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sparkindarknessI really don’t mean to drag this out as long as I am doing. And to be honest, I’m not happy with it, or the last one either. This combat just isn’t working for me. Ah well, I follow my own advice, if I edit until I’m happy with it, I might as well declare myself illiterate here and now, and never write again.
And since that’s about as likely as Ahrimadan singing along to the sound of music...
The policeman didn’t have a chance. With a savage jerk, I pull the ward out of my hair and send it spinning across the room. Darkness rolls in a sweet corona around my hand, before I release it. The power hits him full in the chest...
His image shivers, like the picture on a broken television, before vanishing in an explosion of Technicolor motes, which in turn fade to nothing. Everyone freezes, stunned, myself included. That wasn’t supposed to happen... he should have mouldered, decayed. Humans hit with entropy rot - even if you use excessive amount of power they dissolve. People do NOT explode with unusual light effects!
Ahrimadan saunters, arrogantly over to where the rotting body should have been. He tastes the sir and slowly circles the area. Everyone in the room watches him.
“Interesting. But I do prefer there to be remains. Hearken to my words, master, a rotting cadaver and a painful end will frighten many more foes into submission than even the most stunning displays of the Art.”
Ahrimadan can think what he wishes, but it was not intentional. Nothing can be destroyed utterly. You always get remains, how can anything, let alone anyone, be made up of nothing?
Ah... I should have guessed long since.
“Illusions.” It comes out as a snarl, made ever more fierce by the returning darkness of my power. “I will not play your games Kat.” Her simulacra stand. Tall, loud and intimidating... and so very brief. They shatter into dancing motes of colour as I throw my power into them, dark bolts of energy stream from my fingertips to the SWAT team, the angry neighbour has time to open his mouth before he is reduced to swirling particles. With a feral grin I turn to the land lord and unleash one more ebon beam.
He screams. He falls to the floor screaming in untold agony. His flailing hands and spasm contorted body scatter kitchen utensils from the counter tops, smash expensive electronics toys to the floor, until his body writhes on the floor surrounded by echoing crashes and fragile splintering.
He twists in excruciating pain. His screams are like needles to the ears... before being cut of to wet, thick gurgles. A thick, dark, vile smelling fluid seeps from his mouth. His exposed skin darkens and swells, before splitting like over-ripe fruit. The stench is appalling as thick fluids ooze onto the white carpet. And still that gurgling scream. Still those feebly kicking feet as he bloats, tears and rots.
“Darren! Oh, fuck, please Darren! Stop it! You can’t do this!” Rick is gagging against the counter, his illusory wound vanished. There is nothing illusory about the horror and disgust on his face. Nor in the pained pity in his eyes.
“He can’t.” My sister’s voice is harsh and flat, coming from all directions. “He can’t help or heal. He cannot create or preserve. He kills, destroys, and corrupts. He cannot give, only take. He knows nothing else.”
Hate flares in me. Hatred for her and the hard truths she tells. Hatred for Rick and the pity in his eyes. Hatred for the landlord for the pain I caused. Hatred for Ahrimadan and that exultant look as he pads over to the suffering man. And hatred for me, for simply being.
“I can stop it.” I walk over to my latest victim. I pick up a large kitchen knife he knocked off the counter in the extremes of his agony. In a quick, sharp movement, I slit his throat down to the bone. The return movement slips the blade neatly between two vertebrae. With a twist, his head comes off. He stops thrashing. His pain ended. Rick stares at me, stunned. Ahrimadan purrs.
“Cease these games, sweet sister, before another dies. You decry my crimes yet throw pawns into the path of destruction with callous abandon. Go home and tell our kin to leave me to what little life I have left.”
“You life comes at a high price, dear brother. A price the world cannot - must not pay. I beg of you, for the world, this is the only way.” Her voice has the sure certainty of prophecy. Not one of her talents - but there are many in our family who have the gift. What had they seen? I look to Rick, still frozen in shock. No, I couldn’t stand his pain, no matter what they’ve seen, I cannot leave him.
“Curse you, sister! Always I must surrender what I love. Go home, sister, go home. Your illusions cannot kill me, and loosing another that I love would crush what light is left in my soul.”
The silence of the flat is thick and heavy. Pierced only by our slightly ragged breathing... and an odd, growing, crackling.
“So be it. You have chosen. And you speak truly, my illusions cannot kill you.” I can almost feel her smile, “but they can hide that which can.”
Blistering, burning heat fills the flat. I hear Rick scream, and Ahrimadan’s yowl of rage, his daemonic sight had failed us. Fire dances, consuming half the room, blocking the door. Burns and blisters march across my flesh, revealed from the veil Kat had placed over them. We’re trapped...
I call my power, I rip the ward from round my neck, I tear my gloves from my hands, breaking the chains that hold the wards there. My power roars free, fettered only by the over-worked shields of my tattoos. I’m free, and scream with frustration. She was right - my power kills, destroys, harms. But it cannot save. All my power, all my magick, and I have not one spell, not one enchantment, from the greatest incantation to the smallest cantrip, that can save us all. I can save myself, and Ahrimadan. Rick would burn. I turn to Rick, stare mutely into his eyes with orbs of black fire. I want to cry my love of him before I die. I want to apologise for the ruin I brought him. I reach for him, dark tears staining my face...
A big, dramatic tragic ending scene with lots of tearful farewells in the flickering light of an inferno may look cool on the big screen, guys, but I bet people aren’t open enough for it to sell if it happens between two guys. Save it for the sequel! Now lets get away from the horrible flaming death, ‘kay?
I want to curse the spirit, his irreverent banter ruining the last few moments we had left, crushing our last few moments of sweet sadness with hammers of false hope. Rick is too full of life to return to gentle despair, I’m dragged behind him like a child as he flees deeper into the flat, further from the fire - but further from the exit and the fire escape. Delaying the inevitable.
Rick leans against the wall, panting and shivering, clutching at his painful burns.
“Now what? You got a spell which can get us out of here, Darren?”
He’s beginning to see it. Beginning to think. I shake my head. “Kat had the right of it. I can destroy, not preserve. Ghost’s actions have forced us to prolong our end, not prevent it.”
Rick slides down the wall, sinking to the floor. Ahrimadan stares, emotionless, having managed to escape all harm, of course, I doubt fire could harm him.
Wow, fashionable angst is catching. Is anyone actually trying to think of a way out, or are you both too busy bemoaning cruel fate like a Shakespeare tragedy? Sorry, Rick, you haven’t got the accent for a tortured Shaky hero. So, have we got a way out yet? Gah, here’s a clue - think laterally!
I’m really beginning to hate this spirit.
Ok, you’re hopeless. In the name of Darwinism, I should leave you here to burn and make the human race a lot smarter. Gah, trust me to become thinking-brain spirit. The wall behind us - which Rick’s busy despairing under - leads out into the stairwell.
I think briefly of the plan of the flat - but yes, it should lead to the stairs...
“But there’s no fucking door, Ghost! You may be able to go through solid fucking stone, but I can't, not without a couple of hours of serious mojo first! Shit, shamanism isn’t fucking quick enough for mage wars!”
Shamanism isn’t. Sorcery is. And doors are but holes. Perhaps the spirit does have his uses...
I stand and place one hand on the wall, a smile twists my lips. The plaster crumbles. The paint peels, the cracking of brickwork shouts out like a gun shot. Grains rain from the growing hole, entropy rips through the masonry turning it to little more than aged, worn dust.
I brush off my hands and step through the hole, pulling Rick to his feet, through the hole. He picks me up like a child, or a bride and jumps down to the stairs, so far below us. He looks back up to the hole I’d made. His eyes are wide and impressed, brick dust and soot mar his golden hair. He grins.
“Cool!”
For some reason that one word, that one smile makes my heart glow with love. Warm, fresh and strong. His arms tighten, and for a few blessed seconds, everything in the world disappears, there is just a moment of pure perfection.
The love darkens, is mottled by a fierce taint. She had tried to hurt him...
The path from love to hate is terrifyingly short.
And since that’s about as likely as Ahrimadan singing along to the sound of music...
The policeman didn’t have a chance. With a savage jerk, I pull the ward out of my hair and send it spinning across the room. Darkness rolls in a sweet corona around my hand, before I release it. The power hits him full in the chest...
His image shivers, like the picture on a broken television, before vanishing in an explosion of Technicolor motes, which in turn fade to nothing. Everyone freezes, stunned, myself included. That wasn’t supposed to happen... he should have mouldered, decayed. Humans hit with entropy rot - even if you use excessive amount of power they dissolve. People do NOT explode with unusual light effects!
Ahrimadan saunters, arrogantly over to where the rotting body should have been. He tastes the sir and slowly circles the area. Everyone in the room watches him.
“Interesting. But I do prefer there to be remains. Hearken to my words, master, a rotting cadaver and a painful end will frighten many more foes into submission than even the most stunning displays of the Art.”
Ahrimadan can think what he wishes, but it was not intentional. Nothing can be destroyed utterly. You always get remains, how can anything, let alone anyone, be made up of nothing?
Ah... I should have guessed long since.
“Illusions.” It comes out as a snarl, made ever more fierce by the returning darkness of my power. “I will not play your games Kat.” Her simulacra stand. Tall, loud and intimidating... and so very brief. They shatter into dancing motes of colour as I throw my power into them, dark bolts of energy stream from my fingertips to the SWAT team, the angry neighbour has time to open his mouth before he is reduced to swirling particles. With a feral grin I turn to the land lord and unleash one more ebon beam.
He screams. He falls to the floor screaming in untold agony. His flailing hands and spasm contorted body scatter kitchen utensils from the counter tops, smash expensive electronics toys to the floor, until his body writhes on the floor surrounded by echoing crashes and fragile splintering.
He twists in excruciating pain. His screams are like needles to the ears... before being cut of to wet, thick gurgles. A thick, dark, vile smelling fluid seeps from his mouth. His exposed skin darkens and swells, before splitting like over-ripe fruit. The stench is appalling as thick fluids ooze onto the white carpet. And still that gurgling scream. Still those feebly kicking feet as he bloats, tears and rots.
“Darren! Oh, fuck, please Darren! Stop it! You can’t do this!” Rick is gagging against the counter, his illusory wound vanished. There is nothing illusory about the horror and disgust on his face. Nor in the pained pity in his eyes.
“He can’t.” My sister’s voice is harsh and flat, coming from all directions. “He can’t help or heal. He cannot create or preserve. He kills, destroys, and corrupts. He cannot give, only take. He knows nothing else.”
Hate flares in me. Hatred for her and the hard truths she tells. Hatred for Rick and the pity in his eyes. Hatred for the landlord for the pain I caused. Hatred for Ahrimadan and that exultant look as he pads over to the suffering man. And hatred for me, for simply being.
“I can stop it.” I walk over to my latest victim. I pick up a large kitchen knife he knocked off the counter in the extremes of his agony. In a quick, sharp movement, I slit his throat down to the bone. The return movement slips the blade neatly between two vertebrae. With a twist, his head comes off. He stops thrashing. His pain ended. Rick stares at me, stunned. Ahrimadan purrs.
“Cease these games, sweet sister, before another dies. You decry my crimes yet throw pawns into the path of destruction with callous abandon. Go home and tell our kin to leave me to what little life I have left.”
“You life comes at a high price, dear brother. A price the world cannot - must not pay. I beg of you, for the world, this is the only way.” Her voice has the sure certainty of prophecy. Not one of her talents - but there are many in our family who have the gift. What had they seen? I look to Rick, still frozen in shock. No, I couldn’t stand his pain, no matter what they’ve seen, I cannot leave him.
“Curse you, sister! Always I must surrender what I love. Go home, sister, go home. Your illusions cannot kill me, and loosing another that I love would crush what light is left in my soul.”
The silence of the flat is thick and heavy. Pierced only by our slightly ragged breathing... and an odd, growing, crackling.
“So be it. You have chosen. And you speak truly, my illusions cannot kill you.” I can almost feel her smile, “but they can hide that which can.”
Blistering, burning heat fills the flat. I hear Rick scream, and Ahrimadan’s yowl of rage, his daemonic sight had failed us. Fire dances, consuming half the room, blocking the door. Burns and blisters march across my flesh, revealed from the veil Kat had placed over them. We’re trapped...
I call my power, I rip the ward from round my neck, I tear my gloves from my hands, breaking the chains that hold the wards there. My power roars free, fettered only by the over-worked shields of my tattoos. I’m free, and scream with frustration. She was right - my power kills, destroys, harms. But it cannot save. All my power, all my magick, and I have not one spell, not one enchantment, from the greatest incantation to the smallest cantrip, that can save us all. I can save myself, and Ahrimadan. Rick would burn. I turn to Rick, stare mutely into his eyes with orbs of black fire. I want to cry my love of him before I die. I want to apologise for the ruin I brought him. I reach for him, dark tears staining my face...
A big, dramatic tragic ending scene with lots of tearful farewells in the flickering light of an inferno may look cool on the big screen, guys, but I bet people aren’t open enough for it to sell if it happens between two guys. Save it for the sequel! Now lets get away from the horrible flaming death, ‘kay?
I want to curse the spirit, his irreverent banter ruining the last few moments we had left, crushing our last few moments of sweet sadness with hammers of false hope. Rick is too full of life to return to gentle despair, I’m dragged behind him like a child as he flees deeper into the flat, further from the fire - but further from the exit and the fire escape. Delaying the inevitable.
Rick leans against the wall, panting and shivering, clutching at his painful burns.
“Now what? You got a spell which can get us out of here, Darren?”
He’s beginning to see it. Beginning to think. I shake my head. “Kat had the right of it. I can destroy, not preserve. Ghost’s actions have forced us to prolong our end, not prevent it.”
Rick slides down the wall, sinking to the floor. Ahrimadan stares, emotionless, having managed to escape all harm, of course, I doubt fire could harm him.
Wow, fashionable angst is catching. Is anyone actually trying to think of a way out, or are you both too busy bemoaning cruel fate like a Shakespeare tragedy? Sorry, Rick, you haven’t got the accent for a tortured Shaky hero. So, have we got a way out yet? Gah, here’s a clue - think laterally!
I’m really beginning to hate this spirit.
Ok, you’re hopeless. In the name of Darwinism, I should leave you here to burn and make the human race a lot smarter. Gah, trust me to become thinking-brain spirit. The wall behind us - which Rick’s busy despairing under - leads out into the stairwell.
I think briefly of the plan of the flat - but yes, it should lead to the stairs...
“But there’s no fucking door, Ghost! You may be able to go through solid fucking stone, but I can't, not without a couple of hours of serious mojo first! Shit, shamanism isn’t fucking quick enough for mage wars!”
Shamanism isn’t. Sorcery is. And doors are but holes. Perhaps the spirit does have his uses...
I stand and place one hand on the wall, a smile twists my lips. The plaster crumbles. The paint peels, the cracking of brickwork shouts out like a gun shot. Grains rain from the growing hole, entropy rips through the masonry turning it to little more than aged, worn dust.
I brush off my hands and step through the hole, pulling Rick to his feet, through the hole. He picks me up like a child, or a bride and jumps down to the stairs, so far below us. He looks back up to the hole I’d made. His eyes are wide and impressed, brick dust and soot mar his golden hair. He grins.
“Cool!”
For some reason that one word, that one smile makes my heart glow with love. Warm, fresh and strong. His arms tighten, and for a few blessed seconds, everything in the world disappears, there is just a moment of pure perfection.
The love darkens, is mottled by a fierce taint. She had tried to hurt him...
The path from love to hate is terrifyingly short.
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(no subject)
Date: 2003-06-13 03:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2003-06-13 11:18 am (UTC)I like that final line - but it looks like LJ has cut off the line I intended to finish it with *runs back for a quick edit*
Thank you! I'm really unsure with these "action" parts, especially holding onto Darren's angst at the same time. Darren should always be good for a shiver :)
Thanks again.
(no subject)
Date: 2003-06-19 11:36 am (UTC)The path from love to hate is terrifyingly short. I like this line.
Is there more? *goes to check* Yay, more! *runs off to read*
Re:
Date: 2003-06-19 01:34 pm (UTC)Illusions are fun, so much more dangerous than people think - what do you do when you can't trust your senses?
(no subject)
Date: 2004-08-22 02:27 pm (UTC)really, i'm thinking, all things being equal, yeah, fight the evil, blah blah blah, but if he's containing it and he's not hurting anyone? whatever. there's use for rot and decay--without it we'd be up to our necks in STUFF. season after season of useless crap. no room for anything to advance. i'm sure they mean well, but better to put up with a minor amount of wicked, than lose so much more in a knockdown drag out. i mean, would there be a dead landlord right now if she weren't there forcing a fight?
and now darren's got a reason to fight back and kill them all for the right to exist, instead of just rolling over and dying. *shakes head*
(no subject)
Date: 2004-08-23 02:36 pm (UTC)Definitely.
but if he's containing it and he's not hurting anyone?
Well, technically yes. Trouble is, Camaalis don't believe he CAN contain it - he's a time bomb in their eyes - better to stop him now. Of course they're Camaalis... they can't be wrong. Camaalis is never wrong. They're the greatest mages in the world - of COURSE they should decide life and death with total infallibility /sarcasm.
there's use for rot and decay--without it we'd be up to our necks in STUFF. season after season of useless crap. no room for anything to advance.
If he had been JUST a Necromancer or JUST an Infernalist then they may have let it slide - it's all three together and the addition of sorcery that put them into a hissy fit.
i mean, would there be a dead landlord right now if she weren't there forcing a fight?
No, there wouldn't. But Camaalis would put this under necessary sacrifice (and they are arrogant enough to sacrifice people). Basically, they think Darren will explode messily at some point, and probably take out half the city and then some. As said previously, the idea of fallibility never entered their head.
and now darren's got a reason to fight back and kill them all for the right to exist, instead of just rolling over and dying.
Yup - arrogant ignorance again - Camaalis propaganda says that a Sorcerer CAN'T really feel remorse or guilt or sadness or love or compassion. Those empotions are just habits and if they come into their power fully...
It's a lot of nonensense... but, did I mention Camaalis views on infallibility?