Clumsywordsmith

Resounding Provocation: The Council of Shadows

Staring, staring through the rainstreaked glass – droplets spattering endlessly against the iron sash, something in his head to clear that couldn't quite be cleansed. The sun was setting, but her progress was difficult to gauge; the horizon nothing but a smudge of black clouds, the rains rattling against the panes as Lucius continued to watch. The keening wail of a violin wafted through the damp in the air, bringing a little warmth to the room as it wound its way about the cold ashes of the hearth, the dead lamps sitting upon the tables, whispered over the rug to creep up behind and trill softly into his ear. A sigh followed. His hands clasped, unclasped. He turned, walked to the table and refilled the empty glass.

Settling himself comfortably in his favoured chair -- perched at an angle to the dead fire – one leg propped against his knee, one hand clasped about his ankle, the glass balanced precisely in the other, he proceeded to watch.

“So very... melancholy...” he whispered to himself, voice scarcely loud enough to carry past the tenuous notes of the weeping instrument; a thin smile formed on his lips – one he swiftly masks with a sip from the tumbler. But she does not see, her own gaze downcast, eyes half lidded, body swaying to and fro with each quavering note... his own eyes close as well, the smile coming unbidden to his lips once more as a memory carries him away with the rising swell of the music...

A grey evening, overcast and clouded – one he knew they would love. One he had waited for so long now himself. No other would do, so he had long since planned. She was smiling then, giggling and blushing as she lowered the bow and looked toward the trampled grass below, avoiding her lover's gaze. They stood upon the crest of the hill, gazing toward the endless sea of grey green below, the moor stretching out before them in vast expanse; suddenly, without warning, she lays a slender hand on his breast – exclaims as her eyes go wide:

“What was that!” He starts, pauses a moment – a frown quickly erased, a smile replaced as he waves a hand.

“Nothing my dear, nothing at all! I'm sure of it!” She smiles at this, but it is uneasy now. I smile myself – smile in anticipation as she lifts the bow to the strings again, allow my eyes to drift shut as I strain to hear... to hear her breath, to hear every motion, as though I could hear every beautiful emotion as they reveal themselves through the strings. But the music stops. My eyes snap open. Something, somewhere – some irrepressible urge in the deepest recesses of my mind – the tension that had been waiting so long, the release I had desired. Waited, denied myself – even tortured my own being – and now I sprang. Sprang in that very moment as the music stops, as he reaches to envelope her in their last embrace.

The screams. I know – know as surely as I feel them myself, as the music changes, as the tones become erratic – know she feels them too, remembers as clearly as our thoughts and memories of the time have become entwined. And then it stops. The last few notes quiver into a final profusion of disarray, trail away into weeping. Tears and sobbing. The violin clatters to the tiled floor, the distinct crack of aged wood on hard stone. I rise and pad softly over to where she sits. Thrust my index finger beneath her chin, raise the tearful eyes to stare forcefully into my own.

“You were wonderful... my dear... exquisite...” Her face blanches at this, and she manages a moment to snarl – one delicate lip curling upward in disgust, one newly acquired fang glinting in the glare of the solitary chandelier dangling from the rafters far above our heads. Some strength in this one! I laugh. Release her from my gaze, allow her to bury her stricken face in her hands, sob after sob wracking her form as I stalk my way back to the window.

'Strong...” I mutter, quietly to myself – outside her hearing now, not that it matters. “But not strong enough; what did his blood taste of to you I wonder?” I raise my voice, though her answer concerns me little; something in the intensity of the tears as they break out anew, however, is all the reply I seek. “Yours was sweeter, sweeter by far my dear. And just think!” Here I pause, gaze out into the deepening shadows beyond, gesture vaguely with the now-empty glass: “He gave you everything he promised. Even his own life, down to the last drop of blood. How perfect! Might anyone have conceived of a love so pure?”

A rage now, a rage as simple and directed as the same that led her to destroy her own beloved – I sense her rushing up behind me long before, perhaps, she is even aware of the motion herself. A swift step to the side, a benevolent smile as I grab her by the throat and force her to the floor all in an instant; her breath is hot on my face, her eyes wide, pupils empty voids.

'Shhh... Careful, dear – and what happens when we allow ourselves to become so?” Her energy spent, she can do nothing but lie there as I rise again and turn to leave; sobs alternate with rasping gasps for air as both fists flex convulsively.

I revel in it. Revel in the pain, revel in the revulsion – turn to watch her writhe upon the floor, caught somewhere in the midst of her own revilement and self pity, before turning and slamming shut the door.

**********

Lucius drew a deep breath of the bracing night air; the council was not far from his his secluded haunt on the moors, and there was something he found enjoyable in this otherwise humanely pedestrian manner of travel – a horse surging beneath his legs, obeying his will as he chose to exert it, the rush of air on his face, the faint memories of centuries so long past as to be nearing the point of oblivion.

Punctuality, in all the space of time between, had never been his weakness, and so Lucius found himself lurking in the corner of the Council's waiting chambers, partially through his first glass of bloodwine before he sensed Seraphine's approach – his was a reverie not yet to be broken, however, and he did not at once acknowledge her presence, thoughts seeming lost in his memories of the evening's entertainment as the goblet spins idly beneath restless fingers.

Resounding Provocation: The Council of Shadows

Katelyn said
Clumsy - Lovely job. Give me a picture and you'll be set. If you need help finding one, I'll offer my skills to assist you. Read through my vamps CS so that you can see that you're not to far off from her, so I'll assume she created you if you're good with that. Not much time between my story and yours. "smells the stench, the blood – but perhaps most beautiful of all, the fear; that most exquisite of human emotions" <-- Awesome!! Loved this as my lips turned up into a pleased smirk.

Thanks -- I was wishing I had a little more time to work on it, but such is life. And that works for me; I kept the history purposefully vague to leave room for development as ideas strike. If you'd like to find a picture for him, feel free to go ahead: I tend to find other people's physical interpretations of my written description more interesting than my own.

I'd intended to put up an IC today, RL said otherwise, so expect something at some point tomorrow evening.

Resounding Provocation: The Council of Shadows

Introduction:

A thick haze of ash and smoke rose skyward, the dull amber of flames lapping at the edges of a crimson sky; all was quiet now, save for the constant crackling and snapping of the raging fires – the last of the screams having been swallowed into the night, the few faint murmurs that remained drowned in the burning wreckage. A solitary figure – cloaked, hooded, mounted atop a horse a few shades darker than the surrounding night – might be made out in the haze, traversing the crooked lane leading from the vanishing remnants of what must have once been a small farmstead.

The horse and figure alike come to a halt in the muddy yard just before what remains of a small porch; a shattered door leans crazily upon twisted hinges, the handle wrenched from the wood itself in a show of some obscene strength. Glass litters the lawn, thousands of tiny pinpoints distorting and twisting the flames in an ugly reflection of blood and and fear and pain. A wretched figure huddles before the ruined building, head tilting up in a mixture of fright and detached curiosity, just in time to see the mounted figure swing slowly from the saddle, cloak and coat alike swirling in the sudden movement as booted feet land with a wet splatter on the sodden dirt Slow, measured strides. The soft crunch and crackling of breaking glass, the squelch of blood and innards as he steps deliberately through the mangled remains of an inert figure sprawled between the two of them. Another step, another, then he halts.

“Rise” The voice is cold, spoken as a command that brooks no objections; the bloodless lips break into a fanged smile as the figure responds almost at once – a sickeningly long tongue flicks out once, like a snake's. He draws a deep breath. Smells her – smells the stench, the blood – but perhaps most beautiful of all, the fear; that most exquisite of human emotions.

There is a pause here, a silence – and then, just as he reaches wordlessly toward the figure, hand extending claw-like toward her neck, tongue creeping out, inching slowly, slowly toward its prey... there is the whirring whistle of something else, something unexpected. His whole form twitches, blinks to the side in a rush – almost too late; there follows a rending growl of pain as one hand reaches toward the silver-tipped bolt that suddenly sprouts from his left shoulder. With a crazed smile, he grabs the cursed head, pulls the thing free in one motion, growling again as the tear of sinew and tissue is followed by the steady pulse of blood and sizzling of burning flesh. In the same instant his other hand is upon his sword, a swift kick sending the hapless woman crumpling into a heap against the door, and then a single leap back into the saddle of the horse.

The chilling sound of laughter in the distance comes trickling down from just beyond the eves of the nearby wood; a few faint words caught on the wind: “Coward... Coward!”

Let them taunt. The time was not yet ripe. And his rage at being caught in such a time too great to control. He clenched his teeth and spat and clenched his teeth again. Spurred the horse onward, plunging wildly into the darkness. His hunger would have to be satisfied elsewhere that night.

Name: Lucius Blake

Age: Turned in his mid twenties, at some point in the early dark ages.

Species: Vampire

Gender: Male

Human Appearance: Tall and gaunt, the ancient paths of many immortal years written into the cold blue of his eyes, he retains a reservedly modest appearance in dress and taste. His bearing imperious, the contrast between pale skin and dark hair – long, though kempt – imparts the severity typical of his kind.

Beast Appearance: A hideous creature of mottled reds and browns; clawed feet and a barbed tail lend an almost reptilian appearance to this monstrosity – the skin is pebbly in texture, blotched here and there with leprous discoulorations or the trailing gouges of ancient wounds long since healed. While the torso is largely humanoid, the leathery expanse of bat-like wings and fanged maw would swiftly end all comparisons to anything vaguely human.

Personality: A mixture of facades, Lucius is rumoured even amongst his own kind to be a strangely twisted example of Vampiric immorality and hedonistic tendencies. Whilst managing to maintain the facade of a wealthy – if reclusive and faintly eccentric landowner – Lucius' nightly forays into the darker side of his nature reveal a creature who has long since lost sight of any shred of his own humanity.

Brief History:

At the early beginnings of his distant past Lucius lived as the bastard son of a minor noble of the decaying Roman Empire; his time as a human was to be only short lived, and though he himself cannot seem to remember the events of his turning – either that, or he simply refuses to speak of it – his memory of the many centuries since have remained almost untouched despite the years between. While his early years as a vampire were marked with the savage debaucheries of a beast unrestrained, his tastes – even if retaining their gruesome flavour – gradually receded to more of a pastime and less of a livelihood.

Preferring to dwell on the edge of most significant events rather than ever playing any central role, Lucius evaded much of the Church's scrutiny despite engaging in some of the more heinous crimes of the dark past – ever ready to allow others to slip and somehow take the blame for his own actions, his name remained largely unknown to the hunters of the time – save perhaps as an enigmatic shadow, the elusive disease that seemed to shift and flow with he change in time, sweeping through Europe as whim and fancy took him, before finally fading into quiet obscurity in the New World just as the Church finally disbanded the last of the Hunters and turned a blind eye to the creatures of the night.

But wheels are turning again, and for Lucius the glories of the past are only ever a moment's thought away – age and time have not rendered him complacent, and those urges of his youth were merely repressed, but never extinguished. Perhaps the thrill of the hunt awaits once more.

Resounding Provocation: The Council of Shadows

The weekend is looking a touch busy for me; I'll have my character up Sunday evening.

Resounding Provocation: The Council of Shadows

Tonight would be most excellent. A fresh bottle of scotch, new headphones and several gigabytes of lossless classical music to work through; a snowstorm heading in and no excuse to not find excuses to give my dying brain cells new life on the page.

Resounding Provocation: The Council of Shadows

Yarr, how's things, Dot? Maybe my character will actually, like, have a chance to interact with yours this time around.

Early 19th century; sounds good. I'll give vampire a try -- territory I have yet to explore in writing, so should be interesting.

Resounding Provocation: The Council of Shadows

What approximate time period are we looking at for this?

I can throw a character of any race into the mix -- probably Werewolf or Vampire, considering their current lack of player representation.

Shattered & Scattered

Hmm, I thought I'd written the limitation right in there -- that the untrained or weaker practitioners were at risk of finding themselves inadvertently absorbing too much of the victim's mind and thoughts, and gradually finding themselves going insane because of it. Perhaps the point I'm not making clear is that just because he knows these spells does not mean he is completely competent in using them to their fullest extent. Like another language -- there is a distinct difference between having a grasp of it and being fluent.

And I understand your hesitancy in regards to mind control -- I would be leery as well . But to clarify, this is not mind control, rather, it is manipulation on a very minor scale. The strike that goes awry, the arrow that just barely misses, so on and so forth. He cannot directly force anyone to do something -- he is still too much a novice for that.

Shattered & Scattered

Hmm, I could always play him as a few years older -- simply because I envisioned the offensive and defensive spells to compliment one another, and to form (along with the healing spell) the core of the Bereaved's essential training. Some might be more inclined toward specializing in one specific branch from there, and so on. The final spell, as it were, is more of a passive effect, yes -- the actual invocation would be a sort of Deus Ex Machina that would in most normal circumstances involve the sacrifice of the caster himself.

The healing spell is not quite meditation -- more an ability that takes place while sleeping, when he has the capability to walk amongst the threads of his own dreams and those of others. Simply meditating would not be enough to reach this state, rather, you might see it more as a magical form of lucid dreaming.

As for a picture... Well, I'm bad with that. In fact, I tend to be a stickler for not finding portraits for my characters; imagery is evoked through artistry, and I very much enjoy moulding a character through words only, and allowing the reader to form their own impression as to appearances. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then how many pictures could I create with the same thousand words?

Shattered & Scattered

Fire and ash – a swirling maelstrom of colours to assault me as I walked the obsidian path; I could sense no longer which pain was greater, the fear that lurked still in my heart or the burning heat that lay just below the crater's rim. One step. Two. An agony of torment. My feet bled, burned – tore anew and bled again. I coughed and when I coughed spewed forth black soot; I spat and when I spat it was charcoal and cinders; I might have cried, but the last drops of moisture within me were all but boiling. There was nothing to do. Nothing but to walk onward.

Three steps, four. Suffering of lifetimes compacted into a single point and sent down, down, driving down with a force I could... could not summon the strength, could do nothing but feel myself be carried along. My jaw clenched, my form tensed in expectation of a fiery plunge – and then? And then nothing. I rolled and tumbled, over and over again, wrapped it seemed into the very heart of the mountain. But it was no longer I, rather it was -me-, caught somewhere at the edge of what is real and what is unreal, what is conscious and what is unconscious: where these two forces meet, both those concepts of which we are aware and yet do not admit to, and those which we admit to and yet are not aware.

Like sand at the water's edge, with the tide lapping ever further and further, creeping fingers trailing upward before being pulled away, withdrawn again to leave everything distinctly changed. New things deposited. Old things taken away, carried somewhere into the deep.

Perhaps it simply was that I dreamt. And now I wake to find myself in a pleasant little glen; there is water here – a pond and willows and a lush swath of green grass running right down to the gently swaying edge. My feet ache, and I thirst... oh how I thirst! I can see a blue sky above me. I must be on my back. I roll over and begin to crawl, to crawl one painful hand over the next – if only! If just! To merely drag myself to the edge of the pond -- cutting a blackened trail of ash and blood and grime through the pristine lawn as I go – takes every ounce of strength I can summon up again within me.

I plunge my head into the pleasant waters...

But blackness! And pain, so much pain! The pool evaporates into a seething cauldron of lava. I feel the flesh disintegrate in my face, blackness covers me as my eyes melt away and I half-fancy the sound of my own bones crackling in the heat...

Fire and ash – a swirling maelstrom of colours assaults me as I walk the obsidian path; I can no longer say how many times I have tried to find the end and failed – nor, perhaps, if I even will before there is too little left of what once was me to remember. But still I can remember my name – my name is Jezeric Nashira.

Age: Twenty-five or thereabouts

Appearance: Thin, lithe – features angular and lupine in nature, hair dark black – kept long and tied back – eyes a deep grey. A light olive shade of skin. His hands are somewhat slender, for a man's, and he stands only a little above average height. Stature, while unremarkable, he carries well – movements fluid, languid almost, as though he had discovered the most efficient way to carry out every motion and thus sees no reason to hurry.

Personality: Loyal but Stubborn, Level-headed yet faintly Calloused, Open Minded but Egotistical. Generous to those in need, Ascetic in almost every aspect of his personal life.

Origin: Jezeric is one of the Bereaved – a select group of Warrior Shamans who dwell in and around the volcanoes scattered throughout the length and breadth of Syrro. While the vast majority of the Shamanic sects are relatively peaceful in nature, the Bereaved might be considered the tip of the spear in the small yet terribly competent contingent of their military arm. With a life focused first and foremost on the mastering of one's own Psyche, the mental training and deep forays into realms of distantly altered consciousness provide a natural platform from which to develop a deadly combatant.

Spells:

Defensive:

Obsidian Mind:

With such a thorough understanding of his own mind and existence, Jezeric is able to channel magic in brief, one-off attempts to foil opponent's attacks, or all else failing, warp the area around he or a nearby friend such that enemies will quickly become confused as their limbs react in opposing direction to what their minds order. While far more practiced and higher-order Shaman's might be capable of extending this into actual control of another's mind, Jezeric's abilities are still some distance from such a mark. To provide a protective shield for just a few minutes at a stretch would be enough to drive a normal man literally insane.

Healing:

Sleep of the Dead:

Jezeric is able to seek the solace and comfort of his dreams in a way that untrained humans never could; while the body rests in a state entirely apart from the mind and soul, he can focus on channeling his own unconsciousness into a more tangible form. Still, the paths of the dreamworld are risky at best – downright deadly at others – and even should one remain near the shores of their own mind, there is the ever-present danger of anything going horribly wrong. Should he himself be of sound enough mind and body, the power might also be channeled to others he can reach in the dreaming world around him.

Offensive:

Lance of the Abyss:

In a similar yet opposite manner to Obsidian Mind, this skill allows Jezeric the ability to gain insight on his opponent's move – with training, it means that he can estimate with deadly accuracy what their next attack will be, possibly before they even know it themselves. (provided the opponents have little training in the ways of keeping their minds guarded and their thoughts concealed)

Roar of the Volcano:

In their final test before they might don the traditional vestments of the Beraved, acolytes must successfully walk the Obsidian Path; at its end they will find themselves entering into a pact with the denizens of the world just beyond human consciousness. The price is the loss and regathering of every memory and thought they had ever born in their life prior. The reward is twofold – firstly the ability to gain invaluable insight into their own soul (the prime focus of all Shamans), and secondly the ability to channel the power between one plane and the next. But such acts almost always lead to the insanity and eventual death of the Shaman who attempts it, and history has proven so brutal with those that have tried that it is seen as a self-sacrifice in only the greatest of need.

Any questions, feel free to ask for clarification/changes. I would have gone more in depth, but you seemed to want briefer intros... so... I'll kept things relatively brief in the interest of brevity.