Like most rose gardens, this is for looking. Not touching. If you see something here you like and want to build off of - I'm flattered, first, but please contact me before stealing petals. I've spent time cultivating these.
(I may make this prettier when I get home. Just doing this on my android during lunch now.)
Oh yeah...if you RP with me, you'll probably see some familiar faces in new lights....Don't be surprised okay?
Lukas stared out at the city. It was in ruins, fires burned on buildings half crumbled. Sparks flickered from downed live wires. Sirens screamed in the distance, and the screams of survivors carried on the winds. The wails of mourners. He could see it all from the roof he stood on, staring - gaping really - at the destruction laid out before him.
He hadn’t wanted any of this. A tear rolled down his cheek; he felt it only as the salt of it soaked into the large gash on his cheek to mix with the blood still creeping down his chin and neck. It wasn’t fair.
“Are you ready to surrender yet?”
His breath hitched for a moment hearing the tired grunt in the voice that came from behind him. He didn’t want to turn. He didn’t want to put his back to this mess. It needed someone to acknowledge it. It needed someone to figure out a way to fix it.
“Make it easier on everyone. Surrender. Then this city can finally rest.”
His hands balled into fists at his sides. Another tear chased after the first as his eyes narrowed. “You say that like I did this,” he growled. His eyes closed, trying to force the last of his tears to escape. He had felt cold seeing how much destruction had been wrought upon an unwitting populace. Now...a fire started burning in his gut. If he wasn’t careful, wasn’t mindful, it wouldn’t remain there.
“Considering we’re the only ones that know better - “ there was a pause. He could almost hear the speaker smile. The villain that called himself a hero. “That’s all anyone will believe. A lie that comforts someone is better than the truth that people may not understand. In the end, this is for the greater good.”
Lukas turned. The fire within erupted, engulfing his fists as he glared daggers at the villain in hero’s clothing. They were both tired, both hurting, but now...He was pissed. “How can this ever be for the greater good? Because you dubbed yourself a hero? Foiled petty criminals and decided to stand against someone that was trying to do some good?” He spat every word with all the venom he could muster while not just losing himself to the rage burning within.
Sentinel let out a huff. “Don’t try painting yourself a hero. You weren’t trying to help anyone. You just weren’t being petty about it.”
“And what makes you any better? No one innocent got hurt until you stepped in! Now look!” Lukas thrust a hand back at the city in turmoil behind him. He was barely containing the fire from leaping from his fists. “Because of you, people are dead. It will cost millions to rebuild. To recover. You’ve destroyed families! People don’t just recover from that.”
“And no one will know.” Sentinel’s lips twitched into a lopsided smile. It didn’t look like he was happy. Just that he was right. Because....he’d done such a good job painting Lukas the villain in all of this that no one would believe it if anyone said it hadn’t been him to start. No one would believe Lukas had tried to stop this. Lukas would be alone against the world if he didn’t stop it.
His shoulders slumped. The fire went out. From his hands, from his eyes. Tears slipped forth again as his face crumbled from the rage to heartache. He dropped to his knees, just staring at the masked crusader before him. His head slumped, eyes closing, as he raised his hands. “Fine.” He breathed the word, almost impossible to hear over the sound of the city crumbling around them. “I’ll take the fall. All I ask...”
Sentinel had started toward the kneeling man, but at the stop of the request, he hesitated. He eyed the man suspiciously, and silently waited.
Lukas lifted his head to look at the city’s false hero. “You go to every funeral you caused. Someone has to. Someone that is responsible has to be there to show that it mattered they died. That they weren’t just a faceless casualty.”
The other man blinked, gaping - now - at the person they’d painted a villain for years now. “Why does it matter so much to you?”
“No one is just a faceless casualty. And so far...this city hasn’t had a single savior that acknowledged that.” Lukas dropped his head again. His voice went quiet. “You know what causes a person to become the bad guy?”
Sentinel stepped closer, leaning to hear what Lukas was saying. “What?”
“The indifference of someone that claims they’re the hero.” Lukas shot to his feet. His fist ignited in a heat so hot, the fire burned white. He drove that fist straight into Sentinel’s chest, in the spot he’d cracked in the man’s body armor during the fight. The heat seared the skin as soon as it neared, and the force helped him break through to the bone.
Sentinel’s eyes went wide. He gasped, losing his breath from the force and unable to suck in another decent one. A bit too much blood escaped with a cough. He shook, a very subtle full body tremor, as he turned his gaze to fix on the cold stare of the dark haired man before him. He folded over the fist, unable to keep his footing.
Lukas opened his hand, letting the fire ignite around more of him before he forced all those flames to encompass the man in his grasp. “I swore the day my mother was put in the ground that I wouldn’t let another person be a faceless casualty. I swore to my mother’s grave that this city’s only heroes would be the ones paid to do so. You weren’t a problem until you escalated. And now...” He stepped back to let the man crumble to the ground. If the masked vigilante was able to draw breath, he was sure he’d be screaming. “You won’t be a problem again.”
Lukas turned and walked for the roof access door. He heard Sentinel shift on the ground. He could smell the burning flesh. He never enjoyed it. But it was work that needed to be done. And now, he needed to start taking tally of all the funerals he needed to attend.
By this point in Paige’s life, she was done with the romanticized dreams that she would meet Mister Right and they would get married and have kids and the storybook ending she always dreamed of as a girl. In fact, last week she finally broke it off with yet another Mister Wrong who had started cheating on her with one of the people she thought was her friend. She wasn’t going to let that kill her spirits, but it made her realize that there were more important things in life than love. Focusing on school so she could finish her masters was one of them. She was still young, not finding someone before she graduated wouldn’t end the world.
Her girlfriends begged to differ. Kerry kept telling her she needed to get out and live a bit rather than dive into her books and school work. Amanda insisted getting back out into the dating scene was the right move. But what did they know? They were still with their high school boyfriends whereas Paige had four boyfriends since junior year and every one of them was more disappointing than the last: Kevin broke up with her because she didn’t want to have sex so young, Nick only dated her because she had a car, Mitch was done with her as soon as he finally got her in bed, then there was Sam who cheated on her with Rose because she wouldn’t have sex with him a month into the relationship. One big mess.
Still, she didn’t put up too much of a fight when Chelsea and the others dragged her out to the bar that Friday. A good old girl’s night out was just what she needed with finals rearing their ugly head. Paige sat at the bar, nursing her Cosmopolitan. Kerry and Amanda talked her ear off about something that happened to them at work. Chelsea and Melissa wandered off a few minutes ago, leaving Paige helplessly stuck with the conversation. It wouldn’t have been bad, but Paige was never much for girl talk, not the snide way those two did it.
She thought she would get a reprieve when she got tapped on her shoulder and turned to see Chelsea. Then she saw the two guys standing with her friend. What a surprise, she thought sarcastically. “Chels-”
“Paige, this is Vincent. He does acquisitions,” Chelsea said quickly. She turned back to the dark haired, brown eyed man that looked more a punk skater than a businessman, thanks to the eyebrow ring, earring in his left ear, and so many piercings in his right it looked like he should be leaning his head that way. “Vince, this is Paige, the girl I was telling you about.”
“Hi,” Vince said with a smile.
Paige let out a soft sigh and forced a smile to her face. “Hi,” she said as she turned her gaze to Vincent. She turned her attention back to her friend. “Chels, I -”
“You two have fun.” Chelsea’s smile was undeterred. She leaned into Paige. “And for god sakes, loosen up. Bed the man. Sex doesn’t have to mean relationship, and it’s one hell of a stress reliever.” With that typical Chelsea level of classy advice, she hooked her arm around the other guy and was off.
Vincent slid into the seat next to Paige. “Chelsea’s something else, huh?” He chuckled softly. After taking a sip of his drink, he put the glass down and looked at Paige. “She mentioned you just got out of a relationship, so if you want I can just sit here and drink and keep other guys from coming over and hitting on you.”
His offer threw her off enough that Paige just gawked at him for a few minutes. She managed to strike the surprise from her face with a blink. “That’s probably the worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard.” A fluttering smile crept onto her face in an attempt to soften the blow of her words.
Vincent chuckled and offered her a one shouldered shrug. “To be honest, and no offense, but I’m only here ‘cause my buddy Scott is hoping to score with your friend, and she wouldn't give him alone time if I didn’t come look like I was chatting you up.” He took another gulp of his drink before turning his gaze back to her. “If it would make you feel better, I could lay out some smooth lines, but I’m not going to lie - I’m not really interested in being a rebound.”
Paige smiled a bit more, letting out a breath like she had been holding it. “Well, thanks for that then. I’m not looking for anything right now anyways. So we’re in agreement. We’re just doing this to make our friends happy.”
That oddly charming smile spread over Vincent’s face again. “Wanna unload relationship woes on me or talk about something else? Topic is lady’s choice.”
“Something else,” Paige said. She waved a hand like that dismissed the memories. “I don’t want to think about that asshole. Tonight is to keep me from thinking about him.”
“Alright. Then what do you want to talk about?”
“Tell me about yourself.” Paige took a sip of her drink and returned her gaze to him. “Chels will ask me later and I’m not creative like that.”
Vincent smiled more and fully faced Paige. “I don’t know. You look like the kind of girl that’s better off at stuff than she gives herself credit for.” When she felt heat flooded her cheeks, he chuckled softly. The laughter made his eyes look like pools of melted chocolate, and that thought brought more heat to her cheeks. “I’m not trying to flirt, but I’m not taking it back. Come on, prove me wrong.”
Paige took a gulp of her drink then sat up straighter. She never backed down from a challenge. Her gaze traveled over him, studying how he slouched with one arm on the counter so his hand kept hold of his drink and one stayed free, and kept one leg dangling like he might have to pounce from his chair at any given moment. When her gaze got back to his face, she let out a steadying breath. “You’re on edge about something, but don’t want people to know it. You’re nice, and thoughtful -” two things she learned from the conversation thus far, mostly from his offer - “but my guess is you got in a few too many fights in high school to not be wary about crowds. And if I had to guess, I’d say you lied to Chelsea about what you do for a living. You really don’t look like the business type.”
A chuckle preceded the toothy grin that spread onto Vincent’s face. “Not everyone dresses the same for going to a bar as they do for work.” It wasn’t agreeing or denying. A neutral statement that did nothing to help Paige know if she was right or not. “I think you’ll do fine making up stuff to tell Chelsea for her quiz on me later.” He paused and pulled out his wallet. “What are you drinking? I’ll buy you another one.”
“A Cosmo. But it’s getting late and I should really be heading home. I’ve got work in the morning,” Paige said with a sigh.
“Work on a Saturday? What do you do?” Vincent seemed both genuinely surprised and impressed, like the answer might be interesting. She hated to disappoint him, but she didn’t find her job terribly interesting. It was just normal for her. “My family raises horses that are trained and used to help in therapy for mentally handicapped people - like individuals with down syndrome and autism and stuff. Tomorrow is mainly a grooming and shoeing day. So, up bright and early to start shoeing then on to sudsing them up. Takes most of the day since we have about twelve horses used for the sessions.”
Vincent’s brows raised and he nodded. “I haven’t heard that before. Is it something you like doing? Working with animals and helping the handicapped?”
Paige had to think on it a bit. Maybe a few years ago she would have had an automatic yes come flying out of her mouth. More recently it would have been an automatic no. Now, with just the right amount of alcohol in her system to tell her she should probably think about calling a cab but would be just fine driving, she wasn’t so sure. She loved working with the horses, but sometimes found herself a bit on edge around the clients. When she realized it had been a few minutes of him looking at her for the answer, she looked at him. “Yeah,” she said with a nod and a smile slowly spreading on her face. “Yeah, I do like it.”
It called my name again last night. In my dreams, as it always does. I stood in the darkness once more, the only light around me. The dark voice called my name. I felt the icy hands of my awaiting fate grasp my arm and I turned away, my eyes closed to the void as the shadow of my contract wrapped its coils around me. When I opened them, I was sitting awake in my bed. After so many years, so many times, I simply sat there; my breath was already calm. How much longer can I turn away from my destiny? How many more times can I ignore the pull of the shadow bound to me?
My eyes are closed when I sigh and wave my hand. The words once swirling in the air as smoke float to the waiting tome on the ebony polished wood desk. The candles sitting atop the high ledge lining the stone room flicker to life in a sweeping motion from behind my bed, heading in both directions around the round room until both waves meet above the desk. The words whisper back to me, repeating back my words as each seals itself onto the ashen paper. Another wave of my hand and I can hear the pages riffle as the book shifts closed then vanishes as shifting smoke. Although, I may not know the exact repercussions that might come about from that book leaving my possession, I cannot risk finding out. The others would not understand, our enemies could find a way to use it against me and, thus, my kin - those two things I was sure of.
I stand and hold out my arms. Smoke appears from thin air in wafts to sweep over my lithe body and form a spectral robe over my sable nightgown. A fire flares to life to flicker as indigo flames lick at the wood and chases away the whispers of the shadows the candles had cast into the room. Smoke rolls off the bottom of the robe as I glide to the window to look out onto the starless night.
The wind dances all the way up to my high tower window and plays with my long, chestnut hair; the full length of my wavy tresses tossed around behind me. I draw in a deep breath; the air smells like earth, brimstone, and morning dew. My eyes narrow; magic.
There is a knock on the thick arched door of my room. I turn and wave my hand toward the hearth. The fire pops and the flames reach higher as they change to reds and oranges and yellows fighting for dominance. My eyes fix on the door as the spectral robe solidifies, hiding my voluptuous figure from shoulder to ground. "Enter." With that one word, the door latch shifts and it creaks open the slightest crack.
"Sorry to disturb you, Mistress Keaira," Barid's soft voice comes into the room before he pushes the door open more. "We have just received a message for you."
"What of it?" My voice is as tight as my smooth face; my temper short from the stolen sleep.
"You are requested to meet with the one known as The Overseer. There is need of your gifts. Darkness -."
"I will learn of my needs when I arrive," I snap at first. I draw in a breath to return the graceful, nearly seductive melody to my voice, though I keep authority there all the same. "Go to the stables and have my horse readied."
Barid bows and shuts the door. Deep, rumbling laughter fills my room from the ghost of memory. I feel the icy grip upon my shoulder yet again, each finger curling around my arm as cold breath brushes my cheek.
I look to the flames in my hearth and tighten a fist. The fire roars higher, flames stretching into the flute. The shade vanishes from my presence and the laughter dissipates. The amber flames dance, reflected by my eyes as I stare at it. I can feel the natural cobalt blue of my eyes replaced by black, reflecting my mood.
Of all the things to take with me on a journey to the Overseer, I was bringing my dark contract for that is what would be needed as my part of the deal. Without it, my skill with blades and inherent magical ability would fail eventually.
I lace up my black suede pants and leather swordswoman bodice of blue with black accent, worn over a black shirt. I buckle on my sash-belt, part hanging above and part hanging below my right hip - the top holding a few pouches and the lower hosting a sheath for a stiletto dagger - on the left, my long sword hangs. My duelist boots complete the outfit and I fasten my blue and black quartered cloak around my shoulders.
One hand grabs my foot long twisted onyx wand engraved with glowing silver runes. The fingers of the other hand dance the single handed pathways to close and seal every drawer and extinguish every flame, lock every book into place on my shelves and secure every loose paper to my desk. I cast one last look to the darkened room. A shadowy face smiles back at me and laughs silently. My eyes narrow once more as I shut the door, closing off the way for my demons to look at me. For now.
The slow plinks of a music box sounded somewhere in the darkness. It was the same single pick melody that always played at this time. Yume could never find it, but she supposed she was never meant to. By morning, it would all be but a dream. Perhaps it truly was a dream. Her nights were sleepless enough she couldn’t truly tell where dream and reality ended. All she knew was the darkness of her room, and that as silence settled over the building and all grew still - the music box played.
This room, this tiny cell of a room, was her world when she was home. Her prison, her haven. Every night, that door locked from the outside. Trapping her in darkness with but a bed and some blankets for company. Every night, as everything else settled to slumber and even the walls and floors stopped creaking, the music box sang to her. Somewhere, in her darkness.
It sounded like a waltz, at least that’s what she started thinking when she finally knew what types of different music there were. A slow, haunting waltz she could picture dancing to. She never dared - uncertain of what disturbing the stillness might do - but she dreamed of it. When she’d hear the music, she’d close her eyes and imagine herself drifting, slowing along with the melody and filling the notes it missed.
Her eyes remained open tonight, staring up at the darkness that was her ceiling as she lay and listened. Somewhere that song played. It called to her. She could feel it in her bones, the urge to heed the call. To get up. To dance.
She sat up, turning to sit with her legs off the bed. Dare she? It felt like ice rushed through her veins, freezing her to her core at the thought. If she danced and made a sound, if anyone woke...
Her breathing shook. Nerves. She leaned forward a bit, gently - slowly - placing her foot to the ground, toes then ball then heel. First one, then the other, before slowly rising from her bed. The floor didn’t creak. The music didn’t stop.
She realized she was holding her breath when she felt lightheaded. It was reflexive, to stop even breathing in the fear at just existing. But nothing had happened. Her eyes closed. She could feel the music, the pull, urging her to dance.
She took a step and froze. The plinks continued. She made another. The song persisted. Slow, measured, steps began. Bare feet on wood floors. Careful, light steps carrying her around in time to the melody she both heard and imagined as accompaniment. Except, as she danced - it sounded like the music quickened. First slow to help her get her footing, and feel the melody fully. But progressively, it grew faster. She hadn’t realized, not entirely. She just enjoyed the ability to swirl and turn and move freely.
Until she stepped on a loose floorboard.
Yume stopped, freezing as her nightgown skirting settled around her legs. She was afraid to even move, to dive back into bed. Anything would make more sound. Especially when she realized how utterly quiet it was for that moment. There was no more plinks, no more melody to carry on.
Then she heard the footsteps coming down the hall.
