UnfunnyPete's Den of Narcissism

[UnfunnyPete]

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[UnfunnyPete]

I wrote this up earlier today. I have no ideas surrounding it, but sometimes you've just got to start writing and see where you end up, right? Anyway, if anyone likes it, I'd be more than willing to try and work out a similar themed role-play.

He’d kneeled besides her for what felt like an age, as the sun raised and set over the city of diamond and gold. Each day the sun grey paler, and with it, the nights held for longer. Soon, all would be shrouded within a thick veil of the abyss, and even her light, as blinding as it once was, would fade to nothingness.
But he wouldn’t leave her. He couldn’t. His heart bound him to her a long time ago, and the thought of leaving her side was a far worse fate than any life he could have without her. She was everything to him, and were it enough to sustain her, he would have gladly given his own light to fuel hers, if only for a moment. But he could not, for his will could not defy her own wishes. She accepted her fate and welcomed it, and all the protests and argument he could muster would not change her mind. She was as stubborn as she was fair and beautiful, as she always had been. In a way, he was glad that she did not change even in her final moments; she was a single constant of righteousness. But that didn’t mean he had to like her fate, or what it meant for him. But he had to honour it, for her.
He prayed, but to whom, he was not aware. The Gods had abandoned this place long ago, leaving only their youngest daughter behind, whom now paid the price for their audacity. Isabella, a fairer Goddess to Mankind than they ever deserved, would die here, with Isaac at her side. He was sword to protect her, and in all the millennia’s, he had no faltered in that task, nor did he plan to begin.
The chanting of the burning halls grew louder, the heretics destroying the foundations of a city older than they could comprehend. Their stinted lives left them wallowed in ignorance that had spread for generations. With each coming generation, their faith had grew thinner, their self-importance and pride mustering into fits of rage against those whom had guided them.
“My dearest Isaac, you should depart from these halls. The darkness is coming, and you must carry the light of these halls.” Her voice ran through his mind, her lips unmoving. He ran a steeled hand over her porcelain skin, letting the fading wisps of sheering white hair fall over his fingers. Her eyes kept on his, and her smile remained. She didn’t have long left now, and to beings whom had existed since the dawn of time, even another day would be too little.
“Isabella, if you are to stay in this place, then so am I. It is the way it as always been, and the way it shall be. I will not leave you, not now, and certainly not in death. I am here.” He took her hand in his. It was cold, so cold that he could feel it through the dragon-plated steel that covered his body. A tear ran down her cheek, and he knew that she wept for him. Entire ages would pass after her departure from this existence, and he would remain in place, waiting for the day that he could follow into the unknown. Where did immortal beings go when they ceased to be?
The grand doors to the hall flew open, and the mortals rushed inside. They were ever so little in such a grand place, barely large enough to reach but a fraction of the doors height. Isaac would tower over them like a column, as would all the Gods that once filled this place. But he had yet to move. He kept his unmoving gaze on hers, and felt the first tear in all of his existence to trickle down his cheek. He had never experienced loss like this before.
A look of worry shot across the Goddess face as she saw the intruders, numbered many. Brandishing swords and bows and hooks and ropes, they sought the blood of the Goddess for their own. They sought to take her from these halls, to keep her chained and bound to their whims. They demanded revenge for the horrors that descended upon them with the coming darkness, a darkness of their own creation. They brought not the desire for faith, but the desire for blood. Isaac would not allow that to happen.
The blade that he had held over her chest felt too heavy now. She took his hand, holding the blade too. The mortals could not be allowed the power of the Gods. It came with a pain unimaginable that he was to be the one to cease her light. But like always, he respected her wishes.
It slid inside with ease, with no resistance. The blade pierced her heart swiftly, and he prayed that she felt no pain in her final moments. She smiled, as her body crumbled to the dust from which it had come, and blew with the wind, leaving him alone. He wasn’t sure how long he remained there, unmoving, before the mortals reached his towering body.
He had been just, in life. Fearless, righteous, and unbending. He harboured no ill-will to any, but as he closed the grilled visor of his helmet, stood from his kneel and drew the blade that was longer than any man, he felt a hatred he had never felt before.
With the zeal of a man whom had naught but to lose, Isaac readied himself for his final battle, before the darkness claimed him too. An eternity of none-existence was more favourable than but a minute without his fair Isabella.
He soon fell to the hordes of mortals, and watched with his last ancient breath as the darkness reined from the skies and claimed them all to this place, to be tormented and pained forever. Death came not for Isaac, however, as the darkness claimed him, too. His last thought was that if Isabella would see the corruption that darkness would make of him, if she’d ever look upon him again.

[NightsOfNovember]

Interested!
So let us see how you think this might play into your idea....

It has been many hours, perhaps days since the loss of the last Daughter, Isabella. Darkness had consumed the horde of unruly mortals, driven by bitterness from the audacity and destruction that the Gods had left behind in their wake before leaving this place. She had hovered above the masses, unseen by even the enormous man, being, armored guardian that had took the last bit of life from Isabella. Oh how her heart cringed to think of Isabella, after trailing among mists, breezes, and clouds around her during the entirety of the last Daughter's existence. From her birth to her final aging point of eighteen, she was raised for one specific purpose, to forever linger and be with the last Daughter, in friendship, advice, foretelling, purifying, and every other skill her kind would have to aid her. Centuries had past, and she still appeared to be that same smooth skinned young woman of eighteen. Her great reason of living and being was gone, taken by the sword that had been in that giant's hands. She had heard the resounding thoughts and feelings from Isabella, as always, and knew that it had been as she had wanted it, her life ended by her ever faithful guardian. She never had known what exactly he was, what to call him. She only knew his name, for Isabella's words were as repetitious as her thoughts about him, Isaac.
She was suddenly struck with the knowledge that he had never even seen her, not fully, and may not even know of her existence at all, much less her name. Maybe he had glanced the shimmering mist during the early mornings when she would fade into the state of being unseen after walking in the morning dew with the daughter, or maybe he hadn't. Maybe he had thought he had seen an outline of a young woman in the breeze, in the clouds, or walking into the night fog, not quite touching the ground. Then again, maybe he hadn't. Maybe she was just as if the air he breathed, there but unseen. Vivre was used to being unseen by all but a rare few in her long lifetime, but for some reason, she was suddenly feeling...what was this? Saddened, remorseful, that a man who had been around her all of her life around Isabella had never maybe seen her.
It was so dark, and the stench of death wafted in the ash that stirred as she skimmed above and past the many fallen beneath her, and her hand rose to her nose to shield her from the overwhelming smell that was tainting the purity of her outer mist of air. The darkness was all around, and she had used her inherited gift of making stars come from the mighty universe to dot around her, giving her a slight light that just barely let her slim yet curved figure be traced into eyesight. She felt a need to find the great man, this Isaac, to see if the mortals had taken him down to the ground with them, to rot until nothing was left of him. She somehow doubted it, the way he had towered above them all, and she could feel breaths coming in through the stillness of the darkness that had consumed the whole place, breaths that were not her own. Her long creamy hair reached down to her waist, and as her urgency to find him became more and more present, her speed created a soft breeze, and it began to float out like a headdress behind her.
She had no assigned purpose in life now, and for once, she realized, as she searched for him in the darkness, she was doing something out of freewill. It was almost strange to her, a feeling of the unknown, freewill. She had grown to love the company of Isabella and enjoyed being around her for all of the last Daughter's being, but now she was doing something because she wanted to. Her want drove her over many corpses, stirring ashes from the ground and bringing a breeze with her, which she so badly wished did not smell so rancid of burned and torn flesh, of massive amounts of spilled blood. Her Great Mother of Air had told her that an Oracle Daughter of the Elements may never get to know freewill, but must grasp it before it leaves, if she were ever to encounter it, and grasp at it she did. Her eyes searched with such effort that they shone through the darkness, the color of what the springtime skies were before all of the darkness had rolled in to overtake everyone and everything. Finally she saw him, darkness swirled all around him, fallen but only to his knees. She stopped so suddenly out of sheer shock of his size that the ashes before and behind her swirled amongst the star dotted ring of air around her, and she was almost fully visible to him, just transparent in her figure. His visor was down, and he was still as the corpses all around them both, but she knew he was not gone from this place. Dirt and grime covered his armor, his helm, and she flung her hand out oh so slowly, letting a breeze brush off the dirt from his helm and visor. She refused to touch him, knowing his loss of Isabella was still so fresh. She twisted her wrist quickly, and brought back her outstretched hand as a strong gust of wind pushed his visor up.

[UnfunnyPete]

Here's another piece that I wrote up despite having no clear plot in mind. I should really start organizing my ideas more, shouldn't I?

It was the spring time. The cherry blossom and apple orchards that nestled the green capped hills of the valley bloomed more and more each day, and rarely did a cloud falter the otherwise blue canvas of the sky. The sun always seemed to linger at its peak, and its warm rays were a welcome delight to the people of the Brooke, the long and cold winter fading into memory.
The Brooke was open to all; no walls marked its coming, nor watchtowers or gates. A single cobble road ran from one side of the farming town to the other, and was abundant with travellers and traders from all corners of the land; foreign wares and mystic goods, cattle and adventurers, all passed through the pathway, surrounded by the small yet elegant homes of the Brookes people, all carved from the grand Oaks that grew rampant to the south. The four-panelled windows of the homes were constantly open wide, with the flowers of reds and blues that the maidens would have picked fresh that morning hanging from the windowsills. Visitors enjoyed a welcome wave, a hearty smile, and even a plum or two from Pickerman’s greenery. Even the river that ran alongside the town was nothing but a calm, quiet, gentle neighbour that offered up fish-a-plenty. Soon, the Doves and sparrows would return from the south, and their chirps would replace the brush of the wind against the mighty Oak tops.
Aaron was never happier than when he ran through the meadows with Gina and Finn. Gina would always win any race, of course; she was taller, slender, and her auburn hair danced with the wind as she’d dart through the fields of green with the ease of the wind. Aaron always had time to appreciate these things from behind, before his small lungs forced him to heel over in the grass and gasp for the fresh, comforting air of the Brooke’s low laying countryside. Gina would always return, of course; she’d fall next to him, and by the time her brother Finn reached them, barely half their age of ten and with a face adorned with the brightest of freckles, they’d all be staring blankly up at the sky, counting the few wisps of clouds that dared tread on the otherwise flawless blue. It wouldn’t be long before Gina would be pulling at the scruff of Aaron’s hay-bale hair once more, urging them onwards into the countryside to see what other hidden troves they could find before the sun settled over the distant, snow-capped peaks of the far west. Once, they found a stash of wild nuts and berries hidden within the bark of an Oak; Finn and Aaron had had their fill, but Gina had protested. She’d berated them about how the squirrel whom had gathered those nuts for the coming winter wouldn’t be happy to find its stash sacked, and guilt-ridden, the three had spent the rest of that autumn morning scrounging for nuts and berries along the yellow, red and brown of the leaf covered ground, before returning what they’d taken and more to the hole within the bark. When the sun had returned from the winter, and the first of the cherry blossoms came to bloom, the first thing the three had rushed to do was return to that tree and search the hole. They’d found nothing but nut shells, and had decided amongst themselves that the squirrel must have forgiven their rude intrusion.
Aaron hadn’t liked the winter months very much. Gina and Finn didn’t live within the close-knit community of the Brooke, themselves residing within the cattle farm their father owned not far along the northern cobble road. When the snow fell and covered the land in a crisp, white blanket for what felt like an eternity, Aaron rarely saw his two friends; the journey wasn’t safe for their father to make, and Gina, Finn and their family had spent the winter secluded within their farm keeping their cattle warm, which they would then bring south to Brooke during the warmer seasons to trade. Every day their father made the short journey, and every day Gina and Finn came along, if only to see their friend who had grown ever so lonely during the cold. Aaron cherished every moment. Now, with the warmth returning and snow melted, they returned with their livestock to the welcome faces of Brooke, where their father was always met with wide smiles and laughter, especially from Aaron’s own father, Trent Buckle. Trent, like his father and his father before him, was a fisherman, a profession Aaron himself would inherit into, and one he had no desire to embrace.

---

Each bump in the road ran like a knife to his battered spine. His body lay like tattered rags, lifeless and still. His eyes were vacant and wide, his mouth slight agape and dry. His fingers were blistered and raw, the pale of his palms replaced by a red swelling that seared with each clench of his hand; he couldn’t throw a punch now if he wanted too.
Finn wept in the corner of the wagon, his hands clutching at his freckled face and his nails almost burring into his own scalp. His sobbing only broke with his rasped breath, and occasionally he brought his wrist across his face to wipe away the mixture of tears and snot that ran down his skin. One of his feet lay open, bare, and the snow white bone that protruded from the breached skin glistened with the darkened red, congealed liquid that formed the puddle around his leg. He didn’t cry from the pain, however; Aaron knew that.
Gina was gone. Aaron hadn’t seen her since his own awakening, and whilst the growing pit in his stomach told him that it was unlikely, he prayed she was safe. He prayed they’d all be safe. He prayed they’d be free to run the meadows once more, to search the Oak forest and its bed of fallen leaves for nuts and seeds once more, to laugh and play and giggle once more as they splashed through the river of Brooke once more.
He knew better than to rely on childish wishes.
They rode for days upon days. Finn wept for most of his waking hours, and by the end of the first day, Aaron was sick of it. But he didn’t dare deny him that last right, the right to mourn the loss they all felt. The convoy of carts that followed and led theirs held an innumerable amount of captives, and Aaron couldn’t count as high as there were people. Some were chained and tied, whilst others simply lay like Aaron, without the will to run. Some, like Finn, couldn’t run if they wished it with all their hearts; their injuries saw to that.
They long passed the Oak forest and the Forgotten Shore of the Southern Bay. The wagons changed directions with each road, and between sleep and blacking out, it was impossible for Aaron to remember which way they were headed, or how long they had ridden for.
The monsters who held them rode horseback, and didn't seem to sleep; it was hard to tell, with each clad in the same blackened cloaks and hoods; he hadn’t even seen a single one of their faces, nor did he wish to.

[UnfunnyPete]

I'm kind of running dry on ideas at the moment, guys and gals. If anyone has any plots or ideas, or would just like to see what we can make up together, please feel free to hit me up with a PM and I'll get back to you. You'll be saving me from boredom, so your cause will not be in vain. I swear, I'm so desperate to get a role-play going that I've even considered venturing in the 'free' section... the horrors.