Clumsywordsmith

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Nestor Grimsley – Demonspawn

As the others begin to filter in, Nestor gradually seems to rouse himself a bit; a wrinkling of one nostril leads his eyes toward the stationary form of the golem a little ways off – catching a bit of the scent of smoke on the cool evening air, he lurches up to his feet and steps gingerly over the grass toward the hulking creature. He does not speak at first, rather, simply stands a little ways off, eyes on the silhouette of the swiftly fading horizon. After a time, his eyes tilting sideways toward the golem, he remarks quietly:

“Strange – I did not know your kind to take to such things.” Here he pauses, wets his lips – casts another furtive glance out toward the distance; the cold seems to trouble him little, despite the incessant wind tugging at the thin excuse for cloth of his checkered hospital gown. He does not speak again at once, though in the space between you might notice a sudden chilling of the air around him – perhaps nothing to bother a golem, if you even truly know what cold or warmth would seem to a human – a soft sigh of cold winter wind that whispers behind you, words spoken in the keen, icy tones of something inhumanely feminine:

“What our Dear Nestor means to add, I should think – to cut things right down to the goddamn chase – is that he'd like a smoke, and you've got one, but he's too damn stuck-up-the-ass to say it outright.” The words are followed by a subtle roll of the eyes on the Demonspawn's part, a shimmering of the air following in their wake, the icy-hard form of what might appear to be an ice demoness flickering into view on the Golem's opposite side. No mere vision only, but a real, solid construct – or appearing as much.

“Well, yes – now that it's out in the open, I suppose I shouldn't mind one, if you've got it to spare. The last few days have been... hmm... well – difficult...” He trails off into silence, plucking absently at a crease in his rather ignominious attire, before suddenly looking up again and offering a slender hand in the Golem's direction while exclaiming “Ahh, and my apologies – Nestor, Nestor Grimsley; I will refer to you as 'Golem who Smokes', unless you have a more appropriate name mayhap?”

Adam – Golem
Turning only his eyes, Adam watched the other B&H employee come nearer. The golem recognized the other by sight, but never had he officially met, only silently catalogued in distant golem fashion. Where others might have found an approach followed by a stretch of silence uncomfortably awkward, Adam simply waited. None could wait as patiently as he, and he imagined the other would not have closed the distance without reason. At the golem’s lips, the ember burned a bit brighter; the ashy tip grew. Adam breathed grey smoke out to the side slowly. Waiting.

Then the other spoke. Adam took his time to phrase a reply, as was his wont. Such things, the one before him had said. Was Adam a Such Thing? He supposed he was, in fact.

The change in temperature was barely noticed by the Golem, not on a conscious level at least. Cold, warm, clothed, naked, it was all nearly the same to Adam, subtle differences. He often had to take the cue how to react from the blood and flesh beings, and this hospital-gowned-one was not giving him the impression of frigid air. The icy words from behind, though… Adam did detect those. His reaction was minimal. Merely a slight turn of his head, the cocking of a dark ear, his large hand lifting ponderously to remove the cigarette from his lips with thumb and fore. He blew slow smoke, processing. Supernatural antics in the midst of his crew was not unexpected, and Adam did not startle easily.

Adam listened. He took a moment to consider.

“Oh,” the golem answered at last, the one syllable seeming to vibrate through the ground with its tonal depth. Spoken as a casual acknowledgment, as if it was customary for the golem to receive explanation from frigid demonic beings in his ear.

Adam’s shaded eyes crossed gradually back down to … Nestor, as the man had introduced himself. Adam regarded the outstretched hand for several seconds. Without hurry, the golem replaced his cigarette in his own mouth, then reached out, gripping and near mechanically shaking Nestor’s hand with obviously much-restrained strength -- the light touch was just shy of bone-crushing. Then he let go. He reclaimed a fresh white stick and lighter from his pocket and offered to the other.

“I am Adam,” said the golem simply.

Nestor Grimsely – Demonspawn

With a whispered breath the demoness' attention suddenly shifts, eyes locking upon the arrival of the elf and her entourage of invisible followers – invisible to the others, perhaps. But not to her, nor seemingly to Nestor, who turns himself and glances briefly; a glance preoccupied, and he takes only time enough to purse his lips in a moment's contemplation before returning his attention to the Golem.

The Demoness, however, has other plans; with a frenzied rush she swoops across the grass to stand directly in front of the Elf; bending down, she peers curiously at the woman, before beginning a slow, stalking walk in a circle about where she stands. Head canted, neck craned forward, eyes shifting to and fro – first to the Necromancer, then to one of the following ghosts, then back to the victim. Finally, only after drawing a long, slow breath and giving a viciously toothy smile does she speak:

“Now here is an interesting one, dear sweet thing... You smell Beau-ti-fuul. Positively gorgeous. Like.... death... but...” There is a pause here. The demoness stands fully erect, thrusts a finger into the air – as though expounding upon some point (though the importance thereof might be seemingly lost to anyone save her) – and glances sidewards at the newcomer before continuing “Different from the other girl – she isn't here yet. Not, not yet. But she will be. Oh yes! I can sense it. Do you see him, standing over there like the lummox that he is?” Here she seeks to gently lay one icy, clawed hand upon the Elven woman's shoulder – and, should she not attempt to slip away – coax her to look in the direction of Nestor and the Golem standing together a little ways off.

But, in the very moment of touching you, the sense of an inevitable death comes sweeping in – perhaps different, than in the past. Not one death, not a pair of deaths... no, rather an endless cycle of painful suffering, the crying and wailing of scores of lost souls – but the sound seems to come less from the demoness, and more toward the man to whom she points; and if you stare closely enough, no doubt you would begin to see his image morph and change on occasion. Now and then taking the look of some ghostly figure from time long past – human, inhuman, monstrous and otherwise alike... Straining to catch any individual death amongst the endless repetition seems to only further the chaos, and all in the moment that you think you might have seen -his-, his alone amongst... She releases her hold.

Steps back with a skip, gives an almost girlish giggle, covers her mouth with a hand and peers at you once more, as if gauging your response. Nestor, for his part, seems quite oblivious to it all.

Anastasia – Necromancer

Anastasia stood still talking to her friends when she was interrupted by a visit of a strange women. Caught off guard she took a slight step back "Oh..uh...hello" she said giving her a nervous grin but she seemed to not even listen to it. She watched the women talk to her, then stand up using some sort of finger magic. Hesitant to move away she decided she wanted to stay, she watched the women play her tricks on her curious to see what would happen. " wh-what other girl?" she asked slightly confused by this whole situation. Directing her attention to the group of men she had just left she looked at the two strangers. She was about to look back to the women but was interrupted by weird visions of one man, were they even visions she wasn't sure what she was seeing.

Her thoughts were immediately interrupted, the sounds of suffering an pain surfaced to her mind. She looked at the man she pointed at, Anastasia was used to pain and suffering it was not something she was unfamiliar with.Soaking in the cycles of pain she absorbed it into her body. She could see his image morphing and change slightly she wanted to take a step to investigate the weird images she was seeing more but then all of a sudden it stopped. She watched the girl skip back, seeing her eye her. What was that, what did she just see. Most importantly who was that man.

" No .. she is a friend.. i think. "

She whispered..

" I'm fine"

she got irritated now as she waved her hand in the ghosts form as it circled her. She walked over slowly to the group that the girl had just gone back to her eyes not leaving Nestor, she stopped right beside him her eyes not leaving him, and not saying anything. It seemed like almost five minutes before she finally said something " mmm...Hi.." she said giving him an odd grin before looking back at the women with a questionable glare. She looked at the other man with them and smiled at him aswell " Hi.." she nodded but looked back to the original man who she had spoke to first.

Nestor Grimsely – Demonspawn

The Demonspawn does not at first appear to note Anastasia's quiet approach – rather, he remains standing a little ways off from the golem, lips pursed and seeming half-distracted with some all-important thought as he puffs away quietly on the Golem's gift (and, the astute observer might notice the occasional flexing of his right hand... perhaps still attempting to shake off the smart of the creature's mighty grip); it is not until the woman speaks that he seems to take notice of her presence. His change in demeanour is sudden – in one moment staring into blank space, in the next gaining a little life as he turns to face the Elfen creature. Tucking one arm behind his back, he offers a restrained bow by way of greeting, then remarks with a faint smile:

“Good evening, Miss; she tells me we are to refer to you as 'Death Girl' – this seems to me... unseemly... but I know who you are already” Here he pauses, raising a hand slightly – as if to forestall any question, denoting an explanation as he continues (and meantime the Demoness – after offering a disgruntled kind of grimace at his words, comes to stand a little ways behind him – fingers laced, arms behind her back, she occasionally gives the Necromancer furtive glances, but remains otherwise silent): “Though don't be alarmed! Nothing out of the ordinary; I simply had occasion to read a bit of your dossier in the company files, and found your particular occupational talents... intriguing, shall we say?”

As he speaks, you might notice a gradual change in Nestor's eyes – for though they appear at first a cold, almost lifeless grey, the colour in the irises gradually begins to change, morphing with ever shifting speed from one colour to the next: blue, hazel, brown, green – even pink, red – then back again to their normal hue; still, his features remain mostly unchanged, even if now and again you might pick out the faint shadow of what seems to be some other face overlapping his own, then fading moments before you can make up your mind.

Turning, Nestor takes a moment to glance toward the Demoness – who meanwhile, it seems, has taken up a rather thorough inspection of the golem; hands still laced behind her back, she stalks slowly around him in faltering circles, pausing now and then to peer with childish curiosity at some aspect that seems to intrigue her – perhaps to remark “hmm....” or something equally inaudible beneath her frozen breath, but not as of yet actually saying anything.

Shaking his head, Nestor returns his attention to the Elf, finishing his thought:

“As it was, I have long been pondering a certain... hmm – difficulty, shall we say?-- of mine, and was delighted to find you here, as it may well be you could take me one step closer to eradicating the problem. If, of course, you are willing to help! It may well end up being quite dangerous – you may think on it, if you like. And ask anything you like – though I am sure we could have time to discuss the venture more when and if we have a chance after this little meeting; there are a few others I'll be needing as well.”

Anastasia – Necromancer

" death girl.." She thought for a moment as it brought a large smile to her lips " I have a nickname.. " the thought warmed her as she jumped for joy inside. Uncaring about the meaning the fact that someone knew about her before she even knew them made her warm inside. She was already liking this man, he bowed so politely and even gave her a nickname,,,, " I think he will be my new friend" she thought. Bringing herself to continue to listen to him the odd smile still plastered on her face.

" intriguing ... Well that is a first time I've heard that I suppose... I'll take that as a compliment...wait the company has a file on me... " she looked off with a happy grin " oh that's exciting ! I wish I could see my own file... Oh ... Or perhaps not, I do believe ignorance is bliss... " she paused "hmm or maybe I should know what if there telling lies and someone is out to get me... "Realizing she was talking to herself again she tried the hide the fact hoping not the weird out her new friend.

When she turned to look at him she was oddly taken aback by his ever changing face. This man was quite weird, she nodded to herself, " yes he will do well as a friend..." She thought as she cocked her head to the side getting lost in the Changing of his face and eye colour. She could hear words coming from his mouth but they seemed to go In audible in her mind. "Oh!" She bursted happily " you have lovely eyes, do they always change colours like that... And I think there is someone trying to escape from them but I can't be quite sure... " she started intensely without blinking for a few minutes.

Pulling herself out of a fascinated trace she clued into what he had asked of her. " you" she said bluntly " want me to help?" She paused as a shocked looked appeared on her face. " I would be delighted to help in any way I can... It's not every day someone needs me" she smiled again at him " when do we start." She clapped her hands together holding the in front of her gripping them together tightly egar to hear his response.

Nestor Grimsley – Demonspawn

Seeming upon the verge of replying, Nestor halts awkwardly in seeming-mid thought; one hand creeps involuntarily toward his face as his head tilts a bit to the side. Finally, he manages:

“Change colours... Oh? Hmm, well, I don't know...” But his momentary confusion is eased in an instant when Atticus arrives with a (much needed) assortment of clothing; Nestor's face creases into a grin before, quite briefly, he manages a laugh. Shaking his head, he offers in response to the Demon's remark:

“Perhaps when idle conversation is more prudent, Master Atticus, I might manage to tell you the more interesting details of -this-...” With the word 'this' he plucks once at the gown, before stooping to scoop up the pile of clothes and turning back toward Anastasia and the Golem. The demoness, it seems, is nowhere to be seen – having discreetly vanished moments after Atticus' approach.

“If you would both excuse me... I, well, will return directly. As for you... Death Girl – as you do not seem to so much mind the name!-- I shall let you know; but until then, do not become too eager; it is Atticus that called us here after all, and there is really no telling what surprises might be in store for us before another quiet moment.”

“Insofar as malfunctions are concerned, Master Siren... well, I do believe mine were functioning just fine right up to the point some overzealous hospital staff decided they were defective.”

With that, the Demonspawn offers a grunt, before beating a hasty retreat to the further side of the hill – though not without stumbling across Veti, crouched in the shadows nearby; he seems upon the verge of speaking, though one glance at her tear-streaked face seems to choke the words right out of him. He falters a moment, before simply remarking:

“It does me well to see you, Mistress Veti; as they say – 'Where hopes linger, the heart falters not'...” But some ways behind him, after he has vanished from view, a frigid whisper adds:

“Yet when the weight of the heart becomes too great to bear, the strings will snap... one by one...”

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

The short story: Her lover, the cavalier Warlock Max, was sent into the realm of death in order to chase down a super-evil vampire lady. Unfortunately, traveling to death's realm for an extended period necessitated, well, death.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Unlit said
I might need some help with my header thinger.

I can, like, totally dig it.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Nestor Grimsley: Demonspawn

...I rang the bell again, now for a fourth – then a fifth, a sixth time. Damn it all. I slipped the watch from my breast pocket, gave the numbers an irritated snarl – gave the bell an equally irritated ring. Seventh. Eighth. Still nothing, just that endless tapping on the glass behind me. The pitter-patter of rain against a dismal storefront in some seedy corner of an equally seedy little town; perhaps it had been a fine venue once – but the dark wood stain had all gone to mouldering rot, and the green of the slime that seemed to have worked its way up the further door led me to wonder whether the swollen thing could even be opened.

Ninth, tenth... still nothing. The tapping continued. I stared at the clock on the wall – four hours slow. Gave a snort. No wonder he was late. I had all but reached to ring the bell for the eleventh time when, to my vague surprise, the door actually opened a crack. A pair of strangely familiar eyes peered back at me from the darkness beyond. Something gave a little within me; something ticked in the back of my mind – I looked again at the clock, then to the eyes, then suddenly on a whim pulled my watch free again.

“You are late, Grimsley” The voice came from behind, and I whirled about in a start, the watch nearly flying free of my hands as I stared at the newcomer. The eyes vanished, and though I thought I might have heard something else – something from beyond the door even as it slammed to – I could not make out what it might be. Only notice that whomever it was had left a scrap of paper, left it to go drifting in lazy spirals toward the scummed stretch of haphazard tiles behind the counter.

“Late, Nestor Grimsley!” The speaker bore no features I could see, and his shadowy formed shifted to and fro without warning; I finally managed to pry open the suddenly resistant watch case, to take a few steps back from the approaching stranger. But the face of the watch was blank, an empty face, only laughter echoing forth as I mindlessly leapt behind the countertop, dove for the floor and scrabbled at the drifting scrap of paper.

The shadow proved faster, and I found my fingers snatching around the cold darkness of his empty form; caught up, swirling about me... and then a quiet nothingness.

***********
Nestor's eyes gradually opened. Blinked. Opened again. He groaned and held a hand up to his eyes at once, the blinding light from the window beyond branding itself painfully in the back of his skull. The surroundings were unfamiliar; where in the seventh circle of hell was he, anyway? Bland curtains, bland ceiling tiles, the steady hum of some quiet machinery -- that smell -- like an overly nosey bottle of some cheap twelve-year...

“Shit” Was all the Demonspawn could manage to mutter to himself as the realization dawned. The tapping began again – something at the window, it seemed. But the throbbing in his skull made rather certain it was no dream this time. With a groan he shrugged off the sterile embrace of the hospital covers, staggered upright, planted his feet firmly upon the floor and lurched upright. A move he immediately regretted, the motion sending a spurt of blood to his head, a fresh wave of pain wracking his form. Doubling over, he growled beneath his breath and staggered toward the window, mindlessly ripping free whatever needles they'd stuck him with the night before.

Squinting against the harsh morning light, Nestor gradually made out what seemed to be a small silver sphere, tapping incessantly at the window.

“I'll be damned...” Was all he could muster up once again. “Of all the things...” prying the window open just enough to retrieve the thing, he paused upon hearing voices in the hallway just beyond:

“Didn't look too good last night...”

“Nah, didn't think he'd pull through – strange though, you hear what they said last night?”

“Mmm?”

“Couldn't get an ID on him; no license, no cards, no nothing – just a few business cards in his wallet. 'Nestor Grimsley Consulting', or something along those lines.”

Nestor drew a breath – the ball clutched in one hand, he wasted no more time but headed straight for the door. The approaching pair still seemed caught up in their conversation, and it wasn't until he was halfway down the hall that anyone seemed to notice his presence.

“Excuse me, Sir!” Nestor walked faster – or staggered, rather – blundered toward the emergency exit and slipped through the door. Giving himself another moment to catch his breath, he paused just long enough before continuing to rip the handle of the fire alarm; as the blaring siren and lights came into play, he began his descent – steps becoming a little steadier with each flight, though the pain in his skull no better.

By the time he'd reached the garage floor and beat a hasty retreat to the streets, the droning klaxon had all but burned itself into his eardrums, reverberations continuing as he held himself gingerly against the nearest signpost. Gasping again, he heaved, fruitlessly gagging and spewing the acidic bits of whatever bile remained from his stomach. Too much too fast. He heard someone swear in dismay, to lower their phone and walk cautiously toward him

“Sir, you alright? Looking a little rough...”

“Yes, fine... I'll be borrowing that, though” He gave little time for response, snatching the phone from the would-be samaritan, brushing aside the ensuing exclamations as he dialed and brought the thing to his ear.

“Excuse me, just what the...” Nestor raised his left hand in an irritated gesture, listened to the ringing on the other end of the line.

“Edward Cunningham, speaking?”

“Damnit, Ned – where the hell have you been?”

“Ah, Sir! It's high time; I've been...”

“Who the hell do you think...?” Another irritated wave, now a waggling finger –

“Just shut up and let me talk! Ned – Never mind that; the hospital – just get out here.”

“Yes. Which hospital, Sir?”

“Damned if I know. Just follow the sirens.” With that he hung up, handed the pilfered phone absentmindedly back to its rightful owner, before proceeding to walk past the stunned bystander and taking a seat on a nearby bench.

Timely – as usual – Ned arrived only moments after the first of the fire crews, the sleek vehicle gliding up next to the curb just long enough for Nestor to slip inside, tearing off into the streets with a roar immediately afterward.

“Good to see you, Sir – if you don't mind the comment, you look like hell.”

“Ironic, really...” Was Nestor's unfinished reply, followed up almost at once with “Take us home, I need to change.” Ned offered a faintly amused quirk of his usually emotionless lips.

“Hospital gowns never did look very good on you, Sir.” The Demonspawn snorted and turned his attention to the sphere in his hands; allowing for just the right pattern of his own will to exude onto the thing, the interior of the vehicle momentarily dropped a few degrees before the letter sprang open with a metallic tear. Nestor snort turned to a growl of disgruntled dismay.

“Belay that, Ned – get me to the nearest B & H branch; apparently I've a meeting in Ireland a half hour sharp from now. Catch up with my things as soon as prudently possible, if you would.” The Vampiric chauffeur did not bat so much as an eye at this, only remarking briefly.

“Understood” With that, the Audi dropped into gear and took a sudden u-turn, slipped through a gap in the traffic and sped toward the heart of the city.

***********

By the time Nestor made it past the bewildered guards – who were at first inclined to stop the seeming-manic Demonspawn, but given room to think otherwise when he waved Atticus' letter wordlessly in their faces – and to the shade gates, he seemed to pause and take a moment to realise that he truly was still dressed in nothing but a hospital gown. He appears to hesitate for a moment, then – with an eventual shrug of his shoulders – he thrusts his right foot forward and steps through the portal.

His arrival upon the other side finds him, perhaps, a little less late than he had anticipated – strolling quite nonchalantly up to those who have gathered thus far, he offers the Siren a bit of a nod by way of greeting, but beyond that doesn't say much of anything – simply announcing the obvious in Atticus' direction:

“Well, well... I'm here. For the most part.” With that, he slumps to the grass, arranges the gown to cover as much of himself as possible, and wraps his arms about his knees – he might be seen to wince now and again as he rubs at his still-aching head.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Groovy.

I'll probably have something up in the next few hours.

Resounding Provocation: The Council of Shadows

Yeah, that's rough. I always compose in a word editor outside the browser, then copy paste.

Resounding Provocation: The Council of Shadows

Indeed -- response inbound.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Righto -- haven't really changed much from the original, aside from a brief blurb to vaguely cover whatever happened at the end of the prior RP.

And it's good to see so many familiar faces back again. I didn't think we'd be back in business so soon.

Name: Nestor Grimsley

Gender: Male

Age: Appears to be in his mid to late thirties, actual age is closer to four hundred and fifty years, give or take a few.

Creature Type: Demonspawn; a human with the soul of a demon.

"I can remember many things. I have done many things. And in no matter how many ways I try, I can't quite seem to successfully commit suicide"
Nestor Grimsley

What then of these demonspawn? Who and what were they? I do not believe we know ourselves, and if any did, most would doubtless keep it to themselves. Enough to say that each is consumed with the insatiable burning of a demon's soul, and yet left with the mind and body of a man; it is said we might live for an eternity, though few are those who live more than a lifetime without being wholly consumed by their own inner self and thus – in the end – devouring themselves to break free of their humanity.

Of those that survive, and somehow find balance upon the precarious brink between the two halves, it could hardly be said that they ever live a life of comfort or are given a moment's peace. The desire to feed might undo even the youngest of vampires, and how much more so a creature who finds itself twisted to the point of consuming its own soul?

Appearance: Generally prefers to dress quietly, with moderate tastes and mostly to the period. Granted, a few old habits remain: he seems quite possessive of an old gold pocketwatch that he keeps with him constantly, and his hair is left long -- though tied back tightly and kept well free of his face.

When she should choose to show herself, Nestor's demonic soul most often takes the form of a crystalline, vaguely humanoid being; it is generally unclear – perhaps to Nestor just as much as anyone else – what her motives might be, and her choices or feelings do not always reflect those of Nestor's humanity. Still, to see her as a separate entity entirely would be incorrect, as the two are are inexorably linked.

Skillset: Nestor Grimsley, as with most of the company's more 'unstable' operatives, tends to work on the basis of a subcontractor with a per-job contract arrangement, and the mutual understanding that his services – while beyond adequate and backed fully with a curriculum vitae that extends for several centuries – will be called upon only when absolutely necessary. While he remains one of the few demonspawn who has managed (apparently) to stave off the constant gnawing of his demonic soul for nearly as long as the company itself has been around, such assets are considered at best a usable tool for especially difficult (or clandestine) jobs, and at worst a recipe for a multinational shit-storm and mass grave cover-up should things go really wrong. Thus, perhaps an asset best kept off the books. Somewhere Nestor would prefer to remain.

Though he does, admittedly, wield a respectable bit of power in the case of need, Nestor prefers to present his strengths as an academic and general renaissance man of the 21st century; a glorified jack-of-all-trades, though perhaps that would be a term best used behind his back. And out of earshot. A sane, civilized and cultured demonspawn is still a demonspawn, after all. Despite having failed so spectacularly whilst on assignment for the company some two centuries ago, Nestor found himself contacted once again for a contract of an especially delicate nature – surprising, considering the extent of the fallout caused years prior. To the great relief of his employers, no doubt, disaster was (in some cases rather narrowly) averted, and for the first time in two hundred years Nestor finds himself again on the Company's short list.

Still, some might consider it a question of when and not if he might lose control again.

Background:

An Introduction:

A slow smile creased his face; boot heels crunched in the wake of each methodical step, splintered shards of colour and glass sent strewn, scattering across the floor toward an ever growing pool of blood. He was amidst it now, black leather cutting furrows through the ebbing tide of the dying -- a sword, clasped lightly in the hand, snaked behind him with angry intent.

"You say I drink blood? That I lap like a dog upon the rivulets running bright from a man's throat?" He was closer now, a few strides only, perhaps, from his fallen opponent; the latter, face pale and wan, head hanging as he sought to prop himself against the stone balustrade of the balcony, had one hand clutched to his gut -- blood seeped in a steady flow from the joints between his fingers -- the other fumbling, sticky and red, for the hilt of a fallen sword.

The approaching killer paused now, gave a vicious kick toward his enemy, sent a spattering of his own blood splash against his face, run into his eyes.

"I care not for your blood! Keep it! Keep it all!" A few more kicks, another lunging step forward. "Your body, I leave to you. Your blood, I leave to you, but your soul... the one true portion of yourself that dwells in both worlds at once. That.... that I must have" He was astride him now, bent down now; a hand of deceptively slender proportions reaches forward, clasps the neck and raises the body from the floor. There is a pause, a silence. One booted toe sending the dropped blade ringing across the slicked stone tiles, one arm showing astonishing strength as his...

He glares into me, his eyes... grey.... no blue, no black. Then. Nothingness. Blackness, and teeth in the night. Suddenly, all brightens. I see him again, but he is grinning at me now with the horrific visage of a demon, frozen on his face as it were. Cold... so cold, and a coldness wells up into my soul. The room cools, I feel... faint. The teeth approach, the maw opens. So wide! So... and then... blackness.

With a sudden show of force, the body was flung clear over the top of the rail and sent crashing down to the marble tiles below.

"I am... a little more selfish than all that, actually..." the man remarked, half apologetically, before turning and stooping to select one amongst the hundreds of shards strewn all across the floor. Head tilting back, he held the piece to the sunlight that leaked now through the shattered emptiness above where there was once a window. For a moment he might have seemed almost in a trance, though all in an instant he suddenly slipped the piece in a pocket, his cloaked he took up from the floor and his sword vanished within.

A Long Awaited Meeting:

The sound of each footstep resounded with a hollow click through the vast extent of the nave; the steady progression of the rapture and apocalypse flanked me upon either side – eyes, human and inhuman alike, glaring down upon me with the same judgmental stare. I paid care to my steps, though found my stride wandering ever further to the left with each passing aisle. The warm red and glowing amber of some poorly-informed artist's conception of hell seemed rather to beckon, a far cry from the cold blues and greens and painfully brilliant whites that stalked my passage to the right. But my eyes did not waver, bent rather upon the dancing spots and splotches of coulour all in a play before my feet, the two combining into a bewildering kaleidoscope of such confusion that it would have taken a lifetime to determine where one might end and the other begin.

A lifetime. And now I have had several. But still my steps carry me onward, toward the only one being that still drew breath in that godforsaken place. Aside from him, we were alone.

“And so you blaspheme even now, and in such a place as this?” The voice came rolling through the pillared expanse in a soft baritone; as much a question as a statement. But there was no hint of anger, only the sad regret of one who has waited a great many years for only the worst of fates.

“Forgive me, father – my thoughts betray me...” the second speaker might have continued, but the older man cut him off almost at once – though again, in the same quiet voice.

“Forgive you? No, my son; forgiveness for you is a task that is best left to God, and when that day comes your years in full might finally be numbered.” His features, as he turned about to confront the slow approach, very much matched the voice: soft and round, yet old with the wisdom of years hidden deep within eyes that still saw clearly, the depth and breadth of life still vibrant in his tone.

The approaching man kept his head bowed; little might be made out of his features save for a head of dark brown – almost black – hair, pulled taut and trailing a little ways past his neck. His head was bare, and the remainder of his dress was equally as dull. Blacks and browns and greys all that might be visible; the better part of a thin scabbard protruded from beneath the low hem of his riding cloak. He wore no spurs, only a pair of polished boots rubbed to such a sheen that it might have been suspected they had never once encountered a stirrup iron.

“And even that...” the priest continued, breaking the silence – for priest he clearly was, though his dress too was quite plain; contrasting blacks and whites and nothing more – “is doubtful indeed, save what atonement you can seek of your own. Both for what was, and what is, and what is surely yet to come.” With these last words he gazed levelly into the eyes of his adversary, something akin almost to defiance flashing briefly within.

He looked at me then, and it was a gaze that pierced my very soul; I felt the urge to claw at my throat, to pull and pry away the talons that seemed to have latched to my neck, to my innards, to my legs as they dragged me down... down... down to join them in an untold depth below. I forced myself onwards. One step. Two steps.

“Fire, brimstone, sulphur and death!” The priest raised both hands now, the light in his eyes flashing to a real and true glow of their own, stabbing outward and arcing to meet the silent man's downcast gaze.

But now I finally glanced up. Met his gaze. Saw the pity entwined with anger, the rage lost somewhere in a sea of love, the overwhelming conviction... it burned... but I kept forward. Step by burning step, until it felt that the very tiles upon which I walked had become a fiery lake, the air ash and each breath a jagged pain.

“I... am.... sorry...” The words seemed to choke in my mouth of their own accord, even as I struggled to stretch forth my left hand. He did not resist. Not physically, at least. Not as any other man may have, but in the very moment that my fingers wrapped about his throat, and I felt my nails dig down into the soft flesh and the hanging jowls press and shift as I lifted....

All vanished in a swirling eddy of colour and light, the figures from the windows seeming to come into life and charge, rushing with a great shout upon us from all sides. We stood there together, a moment passed. An hour. An age. And meanwhile all below us the raging torrent of war passed by, seething masses and swarms of lives throwing themselves upon one another with reckless abandon. Even here, so far above the plain as to see the land curve and vanish into obscurity at the furthest reaches of the naked eye, I still might hear the clash and clamour of death and bloodshed below.

My hand was still tight about his neck, and my soul I felt welling up within me in a great onrushing that I knew I could never contain... yet he spoke. Spoke to me one last time, though the words now were withered, the voice fading as the life seeped from his mortal form.

“Perhaps, in the end, what you seek will be found... though you may try to devour yourself a score of times hence, still... I have done what I can, and what will be will be, though not in a way either might have foretold.”

“Goodbye, old man.”

“It is your only hope, and my last hope, and her final wish.”

“I will not fail you again...”

And then it was lost. Trailing away into a spiral, lost in some chink of my mind that I have forgotten. And I was filled, filled with the glorious and insatiable spite and hunger and overwhelming cold. Such a cold! Such a hunger! It gnawed upon my belly as though I had been picking upon naught but the shriveled bones of the dead since birth. I relished it. The strength, the hunger. I would enjoy this one... slowly... I thought, even as I began to unhinge my jaw.

Suddenly, my eyes flashed open. I gave a start and a cry, jumping up in a panic as I found myself staring into the empty whites of the dead priest's eyes. Then, in that very instant it seemed, the weight of all I had been running from for so long came crashing down upon my shoulders with the crushing finality of the insurmountable. I shuddered, coughed, sobbed... and then, finally, for the second time in just one lifetime, found myself wracked with tears.

Resounding Provocation: The Council of Shadows

Apologies for my absence; my engine seized earlier this week, and the week's schedule went haywire ever since. I should be catching up to date on things this evening.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

It lives again! I will put my character sheet up when I get home this afternoon.

And yes, a synopsis would be great -- anything to tie events together so I know where to get started. I was planning on using the same character, if that's cool with everyone.