Uffizi Member
We Reap What
We Sow
- Last Seen: 3 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Uffizi
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 87 (0.02 / day)
- VMs: 0
-
Username history
- Uffizi 11 yrs ago
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
Best of luck to you. I'm suprised the guild isn't what it used to be by now...
Icarai may find you soon. :)
The muscled brute, known as Goy, vomited profusely upon discovering two corpses within the room. Cassandra, a known prostitue, and her client lay dead. Goy fell back against the wall in horror. He had seen blood before, no doubt, but nothing to this extent. The spiked club fell to the floor, his knees trembled. Cassandra and client were dead and the shades flicked menacing in a chilling breeze signaling the arrival of Winter. Goy noted Cassandra lay like a discarded teddy bear, pillow over her face, multiple stab wounds in the stomach and chest. Her client was sprawled over the bedside, his neck opened to mimic a Pez dispenser.
Goy was puzzled at the pine scent that filled the room, overpowering the raunch of blood and released bowels. He figured it was a tactic by Cassandra to "set the mood." Or to hide the stench of her filthy customers. Goy pressed his bulk from the wall and stumbled to the closed shades, tearing them open and lifting himself over the frame to stand on the fire escape. The metal was cold upon his hand as he leaned over the balcony. He peered to the right and the rusted ladder; he knew then, it was murder. Murder by a third-party. See, his first assumption was the two killed each other, but the droplets of blood on the ladder steps secured the later theory.
A frigid breeze manifested from the north east and bit into Goy's flesh. Snowflakes shot down from the skies, majestic and beautiful in the pale moonlight above Asylum. The man moved back to the window and climbed inside, distracting himself from the gruesome scene as he moved to pick up his club and close the door. Goy then sprinted to the stairs, down to inform his boss of the discovery.
John Wetty was probably the wealthiest man in Asylum, due to the fact he acted as both pimp and mayor. He was also corrupt as they come as you might expect. The hour was late and Wetty was in the basement of the pleasure house, which was the cleanest part of the whole joint. Cigar smoke lingered the air around a wooden table. Six individuals sat, playing a rather rigged game of poker,( in which Wetty was always the winner.) The man had influence and power in Asylum and he was feared, very feared.
Wetty was a tall, muscular business-type, his hair was short and white as snow, and his eyes were crimson red, a trait inherited from being an albino. He had a thick white mustache and bushy white eyebrows. A tight, black suit and a red tie were today's attire. A fat cigar was clenched in his teeth, smoke rolling from the cherry.
"What're you lookin' at Tyus?" questioned Wetty.
Tyus, a minion thug of Wetty, brought his eyes back to his cards.
"Nuttin' boss, j-just wanted to see if you were bluffin' that's all, honest!" Tyus fearfully responsed.
Wetty was self-conscious of his albinism, and usually punished those who held their gaze on him for too long. But, he was in a good mood today, as he had just won his seventh re-election, which was undoubtably rigged. The albino chuckled and was about to throw his cards down before heavy footsteps signaled the arrival of Goy, his left hand man.
"B-b-boss you gotta come quick!" Goy shouted, with his eyes to the floor, which was a fine, polished wood.
"Can't you see I'm playing a game Goy? What is it? Another fool rough up on another one of my gals?"
"W-w... Well boss.."
"Spill the fucking words!" shouted Wetty.
"Cassandra, she's dead boss, her client too."
Wetty leapt from his seat and slammed a fist on the table, he threw his cards at Tyus and stalked around the table to stand at equal height to Goy.
"Koil!" hollered Wetty, his crimson eyes fixed on Goy.
Emerging from the shadows, a beast of a man marched to the side of Wetty. Koil, his right hand man. Every bit of seven feet tall, the heavily muscled, and heavily burdened behemoth towered above all in the room. His head was bald, scars left his lip cleft, revealing a tooth, beneath a massive black beard. His trapezius muscles nearly touched his earlobes, and trickled with dark veins that spread throughout his physique. He wore only a red tank top and black jeans, his boots were leather and had aged well.
"No one gets in or out," commanded Wetty. "Let's go Koil, you too Goy."
The trio headed to Cassandra's quarters, the rest locked down the pleasure house.
The jacket was warm, also free. It was a trophy taken from an unfortunate man seeking only for a nights pleasure. A victim of Icarai Buchinsky. The snow fell heavy and the winds were mighty, bending trees to submission. The moonlight was quickly drown out by the snow, an impending blizzard it might seem. Icarai knew he had to find shelter or be buried in an icy tomb. His hands and toes had gone numb long ago, as he departed Asylum in the cover of night, down the road to the settlement of Fairview. His interrogation had led him to this location, and he knew it was accurate. His way of persuasion always acquired the truth.
His footfalls came heavier and heavier as the snow began to pile high. His arms wrapped across his torso in feeble defiance of the elements. The warmth was quickly being sapped from his disciplined body, as was his hope of reaching Fairview, until two lights came into view, piercing the blizzard. It couldn't be the settlement, he had only been traveling for a few hours, Fairview was two days at least on foot.
As he gained closer, the outline of a building appeared. A sign that read The Elm swayed in the wind above the door, and it quickly was being covered in snow. This was an inn no doubt.. How perfect.
The commotion within was cut short as the door flew open, the wind howled like a witch with cancer in her belly. All patrons turned their attention to the stranger. The hearth crackled solemnly in the brief silence, until the stranger shut the door and dusted snow from his form. Icarai stomped his shoes on the floor and lifted his gaze around, surveying for an empty seat.
Goy was puzzled at the pine scent that filled the room, overpowering the raunch of blood and released bowels. He figured it was a tactic by Cassandra to "set the mood." Or to hide the stench of her filthy customers. Goy pressed his bulk from the wall and stumbled to the closed shades, tearing them open and lifting himself over the frame to stand on the fire escape. The metal was cold upon his hand as he leaned over the balcony. He peered to the right and the rusted ladder; he knew then, it was murder. Murder by a third-party. See, his first assumption was the two killed each other, but the droplets of blood on the ladder steps secured the later theory.
A frigid breeze manifested from the north east and bit into Goy's flesh. Snowflakes shot down from the skies, majestic and beautiful in the pale moonlight above Asylum. The man moved back to the window and climbed inside, distracting himself from the gruesome scene as he moved to pick up his club and close the door. Goy then sprinted to the stairs, down to inform his boss of the discovery.
John Wetty was probably the wealthiest man in Asylum, due to the fact he acted as both pimp and mayor. He was also corrupt as they come as you might expect. The hour was late and Wetty was in the basement of the pleasure house, which was the cleanest part of the whole joint. Cigar smoke lingered the air around a wooden table. Six individuals sat, playing a rather rigged game of poker,( in which Wetty was always the winner.) The man had influence and power in Asylum and he was feared, very feared.
Wetty was a tall, muscular business-type, his hair was short and white as snow, and his eyes were crimson red, a trait inherited from being an albino. He had a thick white mustache and bushy white eyebrows. A tight, black suit and a red tie were today's attire. A fat cigar was clenched in his teeth, smoke rolling from the cherry.
"What're you lookin' at Tyus?" questioned Wetty.
Tyus, a minion thug of Wetty, brought his eyes back to his cards.
"Nuttin' boss, j-just wanted to see if you were bluffin' that's all, honest!" Tyus fearfully responsed.
Wetty was self-conscious of his albinism, and usually punished those who held their gaze on him for too long. But, he was in a good mood today, as he had just won his seventh re-election, which was undoubtably rigged. The albino chuckled and was about to throw his cards down before heavy footsteps signaled the arrival of Goy, his left hand man.
"B-b-boss you gotta come quick!" Goy shouted, with his eyes to the floor, which was a fine, polished wood.
"Can't you see I'm playing a game Goy? What is it? Another fool rough up on another one of my gals?"
"W-w... Well boss.."
"Spill the fucking words!" shouted Wetty.
"Cassandra, she's dead boss, her client too."
Wetty leapt from his seat and slammed a fist on the table, he threw his cards at Tyus and stalked around the table to stand at equal height to Goy.
"Koil!" hollered Wetty, his crimson eyes fixed on Goy.
Emerging from the shadows, a beast of a man marched to the side of Wetty. Koil, his right hand man. Every bit of seven feet tall, the heavily muscled, and heavily burdened behemoth towered above all in the room. His head was bald, scars left his lip cleft, revealing a tooth, beneath a massive black beard. His trapezius muscles nearly touched his earlobes, and trickled with dark veins that spread throughout his physique. He wore only a red tank top and black jeans, his boots were leather and had aged well.
"No one gets in or out," commanded Wetty. "Let's go Koil, you too Goy."
The trio headed to Cassandra's quarters, the rest locked down the pleasure house.
The jacket was warm, also free. It was a trophy taken from an unfortunate man seeking only for a nights pleasure. A victim of Icarai Buchinsky. The snow fell heavy and the winds were mighty, bending trees to submission. The moonlight was quickly drown out by the snow, an impending blizzard it might seem. Icarai knew he had to find shelter or be buried in an icy tomb. His hands and toes had gone numb long ago, as he departed Asylum in the cover of night, down the road to the settlement of Fairview. His interrogation had led him to this location, and he knew it was accurate. His way of persuasion always acquired the truth.
His footfalls came heavier and heavier as the snow began to pile high. His arms wrapped across his torso in feeble defiance of the elements. The warmth was quickly being sapped from his disciplined body, as was his hope of reaching Fairview, until two lights came into view, piercing the blizzard. It couldn't be the settlement, he had only been traveling for a few hours, Fairview was two days at least on foot.
As he gained closer, the outline of a building appeared. A sign that read The Elm swayed in the wind above the door, and it quickly was being covered in snow. This was an inn no doubt.. How perfect.
The commotion within was cut short as the door flew open, the wind howled like a witch with cancer in her belly. All patrons turned their attention to the stranger. The hearth crackled solemnly in the brief silence, until the stranger shut the door and dusted snow from his form. Icarai stomped his shoes on the floor and lifted his gaze around, surveying for an empty seat.
I'll devise something soon. Still have to actually contemplate whom Icarai is coming for.
Are we free to describe the settlements? Or should we consult you first? (For example: A ghettoish settlement, militaristic, or Wild Westish type?)
Did my friend send you his character sheet, Zep?
When Mucinex fails, Icarai succeeds. Cough it up.
Not a problem. :)
Posted. Forgive me if it's not my greatest.
Her hair smelled strongly of stale cigarette smoke. She was plump, which accounted for her bosom nearly spilling from a stained corset. Her makeup was crude and primitive, much like her whorish attitude. Cassandra was her name, and yes, she was a whore. Additionally, Cassandra was an Unburdened informant, although she was stubborn. Alas, a certain individual, with particular "skills" was sent to interrogate the whore informant.
He was well recommended and expensive, due to the fact of his profound expertise. She would talk.
Cassandra's eyes widened in horror as she tried to breathe. This was impossible. Her fingernails dug into a toned forearm, clawing frantically, primitively to catch a breath. A vice-like grip on a cold hand was around her thick neck. Shades of red, violet, then blue washed over her visage, and her eyes began to roll back into her skull. Just then, she was flung forcefully into the wall, slamming against the wood, and crumbling to the floor gasping for air. The ghostly assailant stepped from the shadows of the dimly lit room, on the fourth floor of a whorehouse known as "Wetty's Joint", in the good ol' settlement of Asylum. His smirk was carnal, revealed pearly whites, with pronounced canines. The eyes of the individual were sunken, and like pools of frothing oil. Emotionless they were.
"Tell me what I want to know, and I'll go away, whore", said the interrogator.
Sweat rolled from the forehead of Cassandra, she hesitated, and he was upon her once more, slapping her viciously multiple times. She tried to cry out, but found her voice hoarse and quiet. Tears formed at the stinging pain of the slaps. Her vision was murky, she glanced at her latest customer, an unfortunate man ambushed by this hostile one. He was sprawled, hanging over the bed, the sheets and wooden floor were stained red. The jugular of the man had been slit, swiftly and professionally without sound, just as he was bartering with Cassandra. Bartering for pleasure. When she attempted to scream the intruder grabbed her throat again; and he squeezed viciously, ending his barrage of slaps.
Icarai Buchinsky was making progress. The whore Cassandra muttered a name so quietly the blood dripping from the customers throat overpowered it. This required Icarai to bring a curved knife, (a dagger more or less), beneath her chin. The point pressed lightly upward, but not enough to draw blood.
"Louder!" Icarai commanded.
Cassandra whimpered and uttered the name again, yet no louder than the first time. Icarai lessened his grip and drew close to face, turning his ear to her lips listening intently. He pressed the knife upwards slightly, drawing a bead of blood in which Cassandra revealed the name Icarai was searching for. Just then a flame lit in those dark pools Icarai had for eyes. A flame that quickly expanded, and raged.
"See, was that so difficult whore?" Icarai heckled.
He kept the knife below her chin, but released his grip, bringing his pale hand to wipe a tear from her face. Her makeup was running down her plump cheeks. Cassandra's vision cleared and she stared into the eyes of this monster, utterly defeated. Her confusion only increased as he now caressed her face gently, his head tilted to the side to inspect her swollen face.
"My employer sent me because the last one you wouldn't speak to. You are a stubborn little bitch, and you figured running would secure your safety? I find people, that's why they hire me. And I'm the best. It's all just business really." Icarai's emotion turned devilish, the flames poured from his sunken eyes.
"And speaking of business, my employer no longer wishes to be business partners, you are relieved of your services whore!"
Lightning fast, Icarai snatched a pillow and slammed it into the face of Cassandra, pressing her head into the wall. The curved knife cut up her chin, leaving a trail of red as it was brought outward then thrusted into her chest multiple times. Whatever futile scream she attempted was muffled indefinitely. Cassandra's limbs flailed violently then fell limp upon the seventh stabbing, which was followed with a coup de grâce.
Icarai stood, his heart pounded with adrenaline. He licked his lips and wiped the drenched knife upon the clean side of the pillow, releasing it but it remained covering the final horrid expression of Cassandra the whore. He melted back into the shadows of the room, slithering to the drawn shades of the window and escaping the fourth story of Wetty's Joint to the streets below unseen. The moon was waning, the air chilly with the impending arrival of winter. The man had a name, and he would find them..
An hour and a half later a brute wielding a spiked club burst through the room of Cassandra hollering that the time was up and other customers were waiting for her unique pleasures. The room was dark, a chill breeze crept at his skin. The smell was foul--although strangely, a scent of pine was lingering.
He was well recommended and expensive, due to the fact of his profound expertise. She would talk.
Cassandra's eyes widened in horror as she tried to breathe. This was impossible. Her fingernails dug into a toned forearm, clawing frantically, primitively to catch a breath. A vice-like grip on a cold hand was around her thick neck. Shades of red, violet, then blue washed over her visage, and her eyes began to roll back into her skull. Just then, she was flung forcefully into the wall, slamming against the wood, and crumbling to the floor gasping for air. The ghostly assailant stepped from the shadows of the dimly lit room, on the fourth floor of a whorehouse known as "Wetty's Joint", in the good ol' settlement of Asylum. His smirk was carnal, revealed pearly whites, with pronounced canines. The eyes of the individual were sunken, and like pools of frothing oil. Emotionless they were.
"Tell me what I want to know, and I'll go away, whore", said the interrogator.
Sweat rolled from the forehead of Cassandra, she hesitated, and he was upon her once more, slapping her viciously multiple times. She tried to cry out, but found her voice hoarse and quiet. Tears formed at the stinging pain of the slaps. Her vision was murky, she glanced at her latest customer, an unfortunate man ambushed by this hostile one. He was sprawled, hanging over the bed, the sheets and wooden floor were stained red. The jugular of the man had been slit, swiftly and professionally without sound, just as he was bartering with Cassandra. Bartering for pleasure. When she attempted to scream the intruder grabbed her throat again; and he squeezed viciously, ending his barrage of slaps.
Icarai Buchinsky was making progress. The whore Cassandra muttered a name so quietly the blood dripping from the customers throat overpowered it. This required Icarai to bring a curved knife, (a dagger more or less), beneath her chin. The point pressed lightly upward, but not enough to draw blood.
"Louder!" Icarai commanded.
Cassandra whimpered and uttered the name again, yet no louder than the first time. Icarai lessened his grip and drew close to face, turning his ear to her lips listening intently. He pressed the knife upwards slightly, drawing a bead of blood in which Cassandra revealed the name Icarai was searching for. Just then a flame lit in those dark pools Icarai had for eyes. A flame that quickly expanded, and raged.
"See, was that so difficult whore?" Icarai heckled.
He kept the knife below her chin, but released his grip, bringing his pale hand to wipe a tear from her face. Her makeup was running down her plump cheeks. Cassandra's vision cleared and she stared into the eyes of this monster, utterly defeated. Her confusion only increased as he now caressed her face gently, his head tilted to the side to inspect her swollen face.
"My employer sent me because the last one you wouldn't speak to. You are a stubborn little bitch, and you figured running would secure your safety? I find people, that's why they hire me. And I'm the best. It's all just business really." Icarai's emotion turned devilish, the flames poured from his sunken eyes.
"And speaking of business, my employer no longer wishes to be business partners, you are relieved of your services whore!"
Lightning fast, Icarai snatched a pillow and slammed it into the face of Cassandra, pressing her head into the wall. The curved knife cut up her chin, leaving a trail of red as it was brought outward then thrusted into her chest multiple times. Whatever futile scream she attempted was muffled indefinitely. Cassandra's limbs flailed violently then fell limp upon the seventh stabbing, which was followed with a coup de grâce.
Icarai stood, his heart pounded with adrenaline. He licked his lips and wiped the drenched knife upon the clean side of the pillow, releasing it but it remained covering the final horrid expression of Cassandra the whore. He melted back into the shadows of the room, slithering to the drawn shades of the window and escaping the fourth story of Wetty's Joint to the streets below unseen. The moon was waning, the air chilly with the impending arrival of winter. The man had a name, and he would find them..
An hour and a half later a brute wielding a spiked club burst through the room of Cassandra hollering that the time was up and other customers were waiting for her unique pleasures. The room was dark, a chill breeze crept at his skin. The smell was foul--although strangely, a scent of pine was lingering.
© 2007-2024