'll go for pie. I didn't mean it. We will."
And in the confusion, D'rael is forgotten; and here comes Curin.
Here she comes, with her sword shining --
'girl, look how you leave your father', look how you leave him for the man who would be your lover --
And she cannot move; she cannot tear a voice from her throat. She watches as the blade emerges, as blood flows from her father's throat, as death comes in this clearing in Myrken Wood for two good, good men.
And she screams.
Oh, let him kill her --
For this is hell, wrought by her own hands --
D'Rael is forgotten as she feels, for the first time, the resistance of flesh against blade; and then the blood, spilling down the side of her beautiful blue shirt, and his hands around her middle, tight. A collision of bodies, and Agnieszka's hands scrambling, tearing at her own clothes, a futile gesture to staunch what her hands have done, to fix Aeryn, to do something, to --
And her father watches this drama, riveted, silent, and her brother, and the others, too, most likely -- D'rael and Elil and futile Bryce -- his fists tight holding her pants-leg, his eyes wide. As they watch, he is dying, failing, sinking to the ground, and Agnieszka with him, pleading her dear apologies --
"Aeryn. Aeryn. Please, I didn't mean it, I didn't, AERYN --"
And more, like a waterfall --
"I want to -- Bryce. Bryce. HELP ME. BRYCE. Oh, God. Aeryn. I want to go for pie. I want to. We'll go for pie. We'll go for pie. I didn't mean it. We will."
And in the confusion, D'rael is forgotten; and here comes Curin.
Here she comes, with her sword shining --
'girl, look how you leave your father', look how you leave him for the man who would be your lover --
And she cannot move; she cannot tear a voice from her throat. She watches as the blade emerges, as blood flows from her father's throat, as death comes in this clearing in Myrken Wood for two good, good men.
And she screams.
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channe - Member
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Kerrak
by Vanidor » Thu Aug 10, 2006 2:21 pm
The man skidded a step or three back. The blade in his hand waivered for a space of moments. The scabbard in his other spun, so that it was held like an elongated fang. A mammoth tusk held in the hand of a madman. His eyes -burned- with seething flames of hate and anger. He was wairy. Drow were impeccable enemies. They had tricks hidden up their sleeves, even when they wore naught but a loincloth.
This one had more tricks than a jester at court. Yet, after a moment that lasted mere seconds, Kerrak resumed his assault. The pain in his side throbbed counterpoint to the seepage of blood that stained his skin, the leg of his trousers. Kerrak assaulted. A sweep of that fang-like scabbard that went across his chest and then was jabbed, just jabbed, at this dark-skinned assailant. There was another cry. Another scream to echo into the colour-bleached wilderness.
"Death and Destruction! Mayhem and madness! Rue this day! Myrken shall ne'er fall!" If only... If only... if only the flames within would come to his beckoning...
This one had more tricks than a jester at court. Yet, after a moment that lasted mere seconds, Kerrak resumed his assault. The pain in his side throbbed counterpoint to the seepage of blood that stained his skin, the leg of his trousers. Kerrak assaulted. A sweep of that fang-like scabbard that went across his chest and then was jabbed, just jabbed, at this dark-skinned assailant. There was another cry. Another scream to echo into the colour-bleached wilderness.
"Death and Destruction! Mayhem and madness! Rue this day! Myrken shall ne'er fall!" If only... If only... if only the flames within would come to his beckoning...
One should always be drunk. That's all that matters... But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk. - Charles Baudelaire
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Vanidor - Member
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Bryce
by Civet » Thu Aug 10, 2006 2:35 pm
The slight blur to all movements is making him dizzy, everything shifting so strangely. The yelling and the screaming, the people all appearing at once. It's so real and yet still so much a dream. And as often happens in dreams, events shift startlingly and without reason. First, he's trying to heal Agnie's father, a failure. Much the same as he failed to make Agnie understand what happened with her brother, how he couldn't be there for her. Then she's rushing it him, howling his name for vengance, and Aeryn is there out of nowhere to restrain her. D'Rael appears just as suddenly, another figure from the edge of his vision, now in place before him.
It had felt correct moments ago to interfere with D'Raels attempt at Agnie, one symbol in his life going after another. Now, things are shifting again, and Aeryn is bleeding, sinking to the ground. Was this a representation of his duty to the Brotherhood that he ran away from? Was it wrong for him to choose his friends over his responsibilities? Agnie is screaming at him to help Aeryn, and the healer rushes forward to try and aid the man, abandoning his previous course of action. Bryce is yet again victim to his own flaw, a constant need to help others despite the reasoning or consequences.
When he reaches and rests his hands on the lieutenant, when he tries to invoke the power, when it fails again... he can only assume that the nightmare is his own subconscious telling him something. Even as he struggles to tend to Aeryn without success, Curin appears and utters her words before murdering Karol. Bryce looks up, frozen as he watches the ex-guard end the life of Agnie's father. Was he supposed to play the part of soldier, instead of the healer? If he had stayed by Karol's side, he could have intercepted her. He drags his attention down to Aeryn again, leaning over the man to try and staunch the flow of blood with conventional methods.. but then, he's been so busy with the Brotherhood recently that he hasn't had much time to learn traditional techniques at the Rememdium...
It had felt correct moments ago to interfere with D'Raels attempt at Agnie, one symbol in his life going after another. Now, things are shifting again, and Aeryn is bleeding, sinking to the ground. Was this a representation of his duty to the Brotherhood that he ran away from? Was it wrong for him to choose his friends over his responsibilities? Agnie is screaming at him to help Aeryn, and the healer rushes forward to try and aid the man, abandoning his previous course of action. Bryce is yet again victim to his own flaw, a constant need to help others despite the reasoning or consequences.
When he reaches and rests his hands on the lieutenant, when he tries to invoke the power, when it fails again... he can only assume that the nightmare is his own subconscious telling him something. Even as he struggles to tend to Aeryn without success, Curin appears and utters her words before murdering Karol. Bryce looks up, frozen as he watches the ex-guard end the life of Agnie's father. Was he supposed to play the part of soldier, instead of the healer? If he had stayed by Karol's side, he could have intercepted her. He drags his attention down to Aeryn again, leaning over the man to try and staunch the flow of blood with conventional methods.. but then, he's been so busy with the Brotherhood recently that he hasn't had much time to learn traditional techniques at the Rememdium...
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Civet - Member
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by Rattrap » Thu Aug 10, 2006 2:54 pm
It wouldn't have mattered anyway. There's only so far those traditional techniques can go, and when one is so fargone...rapiers were deceptive weapons in both their movements and their wounds. There have been times when combatants, run entirely through, were able to continue fighting - sometimes even overcoming their opponent to ultimately win the battle.
Then they died.
It was partly this reason for David D'Rael's lack of action taken to Aeryn's aid, and partly that he was aware this reality wasn't exactly the one they called the 'real one'. What he didn't know was how far one affected the other, and if these people before him - the ones that clearly looked like those he knew, and some he didn't - were other people like him, dropped into this strange world, or if they were the strange world.
David didn't have the ability to distinguish. He could sense, simply by the state of his resting mind, that it was of a dream quality; he could not tell without dangerous experimentation whether it was as harmless as one.
Regardless, the path of action was the same - the Doc wanted to know why they were here, and more importantly, who put them there. To do that, he needed the others to calm down - a pretty big expectation, considering. And even if Agnie could do that with only Aeryn to consider, he simply wasn't.
There was Curin. And no, merciful D'Rael would not engage Agnie in her grief - it was only in her anger she needed to be disabled.
Then they died.
It was partly this reason for David D'Rael's lack of action taken to Aeryn's aid, and partly that he was aware this reality wasn't exactly the one they called the 'real one'. What he didn't know was how far one affected the other, and if these people before him - the ones that clearly looked like those he knew, and some he didn't - were other people like him, dropped into this strange world, or if they were the strange world.
David didn't have the ability to distinguish. He could sense, simply by the state of his resting mind, that it was of a dream quality; he could not tell without dangerous experimentation whether it was as harmless as one.
Regardless, the path of action was the same - the Doc wanted to know why they were here, and more importantly, who put them there. To do that, he needed the others to calm down - a pretty big expectation, considering. And even if Agnie could do that with only Aeryn to consider, he simply wasn't.
There was Curin. And no, merciful D'Rael would not engage Agnie in her grief - it was only in her anger she needed to be disabled.
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Rattrap - Member
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Aeryn
by Vanidor » Thu Aug 10, 2006 3:14 pm
What was given next was a simple smile. A rough cough that saw blood spatter upon a youthful chin. He had sunk away from the bloody embrace that had held onto Angieszka. He laughed a little when Bryce tried to assist him, a hand raising to push away the frenzied hand that tried to staunch the unending spillage of blood from his side.
"Bryce. There be times when ya jus' can' save someone. An' that ain' yer fault. Fuck me sideways... That hurts. I... I hope this was all just a dream.. Don' blame yerself fer me goin' down. My own bloody fault. Usually be, y'know."
And then he laughed again. Swept his eyes over the others who had gathered, a laugh again. "Feck. A'least now I'll not 'ave t'peel anymore damned potatoes. Agnie. Kill tha' bitch, eh." Another laugh, and then Aeryn Karolinger died.
-----------------------------
Only to reawaken upon the floor of his office, his side feeling like a horse (or maybe Jaus back home) had kicked him in the ribs. Aeryn shuddered a little, his hands down and holding his side. No blood. Not torn shirt. No shattered expectations. Aeryn then yanked up the hem of his loose shirt, as if wanting to make sure the wound really wasn't there.
He stared for a moment at the name that was emblazoned upon pink and puckered flesh. A moment to make certain that it was real. The pain felt it. The floor, and the way his backside meshed painfully with it, was real. The throb, that seemed to want to push blood through a sealed wound, was real...
But the tattoo cut into his flesh... Eyes closed. The shirt dropped down once again. And Aeryn fainted, his head thudding quite nicely with the floor. Again, sleep would o'er take him. But at least this time there would be no dreaming.
"Bryce. There be times when ya jus' can' save someone. An' that ain' yer fault. Fuck me sideways... That hurts. I... I hope this was all just a dream.. Don' blame yerself fer me goin' down. My own bloody fault. Usually be, y'know."
And then he laughed again. Swept his eyes over the others who had gathered, a laugh again. "Feck. A'least now I'll not 'ave t'peel anymore damned potatoes. Agnie. Kill tha' bitch, eh." Another laugh, and then Aeryn Karolinger died.
-----------------------------
Only to reawaken upon the floor of his office, his side feeling like a horse (or maybe Jaus back home) had kicked him in the ribs. Aeryn shuddered a little, his hands down and holding his side. No blood. Not torn shirt. No shattered expectations. Aeryn then yanked up the hem of his loose shirt, as if wanting to make sure the wound really wasn't there.
He stared for a moment at the name that was emblazoned upon pink and puckered flesh. A moment to make certain that it was real. The pain felt it. The floor, and the way his backside meshed painfully with it, was real. The throb, that seemed to want to push blood through a sealed wound, was real...
But the tattoo cut into his flesh... Eyes closed. The shirt dropped down once again. And Aeryn fainted, his head thudding quite nicely with the floor. Again, sleep would o'er take him. But at least this time there would be no dreaming.
One should always be drunk. That's all that matters... But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk. - Charles Baudelaire
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Vanidor - Member
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Frey
by Wendy » Fri Aug 11, 2006 1:16 am
To dream of the dead is to fall prey to warning "The dead will signify misfortune." Take heed, though we might gain eternal knowledge from these solicitous souls.
A bed of grasses made the ground appear soft below her toes, but it did not ease the inexplicable dread of touching down. Suspicious of the intangible quality of everything there was, the girl honed her vision to search for critical answers.
Why should she feel afraid? Why this foreboding sense? Why the smell of the dead? Why the sensation of blood sinking deep into the soil? What was that sound?
As her mind scoured the landscape of this dream, Freya started to recognize the noise. There were cries and clashings farther along the way. Unable to move or act, she simply listened. It produced ineffable feelings of affection just to listen.
And then, right before her very eyes, a tactical unit of tiny beings bearing eight legs and poison fangs infiltrated the dense plot below her feet.
A bed of grasses made the ground appear soft below her toes, but it did not ease the inexplicable dread of touching down. Suspicious of the intangible quality of everything there was, the girl honed her vision to search for critical answers.
Why should she feel afraid? Why this foreboding sense? Why the smell of the dead? Why the sensation of blood sinking deep into the soil? What was that sound?
As her mind scoured the landscape of this dream, Freya started to recognize the noise. There were cries and clashings farther along the way. Unable to move or act, she simply listened. It produced ineffable feelings of affection just to listen.
And then, right before her very eyes, a tactical unit of tiny beings bearing eight legs and poison fangs infiltrated the dense plot below her feet.
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Wendy - Member
- Posts: 1475
- Joined: Mon Dec 09, 2002 5:00 am
- Location: in dreamlike musings
Agnieszka
by channe » Fri Aug 11, 2006 3:12 am
Kill the bitch.
"Daddy," whimpers the little boy -- he runs to his father, shakes him, his little boy's hands becoming covered in blood as he does -- "Daddy, Daddy, wake up," she sobs.
Agnieszka rises, bloodstained and dark-souled, from the place where she kneels between dead father and dead commander, knife in one hand and rapier in the other; "help me," she says to D'Rael and Bryce, to solid Elil if she lingers still on the edge of this madness; she does not look at her father's gape-throated corpse. She steps over it while the boy sobs his ghost-tears -- and she has gone beyond real and unreal, channeling her own grief into the ghost-vessel that is dead Jozef Kaczmarek and her own soul at the same time, and all that is left is her burning rage, which flows directly into her weapon, which she raises toward Curin --
-- "By all that is holy, help me."
It shouldn't take a genius to figure out what she is asking them to do.
And who could be so cold-hearted to refuse that request, to stand back after this atrocious murder, after watching Karol's body shudder so, after his cruel, inhuman death? Watching his eyes go dull, fixed on his daughter, his mouth go slack with a thousand unsaid words? After hearing this sobbing, bloody boy?
Kill the bitch.
"Daddy," whimpers the little boy -- he runs to his father, shakes him, his little boy's hands becoming covered in blood as he does -- "Daddy, Daddy, wake up," she sobs.
Agnieszka rises, bloodstained and dark-souled, from the place where she kneels between dead father and dead commander, knife in one hand and rapier in the other; "help me," she says to D'Rael and Bryce, to solid Elil if she lingers still on the edge of this madness; she does not look at her father's gape-throated corpse. She steps over it while the boy sobs his ghost-tears -- and she has gone beyond real and unreal, channeling her own grief into the ghost-vessel that is dead Jozef Kaczmarek and her own soul at the same time, and all that is left is her burning rage, which flows directly into her weapon, which she raises toward Curin --
-- "By all that is holy, help me."
It shouldn't take a genius to figure out what she is asking them to do.
And who could be so cold-hearted to refuse that request, to stand back after this atrocious murder, after watching Karol's body shudder so, after his cruel, inhuman death? Watching his eyes go dull, fixed on his daughter, his mouth go slack with a thousand unsaid words? After hearing this sobbing, bloody boy?
Kill the bitch.
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channe - Member
- Posts: 1660
- Joined: Sat Aug 14, 2004 4:00 am
- Location: the city of magical thinking.
by Tebrin » Fri Aug 11, 2006 2:29 pm
"What a night," muttered the exhausted treasure hunter who, oblivious to what awaited him, shed his leather armor, his weapons, his clothing... and climbed, unknowingly exposed, into his bed. That Styx was hot for him was no secret to the man, and that was - well, that was something else. He'd seen what she was... where she was from... to say that he'd never drawn the attraction of a creature from the Underworld would be lying, but usually they were humanoid.
Add into that the fact that his captive, Ky`faira, was a spoiled brat who required constant attention merely to keep silent... and that her mother no doubt would be coming for him soon... and Tebrin was not a man who slept well these days. Not without his best friend's help - he looks fondly over at the bottle of scotch beside his bed, smiling. "Good ol' scotch. Nothin' beats scotch!" He reaches and takes another swig, before pulling the covers over his lithe frame, eyes drifting shut.
...................
Tebrin 'awoke' within the forest, emerald eyes looking about confused. He took careful stock of his surroundings, the ambience of the dark woodland. It was foreboding, dark, twisted... foreshadowing some dire fate awaiting the adventurer. He felt his pulse quicken a little, a hint of fear seizing his heart, constricting his chest, as he realized that he bore no equipment. No weapon, no clothing, nothing to protect his person. Piercing eyes fell to take stock of his equipment - he had only one piece of... equipment, and he doubted it would help him here. Though, you never knew....
Lips purse, a deep breath taken - a knife? How convenient. This would have to do... "Wonder who left this here?" He muttered under his breath, callused fingers encircling the hilt of the crude weapon and lifting it easily into his grasp. Upon examination, eyes fell upon the ominous words scrawled into the bottom....
USE ME.
"Sounds like my last girl..." He observed wryly, brow furrowing. This grew more and more bizarre with each passing moment. The sound of combat reached his ears, the scent of blood reached his nose... and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. Skulking into the shadows of the brush, which scratched uncomfortably at nude flesh, he made his way towards the sounds - a move he doubtless would regret - bare feet trodding on leaves and brush, with only a modest amount of noise.
Why was he doing this? Why would he APPROACH? He was unarmed and unarmored, and this was easily the stupidest thing he had ever done - and yet, he found himself drawn by curiosity through this dream... after all, he knew the feeling of unreality that surrounded him, what was the worst that could happen?
As he crouched within the concealing, comforting, protective brush, hands parted the leaves in front of him. Brilliant emerald eyes fell upon Jirai and Kerrak, locked in mortal combat. He recognized the woman... the drow, the dark beauty that had goaded Agniezska into becoming prime entertainment upon his first night in the Dagger... Drow. They had to be the enemy, here... Kerrak, therefore, must have been accosted by this woman, this dark elf, this blemish upon the surface. White-knuckled grasp tightens on his knife as he emerges from the brush... creeping, nude, towards the small elf's back. He had made perhaps the worst decision of his young life.
He would help.
Add into that the fact that his captive, Ky`faira, was a spoiled brat who required constant attention merely to keep silent... and that her mother no doubt would be coming for him soon... and Tebrin was not a man who slept well these days. Not without his best friend's help - he looks fondly over at the bottle of scotch beside his bed, smiling. "Good ol' scotch. Nothin' beats scotch!" He reaches and takes another swig, before pulling the covers over his lithe frame, eyes drifting shut.
...................
Tebrin 'awoke' within the forest, emerald eyes looking about confused. He took careful stock of his surroundings, the ambience of the dark woodland. It was foreboding, dark, twisted... foreshadowing some dire fate awaiting the adventurer. He felt his pulse quicken a little, a hint of fear seizing his heart, constricting his chest, as he realized that he bore no equipment. No weapon, no clothing, nothing to protect his person. Piercing eyes fell to take stock of his equipment - he had only one piece of... equipment, and he doubted it would help him here. Though, you never knew....
Lips purse, a deep breath taken - a knife? How convenient. This would have to do... "Wonder who left this here?" He muttered under his breath, callused fingers encircling the hilt of the crude weapon and lifting it easily into his grasp. Upon examination, eyes fell upon the ominous words scrawled into the bottom....
USE ME.
"Sounds like my last girl..." He observed wryly, brow furrowing. This grew more and more bizarre with each passing moment. The sound of combat reached his ears, the scent of blood reached his nose... and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. Skulking into the shadows of the brush, which scratched uncomfortably at nude flesh, he made his way towards the sounds - a move he doubtless would regret - bare feet trodding on leaves and brush, with only a modest amount of noise.
Why was he doing this? Why would he APPROACH? He was unarmed and unarmored, and this was easily the stupidest thing he had ever done - and yet, he found himself drawn by curiosity through this dream... after all, he knew the feeling of unreality that surrounded him, what was the worst that could happen?
As he crouched within the concealing, comforting, protective brush, hands parted the leaves in front of him. Brilliant emerald eyes fell upon Jirai and Kerrak, locked in mortal combat. He recognized the woman... the drow, the dark beauty that had goaded Agniezska into becoming prime entertainment upon his first night in the Dagger... Drow. They had to be the enemy, here... Kerrak, therefore, must have been accosted by this woman, this dark elf, this blemish upon the surface. White-knuckled grasp tightens on his knife as he emerges from the brush... creeping, nude, towards the small elf's back. He had made perhaps the worst decision of his young life.
He would help.
- Tebrin
- Member
- Posts: 156
- Joined: Thu Aug 10, 2006 4:00 am
Bryce
by Civet » Sat Aug 12, 2006 1:29 am
Aeryn dies, his wound too severe to contain. Bryce can only gape, staring down at the lieutenant. Everything he does in this nightmare is futile, a hopeless mockery of his insecurities. Someday he may not be able to heal someone, or alternatively may not be able to protect a loved one -because- he was too weak from healing. Braddock is always arguing with him that he shouldn't use his powers on strangers, should think of his friends and family. Here lie two bodies, examples of both sides of the coin, both people dead.
He runs a hand through his blond hair as he looks up Agnie, a hand that's slick with Aeryn's blood though he doesn't even notice that it stains his skin and hair. She's pleading for him to help, begging for aid in vengence. He shoves himself up to his feet, crossing to Karol's body to snatch up the dagger that he had tossed aside previously. The dream doesn't make much sense, but it seems to him that following Agnie is the only way to move forward, everything in this clearing just leads to failure and death. He can't use his powers, he has no medical tools, he must be meant to fight.
He runs a hand through his blond hair as he looks up Agnie, a hand that's slick with Aeryn's blood though he doesn't even notice that it stains his skin and hair. She's pleading for him to help, begging for aid in vengence. He shoves himself up to his feet, crossing to Karol's body to snatch up the dagger that he had tossed aside previously. The dream doesn't make much sense, but it seems to him that following Agnie is the only way to move forward, everything in this clearing just leads to failure and death. He can't use his powers, he has no medical tools, he must be meant to fight.
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Civet - Member
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- Joined: Tue Jun 24, 2003 5:59 am
- Location: Michigan
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